The earliest memory I have is of walking in on her being mounted by a panda bear during a thunderstorm. He was baying like a yeti, and his plastic eyes glinted as the lightning flashed. There was a patch of red on the white part of his belly. Ma smiled big when I recalled this years later to her, and said,
        "Nothing hotter than mating in heat. So deliciously primal!"
        
        Last week a saggy leather rhinoceros slumped sadly out of the master bedroom. Past his boxing-glove head I could see Ma stretched out all lacy and smudged with eyeliner on her window seat, sucking the guts from a lipsticky Ultra-Light filter. That's where she always sits when the sex is over, back turned like that so she can't see whatever guy she was with pack his shit and leave the house. It's one of her rules, not seeing the men out of character, and definitely not seeing their faces. Ruins the whole experience is why, it turns her fantasy all to crap, and she goes ballistic. I've seen it- she gets all sweaty-faced and radish purple, and she grabs whatever large heavy object is nearest and swings straight for the berries. 
        Most people would never get away with making rules and flipping shits like that, but Ma always will. It's the tits. My mother's got these massive heaving bowling balls erupting from her ribcage, totally fake but just like pornstar tits. I know this because she showed me a picture of pornstar tits. She's also got these fat pink lips and a butt shaped exactly like a granny smith apple. And I guess that's how men think women should be shaped. Ma doesn't just take, though. She has her rules, but as long as her date's sandwiched inside a huge stuffed animal he can be the flabbiest, hairiest, sweatiest little cretin there ever was and she'll still put on a shimmery thong and dance at him. 
         I've never met my father, Ma completely refuses to talk about him, and as much as I want to keep imagining him as some olive-skinned doomed hopeless romantic with sinewy shoulders I'm finding holes in my pipe dream. I'm petite and willowy in every way that my mother is statuesque and sturdy. And at thirteen, I don't nearly have as lush a hairline as I'd like. So I'm starting to think that maybe my mother's gag on the subject of my Dad isn't due to some heart-wrenching rhapsody of the soul, but instead because she doesn't know who he was. And when I look at my reflection, I can see a pale little bald man panting with effort as his sweaty torso slid around inside some grungy costume. His "O" face haunts my dreams.

        The rat's name was Harold. He gave me his business card when he introduced himself, flicking it slyly from his wallet like a small-time magician. He was what Ma called a "familiar", meaning he only ever masqueraded as one animal due to some spiritual bond. Now, for as long as I can remember there has been an endless parade of football mascots and Disney World characters treading that beeline from the front door to the master bedroom and back. I adjusted to life inside some kind of Muppet Show acid trip, and I expected the post-coital monsters to slink past me without making eye-contact. They ascribed to a very singular sexual mold and a juvenile offspring was simply not part of it. This is why when Harry shuffled into the kitchen swinging his threadbare tail between thumb and forefinger and grabbed a frying pan I slopped some cappucino over my New York Times.
        "How do you like your eggs?"
        He answered my slack-jawed stare with the extension of a scruffy four-fingered paw.
        "Harold. Harry Tanner. I'm your mother's IT guy. You know, for her sex magazine. I set up the website."
        Ma ran an "in-your-face" sexual awareness pictoral which took the previously undivulged libidos of our county's extremely private fetishist community and unearthed it with full-color glossy photos onto the laps of the PTA. I guess as I was making these connections I forgot to stop looking agog, because Harry the rat had his head cocked at me. His head, not the rat's head- Ma was probably still spooning with it. His human head was forty-something and buzzed with a chinstrap beard.
        "Yeah, sorry- I'm William Weekly."
        "Okay, Will... Eggs?"
        I hated nicknames. Ma had this mantra, "to accept a simpler name is to resign yourself to the unextraordinary". 
        "William, and no thank you."
        The 3/4 rat man cracked six eggs.
        "You'll like 'em how I make 'em, Will. Scrambled, with ricotta and a snatch of dill." 
        He kind of talked at me at first, spraying eggs a little as he cracked up at his own stories, most about work. This one woman, he said, she hired him to showcase her artwork online. Every piece featured a vagina-faced monster, a big bloodshot eyeball where the clitoris should be. Then he started on about the erotic baker.
        "Marzipan bits-and-pieces, gigantic cream-filled fun bags, all of the sweetest naughty parts you can imagine... And since I gave the guy a discount I was elbow-deep in dirty pastries for a month!"
        The image was too much for me- A hefty chortle rolled out of my stomach and forced a mouthful of wet eggs onto the Arts section.

        My attention span squirmed uncomfortably for that whole school day, and I kept snapping back to find myself doodling a series of scenes all featuring a triumphant rat-suited male enjoying a series of pornographic treats. I didn't even notice the paper triangles Tommy Jillian was flicking at me until the fifth one caught me on the earlobe.

        Sunday morning- Harry's work boots were where he left them by the closet, but the kitchen was empty when I woke up. I felt sadder than I thought I would. I was halfway through the crossword by the time Harry the Rat strode jauntily into the kitchen, accompanied by my giggling mother in curlers and a Dolphins jersey. She froze and coughed when she saw me, finally managing to squeeze out, 
        "William, baby, this is Mr. Tanner. He set up Mama's Lifestyles magazine online."
        Harry mimed a tip of the hat and winked.
        "Pleasure to meet the man of the house."
        Ma mumbled something about a shower and scooted off on slippers with small brown ears, and Harry stretched and removed his whiskered head in one fluid motion.
        "Got this new recipe I wanna try on you, Desperado."
        He reached into a furry glove and withdrew a scrap of lined paper.
        "Made it up myself. I noticed you're always sipping on those high-class coffee deals, so I've been messing around in my kitchen."
        Harry whisked and poured and boiled things for a few minutes, and while he bumped around the kitchen I eyeballed a bare patch by his tail where I glimpsed part of a very large back tattoo. 
        "There!" he said a few minutes later, plunking the mug down in front of me, I call it... the Willatte!
        I took a sip.
        "Shit!"
        The Willatte made my tongue tingle and knocked my brain back around, and for some reason I wanted to let the foamy moustache it gave me relax on my upper lip for a while.
        "Good, right? And that's only after one try."
        As I drank we sat. I sipped the Willatte, he pulled stuffing from a hole in his belly, he watched me watch him pull stuffing from a hole in his belly. Then,
        "So you're gay, huh?"
        I missed my mouth by a foot and scalded my thighs with java, then made a mad dash for the club soda to save my khakis.
        "Shit, I'm sorry. I just figured, you know... You just dress so neat and straighten your tie a lot, and you're so fucking clean all the time. You're... not gay?"
        Harry actually looked upset at the prospect of offending him. 
        "No, I am. At least, I think I am. Does my mother know?"
        The rat sideways-smiled, one pointy incisor poking over his lip. 
        "I dunno, kid, the sexual inclinations of spawn isn't really the best pillow talk. But considering the shit she's into, she's not really in the position to judge, is she?"
        I nodded.
        "Thanks for the coffee, Harry."
        "Anytime, Adam Fathom."
        Harry brought my cup to the sink, then he leaned over one of the chairs and clambered out of the rat costume. 
        "Gets fuckin' hot in that thing. I'd go naked but I like going to the gym straight from here."
        He folded the suit over his arm and turned for the door. He paused for a second, then turned back.
        "Hey Will- It's nice to see you managed to remain relatively un-fucked-up, despite all this shit."
        He winked at me, and headed for the door. Right before he closed it behind him, he looked back at me again.
        "And kid? You should keep the whole gay thing quiet from your mom if you want to. Sex is private. It's none of her business."