All's Blonde in Love and Mother
by DiscipleN
Copyright (c) 2002, by DiscipleN. All rights reserved.
This work may not be used for any commercial purposes without prior, documented consent from the owner.

Have you heard the one about the dumb blonde? Have you ever met a dumb blonde? Now, what about the fakes? I mean peroxide hair girls and pretend airheads. Is the dumb blonde stereotype so powerful, some women find more advantage in acting stupid than impressing others with cleverness? Just how ridiculous does this get?

I'll tell you.

Far from a pretender, evolved beyond myth, my mother leads all blonde-kind. Her nails are bright red, and she pays weekly to keep them perfect. I could hire hookers for that kind of money, but not only is my mother economically vapid, she has a peculiar attitude about sex.

She never complained when my father would grab her and fondle her tits or split her thighs with a crude paw. I'd catch sight of this in the living room occasionally, but I'm sure it happened more often out of my sight. He was a walking hard on. The cops imprisoned my father for raping homeless women, and he committed suicide there, (because none of the other prisoners would molest him). Mom tolerated his obsessive and criminal libido, but she tells a whole other story if I confess to pinching a girl's behind at school. My hands are still imprinted with backward inch marks.

Mother observes all the requisite behaviors of a classic D.B. She smiles blankly at conversations above a third grade level, waits until her panties turn yellow for gentlemen to open the ladies room door, and obsesses over clothes like they would reduce nuclear stockpiles, make nicotine harmless, and cure religion.

She bought a lime green sports car with Dad's life insurance but had to sell the house to pay off a few months of utility bills. My mother said we were lucky to be able to drive such a nice car while apartment hunting. (at 85 miles per hour!) She signed the first lease presented. We moved into a rejected sardine can four blocks away from the nine room, half acre home we once owned.

If I had known how dangerous she was with a checkbook, I would have stolen it. All of our money troubles could have been solved in a single stroke. Mother wrote checks like a high financier, but she had trouble stuffing them into condom vending machines. Cash was a foreign concept. Without her checkbook, she'd be forced into begging for blank checks on street corners. I did steal it eventually, but I should have the instant I was able to forge her signature (half an 'X').

It happened the day I realized that my mother was actually a highly intelligent woman. We were eating lunch on a Sunday afternoon. I stared at my mom's tits, like I usually did. She might not be a model, but she's got the pose down perfect, 'did I leave my panties on the couch again?', with a tilted smile.

I know. I know. Real children don't sexualize their parents. I'm not going to pretend understand it either, but her tits stared back! I swear. No matter where I was in a room, they followed me. Who wouldn't be suspicious? Sex and my mother were like cars for geese. She didn't know what sex was, where it came from, or that it was in anyway related to her body. Sex was a sin, end of conversation.

Orgasms were a very different fish. I'd hear her screaming every other day or night, projecting all the usual uppercase, extended vowels, regardless if she were alone or with some guy who had talked his way upstairs into her bedroom. (I slept in the living room.) If a man could speak an intelligible sentence she'd spread her legs, which is not as welcoming as it sounds. It kept away a lot of drunks. My mom is more innocent than angels and more fucked than Satan's bride.

Yes, yes, I digress and digress again. Get use to it. For such a dumb person, mom is amazingly complex. I didn't realize her true intelligence, though, until she told me one thing on that dull, Sunday afternoon.

"Charlie, you must think your mother is the dumbest girl in the world." She said, speaking in her usual half giggle. Her eyes looked at me like they had been injected with Dr. Mengele blue.

"What a dumb thing to say." I told her. I love my mom. She fed me and kept me warm and dry, and she hugged me and cared enough to whup me when I was a brat. But I was growing up, and I began to understand why I got special attention from my teachers, at least the ones who had met mom.

"Oh, you simply won't believe what happened today."

No, I never disbelieved her. She was incapable of lying, regardless of how farfetched a situation sounded.

"I got married."

"Oh."

"He's a real, nice man."

"Really?"

"Yes, in fact you've even met him."

"That guy." Nodding as if laughing chipmunks cavorted upon the table lighting firecrackers stuffed up each other's butts.

"You know, Mr. Tiggs."

"WHAT! You married the apartment manager?" I jumped up.

"Well, he has been very reliable."

