Message-ID: <25493asstr$964519806@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "seanfarragher" X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 (Normal) X-MSMail-Priority: Normal Importance: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.50.4133.2400 Subject: {ASSM} From TxM6 Carla Date: Tue, 25 Jul 2000 06:10:06 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw, apuleius 0985xTexas02371959from0932X.htm From TxM6 Taxi Murders Sextet Hyperfiction Novel http://www.taximurders.com/ TxM6 is entirely a work of fiction for adults only. Copyright (c) 2000 Sean Farragher JHW: Walkabouts Tyler, Texas Sunday, July 12, 1959 MYTHS and the Colors of Money. I grew up in Paramus, NJ during the 1950s. There were no black students at Paramus High School. I was one of 204 people in first graduating class of 1960. That is fact. In 1959, during the summer before my senior year, I laughed when my grandmother said, "you stink like a nigger." In Tyler, Texas, you could find many Negroes as they were termed then by well meaning white folks, but they worked in the kitchen in the country club, but never as cook or waiter. They were made invisible not with white paint but the tether of distain and worse, the lies that they did not matter. Walking out on the pool deck no dark eyes tumbled into cannon balls on the surface of the noon red glare. No ebony life guards to blow the pale girls out of their one piece, heavy armored bathing suits into the arms of white boys. No deep penetrating black muscle men, with deep V and strong thighs to balance the white boy football players in their strong back, hard headed stares, arms crossed. Imagine two great walls facing each other, as today, 1992, but then only one wall was allowed to stand clean, the other had to shuck and jive. At the swimming pool country club, white cheeks splashed and boobs fell out, making the water a collage of invisible heads bobbing into a sparkling clean shimmer. In the noise of that play, water fights chilled the blank and intense moist heat of Tyler summer. Boredom was every where and still the action, the foot falls, the mercy that would make for righteousness had yet to be culled from the slogans of Democratic Party platforms and the deceit of dishonest makers of truth in the news print and magazine glossy of American tabloids. It took Rosa Parks, Martin King, and Malcolm, who was still walking the outlines of Detroit to open the walls and allow the deeper strength to make the iron of the mind alive as spirit to drive the demons underground, and at least make it more difficult to call some one a boy, a nigger, a fucken Jew thief. Particular hate had not disappeared in 1959. History had its own wrappers and most were devised to hide the disease in the margins and pretense of legal lynching. No, it was all real in 1959. Where exactly did the black faces and dark eyes live that my newspaper said and didn't say existed? One weekend in August, I found them but they were more invisible than the oil beneath the surface of the streets that evaporates in Permian splendor. The campaign to make black and white invisible to the other had lost its place in history. "Look downtown," one old white man said when I asked carefully where the coloreds lived. "Maybe in your mama's kitchen," he added when the laughs died, adding at the end back in Yankee land, where you should get before I kick the crap out of you just for the pleasure of it," he said. "How about your daddies bed," another man said. "Yes sir, truth be told there were many dark eyes there, but when they stuck their noses outside, or sold candy on the street in front of the five and dime, there was a pause and returned blank stare. What are you doing here it said: "Get out here white boy they whispered." I walked away, giving up my exploration, I recognizing instinctively that the rule ran both ways down the color of the street. GRAND MOTHER KATE. Kate, not what I called her, was a large, stout woman, and a practical nurse. She had an easy laugh and followed home style Iowa preacher rules. She worked the best houses in white Texas caring for the young children of the rich doctors on the "important" side of town as I remember she once called it. That summer, I tagged along with "Kate", jostling the rich kids, straining their toys, swimming pools and curious, investigating that unknown dark black face named Carla that shuffled the foods in a doctor's kitchen where my grandmother took care of the children. Many of the homes where grandma worked were full of great vistas and soft water fall air conditioners. I admit I felt pampered. CARLA Carla was a good cook. She was pretty in smile and body. Not as deft a cook as Grandma, but I had to admit and Kate agreed that Carla made the best fried chicken. Grandma's butter cookies may have been sweeter and flaked in your palm, but Carla's black hands tossed the chicken into a perfect food for a sixteen year old almost man but no longer boy. I ogled Carla's huge tits. I couldn't even think the word then without being nervous, and itching for them, almost all the time, but I marveled at the anatomy and when she rubbed them to clean the flour off her hands or the batter from the chicken, she knew I was watching, and she would laugh." Carla was young, and her tits got simply in the way when she walked. No, they did not hang down, but poured forward. If you walked by, you got poked by one of them. When it happened, she'd smile, and say excuse me. I would smile back, brush my hair from my eyes, and I gaze to her black edges and the ocean of tits I had gathered in my twelve years. I'd see my mom's breasts and others, sticking out and in at the Old Mill Stream She had the finest I had ever known. I wanted to seep into the vast outline of them. I wanted to mark her nipples and make them shiny wet as I had seen my mother briefly with my younger sister. I remembered the milk leaked. One night, when Carla dressed in the bathroom, I snuck into the crack of the door of the next room. You could hide there, and if the bathroom door was open a crack, you could see the expanse of her body. When Carla stepped out of the steam and mist her tits were like brown mountains. I wished for years that I were that black baby in the National Geographic suckling. I had no idea how my cock would feel inside a woman. I remembered breasts as they flowed under me as I gathered my mother