Breastfeeding by Christian Hughes

I'm a member of this website critiquecircle.com where aspiring writers can put up their works for others to review and critique....this particular short story caught my eye as something unique and funny in its own way...enough for me to want it on my blog...so here is the short story titled 'Breastfeeding' written by Christian Hughes, reproduced with his permission of course:

Breastfeeding

by Christian Hughes

The cops found Mom outside a party with her big, disgusting tits out. They threw her in the squad car; she offered to let them cop (rimshot) a feel if they’d let her off.

In the morning, she arrived home with a court date, disheveled and hungover. “What a night!” was all she said before she fell asleep sprawled diagonally face-down on her bed.

Later that day, she called one of those tv lawyers (“Don’t let justice miscarry you!”) as many people in our socio-economic bracket do when they feel their basic human rights (like letting your globby, veiny, assymetrical boobs flop around in public) have been violated.

Theodore Campbell, Esquire (that’s how he introduced himself) was in our living room the next day. He had a briefcase full of empty legal pads and car magazines.

Mom explained her story. “I was pretty drunk and took my titties out for this guy.”

“Jesus, Mom.”

“Hush, you!”

Theodore Campbell, Esquire paced back and forth in our tiny living room, occasionally rubbing his chin or cleaning his non-prescription glasses on his untucked shirt. Finally: “I’ve got it!”

“What?”

“You’ve got kids, right?” He pointed his chubby finger accusingly.

“Yes, a son!” Mom was getting excited. Hopefully she wouldn’t get her tits out again.

Theodore Campbell, Esquire smirked with the power of an incredible idea. “You were just breastfeeding.”

“Huh?”

“That’s why your…breasts were exposed. You were merely trying to nourish your young child. No jury in the world…well, no jury in this part of the country, anyway, would punish a mother for feeding her baby!”

“Of course!”

“Am I the only one who sees it as a problem that I’m fourteen?” I asked, a little hesitant to bring logic or reality into the situation.

“Well, yes, it did occur to me that you are a bit…mature for that. It is a bit weird, but not unheard of.”

“Gross. You know fourteen-year-olds who get…breastfed?”

He turned back to Mom. “A jury may think you’re weird, but weird ain’t guilty.”

In the courtroom, I sat there watching this farce unfold from the front row. Theodore Campbell, Esquire explaining with a straight face the nutritional benefits of breastfeeding into the teen years.

Did he have to point at me? The jurors weren’t very skilled at disguising their disgust.

Eventually, the prosecutor implied he doubted the story. He threw down the gauntlet and asked for me to be breastfed for the jury, “since you have no issues with doing so in public.”

The judge agreed I had not been humiliated enough and had a bailiff escort me over to my mother’s already exposed and waiting breasts. She squeezed a nipple and smoothed out the hair around it, like she was preparing it for me.

It seemed hopeless to object as my mother grabbed my head and pulled me down to one of her sweaty flesh basketballs.

I bit the bullet and cursed the debt we owe for life.