Message-ID: <25714asstr$965718605@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "seanfarragher" <seanfarragher@email.msn.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <NEBBKECCNOEJHMGPDAFHIEHPCGAA.seanfarragher@email.msn.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} from TxM6 Billy Reese and DeSade IV Date: Tue, 8 Aug 2000 03:10:05 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25714> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: newsman, gill-bates http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon (updated August 1, 2000) TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher 1043Xfrom999XBillyResse&DeSade III. Billy as Laurie Remembered Him (1972-1990) Billy was sensual and hard, rough and tender. He was the kind of man who inspired women to be bad which was OK in his head. "I like bad little girls," he always said, almost as a line; he offered it as a kind of a warning tip to bar maids and waitresses in the diners where he prowled. "I live," he said, "where the bad girls work," he bragged. I want to be your big Daddy, Laurie wrote, but, when he smiled the charm got ya good." At first, Billy seemed up front, honest, and without guile, Laurie wrote. Later, you knew better, but caught, you made excuses, postponed breaking it off, hoping to change him, make him what you saw, when you first met him. The usual bullshit. We so suffer damn delusions. That is inhuman, and well, not fully out of character, Billy liked to rock the boat, make yes into no or finally a maybe. Billy publicly like many but not all southerners of his time said Billy "hated niggers," but secretly he loved one, an older woman, Zulma, 36, and daughter Carol, 14. The odd couples were close neighbors in the trailer park where Billy, Laurie and kids lived. Incidentally, Zulma was Helene's best friend too, and although she kind of silly 'bout Billy, she didn't trust him any more than most of the neighbors. Zulma didn't understand why a classy woman like Helene took to this white trash boy. My girl friend was born to better, this I know." "Zulma's only woman I trust," the thirty-four year old Billy told my mom Helene, then 31. When she said that openly to us, she would add "that includes you, motherfuckers," pointing at the eleven year old Ariel and Laurie who sat around the kitchen table buttering white bread with mayonnaise and peanut butter. "I know you suck his dick too." Mom, almost an honors graduate from U of Florida liked to play the common tart when she was drunk. Actually, that is the way I see her now as well. She got lucky in her old age and married a Doctor. Mom's set now," Laurie wrote in the margin of her paper after it was returned with a big A and new pages of praise written in red pencil all over both sides of the cover page. Generally, Billy avoided conflict, preferring the side step, the feint, the back ward, down and dirty run away if necessary I can get away with it, and I will not let myself get hurt excuse for cowardice. His chameleon nature was Billy's strong arm, Laurie continued, when she looked back at her life with the step father who charmed her out of her pants long ago. One friend of Billy wrote Mama (what Laurie called her mother) a letter shortly after Billy's death in prison. "I used to suck the man off. He was as close to a lover as a man can be in lock up. Billy ain't no queer, mind you, nor am I, but the body has to do what it has to do, and we did each other without any silly female stuff. We just fucked and sucked and never kissed, you know what I mean. What I got to say here is the truth, fuck it. You know as well as I do that if all the fucken irate husbands, fathers, and mothers of daughters had lined up at Billy's funeral, either here or in Hell, the crowd would have filled the lower deck of Yankee stadium or maybe the whole blessed ball park. Billy was, Laurie thought, remembering how when he played pool he concentrated on the balls as if they held the permutations of his fate. The fucker believed it all, Laurie laughed to herself as she continued the graffiti marginalia . That's what got him sent up finally, Laurie thought. He believed the bad boy in him could control the flow of the balls and make them do his bidding. When he lost, he would simply say, "well I must have done something bad to that bitch guiding them. She must have gotten tired of my fuck ups." Born right here in downtown Gainesville, in lockup, Billy was the usual down and dirty crooked pool hustler who often had his hands broken. Considered by "well adjusted adults over forty," to be what was once called an 'evil seed,' Billy lead an empty, non- productive life, Laurie wrote. "The keepers of the ark, including us, laugh at his life. Did we really not understand, Laurie continued, what he meant and how he fucked us kids up? Social workers might mitigate or even excuse his behavior, but they could have at least stopped him. They had their chances. There were so many social workers investigating Mama after the fire, we could have rented a big hall and collected money from the folks who wished they could know the whole show complete with super eight film of the kids fucking him." They blame it on his battered and bruised exploitation by first his Mother and then his father's sister, he called affectionately, Mary Louisa. Billy often bragged that his Aunt twenty years older, was his first piece of ass after his Mama. Billy did, given all influences, overtly use women and their children until they were empty. As it turns out, these cop- protector-husbands and fathers, usually exhausted these same women, only they described it as a "supportive nuclear family," or the laws, this society had woven from sundry masks and myths protected youth and innocence at least for the time being, Laurie wrote in bold felt tip pen, posted her contrary quip to her own paper adding it to what Laurie called her De Sade commentary. Ironically, few of us are ever innocent, in a state of nature, Laurie wrote after reading the quotation from Freud on Jung. I really loved that 18th century French Class, Laurie wrote on the beginning of section two subtitled: The Loss of De Sade Humanism? I met De Sade with that French Professor. Sure I blew him. That is what he wanted for an A. He was handsome and had a nice Dick. I know better language, but here when I am gross I should speak as a slut, don't you think. The French boy reminded me of