4 comments/ 187975 views/ 18 favorites In My Beginning Is My End By: steamer5139 Less then a month ago, an esteemed team of scientists, three or four of them Nobel winners, acting under the auspices of the United Nations, solemnly intoned into a surfeit of microphones that all humanity would perish in precisely 93 days when a meteor the size of a small planet would slap into the earth with the force of 100 million hydrogen bombs. All humanity, every man, woman and child would die, the entire human race, every biological organism riding this blue sphere abruptly made extinct. The date of October 31, the evening before All Hallows' Day celebrated in much of the western world as Halloween. It was to be my twenty-first birthday, now my ultimate birthday, since there would be no twenty second birthday for me. Humanity was long familiar with the concept of death following life and accepted mortality from disease, from accidents as their natural due. Tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, other natural disasters were common place. Threats from terrorists, nuclear and biological weapons, flesh eating bacteria and serial killers were calculated into the cost of doing business in the twenty-first century. World War III or disease pandemics killing millions or billions were always a possibility if not probability. But who figured--with the possible exception of those addicted to watching The Disaster Channel--on an unstoppable force of nature, a big rock capable of stamping out every form of life down to the smallest fish in the sea. According to these heralded scientists, the meteor was unstoppable by any means known to men. Based on the most precise mathematical calculations of the meteor's trajectory, its speed, its mass, and its certain intersection with Earth's orbit, we were guaranteed annihilation. Like everyone else, I was now a stranger in a strange land. Society started crumbling no sooner then the last words were uttered at the televised press conference broadcast worldwide. Each day as the meteor grew bigger in the sky more people gave up their jobs. More people became less willing to tow the line, keep up appearances, keep a stiff upper lip, stay true blue. Kilroy was here and the distinctive doodle of Kilroy peeking over a wall seen as graffiti was almost ubiquitous among U.S. residents who lived during World War II. Now, all over the country the same thing was seen with the words Fuck It! and the doodle of an upraised middle finger. These two words, the drawing became the license for cutting loose in whatever manner one wished. Civilized order, moral restraints, such things as harmony, hope, humor, the concept of the Golden Rule all began to dissipate and baser instincts were now the order of the day. Fuck it! Murders went uninvestigated. People rioted; buildings burned down and sirens remained silent since so many cops, firemen and paramedics went absent without leave. Utilities were intermittent at best, and hospitals were bursting at the seams. Fuck it! The army could do little, the Navy sunk by mutinies was no more effective then a fleet of rubber bathtub boats, the Air Force wanted to bomb something and the Marines were gung ho to make a frontal assault on the meteor. Fuck it! By the time I left New Haven, Connecticut a week after the press conference bound for San Francisco, California, to spend my final days with my mother, a woman known to the world as Wanda Goodwill, all forms of commercial travel had degraded to the point where getting from point A to point B was iffy at best. Schedules were no longer sustained, maintenance was shoddy and so many bus drivers, pilots, air traffic controllers, flight attendants, railroad engineers, mechanics, baggage handlers had abandoned their jobs if you wished to go somewhere try going by car or walking. I opted for walking and crossed the country on foot after I scribbled Fuck It! and a bad rendering of a hoisted middle finger on my apartment's front door. With a dingy blue backpack on my shoulder, I wore out three pairs of boots moving east to west and seemed to have leaped back in time and traveled with all the dispatch of Chaucer's traveling band bearing toward Canterbury. Sometimes, I might luck out; catch a ride with someone fortunate enough to have gasoline for their car to travel a few miles or a horse drawn wagon going my way. Sometimes, if I was tired and cranky, I'd latch on to a merry band out to commit some form of mayhem before spaceship earth was knocked into the next galaxy. I encountered lots of anxiety-ridden souls incapable of dealing with what was coming, lots of people with nasty dispositions and numerous children displeased about no costumes, masks or candy this Halloween. I ended up sleeping in a dozen or so community libraries, in hay lofts, abandoned motels, numerous suburban homes, drain culverts, park tables, church pews and one or two empty tractor trailers sitting in roadside rest stops as relics of an already dead civilization. A major plus in this impending holocaust, at least for me and many others, was the ripping away of sexual inhibitions or any worries about personal decorum. People everywhere fucked like proverbial bunny rabbits. The condemned raced to consume life feverishly and with no inhibition constraining them. Exhibitionism, public sexual encounters, men fucking women on lawns, women sucking men off in bus stops, women eating other women on roof tops and men banging other men wherever they happened to be at the moment. I shared beds, meals and good times with women wanting fucking, women who indiscriminately sucked cock, enjoyed my inestimable skills in going down on them. They wished to go out with a bang. I encountered older women, young women, buxom farmer's daughters, hot-blooded wenches, one attractive parson's wife and a svelte nun I nuzzled and did more with in Nebraska. In one Indiana hamlet, with three other men, I fucked a woman named Gwen as her husband sat in a leather recliner stroking his cock egging us on. In Illinois, the town of Galesburg, I stumbled into a gang bang to end gang bangs. A night of such debauched overindulgence my seemingly inexhaustible reservoir of testosterone was running on nothing but fumes and my cock's boundless facility in pleasuring me and any and all partners was whimpering by morning. In Colorado, a titian haired, doe-eyed bimbo named Bambi gave me incredible, toe curling head, and then served up some of the airiest pancakes I have eaten. As a coup d'grace, she poured warm maple syrup on my cock, sucked me off one final time. Her doughy husband, wearing a sailor's inverted white Dixie cup pitched back on his head, angry as hell, showed as I kissed petite, pug nosed Bambi on her hungry lips, came close to pumping me full of 12 gauge buckshot. Shaking, waving his shotgun, he climbed from his Ford pickup, stumbled, fired, missed. Me, one foot in the front yard, a patch of ground needing its grass cut and weeds yanked, the other on the oiled gravel road, ready to scoot west which I immediately did. Every day moving farther west, I met more delicious and enticing women ready to be plucked