Old reliable is what I always called him. On the rare evening when mom hadn't 'run into' a slightly charming, male human, she'd find some reason to call Mr. Tiggs up from his basement dwelling.

I really wanted to stay calm. Unfortunately, youth that I was, I asked the next question.

"Why now? He's wanted to marry you for months."

"He said he'd give us a discount on the rent."

Two thoughts struggled in my brain to win my voice's blue ribbon. One, my mother could have earned thousands of dollars a week from the same men who might have told her, "hello". Two, what new monetary emergency had developed to precipitate marriage to one, Mr. Ron Tiggs, whose breath you can smell in the ventilators and whose corpse would have been rejected by med students for lacking essential organs.

My third thought escaped my mouth.

"How much of a discount?"

"Darling dearest, you can at least be proud of me for that. The little flint dick was going to cheat us and actually raise the rent, but I held firm at twenty five percent."

Yeah, yeah, I know. It was a 25% discount in San Francisco! You would have married your infant daughter to the scum bag. But more importantly, my mother had actually used a curse word in public. (Screaming, "FUCK ME", loud enough to compete with a passing fire engine doesn't count in the world of Ms. Barbara, newly christened, Tiggs.)

My jaw dropped, visibly.

"I knew it. It was a stupid thing to do." Mom simply collapsed on the table and began to cry. I had witnessed this before.

'GORJUS' was already taken for a personalized license plate. Mommy was seen with a tear in her stockings. Mommy couldn't understand why a growing number of 'wierdos' stood outside begging to marry her. (I've seen her gush at their whipped longing.)

So mom went to Reno last weekend and married the worst possible choice, although I'm not sure my father didn't run a close second, even dead.

That was the moment I crossed the threshold of my manhood.

Rit D'Passage broke over my head, and I rose to the occasion, against all competing cliches.

"Mom, I'll be right back." I assured her in a strangely calm voice.

No tenants dare use our elevator. We all suspect the repairman is waiting for it's first test run. I stepped evenly down the stairwell, our fairly busy, community center. I nodded politely at Mrs. Buddan as she lumbered upward with groceries. I patted Mr. Glamore's terrier. I even smiled at little Nelly and her half brother, Leroy, playing doctor under the last flight. I opened the basement's cage door and walked over to my new dad.

Without looking up, he said. "I'm busy." He sat on a bench rubbing grease into a pipe wrench. The man was fat, loud, and probably tougher than any high school football team.

"Mom wants to fuck you right now."

Even his putrid stench raced with him, up six floors.

I kept busy in the basement until I figured the time to be right. On the way back, I rousted Nelly and Leroy and told them to put their clothes on and to play outside for a while.

I actually hurried upstairs. My smoov was wearing thin.

I expected to see Mr. Tiggs' outline cut out through the front door, but it was simply hanging open. Mrs. Buddan stood outside, aghast at the sight within and oblivious to Mr. Glamore's shit dog humping her leg.

Mom lay spread out in the entrance way. He must caught her walking from the kitchen to the living room. I barely managed to keep the contents of my stomach upon seeing Mr. Tiggs' ass. It was naked, hairy, pale in a gangrene sort of way, and steadily humping into my mother's manicured loins.

I could tell time by her music, and I waited for her peculiar flute-like utterance which denoted crossover before I gripped the fire alarm and gave it a sturdy tug.

Shit happened.

Mr. Tiggs stopped, looked over his shoulder and locked on my gaze.

"I think you must have left some gasoline burning downstairs." I said.

For the second time in his life, he scrambled to the stairwell like an over inflated balloon come untied.

I stepped inside and nodded at Mrs. Buddan as I closed the door. Her sudden screech reassured me she had discovered Mr. Glamore's terrier.

Mom's eyes were blue flames shooting out of two jet engines. The cacophonous alarm rang a silent second to the blood rushing in her ears. Her heart was a visible outline through her left breast. It jangled unevenly. Have I mentioned her golden hair?

"Honey, mommy's not herself right now."

"I know." I was busy with my clothes.

That's when she said it. Two words. At that precise moment, mom was the smartest woman in the world.

I'm not ready to conclude my story, but at least three federal laws, two hundred state statutes, and a dozen city ordinances do conclude it.
The End