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My Family
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Straight Male / 42
One night during the winter of 1978 I was awakened by my mother. It was about 2 a.m. and I was 6 years old. She had been crying, her hands were shaking and she told me to get up, gather some clothes and pack them into the suitcase she had tossed onto my bed. She shushed me when I tried to ask what was going on, then began packing my things herself. She was smoking compulsively. I remember the cherry tip of the Marlboro dangling from her lips.
My next clear memory was of boarding a Trailways bus. It was jam packed by the time we climbed aboard and we had to sit all the way in back. It was still dark, but lightening to the east. Nearly dawn. I remember being upset and cranky and tired. Mom told me to get some sleep. So I did.
After that, I don't really have any clear recollection for a couple of years. I just know I never saw my father again and mom and I moved out into the boonies.
We had a little cabin, mom called it a 'Davy Crockett Cabin' tucked away deep in the Ozarks of northern Arkansas. I remembered we had lived in California before, so that meant we'd traveled more than halfway across the country. My mother had grown up in the mountains surrounding our cabin, and she knew her way around. We also had a lot of relatives in the area. I didn't attend school anymore. Mom taught me herself, and as much as we could we lived off the land. We had chickens and rabbits and an extensive garden that consumed most of mom's time in warm weather months. We didn't have indoor plumbing or electricity. We pooped and pee'd outdoors, carrying a little spade and TP with us when we went. When we needed a bath, there was the crik. When it was too cold, we kept clean with a wash cloth and a pot of water wormed over the wood stove. We used a slop jar for a toilet. It could have been the 1880s for all I knew.
Whenever I asked about my dad, my mother told me a different story. He had run off with another woman. He had been beating mom and she had gotten tired of it. He hadn't really been my dad, and we'd just left. After a while I stopped asking. What did it matter, I thought?? It was getting hard to even remember what he looked and sounded like.
About the time I hit puberty (I was a relative late bloomer, at thirteen) I began noticing things I'd taken for granted when younger. I'd peek at my mother when she'd wash up indoors during winter, trying to catch glimpses of her breasts, butt and the perfect delta of thick dark brown pubes between her legs. At night when we'd sleep together in the one bed, snuggled up for warmth I'd get erections from the nearness of her body pressing against my own.
One night she flew into a rage because she'd caught me copping a feel when I thought she was asleep. I'd cupped a hand on one of her ass cheeks. She kicked me out of bed and made me sleep on the ice cold bare wood floor. No blanket, no pillow. I got pretty sick. She was so worried about me during my illness, especially during all those fever spikes late in the night she began begging my forgiveness and blaming herself.
She said it was only natural that I was curious. I was a young man and not a little boy anymore. And it was she who had brought me to live in such a remote place. I'd never asked for any of it. She decided that since there weren't any women around, she'd serve as both my mother and a substitute for the girlfriends I'd surely have if we lived elsewhere.
She began by masturbating me two, sometimes three times a day. Whenever I got hard, all I had to do was tell her and she'd reach out with a hand and start jerking me off. She always ate the cum, saying it was high in protein. She even had me eat it sometimes. Especially if it had been a while since we'd had meat. There were times our coop and hutch were empty.
By the time I was 16 we'd started having sex, and it was good. She'd moan and gasp and rake my back with her nails. I could make her cum so intensely she'd shake the heavy wood framed bed we shared. And nothing was off limits. She'd give me head, I'd eat her pussy, she'd let me fuck her in the ass. After my birth she'd had her tubes tied so there was no risk of pregnancy. Some winter days we'd lay in bed naked, with a roaring fire crackling and snapping wood knots in the fireplace and we'd make love, talk, laugh all day long. By the time I was 18 she felt more like a wife than a mother and so we started referring to one another as wife and husband at home. I even found a cheap little metal band and she wore it as a wedding ring.
If our kin knew what was going on, they gave no notice around us. In fact, I think now that maybe what my mother and I were doing wasn't so uncommon in the family.
The first of only a few times I ever cheated on my mother, happened when I was 22 and out in the woods checking game traps. I ran across a 15 year old cousin of mine named Billie. She was a big girl, at least 6' tall and weighed up around 180. She wasn't fat though. Because of her height she carried the 180 pretty well. We ran into each other and started talking. Before too long, our talk had turned into flirting and just like that I was screwing her right there on the ground. We started meeting up at different times and in different places, fucking like rabbits. But it didn't last long. I eventually felt bad for cheating and stopped seeing Billie. In her anger she blabbed to my mother, and that caused some problems at home for a while. But eventually we resolved them and I never talked to Billie again.
The last time I cheated was when I went to check on an aunt of mine. My mother's younger sister by a couple of years. She had lost her husband about a year earlier and didn't have any kids. My mother sent me over to her home a few times with loads of fresh dressed game and vegetables from our garden. On two of those trips I ended up fucking my aunt. She'd wanted it, and so did I at the time.
Altogether my mother and I were involved in a sexual, romantic relationship for nearly 30 years. She passed away last Autumn, I'm now 42 (as of last week). I buried her ashes near her favorite tree outside the cabin. But I've since moved on. I returned to California and searched for my father, only to discover he passed away in 1995. He'd been looking for me the whole time. I had no idea I'd been one of this milk carton kids.
As I guess you can figure, I'm kind of emotionally and psychologically fucked up from everything. Its been incredibly hard re-entering 'normal' society. I want to work, but hardly anyone will hire a guy my age with no diploma or GED (trying to earn that now). But I refuse to live off the work sweat of anyone else. I'm getting by on my own. Barely, but it is what it is.