and fucked. A goodly number of these single, married, divorced, widowed ladies wished to be sluts during these final days. Some ladies coveting me wanted nothing more then to experience a fattening meal of healthy, permanently erect, young cock. I did my best to please these sweet darlings, offer some small comfort before moving on a few more miles west, bedding down for another night. I was like Johnny Apple Seed merrily planting his sperm instead of apple seeds. Passing through a small town in western Kansas, the sight of a Catholic Church, a Methodist house of worship, a Lutheran ministry shadowed by silos, I conjectured on how the Pope in Rome, and the local God Squad in this town and all the other little towns, were handling this end of the world brouhaha. Not everyone was fucking and not much of anything else. People attended church, took advantage of what little time was available; made preparations to meet their Maker on the best possible terms. Humanity, its better half, marched forward to the ramparts, watched, waited for the end of the world, refused to give up hope for a last minute reprieve. I imagined a stereotypical fair haired little boy sitting next to his worried looking father, the two of them looking into the night sky at the quickly closing meteor and the boy saying, "Daddy is Superman out there somewhere? He can save us can't he?" Superman was nowhere to be seen and as time went by more people decided to do what they wanted to do. This did not include paying taxes, saving any money for a rainy day, punching a time clock, staying away from other men's wives or resisting other women's husbands. Rape and pillage became common. This deadly meteor with its flaming tail seemed to mock us as it approached, make each and every man, woman and child feel no more significant then a colony of gnats. The specter of impending disaster transformed the world into one great Looney bin, a crazy monkey house. Roving bands of rowdies were everywhere. Inmates in insane asylums broke out in groups. The most dangerous criminals, too numerous to be controlled by too few guards, wondered out of maximum security prisons and lay waste to the land. Dead bodies lay bloated in ditches and alleys, in parks and playgrounds. Dead bodies were everywhere. You saw either a dead body or someone fucking. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode their steeds in every country. Right behind them the spirits of free love and every form of sexual gluttony followed. Now, I was finally on Center Street in San Francisco. This being San Francisco, sexual excess was even more prevalent here then anywhere else. Not fifteen feet to my left, a white Ford van had stopped in the center of the street. Its roof swathed in satellite dishes and omni directional antennas, circled black SEVENS imprinted on van's sides; all the doors flung open, headlight beams peering down the street, the motor running. No one cared about smog or greenhouse overheating anymore. In the back of the van, amidst the consoles and screens and buttons linking the vehicle to the world and beyond, a police officer fucked a highly respected blond news anchor acknowledged for her chiseled, Nordic beauty and celebrated for coltish long legs. Simultaneously, she sucked off her favorite cameraman, the one who helped her win the Peabody two years ago. A guy living rough on the streets, shuffling past on his way to a homeless shelter, gave her ass his under appreciated, infrequently used cock. Loud voices, the anchorwoman's creamy ass nearly out the doors and I saw the whole show from front row center since the van's rear end faced me and street lamps lit the absurd production in white glare. To my right, a rent to own store with nothing in it left to rent, a new silver Mercedes coupe had stopped, its front wheels resting up on the sidewalk. The driver, gray haired, wild-eyed, an Episcopal minister in a white clerical collar, or hell maybe he was a Catholic priest, was out of the car, in a doorway butt fucking a young fellow wearing soiled argyle socks and a wafer thin wrist watch. In the shadow of a doorway this side of the street a freaked out fleshy looking man in a tailored suit and buffed Florsheims pounded the pussy of a woman wearing an ugly red wig. Her spectacularly fleshy figure was too rotund and her elephantine legs too ghastly looking to effect any sexual titillation to her short tight black skirt and equally stretched out top. At least that was the effect on me. "Give me some hot stuff," I heard the woman say. I turned my head away and felt ashamed. Even the corpulent wanted and needed loving. Just on this short stretch of street the sex, violence and hopelessness was a little more then in the other places I had passed through. Yesterday, today, tomorrow in houses, apartments, condominiums, huts, villas, flats, high rises, and trailer parks all over the world people fucked. Who cared whether someone was married or not? Who cared about fidelity? Fuck it! In the midst of all this frenzied coupling taking place across the world, babies were being made. Unfortunately such new life conceived in the heat of the moment or conditions nearer rape had no chance of coming to term, let alone being born. Fuck it! If Mom had only remained in Ohio, not here on the lip of the Pacific, the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge in her backyard. Such precious time expended just getting here. Geography was working against me--us. During my long march crossing the plains, deserts and mountain ranges, referring to my worn map, it felt hopeless at times. She might as well be on Mars and I was no Martian. I kept going. Love, lust, wickedness, peccadillo, gratifying my biological imperative, the need to get laid by the greatest pleasure giver in the world, my sexually astute mother, kept me motivated through my three thousand miles trek. All our moments together, every time I stuck my cock in one of her orifices, each time I sucked a nipple on one of huge breasts in the next sixty days would make every blister, every inconvenience, and every risk taken well worth their cost. Painfully shy in childhood, awkward, a tinny falsetto voice and braces on my teeth plagued me no end. Mom spoiled me, gave me what I wanted and when I was old enough, took what she desired. In return, I gave her gifts of delicate, elaborately patterned white milk glass or cheap lilac perfume for Christmas, Mother's day, as a birthday tribute. Later, I was able to give her much more. Milk glass, flowery perfume and the turmoil of childhood and adolescence marked my passage to maturity. I grew to be charming, a good natured chap, something of a rogue, a roué experienced in the tawdry ways of the world. The classic bad boy with the killer smile, too many tattoos and if truth is told, too much vanity and a surfeit of bravado, a feature common to my family. I had reached Center Street shortly after dark on a Wednesday night. I needed a shave and a shower; my dogs yelped, ached across their length and breadth and my blisters layered on blisters hurt like hell. A black watch cap perched above my ears, I wore a faded