Message-ID: <26408asstr$969365404@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "Sean Farragher" 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 Vietnam Lullaby and Fuck Dream Date: Tue, 19 Sep 2000 08:10:04 -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: dennyw, IceAltar, RuiJorge 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. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+