There’s a link in the sidebar to the earlier chapters…

I work four days on and two days off at the mill. During my probation I work two weeks of days, then two weeks of afternoons, then two weeks of night shift. I go through that rotation twice. That way all the foremen get a good look at me and they all fill out assessment forms at the end of the three months and then Mr. Peters and two other managers decide if I have a job or not.

It’s mid-August and I’m exactly half way done my probation. I’ve just finished my first two weeks of night shift and I feel like a zombie. The good news is that going from night shift to day shift means I actually get three days off. The bad news is it’s been over 100 degrees here every day for the past week and there’s no relief in sight. You can’t even imagine how hot it is at work. We drink gallons of water and take salt tablets and our boots fill up with sweat. It’s gross, but the really bad news is we’re into the third week of a beer strike. All the beer here comes from two breweries and they’re both on strike and it’s stinking hot and everyone is thirsty and cranky.

The closest lake is an hour’s drive from here. There’s a river that goes through town. It’s cold as hell and flows way to fast for most people to swim in, but a couple of years ago they opened a nice park (upstream from the sewage treatment plant and the sawmill) and they built a huge horse-shoe shaped dock out into the river. The water is still as cold as hell, but at least you won’t get swept away and when it’s this hot out the river is damn near refreshing.

I consider stopping for a dip on the way home, but I’m just too tired. I’m going to have a cold shower and go to sleep in my subterranean basement before the house heats up.  I’m daydreaming about how good a cold beer would taste when I pull into the driveway and almost hit my dad as he walks behind his car. He tells me to park on the street. They’ll be leaving in an hour. He tells me my Uncle Charlie is treating them to three days in Las Vegas. He says they didn’t tell me earlier because they didn’t want any big parties happening while they’re gone. Mom comes out with a suitcase and says they trust me to be responsible and act like an adult while they’re away. I think if they trust me why did they wait until now to tell me they were going away? And what the hell does ‘act like an adult’ mean? We don’t really think of you as an adult. We just want you to act like one. Put on a good show for the neighbours.

Mom makes me breakfast before they leave and I promise to do the dishes before I go to bed. She says if I let egg dry onto the dishes in this heat they’ll never come clean and she’ll just have to throw them out and we’ll have to use paper plates and plastic forks and her mother scrimped and saved to buy her those dishes.  “He said he’d do them.” Dad says as he pushes her towards the door.

I ask them if they have everything: Tickets, toothbrushes, condoms. He says yes, yes and I took yours it’s not like you were using them. Mom slaps him on the shoulder. I ask if they want me to make sure the iron is unplugged. Dad says no it’s in the trunk. Mom pretends to look cross and gets in the car. It’s one of those family jokes. Whenever we went away, she was certain she’d left something plugged in or unlocked and she’d worry about it until Dad drove back home to check. One trip it was the iron and she got more and more upset about it. Finally Dad pulled over, got out of the car, opened the trunk, got the iron and put it on her lap and without saying a word started driving again. Funny stuff.

I stay in the cold shower until my head starts to hurt. One of the guys at the mill told me he buys a bag of ice on his way home from work, fills his bath tub up with cold water, tosses the ice in and soaks in the tub until the ice all melts. He lives in a second floor apartment though.  I drip naked through the house and can feel the temperature drop as I go down stairs. Even though the Grumpies aren’t here, I won’t smoke up in the house. I go outside and check my stash. Nothing but roaches. I pack three into a hash pipe and spark it up. The extra paper almost makes me choke, but I manage to hold it in. It tastes like dirt and ashes, but I don’t care. I’ll call Dave later.

I dream of Liz again. She’s here in my room and she’s smiling at me. Her big green eyes flash mischievously at me like she has a secret and she hasn’t quite decided if she’ll share it. She dances in front of me and it’s hard to focus on any one part of her. My eyes seem to slide all over, like she’s made of glass. I get little flashes…every fourth frame of a movie:  her curly red hair, skin so pale it glows in the darkness, a powder blue bra, then her naked breasts round and firm with tiny pink nipples, a splay of cinnamon coloured freckles goes down her chest between them and seems to cup each breast, a small curly triangle of red slightly darker then her head.

Then I’m on top of her. My face is buried in her hair and it smells like apricots. I hold a breast in my hand. It’s soft and yet firm. I pinch the nipple and she moans in my ear. My cock aches for her and it finds its way to her entrance like it’s always know the way. I feel her legs wrap around me and I slide into her warm wet pussy.  Her tongue slides in and out of my mouth with the same rhythm.

She starts to dissolve as soon as I start to come, like sugar cubes in my morning coffee. That feeling of being inside the girl is never quite long enough and I lay there half asleep, trying to hold onto it for a few extra minutes until the wet spot gets cold and I’m wide awake.

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I was sequestered in the office last weekend, busy writing the next chapter of Death & Taxes  surfing smut and playing Backgammon when I came across this little jem  at <Sex-Kitten.net> by my favourite PSO, MS. Angela.

You don’t know her? Seriously?  Even if your not in the market for trash talk (today) she’s a fine writer and has a very entertaining blog. Here’s what they say about her:

Angela St. Lawrence is the PhoneSex Operator of choice for the thinking man. While she’s been called many things by her clients (”The way she riffs on matters sexual and otherwise, she is my white Billie Holiday” & “A 21st century Anais Nin with just a touch of Machiavelli.”), mostly she just likes to be called Angela. Make sure you visit her award winning website– and her blog, Zen Fetish.

“Don’t kiss me on the neck.”

“Why? I thought you liked it.”

“I do. Just not right now. I just want to be fucked. Just stick it in.”

“Okay, but don’t bitch at me later.”

“Christ, shut the hell up and stick in it.”

And then he is pushing her over the kitchen sink, sliding her skirt up over her generous, round ass. Surprised to see she is not wearing panties, he thinks better of saying anything; she obviously isn’t in the mood to listen.

As he goes to push her right leg out further with the cap of his bent knee, she moans.

“Hurry up, damn it. Give me that cock.”

And so he presses between her legs, again surprised when the head of his cock glides so easily between her already-moist thighs to bob against her sodden bush. She grunts, wiggling her slit back onto the head. He feels himself slide into her–fast and deep–with hardly any effort.

As he starts moving in and out, he can hear the slick sound of her juices coating his pistoning cock and feel them oozing between the hair on his balls. The smell of her sex wafts up to surround both of them. He moves quicker; her animal need has quickened his pulse, sharpened his need.

She’s curled her fists along the edge of the sink, her white knuckle grasp helping her to push back. Her breaths are fast. She is grunting and groaning, then whimpering.

“I need it. Right there. Yes. There.”

And then she is crying and her cunt is rhythmically spasming around his cock as she begins cumming. The raw quickness of her orgasm pushes him over the edge and he is pumping his load into her, his face buried between her angora-covered shoulder blades.

They stay that way, hunched over the sink like twin embryos as they catch their breath.

And then she stands up straight, his dick sliding out of her and down her thigh–a slug, leaving it’s slime.

“Okay, leave me alone, now. I need to finish these dishes.”

There’s a link in the sidebar to the earlier chapters…

I dream I’m in a glass elevator going up the side of a tall building. I’ve never actually been in a glass elevator before or even a really tall building for that matter. The three-story hotel on Main Street is the tallest building in this hick town and the elevator is so slow you’re better off taking the stairs. I’m not usually afraid of heights, but as the car climbs I feel more and more uneasy. I want it to stop so I can get off, but I can’t find a control panel. A vast city opens up below me and I’m not certain that this really is a glass elevator. It seems to be just a narrow platform hurtling up the side of an impossibly tall building. My guts are knotted and it’s hard to breathe and there’s nothing to hold on to. The lift stops and I’m on a steep roof. I’m so high up that I can’t hear any noise from the street. I feel dizzy and sick. Suddenly, there’s someone else there with me and we’re struggling. I can’t see who it is, but it seems like whoever it is is smaller then me and yet they seem to over-powering me. We get close to the edge and I try to scream, but the wind takes my voice. I startle awake just as I drop off the edge.

