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Subject: Title story: "A Beloved Mom" Author: INCEST MAN 62667450
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Date: Wed, 21 Dec 2005 12:01:32 +0000
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A Beloved Mom by abashed-dreamer "What'ya reading? said my sister. "The Flowers
of Evil," "Your Lit 202, I suppose. Read me a little" "Not exactly assigned,
however." I read: Close swarming, like a million writhing worms, A demon nation
riots in our brains. "I feel that swarm, sometimes," Jill said. "But what are
the 'flowers of evil'? "'Evil' or 'disgusting' things that have their peculiar
fascination and beauty." "Such as?". "Baudelaire wrote, "The unique and supreme
pleasure of making love lies in the certitude of doing evil." His sexual imagery
was very striking: Thus, one night, I'd like, When the hour of pleasure sounds,
To crawl, like a coward, silently Toward the treasures of your person. To punish
your joyful flesh, To bruise your pardoned breast, And carve in your astonished
flank A wide and hollow wound, And delicious sweetness, Through those lips, new
formed, Brighter and more lovely, To inject you, my Sister, with my Blood. I had
piqued her curiosity. "punish your joyful flesh," she mused. I had no doubt she
understood it, though she had not quite finished high school. She wanted to know
about people, their unusual experiences, though she'd had a lot more, I'm sure,
than the average 18 year old. She came over to the chair where I was sitting and
knelt beside it. She looked up, her eyes curious, framed in three shades of
purple eye shadow "How is joyful flesh to be punished?" Her face was beautiful,
open, highlighted by her striking, somewhat 'goth' makeup that led most people
she encountered to inquire, "Are you a drama student?" In fact, she'd had a fine
role in an amateur production of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. She interrupted my
fascination, "How do we do it?" "There are certain sexual practices.... " I said
trailing off, hinting.. I noticed her breasts resting on the arm of the chair
firm, now, the size of oranges standing out on her fine-boned chest and slender
body. More than one fellow senior had incurred her withering remarks by asking
"Are they real?" "I inflate them," she'd say, and as the person nodded, she'd
add, "with the air that rushes through your head." Again she broke into my
thoughts, "Go on." Seeing the direction of my gaze, she smiled. "Do you know
what 'transgression' is?" I asked. "Of course. It's breaking the rules or laws,
the kind of things you'll learn to do in law school." She arched an eyebrow.
"Touch," I said, "and it is also going beyond the limits, for instance, of
decency. This writer believes transgression is necessary for the artist and for
any person who really lives. He lived with a prostitute, Jeanne Duval." "I would
not just break a rule just to be breaking it." "True," I said. "But when you go
beyond the bounds, indulge the most unusual forms of sensuality, you become hyper-
aroused. People will consider what you do, depraved and dangerous." Knowing of
her sexual activities, I asked her, "Did you ever break the rules with a
boyfriend?" "Well, Dan did a lot of speeding. One time he drove 110 miles per
hour, to scare me. I didn't notice at the time, but Mom sure did when I got home
I'd wet my pants. 'What's that?' she asked. 'Just a spill,' I said and went off
to change." "OK," I said. "But for 'sex' ever done it in a weird, possibly
forbidden place?" "Oh yes. Once up in the higher balconies of the theater where
we weren't supposed to go. The guy just laid me back, lifted the front of my
skirt, pulled my panties aside, and we fucked." "Go on" "Then we arranged our
clothes, stood up and walked out, casual as you please." "Did the public
location arouse you?" "Yes my heart was already pounding when we entered the
balcony. And I came like never before." "Even a minor transgression can heighten
the senses." "Well, Mom didn't think it was so minor. I had to walk past her, in
the hall, coming in, and I tried to be casual. You remember." "Mom exploded when
she saw a big wet spot on the back of your skirt: She just lost it. 'You're
peddling that cunt of yours!' She has the mouth of a sailor, doesn't she? Though
she tries to carry herself with the dignity of a model. I don't blame you for
not speaking to her for a week." Jill wanted to return to the topic at hand.
"But doesn't the thrill always decay?" "Well, desire has to be first let out,
then attended." Our discussion proceeded. "Did you know that Byron, the poet,
had sex with his sister--well, half-sister?" She started. I could see she was
thinking. "OK, Garth, let's quit horsing around. You want to fuck me?" "Well," I
responded, sounding noncommittal. "If you're thinking of fucking me, it ain't
going to happen." "OK." But I sensed a flicker in my cock. "Well, what is
possible?" "Hmmm... " she hesitated. She had picked up my reaction. "I just
don't want that huge cock shoved in my cute little quim." Ironically coy. I was
flattered. She was considering other possibilities. Then, she blurted out ...
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