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Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Vietnam Lullaby and Fuck Dream
Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2000 08:10:04 -0400
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Also From TxM6 Hyperfiction
http://www.txm6.com (updated 9/16/00)
http://www.txm6.com/enfer (updated 9/17/00)
http://www.txm6.com/lcfallon
http://www.farragher.com (Poetry updated 9/14/00)
TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only.
Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher.
Journal of Henry Ezra Whitman
This is the land of Used to be Alive: Weather Reports
Point Bank, VA -- Late June 1969.
I had just returned from Nam, and I was hungry for
more than sanity. I wanted more than the ordinary
round eye sex. Remembering the Point Black fuck motel
from college before Nam, I pushed my life in that
direction and before I knew it I was halfway down the
Jersey Turnpike passing exit 9 going too fast and
wondering if I ever would stop hitting my ass and
racing towards some wall where it might all end.
Something about the Jersey Turnpike and its unusual
scenery that made me feel right at home. Back in those
easy days, one of my high school buddies had attended
U of VA, and I would shoot down there from Columbia.
Once there we would run his wheels down a country road
looking for any action. We were just college boys with
a buck in our pants, if you can believe that shit.
When I found Paradise Cove trailer fell in love with
its mixture of trash and history. My buddy Richard
saw nothing there, and we left, after both of us
dipped our peckers. I returned the following weekend
without him.
Cindy Huston's trailer court made me a bigger man, but I
was not sure how, until I remembered her life and my
own sad skin in Vietnam.
After I left Cindy, spending almost a week, I had vowed
to return not for the sex exactly, but the unusual
mixture of visual beauty juxtaposed with all the
American trash you can handle almost like eating five
to ten White Castle grease burgers and three fries and
a chocolate shake. No mayonnaise. Fuck that slime.
Passing through the Baltimore Tunnel, six years later,
I was glad I was alone. I needed to breathe that fetid
American air and gaze on worn down beauty.
After fourteen months of Hopalong Cassidy or MASH in
slicks (helicopters) in Nam, I was ready to get lost
not just in America but in her vital muddle of cheap
sex, fast food, monster movies and women with an
attitude you could really nail. I wanted truth really,
but who knows about it. I certainly was just a kid
back then, and after real life war movies (I
remembered Audie Murphy played himself in WWII) I
sensed that death and sex had an easy companionship.
Murphy never had any, and in NAM real and imaginary
sex is all that I wanted at stand down.
PARADISE COVE FUCK MOTEL:
When you rode past the Gas Station and Motel signs
that led you inside to Point Blank, you imagined you
were in the old south riding on horseback down a
dirt rode to a dark cabin where you might get a place
to sleep, some burnt steaks, and beer.
If you were lucky, you might find a cheap woman
to wash your back in a steamy bath made up with hot
with kettles of boiling water carried through the room
to an old iron tub. The woman would be sassy, hard to
understand, and have hard hands and rough skin. Some
times fantasy reached where the core never rested, and
you are opened too soft, and left to dry out without
any tenderness. I know I love to imagine such
intricate bullshit and make into a mantra for a sore
dick and swollen balls.
At first when you rode into the falling trees, the
white washed mansion hung back from the roadway and
was hard to see in detail. Believing the
advertisements I expected grand vistas and a toy model
of the Appomattox Park Court House, east of Lynchburg,
where Ulysses S. Grant surrendered to Robert E. Lee in
1865.
Riding down the VA trail, I had expected lyrical
graciousness and the dry painted mouth of a too young
matron reclined in her pout, wanting to be served
rather than a servant.
Riding up the blind gray skyline, up the hills, my
car pushing it, I entered the time lock of another
daylight soap opera where sex was the first page.
"On my right," I could hear the tour guide say
"is the almost West Virginia trailer park, Paradise Cove,
owned by Cindy Huston, as it rises along the ridge
line where State Highway #311 and Craig County Road
#18 cross."
As I heard the voice of the imaginary fucken tour
guide trail off into what passed for rock music, I
hoped the motel was still there. All my days in Nam I
recalled it, and the silken shaved cunny of Cindy.