The remnants of the dream evaporate, but not the fog in my brain. My subterranean bedroom only has one ground level window and I’ve blacked it out so the only light is the green glow of the clock radio and the click every minute as the next number drops down is often the only sound I can hear down here. It clicks and I look over at it. 6:05. I’m still staring at it when 6:07 clicks down. I can’t figure out how this number applies to me. Is it AM or PM? Am I late for work or have I only been asleep for a couple of hours? I feel the top of the clock and the alarm switch is off, but should it be? Maybe I forgot to set it or maybe I turned it off when I was still half-asleep. Rotating shifts are fucking me up worse then the actual work. I get out of bed and open the window. It’s light out, but it’s summer so 6:10 could be AM or PM. I sit back down on my bed and try to remember…anything. When did I work last? The shifts all seem to meld into one long shift. What did I do before I went to bed? Was I drunk? Possibly. Was I high? Probably. 6:16 and I still can’t find any markers to tell me even if I’m supposed to be awake or asleep.

Finally, at 6:19 I decide that AM or PM my mom would be at home and if I hadn’t shown up for work the mill would have called and she’d wake me up. I pull on a pair of shorts and go out the basement door. My own private entrance opens up underneath a wrap-around deck and faces out into our large back yard.  Here under the deck is my own little sanctuary. It’s covered and I can hear anyone approaching so this is where I keep my stash. There’s a good sized doobie in my roach jar, almost half a joint, so I spark that up rather then rolling a fresh one.  On this side of the house the deck reaches a large hedge that goes along the property line. Because of the shade from the deck, there are no leaves on the hedge down here. Our neighbour keeps the Model A Ford he’s been fixing up for the past 10 years parked against the hedge. It’s completely covered with a tarp except for this side. He figures our deck will protect it. I stand close to the hedge a piss on it through the branches.

I sit down on a milk crate to finish my joint and I start to remember stuff. Well I’m not certain what day of the week it is, but it’s my Saturday. I finished work at midnight last night and now I’m off for two days. Dave and I drank a couple of bottles of wine in his parents’ restaurant after it closed last night. He told me this hilarious story; the night before he’d come home liquored up and really high and decided he wanted to have a bath. They have one of those old fashioned claw foot tubs. It’s really deep and the spigot is really narrow and it takes a long time to fill so he had lots of time to get something to eat and have another beer before his bath was ready. Well, the booze and the weed and the food mixed with the hot water and Dave passed out right there in the tub. Lucky for him he only slid down to chin level, Unlucky for him was his mom coming into the bathroom the next morning and finding him naked and blue in a tub full of water. The way Dave described waking up cold and wet and naked and hung-over and his mom’s hysterical screaming and then his dad running in and both of them yelling in Japanese and broken English.  Fuck it was funny. Hell, that’s an even worse way to wake up then how I woke up today.

I go upstairs, eat last nights leftovers and go back to bed for another six hours.

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There’s a link on the sidebar to the beginning of this…

Other then the Indians Natives, Dave the Tokin’ Nip was the only non-white kid in our class. And the chuggers don’t really count. My dad calls them ‘apples’, red on the outside and white on the inside. He’s careful about who he says stuff like that to. It’s not like we live in some upper-crust elite suburb. It’s a small interior town and there are just not very many non-European immigrants here. I’ve never even met a real coloured black person before. Anyway, Dave’s always kinda stood out, you know? For some kids being different is tough, but for Dave it was all good. Stuff always seems to come easy for him; grades, sports, girls… and loads of friends of course. Part of that is he’s the go-to-guy when you need weed, but it’s more then that. He’s a lot of fun to hang out with. He doesn’t have an accent at all, but when he’s drinking or telling jokes he does this killer Asian accent. It’s funny as hell.

The bad part about Dave is he cannot keep a secret. I wouldn’t call him a ‘gossip’, he doesn’t go out of his way to tell people shit, he’s just friendly and chatty and usually high and stuff comes out. He swears he never told anyone about the wedding present, but he’s full of shit. Two weeks after she threw the beer bottle at me, Lynda starts calling the house. Because I’m still on probation, I’m working all different shifts at the mill and when I say ‘working’ I really mean it. I’ve never had to work like this before and I am bagged when I get home. Parts of me hurt that I didn’t know I had before. I have a couple of beers after my shift (the only good thing about shift work is anytime is miller time) and smoke a joint before I go to bed and sleep until it’s time to go back to work. The money’s great, but I’m to fucking tired to spend much of it.

Anyway, Lynda starts calling the house every day and my mom is all excited about it, like it’s Farrah Fawcett calling. I really can’t be bothered to call her back, but eventually she calls when I’m at home and awake. Mom hands me the phone grinning from ear to ear. Guess who this is? She mouths. The psycho bitch I knocked up? I mouth back.

Lynda’s all nice and sweet on the phone. She’s heard I’m working. She’s sooo happy for me. She’d really like to get together and talk about stuff. She promises not to throw anything at me. She doesn’t actually apologize for it, just says being pregnant fucks with her hormones. I agree to meet her the next afternoon.  Mom comes back into the kitchen after I hang up. She looks so pleased. I can’t stand it so I go down to the China Lily to see Dave and score some weed. We’re standing outside the back of the restaurant smoking a joint and I tell him about talking to Lynda. He says you know how to make a hormone, right? Don’t pay her. He kills me.

I meet Lynda at a coffee shop the next day and she still looks skinny as hell. She notices the way I look at her and the very first thing she says to me is her boobs are bigger. She says they could get way bigger and they’ll probably stay big even after the baby’s born. Seriously. That’s what she starts off with. The only thing I can think of to say is ‘super’. She tells me she’s been to the doctor and everything’s fine. She starts telling me about how bad alcohol can be for the baby like it’s something I never would have thought of on my own. She says smoking isn’t very good for the baby either, but the stress of quitting might be worse so the doctor just encouraged her to cut back.

She asks about the job and my parents and she tells me some lame story about her sister and stuff going on at the Italian Delight and I can tell she really is making an effort. Part of my brain knows that she’s only being nice because I have a well paying job and she needs me to support her and she’s probably heard about the wedding present. On the other hand, it’s 1981 and there aren’t many well paying jobs out there for a guy fresh out of school and we’re both stuck in this one-horse town and I’m going to be paying for this kid one way or another and for the life of me I can’t see a way off of this path.

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Wow. Can you believe it? A second chapter. There’s a link to the beginning of this on the side bar.

There are no shades of grey with my dad; no what if’s or maybe’s. He doesn’t rant or rave, he just says what he thinks and people listen. He’s got a deep voice like Johnny Cash and he always looks you straight in the eye when he’s talking to you. He’s also a big man, not fat really, but he just seems to occupy a lot of space. Whatever the reason, not many people contradict him.

He’s a foreman at the mill and his shifts almost always have the best safety records and they often have the highest production numbers. Every month, the shift that has the fewest injuries combined with the highest production gets a bonus, so the guys on his shift thinks he’s great. He calls them ‘his guys’ and they’re always coming over to the house asking for advice.

He’s the godfather to more kids in this town then practically anyone. Speaking of kids, he coaches Little League Baseball in the summer and one of the years I played, we went all the way to the provincial championship. We even got our picture in the newspaper. My mom kept the clipping.

I wouldn’t want you to think I just do what ever the hell he tells me to do. We argue lots. But this thing with Lynda being preggers, well after a couple of weeks he starts to make sense. He tells me that even if I don’t marry her, we’re still going to have this connection for a very long time and we should try to get along. He tells me to take her out and get to know her better. He tells me that since we’re both going to be parents to this child we should figure out how that’s going to work.

He asks me how I was planning to get started on my career as a roadie. It’s not like there’s a roadie school anywhere. Other then a local bar band I don’t even know any musicians. Then of course he had to remind me about the time I lit my buddy Dave’s car on fire putting in a car stereo. Actually we were hot knifing hash with a blow torch and ‘electrically inept’ just sounded like a better excuse.

In his mind, running away isn’t even an option. He tells me that if I run away Lynda will be on welfare and the government lawyers will chase me to the ends of the earth to collect child support. He says him and my mom will want to be able to see their grandchild and how will they be able to do that if I’m a deadbeat dad? And besides all that, the day will come when I’ll have to look that kid in the eye and explain why I wasn’t there for him. Of course my dad is looking me in the eye when he tells me that.