blue denim shirt and blue jeans held in place with a gold studded black leather belt, its buckle 14 carat gold. Early on, a grateful blond seamstress in Pennsylvania coal country had given me the ribbon of tooled. With no gut to speak of on this lean, wiry frame of mine, the snazzy belt had plenty of holes for expansion. My leather bomber jacket, brown, glossy, supple and fleece lined, was zippered all the way up my chest to keep out the blustery wind barreling down the street. Two stale jam filled, powder sugar coated donuts, a Hershey candy bar and a two Styrofoam cups of bitter black coffee for breakfast this morning and now well past lunch and dinner, I was famished; the odor of curry from an Indian restaurant, tangy barbecue from another greasy spoon tickled my fancy for spice and lean red meat laved with Smoke House BBQ sauce. Hunger registered as rolling thunder in my gut. I ignored this alimentary rumbling, too excited, so near Wanda, my buxom mother for the first time in months. Licentious memories of our indulgent days and dizzying nights engaging in the pleasures of the flesh surged through me as I waited for her to show across the street in front of the run down office building at 325 Center Street. In a letter sent to me in New Haven, Mom wrote in explicit and erotic detail of her new avocation on Wednesdays evenings in this building. In this derelict part of town, standing under an orange plastic awning, I watched the four-story, mullion-windowed office building. Silent as a tomb, it predated the 1906 earthquake and its pitted butter-yellow limestone was lost in murky shadows save for a brilliant ring of radiance on the fourth floor and harsh no-nonsense lighting focusing along the building's face. I looked at my battered wrist watch. How long until Wanda Goodwill/Bethany Johnson/Mom was stood naked next to her bed on those Lucite stiletto heels I so dearly loved? Me, faithful son perched on the side of that selfsame bed already a muddled mess of sheets from our first rough, no holds barred, primal fucking, my hands touching her calloused knees, stroking her stocking clad thighs, caressing her firm breasts, her bodacious buns shining like alabaster and flaring from under the red thong. I'd intimate a finger into her gash and then soundly fuck her again, and again and again. Soon, very soon reality would displace fantasy in our home away from home. I smiled, thinking of Mom and her randy expertise, how much she taught me, how much I wanted her. "Let's get out of here and go home and fuck," she'd say when she strolled out of the building and saw me. It was quite possible when she did see me I'd be fending off someone trying to fuck me. No doubt, a gentleman would be escorting her down the steps. He'd suddenly look quite crest fallen seeing me. Wanda, my dear mother, releasing his hand with emotionless dispatch, he'd really go into a tailspin. To add insult to his injury she'd make no notice of him as he stumbled away in the dark saying," damn it to hell." Wanda concentrating on me, the prodigal son, no longer worried about this man, his need to get into her pants or her need to feel his cock inside her. Not with me standing there expressing my need in my pants. Behind me the darkened pawn shop did not seem so utterly bleak nor did the street, the state, the nation, the world. Fear, anger at my slow pace getting here, gloomy thoughts about the world's end quickly dissipated. Erotic thoughts, the anticipation of physical release bedding Ava Goodwill, my mother, sent shivers of thrills through my 20 year old body. This Momma's boy was home. Home to stay. Long before the public learned of the meteor's human species killing effects on CNN, the BBC and Fox News, long before the first Fuck it! was written on the side of a barn, a subway car or a sidewalk, Wanda was coming here. Every Wednesday night for the past seven or eight months, a yellow cab, the driver, usually a lean Arab fellow, no doubt stupidly smiling behind his steering wheel, happily sated by Wanda's mouth in lieu of payment, dropped her in front of a flight of worn down steps flanked by lamp lit stone posts. Ten minutes later a blue taxi not a yellow one weaved around the cars parked in the middle of the street and people fucking under a stop light, stopped near the office building and mother, the mother I craved so much was in the taxi. I could not see the driver, but I imagined he was a happy camper. Wanda's burnt toffee and bright copper colored hair was cut short. She slid from the car; the front seat naturally, said something indistinct to the driver who no doubt was babbling happily. She wore cherry red five inch pumps. Something silvery glittered on her left ankle. Yes, it was the anklet Dad purchased at Tiffany's for her. From her black clutch bag, she removed a tissue, dabbed her red painted lips, walked away without a backward glance. Under the glare from the nearby street lamp, the lower third of her heaven sent boobs escaped confinement of a shimmering red silk top. Her pants looked so tight they might have been sprayed on. Her posture placed considerable front loading on her tits, her gait a street walker's seasoned one. Totally oblivious to the happenings on this crazy street, If she walked too far, she surely would be arrested for solicitation or gang raped there on the litter strewn sidewalk. No, that was not to happen. Law and order were on vacation, crime and anarchy ruled. No one worried about solicitation charges and gang rape was de rigueur behavior. The building she approached, the one I had been looking at so intently, clearly needed some good sand blasting, its windows professionally cleaned, and the pigeon shit crust removed from the roof's gargoyle sentinels. Earlier, I had looked inside the lobby. Four millennia of grime and yellow wax covered the floor's pitted parquet. The vestibule reeking of odors best left undetermined was decorated with potted plastic plants, seedy sofas and the ghostly remnants of a prehistoric news and tobacco stand closed since Lindy flew the Atlantic. In My Beginning Is My End Mom had written of Louis Pasternak, a low-life and greasy palmed opportunist known about town by his rat faced visage and Hitleresque moustache stepped from the building's cranky elevator into the shabby lobby, was murdered a little more then two years ago. A group of up and coming, hard charging plastic surgeons, young Turks in their profession, held court here during the day, planned nose jobs, tummy tucks, breast augmentations and lap band procedures. I imagine their business has petered off in light of the present gloomy mode cast over the planet. In one suite of offices, an Indian orthodontist jabbered all the livelong day re-balancing teeth and re-adjusting lopsided jaws. A union local on the second floor under investigation by the U.S. Attorney and a CPA named Bushman on the third floor under indictment by the city's bi-sexual district attorney. A jowly, ancient private eye named Blake occupied a seedy office around the corner from the CPA. Visited by few clients, this fat shamus lolled in his chair all day as though it was a