I only have sex with ladies named Jean because my name is Gene and because while I certainly love to hear my name being yelled out during sex, I also think it is dope to call out my own name while I fuck.

Gene, Gene, Gene, oh, oh, oh, I usually yell. Yesterday I yelled too loud and my mom came down to the basement and found me with Jean from her bridge club in my bed. I slammed my door and screamed “Go away! I demand privacy! I occasionally pay rent here!” Finally my mom went back upstairs and I apologized profusely to Jean by fucking her on top of our washing machine.

Sadly there aren’t many Jean’s left in my town who have hips that move very well so I’m thinking about maybe moving to a larger city where most of the Jean’s aren’t seventy year-olds with asses that feel like wet bread.

This afternoon, I find my mom scrubbing cherry lube off the washing machine and I tell her about my new plan.

“Great,” she says, “I’ll start packing your bags.”

These are the kinds of things that my mother’s been saying to me for few years now. I usually don’t listen, but this time it really got me thinking. Lately I’ve noticed she’s repeating herself a ton – move out, I’ll pack your bags, you need to leave here now, etc, etc. I’m not a doctor, but uh-oh, right? I mean wouldn’t it totally make sense that all this anger and resentment toward me was actually Alzheimer’s? It would make a lot of sense to me.

Anyway, I guess I’ll keep a closer eye on her now. Because of this new diagnosis and because of my easy access to a washing machine for clothes and fucking I’ll probably stick it out here at home for a little while longer. Maybe I’ll find some younger Jeans on the internet or something. Or maybe I’ll just change my name to Summer or Crystal so I’ll still be able to yell out my name and also fuck some totally hot skanks.

-John Jodzio is the author of If You Lived Here You’d Already Be Home

Photo by Michael Inscoe