So I go to the restaurant and ask Lynda if she wants to go out after she finishes work. She looks at me real suspicious, like all I want is to get laid again. I must admit, I did think of that. It’s not like she could get any more pregnant. But she says OK and I pick her up just after 10 pm. She gets in my car and goes to light a cigarette. I tell her she can’t smoke in my car so she puts it back in her purse. I tell her I don’t want her to smoke while she’s pregnant. I tell her it’s my baby as well and I don’t want her to poison it. She gets pissed off and says I can’t tell her what to do and then says she wants to go home.

I stew about it for a few days and then I start to think maybe my dad’s right. Not about getting married, but about this kid being as much mine as it is hers. So I go back to the restaurant at the end of her shift. She’s sitting in the smoking section with another waitress drinking a beer. I get really pissed off and tell her she can’t drink and smoke when she’s pregnant, the baby will be all fucked up just like her sister. She tells me to go fuck myself and throws her beer at me.

My dad gets me an interview with Mr. Peters, the personnel manager at the mill. I’ve known him for years of course. I broke his kids collar bone playing flag football at a company picnic one year. Dad says I need to go through the interview process just like anyone else. The interview doesn’t start off very well. Mr. Peters comments on how much I’ve filled out since he last saw me. He says pretty soon I’ll be as big as my old man. Without even thinking about it I say, yeah, strong like ox, smart like tractor. Mr. Peters thinks I’m making fun of my dad and starts giving me a lecture. I don’t know if I should admit that I was calling myself a big dummy. So I don’t say anything. The rest of the interview goes good and I get the job. Well I’m on three months probation before I can get into the union then I get the job, but my dad says if I’m punctual, work hard and work safe I’ll get on for sure.

He says he’s proud of me, getting a real job and taking responsibility for my life. I don’t really get the connection so I tell him about my attempts with Lynda. It’s like I’m talking and he’s hearing something completely different. He starts going on about how much money I’ll be making in a couple of years and benefit packages and education funds for me and my family and pension funds- for fuck sake, I’m eighteen and he’s talking about my retirement. I try again. I tell him Lynda and I have never even been out on a date. We screwed once. She threw a beer bottle at me. He tells me about the wedding present he and my mom are going to give us. Then he tells me not to tell anyone, especially Lynda because that shouldn’t influence her decision to marry me or not.

A couple of days later I’m smoking a joint with Dave the tokin’ nip and I tell him what’s been going on with Lynda and how the grumpies are in total denial about what a head case she really is. Dave says so according to your pa, getting married because you knocked up some bitch you don’t even like is the right thing to do, but getting married to get a cool present is wrong?

It’s 1981 and even the music sucks

When the relationship with the mother of my son was ending and I was sad and lonely and my only contact with the outside world was on-line, one of the women I met was Miranda. Miranda was wonderful. I know you can never really be sure if the person you’re chatting with (or the blogger you’re reading) is really who they say the are, but honestly it really didn’t matter. We had cybersex of course, but we also chatted for hours about life, the universe and everything. If she wasn’t who she said she was, there was never anything malicious or hurtful about her.  She was a friend and she made a difference.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I was trying to find something to write about and I found this story Miranda had sent me way back when.  It’s warm here now and it seemed like a good night to post it. If Miranda happens to read it or you know who and where she is, ask her to contact me. I’d love to thank her.

Cheers,

sss

A Sultry Summer’s Eve by Miranda

Shopping late one night at the 24 hour grocery store was not exactly how her evening was supposed to be going.  In fact, right now she should have been in the throes of passion with her lover, but he had gotten called in to work and had to cancel their date.  Feeling a little frustrated and far too edgy to sleep, she thought she might as well get her shopping done.  Miranda’s mind wandered as she squeezed the tomatoes for ripeness, not really paying attention to the task at hand.  She stopped abruptly as she sensed a pair of eyes boring into her.  Slowly looking up, she saw him across the produce display…staring at her…so self-assuredly and with such intensity her mouth formed a surprised “O”….so startled was she.
  His eyes had been roving her body mercilessly, noting the creaminess of her thighs, the curve of her hips, her tiny waist, and then lingered on her breasts…loving how her hard nipples protruded against the thin fabric of her slip of a summers dress….smiling as he gave silent thanks to whoever the genius was that invented air conditioning.  As she looked up at him he caught her eyes and held her captive in his gaze…..a cocky half grin on his face….purveying to her his raw animal lust.
  After an interminably long couple of seconds she managed to gather her senses about her and forced herself to break his gaze.  Averting her eyes she pushed her cart past.  She felt a whole range of emotions…from the initial shock and indignation at his brazenness, to flattery…and incredibly even desire for this total stranger, so….magnetic….she found him.  She shook her head in disbelief, amazed at the effect he had upon her….amazed at herself for feeling this way.
  Continuing on with her shopping, she found herself thinking about this intriguing man, and began to fantasize about meeting him again….maybe engaging him in conversation….perhaps he might even ask her out.  A sweet smile crossed her lips as she entertained these possibilities in her mind.  Absentmindedly she turned down the cereal aisle where she encountered him again….their carts almost colliding as they rounded the corner simultaneously.  He locked eyes with her again, this time giving her a nod of the head and a sexy smile as he politely said “Ma’am”, backing his cart up, allowing her room to pass….all the while keeping his eyes locked firmly on hers.  Instantly flustered and losing all composure, her neck and face went flush, she could feel the fire rising in her cheeks.  She had to bite down on her lower lip to keep her mouth from gaping, and stood transfixed again by the power of his gaze.  She barely managed to squeak some semblance of a “thank you” as she nervously squeezed by, gripping her cart handle tightly for support, for her legs felt about as firm as pudding.
  Once past, she rolled her eyes heavenward, inwardly scolding herself.  “Well, so much for dazzling him with your wit and charm, you fool.”  There went all her fantasies about engaging him in that clever conversation she had rehearsed in her head.  She couldn’t believe what an idiot she was.  “And what was that horrid sound that came out of your mouth??  How articulate.” she chided herself.  Well, at least she hadn’t babbled on like a fool.  He merely stood there and watched her walk the entire length of the aisle….mesmerised by the sway of her hips…..getting lost in the slight jiggle of her ass.
  Leaving his cart at the end of the freezer aisle, he very quietly approached her from behind as she was reaching into the floor freezer for some orange juice concentrate.  As she stood up she backed right into him….his arms reached out and grasped her waist, drawing her into him.  Startled, her heart pounding, she knew who it was instantly, but turned her head and looked anyways….chest heaving….eyes wide.  He bent his head down and slid his hungry tongue between her parted lips…..and their tongues began passions war.  She melted into him instantly….his hands began to caress her stomach and midriff.  Breaking their kiss he pulled her tighter into him….she leaned her head back into his strong chest.  His hands cupped her firm breasts, unencumbered by a bra, and he began to squeeze and rub and fondle them….making her moan softly as he pinched and tweaked her sensitive nipples.  His touch filled her with electricity, coursing through her body to the the very core of her womanhood.
  Now he took her earlobe between his soft lips and nudged his legs in between hers, forcing her legs to spread open.  Her heart pounded wildly now, she glanced down both ends of the aisle in case somebody came, but the store was void of all but these two lone shoppers.  Grabbing her skirt he lifted it up so he could feel her….he rubbed his hand over her round ass, his fingers gliding over the satin of her panties.  He moved his hand further down to caress her pussy….and was thrilled to discover her panties were crotchless.  “Oh…fuck” he thought.  “She just keeps getting better and better.”  His fingers traced the velvet of her smoothly shorn pussy lips, and he marvelled at how slick and wet she was.  He pushed two fingers deep inside of her….making her moan….wiggling his fingers round and around, in and out….marinating them in her sexy sauce.
  Unable to contain himself any longer, he takes her by the shoulders and pushed her all the way forward and down so she is bent over the freezer, holding onto the other side for support.  He loves the look of her, her inviting ass high in the air, her swollen wet pussy lips peeking out of her crotchless panties.  He quickly unzips his Levi’s, freeing his swollen member, and thrusts it deep and hard within her.  She throws her head back, having to bite her lip to muffle her scream.  Inflamed, he begins to fuck her….slowly and erotically for the first few thrusts to savor the sensation, then gradually building up speed and momentum until he is pounding in and out of her….burying his throbbing cock deeper and harder with each thrust….throwing her into ecstasy with the strength of his blows.  Grabbing her hips he continues his assault on her, loving so much how she pushes hard against the freezer to fuck him as hard as he is fucking her…..God he loves how gushing wet she has become.  Finally he feels his time is coming….she feels soooo good…..he feels the cum building in his balls and then raging through his shaft till it finally explodes in a wild orgasm that feels like it will never stop….spurting stream after stream of hot sticky cum deep into her love center.  He is utterly amazed at how receptive this woman is to him, disbelief clouds his head as he wonders for a moment…did she really just let this happen between us, or am I in a dream?
  After his orgasm subsides he pulls her back upright and they quickly straighten their clothing….both panting and breathless.  He draws her into him again, this time for a sweet lingering kiss, then looking deeply into her eyes he says…..”Hello, b’ful……my name’s SSS”