throne, sucked down gin toddies, wheezed and squinted through bifocals at glossy pictures of crack whores squatting on filthy, clogged toilets. The top floor was given over to one enterprise. The walls paneled in rich blond wood and framed lithographs of crimson cloaked, horse riding English dandies chasing foxes through hill and dale. Flambeaux provide tame lighting, offer plenty of intentional shadow. Wanda said the fresh cut flowers packaged into decorative urns scented the rooms with too much funeral dread. A well stocked mahogany and brass bar, an alcoholic dreamland fronted by leather wing back chairs, squatting oval maple coffee tables, sofas arranged for intimate conversations, conferred the feeling of a rich gentleman's private club, a soothing oasis of serenity in a mad, out of kilter world. Instead, it is an exclusive downtown clinic, a sex club at a less then posh address. In the perfumed missive received in the midst of finals; Mother took her turquoise pen in hand and in flowing bold loops and confident swirls described the typical cab ride, the wasted neighborhood, the clinic in scintillatingly vivid detail. Every time I read the letter, I ended beating off into my palm. Thoreau said it best: "I have received no more than one or two letters in my life that were worth the postage." This was one of my pair of letters. In the same stimulating letter, she described her psychiatrist, a goateed; youthful looking doctor with arched black eyebrows named Wolfgang Vongoyan; a legend in Californian medical circles who had husbanded the place from its inception. In detail, Mom told me of all the raunchy fucking she meted out to the good doctor, nearly killed him I think. He started his therapeutic career using hypnosis to treat phobias, stop smokers dead in their tracks. After writing a well received text book on sexual addiction, another on incest, he made a fortune in the mass market writing a clever, easy to read primer on sexual peccadilloes. For a year he worked for Doctor Conrad Vein in Vienna sharpening his psychoanalytical skills. Now in the city by the bay, he treated a cadre of sexual addicts adamant in their refusal to abandon their vices. Instead, he catered to them. The place was pure refuge now, a spot to slake addictions before the world died. Her attire, her attitude, her aptitude was a veritable carnival thrill ride. Thank God her appeal to me and the many she tempts has not moderated in the least. We have so little time left to us. Well, as compensation, I did have pleasurable moments on the road, but always in my mind were Mom, her capable body. The heels created a theatrical impact, focused attention on her quaking behemoth boobs. She walked with a cat's sureness. Every stride was a provocation. The corded musculature in her legs, the forward angle of her chest, all that fine, firm flesh confined under silk and rayon drew eyes, set fires in heterosexuals within a dozen miles of my mother. Wanda, not one to do anything in half measure, costumes her body, uses her assets to captivate, to ensnare, to reveal her sexual availability. The rock on which she has built her church is this exhibitionist nature, this compelling need to flaunt, to quench her fires with her openness to anything sexual, in catering to a baker's dozen of fetishes. Birds of a feather always flock together. Licentious Wanda had found a haven to placate a sexual addiction born out of her incestuous youth. A new batch of sexaholics show up at Doc V's fetes every week; momentarily join the group for short order thrills, stay for full five course feasts. I saw a steady stream of people making their way into the decrepit building. The women were hot blonds, brunettes, redheads and raven haired beauties. Most of the men looked fit. Some looked to be tow headed Aryan supermen with unimaginably large pricks no doubt; others were dark and dangerous looking, ready to go down on a woman soon as they stepped inside. Another group represented fat, slovenly and ugly men. Several women were equally flabby and looked disbelieving as they approached the building. The number of people enjoying the seamier side of life, who freely accommodated their wild side, who were so fierce in their determination to walk to the beat of a different drummer stunned me. It made me proud to be Wanda's son, to be another one who hears his own drummer. Every Wednesday night Mom freely offered her considerable contributions to these people. Nestled in their bosom, Wanda found easy acceptance of her familiar feelings, took sustenance in their easy manners toward incest and any other sexual thrill. In an odd way it made her feel remarkably virtuous. Incest was nothing to be ashamed of, not evil and definitely should not be considered illegal. It was to be admired, to be appreciated for its pristine reliability in garnering the most wicked of pleasures. On these Wednesday evenings gang bangs, heterosexual humping, homosexual romping, straight fucking, horizontal coupling were referred to as group therapy and confrontational sexual coupling. On these nights before heading to Center Street, Wanda Goodwill, slut, nympho, whore and harlot paces about her Pied a terre, a luxurious second floor flat a few blocks from the Transamerica Tower. My ultimate destination until I realized it was Wednesday night. Better to glimpse her here. She'd get well and truly fucked by her buddies, and then we'd go back to the apartment and get down to business. The more my mother fucked, the more she wanted to fuck and tonight and until the end, I'd be the recipient of her wanton excesses. On earlier visits, we stayed naked, fucked and sucked. Travel was so much easier then. Hop on a plane, fly straight and level for five hours and hop off. Hailing a cab at the airport, anxious to restore my familiar bond, the taxi dropped me in front of her place. For a few minutes, I'd watch her shadow, her contours floating back and forth behind the white lace curtains of the apartment. I'd hear Sleep Walk by Santo and Johnny bellowing and booming through her rooms. No doubt these surf tunesmiths, the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, the Ventures, Ronny and the Daytonas still played in her apartment before she stepped into the night. The same music wafted through the house back in Ohio. Always yearning for new conquests and old comrades, she'd be naked, sipping claret, mixing and matches clothing for the right effect, getting her game face on, the war paint arranged just so before going out into the night for some more end of the world partying. Mom's comfortable place is decorated in pastel colors and subdued earth tones. An inexplicable black and white poster of a chimpanzee doing some serious nose picking looks down on her sleigh bed. In the hallway a grouping of stark black and white photographs, close up studies of her sexual parts, are always conversation grabbers. My sweet, sexy mother has always enjoyed rubbing fragrant lotions into her huge, firm breasts, peering intently at her nipples in the full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Vanity seems to be a common trait in the family but