Billy. Rousseau is wrong, Laurie laughed. Nature is very fucked up. "We are also engaged in the survival of the fittest,' Laurie wrote, and "therefore beyond any moral judgment." Give me first Hobbes and the Darwin any day. Might even add that bitch I love Rand. "There ain't no redemption," Laurie wrote after the last lines of her paper. Until now that is. Laurie remembering Billy wrote. He may have abused me but he never raised a hand. I felt safer with him than I did in a crowd on the subway. When I worked the streets with Eddie my pimp, at 16, I wished for men like Billy. I would fantasize about Billy when I was sucking some old smelly cock pushed to the floor of some fucked up cab or Cadillac. When women loved Billy's "James Dean" charm, they turned their backs on the seductive cameras recording only what they needed (or was painfully obvious). The women (or most of them) blindly accepted the recent footage of Billy, as if it were 'the truth about man,' even when their instincts warned that they could look harder to find the million and one flaws in Billy's negative. These women and girls usually (including myself in 76), and this was what happened to my mother and myself fall in love in spite of our unspoken and mostly unconscious reservations. We accepted the scratches and too closely cropped edges of the photograph as some irony of truth. My mother, Laurie wrote, in that part of the paper devoted to the explication of De Sade's character blamed her weaknesses -- never Billy's. He was, after all, what you might call, an under or over exposure, as Mama put it, neither sharp, nor artistically out of focus. He Had the gift of lies, mischief and truancy from childhood, and I loved him for it, but I was worried that he could not follow the guide ropes out of hell. As Billy got older and lost his good looks but not charm Billy progressed into that nonchalant laziness, or, that I don't give a fuck about any human being except myself creepy attitude, Laurie wrote. Billy was not, however, a sociopath, he felt remorse, guilt for his actions. He understood right from wrong; but he suffered from a character flaw, which made him more dangerous than a more reasonable psychotic, Laurie laughed while she marked up the finished paper with lipstick now drawing cocks and cunts and thinking of the irony Billy was predictable and just lazy. He just did not change. Few of his companions understood that what was set down as a child, was fixed, and rarely found that alternate life, bound inside, that we were promised at birth, but mostly did not receive. Billy, not understanding the injustice, felt anger, but did not use physical violence towards anyone except himself. What made him withhold physical anger. Beat up as a child, he never believed he could ever fight back. Lucky for us kids. Sexual and psychological abuse is bad enough. Extreme physical abuse turns us into hatred. I never would have survived it. Can't love now, Laurie wrote, but at least I can smile once upon a time in America. Billy, moreover, was a Grifter and used and faked tenderness to get what he wanted and he rarely used physical threats to intimidate even when he could have gotten away with it. He'd kiss the ladies and then steal. If the women happened to have young daughters, all the better, Laurie wrote. He would seduce them too like he did me. I never resisted him. Mama knew. She never said a word, but she knew. She saw it all. He did it right in front of God and anyone who cared. The man was only scared of other men. Billy, snaking about, would read dirty stories to the children, open his fly, and then get off. Billy used charm not force. He killed slowly, over a lifetime. He used, as was done to him, the illusion of his goodly nature to provoke anger in others, or vengeance from his marks, until he could explain his failures blaming them on others, as a dark mask turned translucent, when the sins exposed after the trauma, accident or tragedy played out without contrary or useful internal protections. All you needed was time, patience and a charming lie that was exempt from easy exposure. "Billy was that impure man bound to hurt and help, give pain and pleasure, but yet living and dying while he was loved, but he never truly felt human respect until those first years with H l ne, Laurie wrote in her notes (but not in the paper) -- not even by the hookers who joked about his thick snake of a cock. So long, they said, stuff your throat to death, they joked. Little William Reese Smythe hurt women by his failure to separate from them, Laurie wrote in the last draft of her paper on De Sade. Writing in the margin, Laurie added, scribbling it, "and by binding his bitches to their infantile view of power. Guess we got something in common. Laurie often wrote the word "bullshit" in the margins of her papers after she turned them in. Made her feel, she told Henry once, long after Billy's death in 1990, "that I am still there, but why the fuck should I want that." Henry still in many ways the traditional college professor had no answers. He just said simply, "we can't help how we fuck up, you know. Just doesn't matter. What we do is. Be proud of what you wrote. It is and was good. Why deface it?" Billy generally "disguised his character flaws." When he seduced girls, women trapping them in pregnancy, they did what Billy expected, not that he ordered them, pushed them, or was in any form a modern Dom, Laurie wrote. He got what he desired by the implication that if they failed him, he would leave them. Laurie remembered Billy saying, "My mother left me." I was seven. My father abused my backside every day he was sober until he kicked the bucket when I was thirteen. He liked to yell inside my face, call me stupid names, until I hit him back, hoping I would run away for home. He kept saying, repeatedly, I could not wait until the fucken Army gets your ass. He never got that chance. My daddy died when I was fourteen. I was too young for the Army, and too old for foster care. That was not all of it." More American Adventures in erotica and other works by Sean Farragher: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Sean_Farragher/ Sean Farragher Poetry Site: http://www.farragher.com TxM6 Sites: http://www.taximurders.com http://www.taximurders.com/enfer http://www.taximurders.com/lcfallon http://www.taximurders.com/paradisio (forthcoming) -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+