Ok, so I’m going to try this again <click here> for the prologue.

 We like whiskey

We like rum

We’re the grads of ’81.

If by chance

We do not pass

In ’82 we’ll smoke more grass.

Kids are singing that poem to every song on the record player when I arrive at Stephens’s pre-grad party. We decide it should be our unofficial grad song which is fine because the official grad song-The Best of Times by Styx-sucks.

I have no idea who is on the grad committee, but I know that I will never look back and think being eighteen and graduating from high school was ‘the best of times’. It’s a funny thing about being eighteen. There are so many things I’m absolutely certain about. I know what (and who) is right and wrong. I know what (and who) is good and bad. I know that after spending twelve years in school, I’ve been given the basic tools I’ll need to thrive and survive in the world and I know the world is just waiting for me with open arms.

 I’m eighteen. I’ll be graduating from high school in two months and I’ve got big plans. I’m not going to stick around this jerk-water town. I’m going places. I’m going to be a professional roadie. You know, like with big rock bands. I’ll be traveling from city to city and country to country. I want to be one of those of no fixed address guys you read about in the newspaper.  You know the kind of stories I’m talking about, right? So-and-so witnessed the accident or was arrested or was found dead in the swimming pool was a twenty-something male of no fixed address. That’ll be so freakin’ cool. I’ll be setting up equipment, doing sound checks, hanging out backstage, parties all the time and banging groupies. That’ll be the best part. I’ll have a different girl every night. Hell, I’ll have a bunch of girls every night. Roadies get to screen the groupies for the band. Gonzo only wants natural redheads tonight. I’ll need to confirm your red headedness before you can meet him.

Speaking of redheaded hotness, Liz, my grad date, is supposed to meet me at this party, but she ends up having to baby-sit.  I decide to go to the part anyway because…well Stephen’s not the most popular kid in school and he’s told a lot of people about this party. He thinks nobody will want to come, but absolutely everyone is going to be there. I tell myself I should go just in case things get out of hand and Stephen needs help, but maybe I go just because I know things will get out of hand. I take a six-pack of cheap beer, but somebody has already opened Mr. Russell’s liquor cabinet so I pour myself a glass of whiskey. It tastes like liquid smoke.

After about an hour I want to smoke a joint so I go outside. Not out of respect to the Russell’s really, I just don’t want to share with everyone there. I’m out on the front lawn when my buddy Dave drives by. He’s delivering Chinese food from his parents restaurant and he stops when he sees me.  Dave’s my best friend so I don’t mind sharing with him. Besides he’s the guy I usually buy my weed from and he’s always giving me deals so it all works out. Dave’s actually Japanese, but his parents own the Chinese restaurant in town. Dave says us Whities think all Asian food is the same so it doesn’t make any difference. He’s got a hell of a system worked out. His parents don’t speak English so they rely on him for a lot of stuff. They don’t have a clue about anything. Dave pays the waitresses a little extra and they take phone orders for food and weed.

We move around to the side of the house to smoke our joint because Dave wants to tease the dogs. The Russell’s have a kennel that runs along the side of their house…actually; I think it was a tennis court once. In it they keep these two vicious Doberman Pinschers. The thing about these dogs is, a few years ago the neighbours complained about the noise and rather then getting rid of the dogs, they had their voice boxes removed. They still bark like crazy all the time, but now it’s in this hoarse kind of whisper. Dave rattles the fence and blows smoke in their faces when the dogs charge at him.

Yeah, he can be a bit of a shit sometimes, but we’ve always been good friends. He can’t stand the Russell’s though and he tries to talk me into going on deliveries with him. I tell him I’m going to stay at the party for a bit and I might catch up with him later. I go back inside and there’s this girl there. Lynda. It used to be Linda, but she changed it. She’s sixteen and in grade eleven. She’s a little tipsy, but not sloppy yet. I hate it when girls get sloppy drunk, but a little tipsy is OK. So I’m chatting her up. She starts telling me all about her fucked up life and of course I know most of it already because it’s a small town and there’s only one high school. I know all about her living with her alcoholic dad and retarded sister (only you’re not supposed to call them retards anymore), but she tells me all about them anyway. Then she starts talking about Carlos. I should have left right then; shoulda, coulda, woulda, didn’t.

 Carlos is this Greek guy, you know, from Greece. He’s a millwright for the railway and he works in the big machine shop at the edge of town. When he first came here all the girls went ga ga over him. They said he looked like a Greek God. My dad said he just looked like a gawd damn Greek to him. That always cracked me up. Anyway, he starts dating Lynda even though she’s only fifteen and he’s like twenty, but her dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass because he’s drunk most of the time. So, they’re dating for more then a year when he decides he’s going back to the old country for a holiday. And wouldn’t you know it, when he comes back here four weeks later he’s got a hot new wife with him.

 “I saw him last week and he walked right past me like he didn’t even know me”, she says, getting all teary eyed. “I said hi Carlos and he said ‘hi’ then started talking to Broom Hilda in Greek. If she spoke English, I totally would have told her what a prick he is and how he just used me and about all the things he promised me.” The tears start running down her face and I decide not to tell her that her name is actually Frangellica and she’s learning English pretty fast according to my mom.

 “I heard she’s pregnant that’s why he had to marry her,” says Lynda.

 That’s only half true. My mom works part time for the Welcome Wagon; they welcome new people in town and take them little gifts and coupons from local businesses and she was at Carlos and Frangellica’s house when the doctors’ office called to tell her the happy news. I don’t mention that to Lynda either.

 I’m the strong shoulder to cry on so I take her back to my place before she gets sloppy drunk. Bringing girls home is kind of a touchy subject with the grumpies so we sneak in the back door then down to my bedroom in the basement. She tells me she’s on the pill so I don’t need to use a condom and we screw. Just once and she goes right to sleep. I’m looking at her and there’s something I can’t figure out. I’m not a queer or anything, but Carlos is a good-looking guy, even for a Greek and Lynda is, well, plain. She’s kind of pale and mousy, she got little titties, hardly any ass and it’s not like I’ve had a ton of girls, but she really wasn’t very exciting in bed.  Frangellica, now there’s a woman I wouldn’t mind having a go at. She’s got long dark hair, nice boobs, an ass to die for and her face; man, I’d love to rest my nuts on her chin for a week or two. I fall asleep stroking my dick fantasizing about Carlos’ wife.

 I wake Lynda up early. She’s whiny; her head hurts, she’s thirsty, she’s hungry she wants me to make her breakfast. I tell she needs to leave. She wants me to walk her home; she’ll make me breakfast. I can meet her dad and sister. I don’t want any of those things and she gets mad and loud.  She says I’m an asshole just like all men. Just fuck me then kick my sorry ass to the curb she shouts then marches out and slams the door. The grumpies are not amused.