we do I think have much to be vain about. She dabs feminine scents into her gash, uses a shiny silver vibrator named Mad Mike, a hot pink vibrator big as a torpedo to take the edge off. Earth shattering sex is the only appropriate response when the earth is destined to be blown apart in a few months by a meteor. I know this, my mother knows this, everyone in this city and people all about the world realize this too. Wanda, born Bethany Ann Johnson, entered her father's bed at 18. Under his guidance, his monster cock in her, she first experienced this earth shattering sex long before any cosmic orb showed up, bent on wiping out humanity. By the age of 16, she had topped out with the biggest bust in western Ohio, the tiniest waist, the most incredible long legs. Sex mongers appreciating her stunning figure and appraising her stupendous value had stomped about Ohio, ready to sign her soon as she reached that magical and golden one eight number. All those squalid entrepreneurs eager to see Bethany nice and legal, old enough to feature in their stroke books and video productions, offered untold riches to her dad. They talked of bonus scenarios, stock options, off shore tax free situations. He had all the wealth one needed. In this bidding war for this budding sex star, Bethany played the part of the blue-eyed, buxom blond doll vied over by bordello madams and white slavers. Hank Masters of Astral Productions, Tiffany Cupps, the former porno diva, now CEO for Avid Enterprises saw Bethany's virginity as pure platinum, her hymen as nothing but a gossamer veil draping untold riches for plunder and profit. Her father was in no hurry to see Bethany leave his bed. Brandi, Bethany's sister not ready for plucking. Barbara, the senior sister well seasoned to her father's passions often spent her nights fucking Rudy or Donny, one of her older brothers somewhere in the house. Barbara in a royal blue camisole and vivid blue stiletto heels going down on Max Steelman, Barbara in a black cocktail dress getting doggy fucked by Peter Packer was already paying off quite handsomely for Dad. My grandmother was fully aware of Barbara's, Bethany's and Brandi's place in the family's hedonistic hierarchy. While not oblivious to Bethany's pre-eminence in her husband's bed, Cecelia Mae Johnson and her gushing, insatiable pussy was busily catering to her several sons, their at home education in the sexual arts. Some day I wanted to write a book, a tell all book about these doings in a comfortable, all American white clapboard house outside Dayton, Ohio. I even had a plan for the video's cover. It would parody the painting American gothic. In front of a white wood frame house, big busted Wanda, my mother, in a plunging calico dress, her hair bound in a tight bun, standing next to Dan Doher, the bald headed, bespectacled and bemused porno legend from the seventies. Dan still hard at work, still toting a cock of Herculean proportions and in his right hand is something other then a pitchfork. Something signifying an incestual relationship between father and daughter but I had not figured that one out yet. Mom, her lips pressed together, looking sensual and sultry and she stares at something off to her left, something desperately wanted, something revving her up. Maybe she is holding Dan's cock. I knew her story cold and only I could do it true justice, tell it with the necessary verve, capture the details with the right degree of wickedness, glamour and charming innocence. All of played out with humor, the feelings of family bound together in common cause to experience domestic bliss, harmony at home. Now with the world doomed so is the video. Three months and two days following her eighteenth birthday, for the first time Bethany squatted down on Josiah Johnson's formable member. In his bed, her feet ice cold, she came to him one night in the middle of November. She wrestled him out of his pajama trousers, sat down on his cock. Naked, breasts warm and toasty from the nearby fireplace, Bethany nearly did cartwheels about her father's cock. Blond curls blanketed her fine, long neck, swept down on her tantalizingly smooth back. In the fireplace's light her nubile body glowed golden; the soft angles of her face were twisted by the ecstasy of her union. No longer having a virgin's hymen, she was now slut bedded by a master cocksman, a fresh faced whore branded for all time by daddy's domination. Two decades later, she told me of this festive night, every intimate detail of her first night with her Dad, my still randy grandfather. It was all scripted into my seduction, a preface to our fucking in her flashy new car parked by the farm's silver propane tank where my dog, a cocker spaniel named Don, watched us intently. She was in her bucket seat, her slim left arm resting on top of the dark blue steering wheel. Her blond hair swept up on top of her head, ringlets dipping in front of each exposed ear. In my leather bucket seat, I spouted a raging hard on. Bethany-Wanda-Mom wearing a tight blue tank top, her nipples hard buttons under the smooth fabric, her breasts immense, just as firm as when her father sucked them when she was a tender 18. Oh, and I had an intimate familiarity with them too, sucked them religiously as a baby. Now, I longed to have them back in my mouth. Short black skirt, long, bare legs, shaved not an hour earlier with a disposable razor. The sexiest come fuck me pumps, a whore's favorite shoes. Black heels with five inch stiletto heels that trumped her feet into works of art. Looking at my erection, Mom told me of all her doings with her dad, fucking Rudy and Donny her brothers, going down on compliant cousins, being closeted between muscular, hairy thighs, getting all that good loving in virtually every room of the homestead, finding time to wonder down to a tranquil pond, getting well and truly fucked in the verge of soft grass, being banged senseless against an elm tree. My busty, sensual mother was 39 years and the wickedest, sultriest slut east of the Mississippi, and no doubt west of that river too. The two of us alone, car windows rolled down, sunlight sparkling on the hood, the rich odor of surrounding fields sprinkled with manure filling the car's interior, the scent of cut grass, I, a tender 18, was being initiated, taking my rightful place in the family. It was so easy seeing Mom on Josiah Johnson, getting rigorously fucked, learning to suck his cock with proper ardency, being schooled in the pleasures of anal pummeling. Such images played in my head--often. And did I ever beat off. At night, I jacked my cock listening to Mom being fucked by a new lover, another hard man, his gun cocked inside her, making merry with her. This in addition to whatever loving was coming her way courtesy of granddad and my dad. My fist moving up and down the length of my member as passionately as my mother was fucking in her bed a few feet away. My father, intensely serious in all things, wore horned rimmed glasses to mask his furious gaze. Favored as no other by my mother, he satisfied her as few others were capable. He had passed away one horrible night during my