to my pleasure and hers by the suckling. I didn't think of breasts then. I wanted my mouth exercised. Right. No shit. Maybe, if I had offered her the five dollars my Mom had stashed in my shoe, she would have let me more than watch her show. Did I think all "niggers" were whores ready to do this or that? After a week of peeking, the woman came up behind me, and said softly, "I know what you are doing, and if you don't stop, I'm gonna tell your grand mother, now get." I ran away with my head down. Later, that night, when I was asleep, and Grandma was off playing Canasta with her cronies, Carla just walked into my room with her robe wide open. Naked underneath I felt my throat close and my belly churn. Dancing, opening and closing her fist, she rolled belly and mountains and fed me well my sexy bread. "If I let you see it once, close up, will that be enough." I stared at her eyes and smiled, and blinked, and reaching for her extended hand, climbing in her lap. Carla must have been only twenty-five, but any adult seemed ancient. "We have to be quick, and you had better not tell a soul, or I'll cut that thing of yours off," she warned. Ironically, when she staggered half drunk into my room, I was almost naked and I covered myself, out of instinct. Wearing jockey briefs. Her presence made my sixteen year old thing speak for itself. As I hardened and pumped at the air; that's when Carla laughed, throwing her arms up, and taking off her robe. Sitting down, I folded into her lap. She would have crushed me and I would have been happy to have been taken. "Now what do you want, pulling my head down, you white babies want the same thing." "Suck," she said and I did. Immediately it was sweet. "You didn't know I just had a baby," she said. "Did you"? "No, I didn't see . . ." "Cannot bring younguns here," she said. "Don't pay me to take care of my childs. My sister's taking care now. Now, hush up, go back and read that book you made your mother buy, I sucked so hard it ran down my chin, as I opened and closed my fist Carla played with my cock as I sucked, making it stiff, thumbing it between her fingers, singing a sweet song, what I thought was old time music. That song as it came to be known had a nasty jazz beat. Now that I look back, with the help of life, I pull it out of my pants. Slipping down my drawers, she fingered my ass hole, made me queasy. I didn't stop her, never said no, just kept on moving down the road, passing the church and devil's den, carefully I played with her back hair, panting, shaking, while I sucked, hard as a knife, she came, I didn't know that then, and just as fast, as she started, she stopped. I climbed down. Wait a minute. I'm not being a good Christian girl she laughed. Why am I acting like white folks, she laughed, slapping her legs, come here, and suddenly she picked me up, her tits hanging feet down to the floor, I looked back after she roughed up my skin, drew me out, then pulling off my shorts, she made no ceremony, taking hold of it, almost as worship, she licked the head of my thing, and took it into my mouth, my belly jumped, I was risen up, shook, and then fainted, it seemed, as I instantly feel hard into the depth, pushing at her face, she said, push it now baby, rubbing my balls, make it sing, honey child, you suckled my cock like I had her tits, until I thought my heart would stop suddenly, and then start, a jerk, she held me down, or I would have risen up, and suddenly I twitched in and out, and with ease, she did it, put her finger up my ass, I felt ravaged, and bliss, took only a few minutes, boy you fast, and I didn't have to shake your butt, and all, turning me over, I let her push and pull, exalt, quake and rescind, finally, she swerved, and said, you every see a black pussy cat, and with that, she opened her legs wide, and draws out the pink and black lips, and ordered to look. I did, and I stood out hard, again. "You younguns," she said, are something else for Carla to take on. And without so much as asking she forced me on top, and spread wide, lead me inside, taking my thing hard, guiding it inside her pussy, jamming it inside. "You ain't gonna fill up much," she said. Immediately I felt this rush from the back of my skull, a clinch, and I was lost in that black mouth with Ramar of the Jungle. I would never escape. Waking up the next morning I ached but felt great. Not sleeping in my bed, it was thrown here and beyond. I found the sash from her robe, and wound it around my hand. The sash had evidently fallen between the pillows. Hiding it before Grandma came home, and casually, when she did, I walked into the kitchen. Carla sang nothing I ever heard, called it Blues. I asked her if she ever sung green. She laughed, so hard, and she held her belly. "Boy, you gonna a make fat Carla wet her pants, now you stop, now, hush, and give me that sash, and don't say a thing, here." "No, Mama. Good Carla gonna treat you good, now Suh." Like changing a page, Carla was back to normal. Back to business. "Your Grandma's out shopping," Carla warned. "You made Carla smile, last night, you thing. I don't know how you do it but I did. God I did. I brought you your robe; you left it in the bathroom. Now, listen here," she went on. "You tell nobody now. OK. You do that now, and I promise you one more time before you go back to your white boy house, hear. " Of course, to be fair, back in New Jersey, in a few years I would know many black faces, and find them just another river of lives. What my grandma called them among white folks: "nigger had an awful sound. I hated the word but used it among my white friends when I showed off. And the time with Carla, helped, I knew black skin, and it didn't rub off, and when I was in a Freshman at Columbia two years later when some black kid smacked me along side my head for what I thought nothing, I confused him when I didn't get too angry and try to tear out his heart, I imagine he wondered why I didn't fight back, I wasn't afraid. That black boy barely touched my face. I was more surprised than hurt. I didn't understand why he was mad. I hadn't done anything personally to him. It was what they call today a drive by shooting or the terrifying accident that just drops in your lap. In the end, you live and/or die by your immediate wits. 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: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+