I needed to know that my life-sustaining dream in Nam
existed.
Cindy had written me two letters when I was in
country. In the first she told me how sorry she had
been to hear that I was going to Vietnam and how brave
I must be, and the second months later, received just
after my R&R, when I almost lost it and ran too far
away.
I returned to my unit and before I opened the letter
that arrived that same day, I knew she had led
me home again.
In the second letter, Cindy told me how she had hoped
I would come again to dwell as she put it inside my
hospitality. That letter seemed more an advertisement
from a high-class whorehouse and not a broken down
mansion in the middle of nowhere Virginia.
I remember telling one of the guys in my squad how I
looked forward to breaking down the fucking walls when
I got there back in the world. I screamed at this deep
dark wonderful black soldier as we were advised to
call them, not that I needed that advice, that I
intended to fuck myself into kingdom come without
dying. I told him how I would fuck that whore so hard
the earth collapsed underneath the building.
I remember the Sgt. who over heard what I had said
respond. "Fuck, son, you'd be lucky to get out of
tomorrow the way this deep shit sticks to our ass."
Back in the world, all I thought about was getting me
some, but now as I travel in this 5&10 American
paradise cove the garish street front of a racetrack
car parking lot brought me back to the sink hole
brothels of Thailand.
Back mid-tour, I wondered how I would live, or how I
could die. I played that tape back as my car headed
inside under the broken sign marking the motel. I
remembered being drunk with two slope bitches and I
seriously thought of getting drunker and then fucking
them dead just before I blew my own brains out with
the .45 I always strapped against my ankle when I was
wearing the usual civilian dress of too loud shirt,
slacks and comfortable shoes.
I am not sure why or how I made such an association.
The war in Vietnam should have nothing to do with this
sleaze bag motel and it curved driveway leading up to
a hill that descended on the other side to an open
clearing about half the size of a football field.
FAST FOOD MOTHER FUCKER
There, sitting astride two greasy chicken and rib fast
food station, Cindy Huston's trailer park had two
large neon lights flashing, blowing over the halo,
shaking the TV lights set up I imagined to mark the
first Presidential speech ever given by a dwarf while
he sank deep to the elbows in the largest twat ever
known. OK, so I like to exaggerate.
Almost hidden by more than fallen tree arms, vines and
thick briars, the trailer park was closed in and off
by heavy, ancient brown bark maple and some water oak;
without cars and trailers, it could have once had the
appearance of country estates with wide open drive and
a large iron gate that had tumbled down like those old
great haunted Hollywood movie monuments to the
Northern free the slaves tyrants who with Sherman on
his march had politically lost the great southern war
a century past.
Just as toys at night seem to have many textures from
gray to sometimes grief, my map of one fuck motel sat
within the clutter of small plastic fences, and
cannibalized stock cars. I still called it mythical
knowing the perfect memory always has some flaws.
Perhaps, it was my malaise and the fake joy I felt
sloshing away in the worn out cunt of some twenty-
five-year-old hooker who had been selling her worn
pubic lips for ten years.
Down the dirt road, where half naked colored children
danced easily as an anachronism, a tin roof train
station leaned far to the river side of the road way,
marking its aged white doors, as heaven open and
automobiles and motorcycles stopped your eyes as you
reached up towards the black face of the sky before a
storm.
The dead train station stood in the fast lane without
tracks or equipment. More than a relic or a statue, it
marked the place where last summer in 1869 or was it
1870 Jake Wells shot himself to death while attempting
to murder his wife's female lover, Anne Short. Anne
was smart.
Yes, Driving down death in NAM I played with History
and her mighty come quick schemes. I thought anything
to stay alive.
Anne turned that gun back on the man, bending the
steel pipe as a great Wrestler might break the ropes
falling to his death beside the bald headed woman he
brought with him to the match. She screamed so loud
when the half nelson broke his wrist, and the bleach
blond with the speckled tits tumbled off the canvas
into the mud bath while the men and ladies cheered
drinking bourbon and salt.
In my mind as I rode those last ten yards towards
Cindy's open door in good old 1969 I thought, oh God
prepares me for thy heaven oh Lord. Show me the way to
open my pants and preach the last words before I fall
to my death out of sight of Jesus.