twelfth year. A night in which his cock was buried in her mouth at the moment his heart stilled. It was eerily similar to the Duc d'Orleans, how he had died during an epic lovemaking session with his insatiable mistress. One minute there, the next not and dad was gone. Mom had waited a suitable time before taking another lover, luring a fuck buddy into her bed. Her sexual proclivities no longer blocked, she rushed back to her former ways. Her needs, the addiction she had suppressed required satiation. I was not yet old enough to fill that need. For a time she blamed her father, her brothers. Angry, filled with a bitter rage for the killing stress they inflicted on Dad and she had no desire to take to their beds. I remembered the bruises of grief beneath her eyes, how she languished in some private hell. All was forgiven now. Once more she frequently enjoyed fucking father and brothers. Reclining in my tub on nights her lovers visited, I poured shampoo on my nine inch cock and fisted my left hand around its four inch circumference. I'd shoot out a stream of semen to the sound of hot water tumbling out of the faucet. Seeing my sperm free style swimming in the tub was such a turn on. Such spending stored in my body and ceaselessly replenished would eventually find its way into my mother and a good many other women I imagined. My initiation took place on our farm in Vandalia, Ohio, a Victorian manse purchased for a princely sum. Mom's sanctuary; her happy place achieved from her astronomical earnings as a pornographic diva, a thousand dollar a night escort, a woman who carried out special duties for her father and others as necessary. Three or four times a year she lived in the apartment with a spectacular if generally foggy view of the bay. Billed as Wanda Goodwill she'd do some shoots, make a God awful amount of money and return to the farm. I owned a video of her co-starring in a Hollywood movie called STRIPLAND. I beat off to it--often. She had no dialogue, but needed none in this her first non porno extravaganza. Naked, natural, assured, she stood in a dressing room filled with other naked strippers. Torrents of blond hair flowed down on to her smooth back, dipped across her forehead, her tits nearly smacking her dressing room mirror. She steps into thigh high stockings, clips them to a garter belt. Teetering on high heels, she plays the born again Christian, the ditz with a heart of gold to the movie's star, an actress of some note paid something like 300 million dollars to take her clothes off. In the movie she the fellow stripper plagued by a felonious husband whose dim intellect is always getting him into trouble. Jason, you are one lucky bastard, I said to myself, listening to mother telling of her wicked youth. "Honey, show Momma your monster cock. Don't let the zipper's teeth bit you though." I knocked back my bucket seat, lowered that puppy flat and got comfortable, my head resting against the padded head rest, my Pumas firmly planted on the floor mat. Looking up, my mother's tits filled my eye sight as did her silky legs and full, rich red lips. Opening my zipper, fishing around inside, I extracted my cock. "Honey that is one impressive cock, a Johnson cock. Stroke it; get it nice and hard for your Mom. How many times you beaten that sucker thinking of fucking your momma?" "Jesus Mom, please don't torture me. Suck it; suck it like you did grand dad, like Dad, like your other fellas." This woman, source of my fantasies, bastion dispensing pleasure to me and so many others, dipped down, confidently took me into her mouth. "Sweet lord," I screamed from my bucket seat as my mother's mouth engulfed me, settled down as though she planned to remain the entire season sucking my prick. An extraordinary calm dispersed through me. Never had I felt so in tune with my body, so needy in sustaining it. Bethany-Wanda-Mom deftly rolled me around in her pliant mouth, sucked with a passionate exuberance unseen since Messalina a millennium ago fellated half of Rome's male population. Chambered in her mouth, I felt a connection to the man who had perished under such unfavorable circumstances, a man who had helped make me into what I was. He had died with my mother's mouth working on him in the same fashion. Was a son not honoring his old man by burying his tuna in his mother, by being his Dad's proxy in keeping her warm and fulfilled? My hands reached under her tank top, played with her tits, sought out her nipples. In My Beginning Is My End "What a fucking body you have Mom," I said. "You like?" "No, I think you are a skank. Of course, I like." "You haven't even fucked me yet and you are already too big for your britches." Mom's blue Volvo, sun roof open, the latest in Swedish automotive technology with its supercharged, finely tuned motor, individually heated bucket seats and state of the art global positioning system was suddenly on the front line of the sexual frontier. I was a newly drafted soldier huddling in a foxhole waiting for anything and everything to happen under my mother's auspicious tutelage. Mom, her mouth moving up and down over my cock, paused, pushed several fingers into her twat. I could hear her stilettos scraping on the floor mat, her ankles rubbing one another. For a moment she released me from her busy mouth. "Oh, baby, your cock is huge. I love sucking it." She smiled her beatific smile, the same innocent grin I remembered so fondly from my days in the first grade when I stepped into the house with a finger painting or a silver pine cone for the Christmas tree. In her movies she looked so noble, so honest sucking every legendary cock in the pornographic cosmos and it thrilled me to see the same decency, the same honest approach applied to me she applied to her craft. This dame whose conversational voice was a pleasant sounding contralto now used the same urgent tones of intimacy on me. She went back to the business of sucking. Another pause: "Come in my mouth honey; shoot that hot stuff on my tank top, spoil me with that nasty shit. I am your slut now and forever." My semen erupted into Mom's mouth, spilled over her lips and stained her tank top. "Now, we go to the house, do some proper fucking in my bed." Me, 18 years old, a fucking machine under lifetime warranty, the Energizer Cock guaranteed to go and go and go. Wind me up, watch my prick whirl, spin and chug right into my dear mother's womb. Don, my faithful dog raised from a pup, still sprawled under the propane tank, watched, wagged his tail. Did Don smell our heat, detect Mom's musky aroma? Mom fired up the car, turned the ignition key too sharply back, the beast complained with a grinding racket. Her right hand, the same hand used so dexterously to fiddle her twat while sucking me off, moved down to the console between the bucket seats, reversed the car. She jammed her foot down on the accelerator, stomped it, the car leaped backwards, stopped next to the house's front porch. Silence enveloped the car; birds sang in the nearby trees and all around us a vista of growing corn basking in the July sun. Stowing my cock away, I watched Mom open her car door, slide