 Monday morning the guys tease me a bit about Lynda. Did Carlos’ big Greek cock stretch her all out of shape? Couldn’t I do any better then banging a drunken chick on the rebound? But it dies down pretty quick. Any sex is good sex, am I right? Besides, that wasn’t the big news from Saturday night. After Lynda and I left the party, Stephen discovered his dad’s liquor cabinet had been raided so he went to the liquor store to try and buy more and he got arrested by an under cover cop. While he was gone the party really got going and one of the neighbours called Mr. & Mrs. Russell…they arrived home right after someone drove a motorcycle into the dog kennel.  

 I hardly even think of her again until the Friday night before graduation. The grumpies take my grad date, Liz and I out for dinner at the Italian restaurant. It’s the only other ethnic restaurant in town and it’s owned by a couple of old hippies from the Excited States (everyone says he’s a draft dodger). Anyway, Lynda just happens to be our waitress. I totally didn’t know she worked there. It’s a little awkward because Liz and my parents all know I banged Lynda, but I hope she’ll just be cool about the whole thing. Everything starts off fine; Lynda’s a smiling cheerful waitress. She brings our drinks and takes our orders. Dad lets us order anything we want and I order rack of lamb because it’s the most expensive item on the menu. Lynda brings out the appetizers and she’s still all smiles. She brings our main course, sets everyone else’s down nicely then slams my plate down in front of me and announces loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear that she’s preggers, that I’m the father and that she’s going to keep the baby. Then she bursts into tears and runs into the kitchen. Nobody has much of an appetite after that.

 Liz still goes to grad with me. Maybe it’s because it’s too late for her to get another date, but I like to think she still likes me. She goes to grad with me, but we don’t have as much fun as we might have, if you know what I mean. After the official dinner and dance I go to a party down by the river, but Liz doesn’t come to that. At the party I chug tequila straight from the bottle until I’m totally shit-faced. I guess I’m lucky that I don’t fall into the river and drown or unlucky, depending how you look at it.

 I don’t remember getting home, but I’m on my bed and still in my rented tux when my dad wakes me up. Early. Mom’s going into town and wants to return the tuxedo while she’s there and Dad wants to have a man-to-man talk with me. There’s no point arguing about it. I get up, have a shower, try to brush the grossness out of my mouth without much success and go upstairs to face the music. I assume I’m in shit for getting drunk and doing whatever it was I did the night before, but I assume wrong.

 He wants to know what I’m going to do now that I’m finished school. I tell him what I’ve been telling everyone for the past two years; I’m going to be a roadie.

 There’s not much stability in that, he says. You’ve got responsibilities now.

 What, Lynda? She’s not my responsibility.

 She’s going to have your baby.

 She said she was on the pill. It’s not my fault.

 Well, it won’t be that baby’s fault. Lynda’s got a grade eleven education and a drunk for a dad. If you don’t pay then it’s my tax dollars that will be supporting that child and I sure as hell didn’t have sex with that girl.

 I sulk and after awhile I mumble that it’s not fair.

 He laughs and says welcome to the real world. He says one way or another I’m going to pay. He says that that baby is going to want and need a father, that since I’m going to be paying anyway, it might as well be me. He says that it’ll be easier for everyone if I step up to the plate now.

 It takes me a minute to get what he is talking about. You mean marry Lynda?? Are you insane? I hardly know her. I don’t even like her. We’re just kids ourselves. How do you expect me to support a family?

 I could get you on at the mill

What, so I can relive your life? This is fucked.

 

Alice, so drunk he can barely stand…

 

 

 

Helium

 

Whenever anyone asked Brent’s dad Earl why he would give up a good paying government job to become a writer, Brent would cringe and Earl would tell the following story.                                                                                       

 “My five-year-old son Brent was riding in the back seat of the car sounding out the letters on the tanker truck in front of us.”

“He-L-I-um?”

“Just about.” 

“Helium!”

“You got it little man. What did you learn at kindergarten today?”

In Earl’s story the two of them spent the afternoon at the beach with their dog Heyboy. It was a crisp early spring day and the tide was low with miles of beach. Their fingers went numb looking for life in the icy tidal pools. Earl would go on at length about all the other people they saw out with their own dogs, slobbery old Heyboy getting sick from drinking seawater and the sheer joy of a man and his son spending an afternoon together on the beach. Just before it was time to go they heard a train coming and rushed up to place some pennies on the track. Brent said, “Helium is what they fill balloons up with, right Dad?”

After the train had passed, Earl and Brent were searching the rail bed for their coins when an undercover railroad cop approached. He told them they were trespassing and that placing anything on the tracks was a serious crime. He got down to Brent’s level, “One of those coins could have shot off the track and taken your eye out,” he said, making a quick jabbing motion toward Brent’s face. A heated argument ensued between Earl and the cop with pushing and shoving and bad language. Earl threw the first and only punch and in a flash the cop had him in handcuffs. The cop had one hand on Earl’s shoulder and was reaching towards Brent with the other when Heyboy bit the cop and an elephant sat on Earl’s chest. That’s how Earl described his heart attack. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital and Mom rescued Brent and the dog. The following day when he visited his Dad at the hospital the very first thing Brent said to him was, “Why didn’t the helium truck float away?”

Earl was convinced his heart attack and that story were signs that he should change directions and become a writer. If a story that good just drops into my lap, his dad would say, just imagine what I’ll be able to write when I put my mind to it.  Brent always felt responsible for his dad’s decision. If they’d gone to the library instead of the beach, his dad wouldn’t have had the heart attack. If he hadn’t asked about the helium, Earl would have kept his job. If it had been a better story, Earl would have been a better writer and his parents would have stayed married. Just after Brent’s eighth birthday, Earl moved into a small ground floor apartment on the other side of town. Brent and his Mom stayed in the same house and made ends meet by taking in boarders.

Earl didn’t do any of the things that Brent thought a dad should do. He didn’t seem to have a life outside the sad little apartment with its ratty old furniture. He always drove old rust buckets of cars. He called them Bic cars and seemed proud of the fact that he never paid more for a repair than it would cost to pick up another disposable car. The only new clothes he ever had were clothes that Brent’s mom bought for Brent to give to his dad for Christmas and birthday presents. Earl’s child support payments were so small that Brent’s mom often gave them to him for an allowance.

When his parents first split up, Brent spent every second weekend at his dad’s. It was so boring that in time it became one afternoon every second week and even that was more than Brent could stand. Every visit was the same. Earl would try to get Brent to talk about whatever was going on in his life and Brent would give one or two word answers. Then Earl would talk about whatever he was working on; a half finished novel, a short story, an article or a poem, and always there was the endless stream of rejections. He kept them in a folder and treated them like some kind of ever-growing badge of honour. They depressed the hell out of Brent. He’d have burnt every one of them. He couldn’t understand how his dad could keep on being an unsuccessful writer. Sometimes Earl would read something that had been published as if to show that this was a measure of his success, but to Brent it always seemed pointless and sad. He asked his dad once why he hadn’t retrained for a different government job when he had the opportunity. Earl seemed puzzled by the question and asked Brent what job could possibly be better then being a writer? Brent was thirteen and moody and suggested ‘school zone crossing guard’ would have been a good choice.

One day when his mom was driving Brent to his dad’s they heard a discussion on the radio about earworms. That’s when you get a song in your head and you can’t stop humming it. They told a story about a woman who, when she was fifteen, woke up one morning with a melody in her head. She had no musical training, but convinced her parents to send her for music lessons. She learned how to read and write music and wrote out the song. During the next forty-three years she wrote out that same piece of music one thousand four hundred and eighty seven times. They were all done by hand, numbered, dated and each slightly different than the others. When she completed the last one she wrote ‘perfect’ at the bottom of the page and killed herself. Brent was laughing when they played one of the only known recordings of the song.

“That sounds exactly like Dad and his ‘Helium’ story. He’s got a literary ear worm.”

“That’s not very nice. Brent you should have more respect for your father.”

“Are you kidding?” Brent replied. “Did you know that anytime he gets stuck for something to write, he works on yet another version of that story? I’ve heard it from the dad’s POV, the son’s POV, and various versions in the third person. He’s even written it from the dog’s POV. I don’t think he even submits it anymore.”