Just like I imagined Anne had said, my hands raised
above my head in chorus with all the other sinners, as
the tender man died with his brains baked and refried
at the lunch house later that night and his wife
beating his ass home, his pants down over his ankles,
tripping him up as she beats his back.
Same man said he was hungry; the man lied to his wife.
Creating this tall tale, he told his wife that the
women simply fed him some soup and just by accident a
tit popped out. Can't help that now, can I darling?"
As I imagined the man trying to suck soup through a
tit, the scream incoming hit the dark black night. I
thought rather than what happened.
They fed the poor hen pecked sap brains, Henry
imagined. They must have lost the last chapter of the
book when some new broad (in full color) crept over
the hedge exposing her fur pie, open legged, darker,
and then losing the echo of her voice as some visual
signal, she followed the notes like Daisy duck did to
Donald as they danced down some fucked up white lane
to nowhere town. Inside the fantasy of the fake dream,
in Nam or back in the world I heard an ancient voice
clamor.
Cindy appearing as her self in some big star
production with cast and director in place startled
the sinners by masturbating in the front pew while
some Pastor who looked like the Captain joined the
Hallelujah chorus as the great rock band from
Alexandria, now that's hard to believe, sang all night
before the bar maid came out and personally gave blow
jobs to each grunt/band member behind a screen set up
just for that purpose. I saw it all, Henry imagined,
waiting again for the light and return to the place
where he lost consciousness.
Back in another more mundane reality, riding into the
Cove courtyard, before getting out, I flashed back to
a bar girl I had met in Saigon just before DEROS. She
called herself Paradise, and when I tried to fuck her
I found she was closed up with active clap. That is
what life is like when filled with disappointment.
Back In Paradise, behind what appeared to be a working
well (the water stunk of chlorine), beside the gray
gas pumps long dry, and the necessary clutter I felt
all the sad mistakes of my life. I traveled back to
the women I used, the women who had used me, and in
every empty gas tank, in every sun-baked car, we like
all of there were parked in fourteen directions.
Blocking this way in or out. Just like blocking
pleasure with pain, or for some, pain with pleasure.
These walls, these symbols that lead to that trailer
park temple where Cindy Huston sucked and fucked for
fun and profit had their own vocabulary. Crudely
painted on almost every truck door panel that faced
the street one subtle message: colored not wanted. Go
another way.
Everywhere you rode, up and down the on the skyline,
foul words prayed for cheap sex and dirty books,
dancing parlors and blowjob halls. Beneath this holy
canopy, two elderly white women argued, not too
softly, about Jesus. Would Jesus save us all from Hell
if we allowed the coloreds to mix and walk wit us
without a by your leave.
Paradise Court trailer park named by some randy fool
who later lost his dick in a freak accident that had
the whole town talking for weeks. Seems the gentleman,
if you care to call him that, drunk out of his mind
fell down between the screen door and the front door
of the main house. As his dick was flapping out of his
pant, when he fell he caught it between the hinge and
the spring. The bitch that he chased, not liking the
fuck much, instead of helping him free himself,
slammed the door hard on his cock. By the time the
cops got there he had nearly bled to death. "I wasn't
going to touch his thing, no way," the bitch said,
"not after the way he beat the shit out of me last
week. I wanted the motherfucker to die. Too bad he
lived. Left a piece of his dick in the door. He won't
miss it. Who wants to fuck the old coot anyway."
Yea, I heard the old fuck had a son who died on the
Battleship NJ on December 7, 1941. We all have our
prayers and our ways of being paid back for sex and
sin or both. Poor toothless cuss never knew one grand
kid except his nephew by marriage. He fucked him over
for his social security check each month.
Meet Cindy Huston. Welcome to her world. She is just
an honest whore, working out of a trailer who believed
and rightly so that she was God's chosen instrument.
Cindy's perfect gams walked her backwards and forward
down the path to a red brick house they say she earned
by fucking some old rascal fifty years ago. Soon after
he died, they say she took up God's word, and never
kept company with any man or woman. A righteous sister
the Baptist called her. A motherfucker, some of the
more sage black men sang when she sauntered by the
downtown store. Most believed she communed with Jesus.