I guess maybe I should be mad or bitter at my mom for denying me the life I could have had. But its clear to me now, she had some pretty deep psychological issues herself. I'm not gonna blame anybody.
Just wanted to share my story.
My next clear memory was of boarding a Trailways bus. It was jam packed by the time we climbed aboard and we had to sit all the way in back. It was still dark, but lightening to the east. Nearly dawn. I remember being upset and cranky and tired. Mom told me to get some sleep. So I did.
After that, I don't really have any clear recollection for a couple of years. I just know I never saw my father again and mom and I moved out into the boonies.
We had a little cabin, mom called it a 'Davy Crockett Cabin' tucked away deep in the Ozarks of northern Arkansas. I remembered we had lived in California before, so that meant we'd traveled more than halfway across the country. My mother had grown up in the mountains surrounding our cabin, and she knew her way around. We also had a lot of relatives in the area. I didn't attend school anymore. Mom taught me herself, and as much as we could we lived off the land. We had chickens and rabbits and an extensive garden that consumed most of mom's time in warm weather months. We didn't have indoor plumbing or electricity. We pooped and pee'd outdoors, carrying a little spade and TP with us when we went. When we needed a bath, there was the crik. When it was too cold, we kept clean with a wash cloth and a pot of water wormed over the wood stove. We used a slop jar for a toilet. It could have been the 1880s for all I knew.
Whenever I asked about my dad, my mother told me a different story. He had run off with another woman. He had been beating mom and she had gotten tired of it. He hadn't really been my dad, and we'd just left. After a while I stopped asking. What did it matter, I thought?? It was getting hard to even remember what he looked and sounded like.
About the time I hit puberty (I was a relative late bloomer, at thirteen) I began noticing things I'd taken for granted when younger. I'd peek at my mother when she'd wash up indoors during winter, trying to catch glimpses of her breasts, butt and the perfect delta of thick dark brown pubes between her legs. At night when we'd sleep together in the one bed, snuggled up for warmth I'd get erections from the nearness of her body pressing against my own.
One night she flew into a rage because she'd caught me copping a feel when I thought she was asleep. I'd cupped a hand on one of her ass cheeks. She kicked me out of bed and made me sleep on the ice cold bare wood floor. No blanket, no pillow. I got pretty sick. She was so worried about me during my illness, especially during all those fever spikes late in the night she began begging my forgiveness and blaming herself.
She said it was only natural that I was curious. I was a young man and not a little boy anymore. And it was she who had brought me to live in such a remote place. I'd never asked for any of it. She decided that since there weren't any women around, she'd serve as both my mother and a substitute for the girlfriends I'd surely have if we lived elsewhere.
She began by masturbating me two, sometimes three times a day. Whenever I got hard, all I had to do was tell her and she'd reach out with a hand and start jerking me off. She always ate the cum, saying it was high in protein. She even had me eat it sometimes. Especially if it had been a while since we'd had meat. There were times our coop and hutch were empty.
By the time I was 16 we'd started having sex, and it was good. She'd moan and gasp and rake my back with her nails. I could make her cum so intensely she'd shake the heavy wood framed bed we shared. And nothing was off limits. She'd give me head, I'd eat her pussy, she'd let me fuck her in the ass. After my birth she'd had her tubes tied so there was no risk of pregnancy. Some winter days we'd lay in bed naked, with a roaring fire crackling and snapping wood knots in the fireplace and we'd make love, talk, laugh all day long. By the time I was 18 she felt more like a wife than a mother and so we started referring to one another as wife and husband at home. I even found a cheap little metal band and she wore it as a wedding ring.
If our kin knew what was going on, they gave no notice around us. In fact, I think now that maybe what my mother and I were doing wasn't so uncommon in the family.
The first of only a few times I ever cheated on my mother, happened when I was 22 and out in the woods checking game traps. I ran across a 15 year old cousin of mine named Billie. She was a big girl, at least 6' tall and weighed up around 180. She wasn't fat though. Because of her height she carried the 180 pretty well. We ran into each other and started talking. Before too long, our talk had turned into flirting and just like that I was screwing her right there on the ground. We started meeting up at different times and in different places, fucking like rabbits. But it didn't last long. I eventually felt bad for cheating and stopped seeing Billie. In her anger she blabbed to my mother, and that caused some problems at home for a while. But eventually we resolved them and I never talked to Billie again.
The last time I cheated was when I went to check on an aunt of mine. My mother's younger sister by a couple of years. She had lost her husband about a year earlier and didn't have any kids. My mother sent me over to her home a few times with loads of fresh dressed game and vegetables from our garden. On two of those trips I ended up fucking my aunt. She'd wanted it, and so did I at the time.
Altogether my mother and I were involved in a sexual, romantic relationship for nearly 30 years. She passed away last Autumn, I'm now 42 (as of last week). I buried her ashes near her favorite tree outside the cabin. But I've since moved on. I returned to California and searched for my father, only to discover he passed away in 1995. He'd been looking for me the whole time. I had no idea I'd been one of this milk carton kids.
As I guess you can figure, I'm kind of emotionally and psychologically fucked up from everything. Its been incredibly hard re-entering 'normal' society. I want to work, but hardly anyone will hire a guy my age with no diploma or GED (trying to earn that now). But I refuse to live off the work sweat of anyone else. I'm getting by on my own. Barely, but it is what it is.
I guess maybe I should be mad or bitter at my mom for denying me the life I could have had. But its clear to me now, she had some pretty deep psychological issues herself. I'm not gonna blame anybody.
Just wanted to share my story.
- That's Juicy! 15
- Remove It! 0