out, face away from the car, stand teetering on those stilettos. She leaned down, touched her red painted toes, the skirt lifted way up in the back. No thong, no tan lines. A quick glimpse of her ass, then she was standing straight once more, the skirt dropping back down. She pivoted to her right, nearly ran toward the house. She clattered up the porch stairs, passed under a brass plate tacked above the porch, a motto of sorts: NON NOBIS DOMINE NON NOBIS—Praise us not, O Lord. Yes, my sentiments too. I stumbled from the car, jogged toward the house and climbed the wraparound porch trying to catch Mom before she made it through the screen door. Inside the porch's perimeter, yellow gliders and white rockers were grouped near numerous free standing potted plants, wicker tables meant to hold lemonade and iced tea in frosty glasses. Mom often sat in one of the rockers, reading a book, wearing sunglasses, barefoot, naked under a soiled white trash shift with plunging décolletage. After we fucked that first time, I sometimes sat in one of the rockers, sipping iced tea and stroking my cock while she wore that shift, got it soaking wet washing the car. Soap suds pooling in the gravel, her blond hair drenched, water and soap dripping down her legs, she'd pose, lift her bare feet beguilingly and using the green hose squirt water over her breasts to make them stand out under the translucent fabric. An antique triangle used long ago to call in farmhands to dinner hung on a chain near the front door. Mom giggled. She bounded through the door, I nearly caught her skirt, hoped one of those five inch stilettos hung up on a porch step and I'd grab her before she fell. Bury my cock in her on the porch steps. Fuck there. That was not to be. She ran in her bare feet, possibly the sexiest bare feet in Christendom. In the interregnum between her fleeting departure from the car, her sound breaking arrival at the porch, Mom had removed her stiletto heels, clutched them by their narrow straps in her left hand. I had not seen this, attributed my blindness to my fevered state, being young, full of cum and not in full control of my senses. Mom was in the house now. To the left the conservatively appointed living room awash in natural light, to the right the dining room with a long trestle table, polished to a high gloss, high backed wooden chairs tooled by Amish craftsmen, an antique sideboard filled with white china plates and cups. This space also sparkled in sunshine. Balanced in between was the entryway, the staircase leading upstairs. On the two lowest steps I had once deposited a great snapping turtle retrieved from a corn field when I was a young boy. Mom flew up the steps, several at a time, reached the second floor where the bedrooms were numerous, lively most any night. Her bedroom looking out on the backyard was the liveliest outpost. Actually a suite of snug and comfortable rooms, the master bedroom was painted a brick red color, finished in pale red and creamy white accents and furnished in ornate, rich wood antiques. It was the domain of a storybook princess, a place suitable for Barbie and Ken to fuck in. On the nightstand next to the grandly carved four poster bed, a book containing the complete poems and plays of T.S. Eliot and Arthur Schlesinger's book The Age of Jackson, Mom's recent bedtime reading. Mom, the bookworm, the lady with the keen intellect was the vixen who perched tomes on the shelf of her breasts when she in her bed at night. Crossing the bedroom's threshold, sweating from the July heat, my forehead sunburned, I suddenly stopped dead in my tracks. Mom, who loved fucking in this room or anywhere else was naked, flat on her back in the center of the bed's red comforter. Smiling, I do not think I had ever truly realized how white and perfect her capped teeth were, the enormity of her mountainous breasts, how sexy her legs truly were or the flawlessness of her skin. My mother was the template for all centerfolds, the fantasy figuring in so many men's minds as they stroked their cocks and in moments, I was too would fuck her and be fucked by her. Her long fingers extended into talons were busily flying solo in the vault of her twat. "Baby, get those pants off, get naked and get to fucking me." My trousers, my shirt, the Pumas cast off, piled in the middle of the white carpet. Still the lanky young man with blond hair, a rowdy cow lick, a jock with flat abs, not so gawky now. Peach fuzz hair on my face, a ball of blond hair in my crotch, my cock jutting straight out, eager to lose my virgin status in this room, in this bed, in this woman now. "God damn honey, get that prick in me. Momma's going to deflower her baby boy. First, fist your cock, stroke it. I love anticipation. You will not be disappointed." To the left of the bed, Pound and Schlesinger were on the nightstand. To the right, across the vast bed where Mom, naked, luscious, lubricious, tended herself and watched me, was more bedroom to fuck in. I did as she requested. I stroked myself, stared into her blue eyes, pined to fuck her as my father fucked her, as granddad did, her brothers and the long line of lovers and co-stars so often did. My father might be watching this, our first communion, as lovers and I wished to do him proud. Birds sang in the trees, a tractor rumbled in a field, a chainsaw chattered and sunlight glowed in Mom's golden hair and I was afraid of premature ejaculation. "Don't you come though. If you do, I'll have to call in Burley from his tractor to fuck me. I need it bad darling." Mom, pleasuring herself with her pliant fingers, rolled about in the bed. Behind the glass bubble of a bay window, its frothy white lace curtains drawn tightly back and tied off with red ribbons, I could hear a buzzing bee. To my sensitive ears it sounded like sizzling bacon. Mom's fingers continued trolling through her cunt. Standing there bouncing on my heels, I was afraid I might fire my first round over my fist. Mom would grimace, laugh at my ineptitude and I'd have to stand there like a dunce and watch Burley fuck her in my stead. What of love in this hothouse of lust? God, yes, I loved Bethany AKA Wanda AKA Mom and all the great notions it supposed. Fulfilling my lust, making love in the temple of her body all good but the passkey hanging between my muscular thighs, zeroed into her center was madly in love as was all my other disparate parts. Maybe my love was a bit crazy, canted too far to the weird side but no one could doubt my passionate love for my dear mother. I was no freaking oddball who was quickly on a road to perdition. Love is action and all my actions were in consideration of her happiness, the joys inherent in our commingling. Her motherly intuitions were just as finely tuned to my sensitive nature. She wished for this to be all it could be. In our lovemaking we'd bond as only a mother and son is capable. Not to mention I'd do it for dear old Dad. Knowing my father as I did, being a chip off the old block, I had little doubt he was guiding me home at this very moment. Burley stayed outside on his tractor. I managed with a great deal of difficulty not to expend