Cindy did, and she avoided the bitch whenever
possible. That was her classic reply.
All the tales we could spin within this fierce land.
We could forget sex and the ordinary cat calls silly
now when we mark them down, long after the anger or
the fucking past away. We could keep track of it as a
scroll of this ancient space, but the trailer park
with its honest cold light held Cindy Huston to her
simple complaint, just give me a hard man who will
fuck my wall down, holy mother of Jesus, please pray
for me, my hands can stop my wandering lost in the
million cocks and come pots I place underneath my
dripping ass and cunt to gather in the sheaves. What
an odd mixture I thought as I opened the car door from
the inside of my own pleasure, and there in the on
coming headlights or the flare shifting down from the
back of the slick, I felt my easy opening for the
darker lights that shone whenever Cindy danced,
parading her ass for an assortment of gents and
girlfriends who like to drink, fuck, smoke dope, and
get generally get it off each night.
Danger spoke as I watched from inside my invisible
fancy this handsome, long legged man walked through
the lanes, carrying a large canvas roll strung over
his shoulder. The open and closed ends were undressed,
and if you knew that a sleeping woman was bound at the
center, you understood how each step seemed a struggle
even as the man walked shouldering the weight easy,
without any pain or distance.
At that moment all you had seen before transformed,
and the trailer park opened like a pale flower dried
from summer and the stiff humid air closed around
Cindy Huston as she prepared to walk the three steps
up the easy metallic stairs to the closed interior of
the three room almost new trailer she won playing
hearts and flowers with some funky slut who prayed for
a pussy licking party and got cock in its place.
Cindy was tall, with easy laughing eyes, and a darker
wall, and nothing to stop her, but a closed hand that
struck at her legs covering her, and settling what she
did as she covered her legs with lotion listening on
the telephone to some fucked up Yankee mother fucker
banging her brain with his come while he lead her from
the top of the trail to the bottom as she spoke louder
than the first time, covering her orgasm, as the boy,
Henry, who came down the road, laughing at her antics,
sad, as the least sinner, she came down to the other
side of the street, one tit free, and the other open,
sleazy, like some easy mother, her nineteen year old
daughter still sucking, flicking the milk from the
free tit across the room at some Jack jerking it off
while she watched nursing her baby man, so she says
she imagined, feeling the let down, as the orgasm,
nipple struck, and the toothless mouth pulled,
grinned, easy like a man finding his mother separate
from death playing with her fingers while she nursed,
easily swallowed the milk, wondering why her mother's
belly shook rattled as she groaned giving off the fast
furious blood letting curdle of crawl, as her old man,
come on hand, stood up, walking drunk and silly back
to Cindy, and pushing her down, took hold of her mouth
and fucked his still stiff cock deep into her spoils
where she swallowed letting his prick stuck by too
good joy and pleasure, at the end it hurt, or seemed
as if he could only die, as the come raised from the
dead cock leaked from his fish across Cindy's tit
hitting his daughter on her cheek, and stunned, the
woman, knowing the orgy had just begun, feeling the
seed from more candy or other junk, shook it free, as
Cindy put the full grown woman down, picked up her
infant, and normally nursed the child showing that
infant all the respect it was due. When she finished,
and the infant was sleeping safe and protected,
putting the nipple back inside from under her shirt,
Cindy spoke without a pause, letting the mumble of the
ear and the electricity found in the soon to be soft,
strike up the great hardon tale, and easy Cindy
pumping up her tits, fell down, kissed the ground
where her ass had held the great cock as some statue
from long ago making me come with anticipation as the
fantasy dissolved.
Henry walked outside the porch watching the story
imagined he had blown in Cindy's ear softly cradled
her head, turning her hair and the room was bright and
open. She had light hair and a darker smile hidden by
the loose curls cascaded down shoulders covering her
huge breasts closed open when she pushed her arms
together, bending over, exposing almost the whole face
of the nipple, spreading the pace of pear, as an orbit
colored with an ancient flesh paint.