“That’s because writers need to write. It doesn’t really matter what he’s working on as long as he’s writing. It’s who he is and I hope one day you’ll stop being angry at him for it.”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t forget to invite him to your birthday next week. We can pick him up if he needs a ride. I still can’t believe my baby is going to be sixteen.”

On Brent’s birthday a small party was held in his honour.  Mom and her new boyfriend gave him a gift certificate for driving lessons, his uncle gave him a sex manual and a box of condoms, his cousins bought him some beer and he had high hopes that his girlfriend would be giving him her cherry later that night. Then he opened his dad’s gift. It was a handmade card and inside it said:

Brent and I have a secret place

Where the world moves a different pace.

But I will never tell a soul

Where is our little glory hole…

 It went on from there, but Brent could no longer see the words. He looked up at his dad. Earl was beaming and saying, “You might not remember this, but before my heart attack I took you camping and I taught you how to pan for gold…”

 “This is it? This is what you’re giving me for my birthday? A f’ing poem! Are you completely insane? Last week when you were telling me about the play Agatha Christie gave to her grandson and how he lived his whole life on the royalties from it. I thought maybe you’d finally managed to publish something big and were going to give me something to make up for being such a loser, but this, this is just pathetic!”

As Brent ranted, he watched his dad age ten years in two minutes. The effect was no less dramatic than seeing him gray and unconscious beside the railroad tracks, but once the words started he couldn’t stop the eleven years of frustration and disappointment from pouring out. When he was done, he stormed up to his room and slammed the door. The party was over.

During the final three years of Earl’s life, Brent’s relationship with his dad was polite, but distant. There was no visitation schedule anymore. Brent would stop by occasionally and take his dad out for lunch. They’d talk about Brent’s job or school or girlfriends, but they had become little more then acquaintances. His mom’s relationship with Earl had also changed.  They had become friends again in a quiet gentle way that Brent envied.

In fact, she was the one who found Earl on the floor beside his desk. She told Brent that the computer was still on and the story his dad had been working on was ‘Helium’. Brent suspected she was trying to push his buttons.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–

 

 

 

 

 

September 11, 2001

            Brent’s Big Ben alarm clock rang at noon. He turned it off and listened to the still unfamiliar sounds in his second floor bachelor suite. I hate this room, I hate night shift, I hate that another man is living with my wife and son, I hate that even with all my planning I still ended up with my father’s life, I hate…

No. That’s enough. He got up, took his Paxil and jumped into the shower.

“Mind over mood, right Dad? At least I’m healthy and working. I remember you telling me that everything happens for a reason and even though it’s a cliché, I’m holding on to that now. Night shift’s not so bad. I get to pick Drake up from kindergarten every day. It kills me when I don’t see him. Does that pain ever go away Dad?  I bet when I was a moody teenager it was a relief not to have to deal with me every day. God, I was such a prick. I thought I was so hard done by. If I’d known how hard real life would get, do you think it would have made a difference? No, probably not.  I’ve got to go do the dad thing now. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

Brent’s first knowledge that something serious was happening in the world came when he turned on the car radio. The second World Trade Tower had already collapsed and the media reports were focusing on what was going to happen next. With no pictures and only sketchy details of what had happened earlier in the day, Brent felt as if he’d entered the Twilight Zone. He was so busy trying to make sense of what he was hearing that when he answered his cell phone and it was his estranged wife Cheryl, he forgot to sound annoyed.

“Have you heard what’s going on?” She asked.

“I’m just listening to it now. The World Trade Centre towers are gone? How is that possible? What the hell is going on down there?”

“It’s been horrible Brent. I’ve been watching it since I got back from taking Drake to kindergarten. I just can’t seem to look away. They showed people jumping out of the buildings. It’s like some terrible nightmare come to life. They’re saying it was terrorists. It’s so scary.”

Brent passed under some power lines and when he could hear her again she was saying, “Drake hasn’t seen any of this. Please don’t let him watch TV today. He’s so young, he doesn’t need to see this.” After he’d hung up, Brent realized that this was the first thing he and Cheryl had been able to agree upon in six months.

The echo of the school buzzer hadn’t yet faded when Drake and his classmates burst out into the brilliant autumn sunshine, a half a day’s schooling being more than enough for their hummingbird attention spans. He was ten feet past Brent when he yelled, “I’ll race you to the car Dad!”

Once Drake had finished his victory dance and was settled into his car seat with a snack Brent asked, “What did you learn at kindergarten today?”

“We learned about Block Parents.”

“Cool, tell me about it.”

“Well, Block Parents are safe people to go to if I get hurt or lost or if a bad person is after me and I can tell who they are because they have a sign on their door and the police come and talk to them to make sure they are safe people to go to and if a bad person is after me I should yell and scream and if they try to grab me I should hit and kick and bite and scratch to get away. Look, there’s a house on the corner with a Block Parent sign.”

“Wow, you learned a lot. How did it make you feel when your teacher was talking about that?”

“Kinda scared.”

“Do you think she was just trying to scare you because Halloween is coming?”

“Daad, that’s not funny! She was telling us so we’d know what to do if something bad happened and thinking about the bad things is what scared me.”

“That makes sense. So our project for today is cleaning up this pigsty of a car. You need to decide what you want to keep and where you want to keep it, I’ll throw out the garbage and we’ll recycle all the empty pop cans and water bottles. Then I’ll get you to spray the back of the car with a hose so I can see where it’s leaking.  It’s not good having the bottom of the hatch full of water like that.”

“Daddy I need all of those things. The leaves and sticks are for my arts and crafts, the rocks have magic colours in them and give me special powers, some of the toys are for playing with in the car and some are for when we go to parks and I like the water in the back, I can hear it splashing when we drive and I can pretend I’m on a pirate ship.”

“Well, I guess I can clean up the car another day. Do you want to go to the park?”

“Yeah! Daddy, do you ever get scared?”

“Yep, lots of times.”

“Really? What do you do when you get scared?”

“The best thing to do is to face your fears straight on, things usually aren’t so scary if you look right at them.” The radio was still on low and Brent considered his own growing fear.

“Another thing that sometimes helps is talking to someone. I often talk to my Dad. That’s your Grandpa Earl.”

“Have I ever met him?” Asked Drake.

“Nope. He died before you were born.” Brent said, watching Drake’s reaction in the rear view mirror.

Drake’s eyes were huge, “Does he ever talk back?”

“No, he just listens. Just like your teddy bear listens to you. I talk to my Dad when I’m scared or worried and it makes me feel better.”

When they arrived at the park, it was deserted. Apparently most other people were letting their kids watch the horrors on TV. They played in the playground for a while then went for a walk along the trails beside a small creek. Standing on a bridge playing ‘Pooh Sticks’ Drake asked, “What else do you talk to your dad about?”

“Mostly I just talk about things that are going on in my life; you, my job, good things, bad things, just stuff. The other day I was telling him about my leaky car. He had a car that leaked inside just like mine does. Instead of fixing the leak, he decided to drill some holes in the floor so the water would drain out. Unfortunately he drilled the holes into his gas tank and once the water got into the gas his car didn’t work very well. So he went to the junkyard and bought another tank. He was under the car taking the tank off and he thought there were four bolts holding it on, but unfortunately there was only three and the tank fell on to his face and broke his nose.”

Drake looked at his dad seriously, “Is that story true Daddy?”

“Of course it’s true. I don’t tell stories.”

“Yeah right, you tell stories all the time. Mommy says I should ask her before I believe any of your stories.” Brent took a deep breath and let the comment pass. His thoughts kept going back to the drama unfolding in the States. What did it mean? What’s going to happen next? How do I protect my son?

“Drake, talking about my Dad has made me think that sometimes we take things for granted. Our lives could be completely different tomorrow. I’d like it if we could think of some way to remember today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s a beautiful day and we’re having a really nice time together. We never know how many days like this we’re going to get. So I think we need to come up with something to help us remember. Maybe it’s the leaves changing colour or the sound of the creek or the smell of the dog poop I stepped in, but I’d like it if we never forgot how happy we are today.”

“OK Dad, I’ll try and think of something.”

They arrived at Drake’s house at dinnertime, with cold wet feet from falling in the creek. They were tired, but happy with memories of a fun day still fresh in their minds. Before he got out of the car, Drake put a green heart-shaped rock the size of a golf ball into Brent’s hand.

