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post #30
bio: tim

first post
that week

Previous Posts
'I've Got Something Brand New (for that ass)'
Watch How the Zombies Scream (it's the crack)...
'tis Spring and your Mothers Cry
Mama Sang Tenor
Not Even Close to Being on Topic
To gather or collect swiftly and unceremoniously; grab


Subject: Your mother, and the reasons why I am breaking up with you.

Dear Jane,

I want your mother. I want your mother not in the way that I want my mother and not in the way that most men my age want mothers. The things I don't want your mother to do include making me a pot roast, wrapping Christmas presents or shopping for baby's first steps party.

The thing I want your mother to do is a thought that occurs before 6am on a day when it is raining outside. Even though I saw the newsman, and I heard the newsman say it, I didn't quite believe it was true until I heard the rain pooling outside my window, reminding me to install gutters on the back part of the house. I want your mother to lie naked in my bed with me next to her and tell me everything she knows about the world.

Of course not all we'll do is lie naked near one another. Something is bound to happen. You can't believe it, but it's true. You can't believe it, yet you can't stop yourself from reading on.

Your mother is a vibrant and I think a very attractive woman. I know she's 54. I know this, but the knowledge of this doesn't keep the erections at bay at 6am on Sunday morning, when you are lying next to me, and your mother is visiting and she is in the guest room breathing with that perfect mouth. Does your mother wear dentures? Never mind. Forget I asked.

I want her naked in my bed. Then she will no longer be your mother. Then she will only be another naked woman in my bed, one that smells vaguely of you, but different. One that tastes similar in a way that all women taste similar up to a point, but then everything is completely different and new. She will lie naked next to me naked, and tell me of how you were as a child, and how her husband would ravish her in a way you would imagine the romance novel cover men are going to ravish their women, if only they could show you that on the back cover; their meaty paws all over them like prisoners on the 19 year old inmate who was recently unfortunate enough to get ten years for armed robbery, and who never quite believed the stories of prison life he heard on the playground in grade school. But now, now he sees.

We are naked again in my bed. At first she is spooning me. Her skin is amazing for a woman of her age. Does she use Nivea, or that other one from the expensive lotion store in the mall? I never took that stuff seriously, but now, now that you mother is naked and lying only inches from me and my now painfully erect erection, I believe.

Eventually we will run out of banter on the subject of perennials and get around to other activities. You know it's true. I can't stand myself when I am around her and you at the same time. It's too much. I thought that you would be enough, the twenty-nine year old version of herself. But then I realized I need to investigate the source. And when I say investigate I mean probe. And when I say probe I mean that your mother, the woman who raised you, who held your hand at the dentist, who put that purple shit on your eight-year old bloody knee; when I say this, the image that pops into my mind without my control is one of her (your mother) face down in the pillow that you got me when we moved in together, the one that you got me because I have allergies to foam for some retarded reason and have to have goose feathers or my face will swell to the size of a watermelon, the one that right now your mother is wailing into as I punish her from behind with a different swollen part of my body.

It had to happen eventually. You must have noticed how our glances lingered at Thanksgiving last year as she passed me her mashed potatoes that can only be described accurately as sublime. Or when I made that comment that will go unmentioned, but that one comment just before dessert, the one that made both you and her blush in a way that made me want the daughter and the mother right then and there on the dining room table, without regard for the fowl carcass and the still burning candles. The one that I blamed on the near bottle of red wine I had had by then, the one that made you and she blush in such a baby-making way, that I damn the female human body for giving up on her (your mother) so soon at the tender yet ravenous age of 48.

Maybe it's the thought of your father attacking her as they made you or either of your dopey and simple-minded brothers. Maybe it's the thought of her smooth skin discussed in technique but not in detail. Maybe it's the way she puts her hair back from her face in such an innocent way, having maybe some idea of its effect, but no real tangible way to measure the effect. That is, and not to be too pornographic, but that is, not until later, when she will have a near-perfect opportunity for such endeavors.

This transcends the concept of MILF. The acronym MILF is reserved for your High School boyfriends who have no choice but to be turned-on by your mother, as they likely were. Those unlucky bastards. Their best intensions either wound up in the palm of your hand as they tell their friends, but closer to the truth ended up somewhere between the heel and the straight part of their gym sock from two days ago; the same sock their own mother has yet to collect for washing.

The images won't stop now. I am overcome with desire for the woman who pushed you out of the space my mouth now occupies.

I tell you this now to be fair, although surely this is painful for you to hear. But it is beyond the grasp of my power to control. You have never seen an erection this omnipotent as my erection at dawn as I awake from yet another dream of your mother doing simple and everyday erotic manipulations on me. Of course you have reaped the benefits of the erection heretofore mentioned many times, little knowing that with each whimper and cry from your teeth-laden mouth, I was only thinking more strongly of Her, the one whose voice has been so permanently marred by 30 years of smoking, just a year more than you have been alive.

I know this is all very sudden, but I just had to say something. Thanksgiving is only a few weeks away, and I'll be there at your Mother's house, just like before. Only this time, I'll be sleeping in her bed and not yours. I know this will be a difficult time, but in order for all of our individual futures to shine brightly, we must endure. I am mailing you several pairs of industrial-strength earplugs as an early Christmas present for you to use in the event of an early morning sex marathon that will surely ensue, if I know your mother like I think I do. You see, her appetites are strongest in the pre-dawn hours. This might just explain why I've been waking at 6am with such painful and unyielding erections. Erections that would make a porn star blush.

The thought just occurred to me that maybe all of this is "too much information", as they say. And for this reason, and out of sheer respect for you as a person, I will now conclude with the final thought that maybe now would be a good time for you to return my eight inch omelette pan, the one with the silver handle? Your mom enjoys a nice big breakfast in the mornings between 7 and 8; and, as you and I both know, what mother wants, mother gets.
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