Henry, mesmerized, nineteen, reached for whatever she
wanted. Reaching up, down, anything was easy too for
the Lad, as Cindy called him, and careful, for
whenever the young woman (not really much older than
Henry in years) laughed, and the refreshment showed
deeply, as the ample skin, and mouth, at least as dark
as the morning when nothing was closed.
Cindy had a strong chin, and angular jaw. Her eyes
were round, open, fraudulent and innocent turned on
herself, with a speck of violet and green. Just to
show I'm a liar, she said, about her eyes, staring
into a hand held mirror, as she turned quickly,
placing the mirror face down on her dresser. I can't
stand you too, she spoke to herself about herself,
really smiling, convinced, and then pulling off tee
shirt, stripping him of his, and putting it on.
"Hey," Cindy said. "That's not fair. If you're going
to steal, you got to pay."
"Pay for what, pushing her tits against his chest,
taking his hand and placing it on his ass, wondering
what the fuck am I doing playing around with this
strange girl who had wandered in without a by your
leave.
He's my best friend's Yankee cousin, not mine,
laughing, thinking how her friend had bragged about
doing her own brother, and then her step father, and
turning away in one motion.
-You magical slut, Henry said, pulling Cindy back,
gently twisting her arm, like he had seen Gable do,
not to hurt, but direct, assert, and then throwing
Cindy on the bed in one motion.
Don't fucken play, Cindy's old man said, fuck the boy.
He paid for it up front. Do it now, and no back talk,
here, opening Cindy's robe, ripping off her
underpants, and then finger fucking her cunt with two
wide fingers, pressing back down, making her face fall
away, and nothing else was said, too late to stop,
Cindy thought, and what the fuck, he did me too easy
the last time. Who the fuck am I kidding?
"I lie too easily," Cindy said, and she reached down,
turned and the curve of her hip pointed, as her legs
open, falling on her back, allowing muscular boy/man
to fuck her openly, in front of anyone, not caring if
after he finished another fuck slapped his prick into
her too loose quiff. He came leaking. Cindy wiped it
away, and another lover watched peeping while she let
it spill out sitting over the commode, the nineteen-
year-old boy Henry had his face plastered against her
pussy as Cindy peed. She was too drunk and fucked up
to care, At the end the boy stretched his finger into
her stream, as she stopped, he stopped it, the urine
running down his forearm. He pushed at the folds
letting her soft parts glisten while Henry pushed past
the ribs to the other pelvis pushing his head back
inside his mother-fucking vulva. Cindy held him on his
return to mother and life. She watched while he licked
and sucked at the swarm of sex making her pussy squeal
with fifty blasts of orgasm drawn down beneath the
belly and another five drawn down the spine to the
toes and upward to her breasts and the circular drift
through her milky teats and back down as lifted up her
own tit to suck her own nipple clean off, coming
through her teeth by God. She had the most wonderful
face at that moment Henry was born a second time.
"I like to watch men live," Cindy laughed.
Paradise Motel trailer court, marvelous game.
Wonderful. Everyone was involved. Skin was clean and
the night had its peculiar strength as Cindy cupped
his chest, struck off the dead man's mouth, and placed
the infant back where the she child rightfully sucked
her mother dry first emptying milk, then blood, and
finally the come Cindy had sucked since her fourteenth
year of her first great yes as permission. At twenty-
nine, Cindy was almost old, worn down, but Henry
didn't care. Six kids fuck up any one's figure.
Henry was alive. That is all he knew. When the slick
picked him up shivering, suffering from heat
prostration, and hungry, fucked up with two rounds in
the meat of his side, both passing through, Henry knew
that fantasy, mirage had saved him. Perhaps it was a
dream, but first chance back in the world he would
find Cindy and tell her.
Knocking at the door, he found nothing. No one was
there. A passing man asked Henry his business as he
walked back to his car. He told Henry that Cindy ran
off with a trucker last year. He told Henry that he
heard that the trucker kicked her ass so much she
finally took her own life. The passing man said he was
sorry, and Henry kicking up some dust ran his car out
of the trailer court and laughing said to him self,
well at least I knew life once upon a time.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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