“Here Daddy. You keep this at your house. It’ll help us remember the nice day we had together.” He gave Brent a hug and a kiss. “I love you Daddy. See you tomorrow.”

Brent drove toward home with the radio off. He squeezed his 9/11 rock and marveled at his son’s wisdom. He was half way home when he had a revelation.

“I get it now Dad! I understand why you needed to write ‘Helium’.” His dad didn’t choose that story it chose him. Brent pulled over to the side of the road and let the emotions wash over him. The small quiet story of a day with his son was set against a big story of unspeakable terror. It was perfectly clear and the words pounded in his head. Brent realized he had no choice. He had to write this story and get it perfect, even if it took the rest of his life. His hands shook and his tears flowed as he found a pen and on the back of a big manila envelope he began to write.

Last summer my dad lost his job for being drunk and driving the company van into a lake and even though I was going into grade twelve, the most important year of my entire life, we had to move and I had to start my last year of high school four hundred miles away from all my friends. Well, actually I didn’t really have very many friends, but it still sucked big time.

So the very first day of school, I was in the cafeteria and this girl walked right up to me and said, “you’re just like me.” She was wearing Dayton boots, ripped jeans and a leather jacket over top of a black t-shirt. Her short black hair was slicked straight back and she even had a cigarette behind her ear. She was without a doubt the most ‘butch’ looking girl I had ever seen. I couldn’t imagine anyone more unlike me. I was still trying to figure it out when she said, “you’re gay, right?”

Great. My first day at a new school, a chance to start fresh and already I was being labeled. What, is there a sign on my back? I set off gaydar everywhere I go, but it’s wrong. Guys hit on me all the time and girls only want to be my friend. I hadn’t actually had sex yet, but when I did it was going to be with a girl. And she’ll look like a girl, not like this bull dyke here. I was getting really pissed and wanted to tell her off, but all that came out of my mouth was, “umm no.”

“Really? Wow. Do you have any weed?”

I didn’t, but she met up with me after school anyway. We didn’t live very far apart and we walked to her house together. That’s how I met Lou. We were drinking colas in their kitchen when her older sister Dawn came home from her first day at beauty school. Dawn was the exact opposite of Lou. Even in jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked like a movie star. She had long brown hair, big blue eyes, perfect teeth, perky boobies…she was a walking talking wet dream. Lou saw the look on my face and groaned. “Don’t get any bright ideas big boy, she’s as gay as I am.” They both laughed and at the time, I didn’t know if they were kidding. They weren’t.

A few weeks after that first meeting, I was at their house when Dawn came home from school. She needed a model to practice make-up application on. She pleaded with Lou, but her sister was having nothing to do with it. Then they both looked at me. “Hey”, Dawn said. “You’ve got nice clear skin, you can be my model.” She said it just like that. As a statement, not even a question. They knew I couldn’t say no to either of them. That’s how it all got started.

For the next month, three times a week I sat still while Dawn worked on my face and Lou smoked cigarettes and looked for ‘fucked up shit’ on the Internet. When it came time to practice hairstyles, it was clear my thin wispy hair wouldn’t do so Dawn shaved Lou’s head and she went to the cancer clinic pretended she was sick and they gave her a wig.

With hair and make-up done, it wasn’t long until they had me trying on Dawn’s clothes and I was prancing around their house like a girl. It was during the Christmas holidays that I went out in public with Lou dressed as a girl for the first time. We went to a movie. I was so scared, but at the same time it was exciting. We started doing it on a regular basis. Sometimes Lou dressed up as a guy. She’d kept her head shaved and bought a moustache from a theatre supply store. We made quite a nice looking couple if I do say so myself.

I had a part time job and most of my money went to clothes and accessories. Surprisingly enough, Lou was an excellent seamstress. We’d find clothes that were close to the right size and she’d do her magic on the sewing machine and voila! It fit. We even bought a set a silicone inserts so I could have cleavage.

It was close to spring break and Dawn was practicing pedicures on me. I was flipping through the fashion magazines that she was always bringing home when I saw the most beautiful dress in Cosmo Girl Prom. I showed it to the girls and Dawn said, “Oh my god. That’s almost exactly like the dress I wore to my prom and I still have it.” About two seconds passed and we all got the same idea at the same time. I’d wear Dawn’s dress to the prom; we’d rent a tuxedo for Lou and we’d be a smokin’ hot couple.

This dress was amazing. It was a light peach colour that came off the shoulder, perfect for my little fake boobies. The crinoline and Lou’s sewing skills made it look like I actually had hips. I bought an open-bottom girdle and matching strapless long-line bra on EBay. New frilly full cut panties and stockings with lace at the top and flowers down the back seam. I even found some white satin pumps at a second hand store that fit me.

Lou’s vintage style tuxedo made her look like a gangster from the ’30’s. The band on her hat matched my dress and she even had a pimp cane and a peach coloured rose in her lapel. Fuck we looked hot.

It took people quite awhile to figure out who we were and even later we still got lots of compliments and lots of dances with boys and girls. Hell, we came in second in the voting for king and queen of the prom.

Unbeknownst to me, Lou had a flask of vodka strapped to the inside of her leg (I just thought she was happy to see me) and she started getting drunk. She had her eye on a little hottie named Tammy, but when that didn’t work out she turned her impaired attention on me. Yeah, I know I should have said ‘no’. I was sober, she was drinking, but I was flattered and pretty and horny and well, fuck, I was an eighteen year old virgin and I needed to get laid.

We went out to the far edge of the football field and started making out. She was kissing my neck and telling me how much she liked me and how hot my perfume was making her. When she started squeezing my boobies and admiring how firm they were, I realized she’d forgotten whom she was actually with. But did I make her stop? Nope. It wasn’t until my dress was up around my waist and my panties were around my ankles that she realized. “Oh yeah,” she said stupidly. “I forgot you had one of these.”

She started to lower herself down onto my cock and when I was about half way inside her, she let out a little gasp and I felt something running down onto my balls, but I didn’t realize what that might mean. Once I was all the way inside her, she rode up and down a couple of times then said, “Hey, put your legs on the outside of mine. I want to fuck like I’m really the boy and you’re the girl.” I spread my legs and hooked my ankles across her ass. She rode me like that, thrusting like she was doing the penetrating until I came. It didn’t take long. I think she was too drunk to come.

We got ourselves sort of put back together (I couldn’t find my panties) and headed back to the school. We caught a cab and Lou was passed out by the time we got back to her place. Dawn was there and together we got Lou into bed. It wasn’t until we got back into the living room that Dawn really noticed me. “What the hell did you get all over the back of my dress?” She demanded.

“Grass stains.” I said sheepishly.

She glared at me then walked behind me to get a better look. “What the fuck is this stain then?”

I had no idea what she was looking at. Finally she yelled, “It’s blood! You rat-faced bastard. You got my little sister drunk and fucked her out on the football field!”

My jaw was flapping, but no words were coming out. She kept yelling at me, but I couldn’t make sense of the words. She had never spoken to me like that before and I think I was in shock. She told me to stand right where I was and I didn’t move. When she came back into the room, she’d taken her pants off, she still had her shirt and panties on, but she was also wearing some kind of leather harness. Sticking out from the harness was a huge black cock.

“You think it’s cool deflowering innocent virgins? I’m going to show you how it feels.” And she pushed me down onto the couch. She got between my legs and lifted the dress up to my waist. “Look, you’ve even lost your panties. You’re going to lose more then that tonight.”

She put a bunch of lube on her cock and started pressing it against my asshole. “You better relax or it’s really going to hurt.”

“I’m scared.” I whimpered.

“You should be.” The head of the big black penis penetrated me and it hurt like crazy.

“Please.” I begged. “Don’t do this. It wasn’t my fault. It was Lou…” And I bit my tongue.

“Were you going to blame my poor little sister for what you did? Dawn snarled, as she pushed the massive cock all the way inside me. I thought I would split in two. My ass was on fire; it would never be the same. It felt like she was going to poke right through my belly button.

After a few excruciating moments the pain started to subside and as she kept fucking me it started to feel…good. The tip of her cock was touching a place inside me that I hadn’t known existed before. My own cock started to thicken and I hooked my ankles across Dawn’s ass in the same way I had done with Lou a few hours before.

She fucked me like that, thrusting into me and calling me nasty names until I came all over the inside of my pretty dress. When I was done she pulled her cock out and wiped the santorum (the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex, named after Senator Rick Santorum) on my dress and left me there alone.

Prom night was over and my pretty pretty Cosmo dress was ruined; soiled with grass stains, blood, ejaculate and santorum.

♀ works early mornings and is usually gone by the time I get home from work, but since she’s been going to school her days off are now mid-week. This past Wednesday night as I was leaving for work, she insisted that I call to wake her up when I was on my way home so she could get up and make me breakfast. I told her I’d probably be done early and was she sure she wanted to be woken up at 4:30am. She insisted, so I called. I was a nice guy and picked her up a coffee on the way home.

She greeted me wearing a skimpy red nightie and a smile and we had a very nice breakfast together (eggs with diced red peepers and cheese in wraps with strawberries and starfruit on the side; in case you wondered). After breakfast we had a shower together. That’s usually a night time activity for us, but she’d changed the bed the night before and really, is there anything nicer then shower clean and linen fresh?

We were both tired, but we made love. Quietly and efficiently would probably be a good description. Not that it was without passion. It’s just we needed to get to sleep, we both know what buttons to push and we both got what we needed with a minimum of effort. We fell asleep quickly while I spooned her. My wet cock nestled between the cheeks of her ass, my hand holding her breast.

♀ got up about two hours later to get ready for school. I played possum, watching her surreptitiously as she got ready for her day. First she peaked outside to see what kind of day it was then she picked out all her clothes and set them on her dresser. Next she examined herself in our two bedroom mirrors. She checked her breasts; frowned at the scars from her reduction and smiled at my hand print still visible on her right tit. She grabbed her belly fat with both hands and gave it a good shake. She examined her pussy then sniffed her fingers and as she was turning around to check her ass in the mirror I caught a glimpse of our dried love-making juices on her inner thighs.

She started getting dressed; first her bra, the new white one that does up in the front and a low cut blouse. Next the purple boy shorts with the tie at the back and the tight capri jeans. She sat on the edge of the bed to pull her socks on and I grabbed her and pulled her over. You can’t imagine how horny I was from watching my wife get dressed. I was ravenous, I had to have her. I tore at her clothes. I kissed her hard. I tongue-fucked her ear. I bit her neck. I squeezed her breasts together and pushed them up to her face. I pushed one nipple into her mouth while I bit the other one. I licked and nibbled my way down, down towards her pussy. Her outer lips still had my dried cum on them, and when I spread her apart, there was already a steady stream of fresh pussy juice. I dove in and ♀ started talking.

“My, my you certainly are an excited little boy today. Were you listening at the bedroom door when Daddy & I were making love? What have I told you about doing that? Do you like how I taste Baby? Do you like licking Daddy’s seed out of Mommy’s hot little cunt?”

I pushed her legs up towards her chest and started licking her ass, plunging my tongue as deep into her rosebud as it could go.

“Oh Baby, you know how much I love it when you play with my ass. You’re the only one I let do that.”

I moved up and sucked hard on her clitty, then down through her pussy to lick the juices that had pooled on her asshole; her juices, my juices, Daddy’s juices. I wanted to crawl inside her cunt and eat her from the inside out.

“Are you going to come all over the sheets like a sissy Baby or are you going to fuck me?”

“Get on you knees.”

“You’re so cute when you try to be forceful. Are you going to try and fuck me like a real…?”

I grabbed her hips and entered her fully in one hard thrust. She gasped and didn’t say anything for a few moments; just moaned while I fucked her incredibly wet pussy. Squelch, squelch, squelch.

“Is it me that’s got you so excited, or is it the sloppy seconds that have you so turned on Baby?”

I felt her reach underneath and cup my balls.

“That’s it isn’t it Baby, you just love knowing there’s another man’s cum all over your cock and balls.”

I pulled out for a second and went back down to lick up some of the excess girl goo, finger fucked her then moved back up between her thighs. I thrust back into her cunt and started playing with her ass with my pussy lubed fingers. I worked one then two fingers into her tight asshole. I could feel the shaft of my cock through her lining.

“You like touching yourself like that don’t you Baby? I bet you’re imagining it’s another man’s cock sliding along yours. What would be more of a turn on for you Baby, feeling another man’s cock rubbing against yours or seeing Mommy getting both her holes stuffed at once?”

Then I did something I’ve never done before. I slapped her ass. Hard. She yelped, my hand tingled and there was a perfect red imprint of my hand on her right cheek.

“You better not do that again, Baby. If Daddy sees marks like that on me, he’ll spank you with his belt.”

I slapped her again and again and again until her right butt cheek was a bright rosy red. Then with the two fingers still in her ass I felt something ♀ has often described. Through her lining, I could feel my cock thicken (a lot) then stream after stream of cum being pumped into her. When I was spent, I disengaged fingers and cock and she rolled over onto her back. Her pussy was a beautiful gooey mess and her fingers were already circling her clit.

“I really need to come now, Baby.”

I moved up to the head of the bed and reached over to her night stand. She took my still dripping cock into her mouth while I pulled various toys out. I lay back down beside her and whispered in her ear.

“Keep your eyes closed Mommy, I’ll help you come. You liked that as much as I did, didn’t you? You liked getting fucked by two different cocks in less then two hours, didn’t you? Guess what? I told some of my school friends about you? I told them how you let me fuck you. They didn’t believe me so I invited them over to see for themselves. You know what else? They video taped us today Mommy. I’ve got the whole thing on tape so now you’ll have to do exactly what I say or I’ll tell Daddy.”

She kept her eyes closed and smiled, her fingers never leaving her clit, the flush on her cheeks moving slowly towards her neck

“All my friends are horny from watching us. You’re going to let them have their way with you, aren’t you Mommy? My first friend is Tommy, he wants you really bad.”

And I slid her purple dildo all the way inside and slowly started fucking her. After a few moments I passed it up to her.

“Tommy wants to fuck your mouth for awhile. Now I want you to meet Jimmy. He’s not as long as Tommy, but he’s a little thicker.”

And I shoved the butt plug into her cunt. After a few minutes of that,

“I think Jimmy would much rather be in your ass.”

And I slowly worked the plug into place in her tight little ass. Tommy went into her pussy again then back to her mouth and then I introduced her to Bobby’s magic cock that could miraculously curl up like two thick fingers to stroke her G-spot. The flush on her cheeks had moved down to the tops of her breasts.

“You love your mouth, cunt and ass all being fucked at the same time don’t you Mommy?

“Yes Baby, I love being a slut. I love being your slut.”

“You know what else? I told my friends if they paid me $200 each I’d let them fuck any hole they wanted. That’s right, Mommy. Now you’re my whore and it’s all on tape. You fucked Daddy and me and three strange boys all in the same morning. I’ll never need to work again. I own you now.”

“Of fuck yes Baby, I love that you’re my pimp, I live to be your whore, I love being a cum dumpster.”

The flush had moved all the way down to her nipples when I felt the first few flutters in her pussy and when the first big orgasm started I curled my fingers and pushed up hard against the fleshy mound of her G-spot. Her fingers were a blur on her clit and when the second big O started, I slowly eased the plug out of her ass.

Her legs went rigid and she arched her back so she was only touching the bed with her head and heels and then she FUCKING GUSHED. It was intense. It was amazing, it was awesome. I got right down there for a front row seat. I’ve seen it in movies and read about it, but holy freakin’ doodle…we were soaked!

When she’d finally stopped coming, there were tears on her face, her braid had come undone, she couldn’t speak and she was really, really shaking. I held her for a long time afterwards, until she came back down to earth.

We needed to have another shower and change the bedding again. She needed a nap and was late for first class. She doesn’t think that orgasms like that should be a daily kind of thing, but she’s been in a really good mood lately.

Who says a sissy can’t be dominate once in awhile?

HHNT

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