myself on my hand. "I am taking you to paradise darling, but we better be quick, your Momma's fingers are worn out. First, I'll show how to fuck me, then how your mother likes to be eaten." Eager to please, subservient, I was every bit the mesmerized, star struck teenager. My submission to her allures was absolute; my slave status in the dominion of her body was complete, without moderation. I went down on the bed in a position of supremacy, kissing her. She was so sinuous, firm in all the right places. Sensitive to my caresses, inquisitive about where I was going, slowing me down here, speeding me up there and not once did she lose sight of the details or let my attention waiver. She the pro teaching the new kid on the team how to hit, how to field, the importance of achievement, the merits of patience and sure footwork in getting home runs. Having no knowledge of Mom's muscular control, I nearly swooned as my bat went in and she tightened around me. My legs were draped outside hers. My smooth, flat chest pressed against her mountain sized breasts, her nipples flattened under me. All that unremitting pressure pleasured me to the point of release. Then she freed me. Just enough to retain control but not nearly enough to allow me to shoot my sperm into the pocket between her legs. Not yet did she want me firing. "Stud, push in deep." I did. "That's it, move up and down and bounce around a bit. Oh, yes. Fuck me, keep fucking me." I rose and pounded deeper into her, established a steady rhythm. "Honey, that magnificent cock of yours is the same caliber as your father's." Her language was such a turn on. Bethany-Wanda-Mother had learned her craft well. As my teacher, the woman fate and familiarity had deemed to deflower me, she was well worth the fortune heaped upon her by the adult film industry, the business and political titans afforded her services. This is how I remembered our first time: mother flat on her back, her smooth legs rubbing against mine, blond hair, hers, undone and streaming across the pillows, my hair the same color brushing her forehead. Her blue eyes at once icy cool and fiery hot. My tongue inside her mouth getting beaten to death against the white enamel of her capped teeth. Sliding across her, stroking her breasts, sucking each nipple, my cock squeezed into her too near release. I had emerged from the vent between her legs 18 years earlier. She said I was all cock at my birth and my proud papa had taken dozens of photographs to prove the point to his friends. "Now, it's bigger and better," she said as I went in and out of her. "It's a monster, doll baby. Am I tight enough for you?" "Oh, yes," I said. My objective: make my oversexed mother proud of my talents; make my long dead father equally impressed by my accomplishments in the sack. I backed out, thought of anything and everything to stay my execution of an orgasm, to get a temporary reprieve for my erection. No way did I wish to ejaculate yet. Real or imagined memories of my sad eyed Shetland pony, wrestling nasty smelling Henry Sloan, being flattened under a fat, old woman built like the liberty bell and named Mildred. God, just let little old me keep banging away at her for another second, another minute. "Slam it in baby, fuck me." Mom tightened around me, her breasts against my chest, our loins pressed together. My legs braced hers; I sucked her nipples, kissed her, paused and pushed in deeper. The firmness of her pubic ridge, the eager onslaught of her muscles bearing down on my member did me in. For a good 20 minutes I seemed to expend myself into her cunt. Well, it was not truly 20 minutes but it seemed so. After that first fuck, the one always remembered best, we two wicked lovers lay there letting our bodies calm down. Mom next to me, her breasts resting comfortably on my damp chest, her right leg, equally damp, crossed over me. During this post coital phase, this exhalation of sated lust, she reached out time and again, gently stroked my cock under the sheets, brushed her soft, motherly hand across my abdomen, kissed my pink cheek and nibbled my ear lobe. Then we began again. Four years later, nearly a graduate of an Ivy League university, Phi Beta Kappa, bound for law school and after hiking across the country, I am here to renew my vows to her. On this last Halloween we come together before the meteor kills us. Stetson hat screwed down on his head, Major Kong, the hard-charging B-52 pilot in Dr. Strangelove was right. Ride that hydrogen bomb out of the airplane's bomb bay, just another bronco bucking under his thighs, scream all the way down; be blown to smithereens when hellfire ignites. That was the only sensible way in a world gone mad. Come Halloween, the last one, we trick or treat in her place. No costumes or fright masks between us, no candied apples, no candy treats, bobbing for apples or worrying about ghouls and goblins, little Trick or Treaters knocking on the door and yelling, "Boo". Just bare naked, busty Mom pinned under my cock, her delicious pussy wrapped round my prick. Clutching one another, the two of us cavort one last time in this warm bed under the monkey poster. Never have we felt so alive to sensation, so in tune with our bodies, so in love as we do during these last fulfilling moments of pleasure. Wanda Goodwill, already happily sated, gets one last go sandwiched in silk sheets. Jason, proud and protective son of Wanda Goodwill, reeling from expressing sperm into her orifices multiple times, pounds her one last time. The Black Death, Tokyo and Dresden's fire bombing, Hiroshima and Nagasaki's mushroom clouds, Hitler and Stalin, the greatest blood drenched ghouls in history non-events compared to nature's immeasurable power. We will die, evaporated in the meteor's first hammer blow. The only good and proper way for us to perish don't you know. Her last words: "fuck me" uttered in a scream, my final crescendo of semen spurting in spasm after spasm into her twat, a great last Halloween, a grand finale to us, to the human race. "Wake up darling. It's Halloween. How can you sleep with all these tikes pounding on your door wanting their treats? It's also your eighteenth birthday and I bet you thought your Momma forgot." I opened my eyes. My mother stood next to my bed. A long, square box covered in white tissue paper, tied with a red ribbon, my birthday gift, and a beige trench coat, one Lieutenant Colombo might be comfortable in, lay on the black-leather chair near the window. Apparently, Mom had worn the coat over the costume. She had also turned on my bedside lamp to give me the full effect of this minimalist costume. She is wearing or more accurately not wearing black lace up boots with soles of such thickness they might be corrective footwear or Frankenstein's monster shoes, holey black hose with numerous runs clipped to a garter belt hidden under tiny crotchless lace black panties, a black bra decorated with a pattern of white skull and cross bones from which her breasts overflowed. Her nipples painted black protruded through strategically placed holes in the brassiere. Black eye shadow, glossy black lipstick painted on her lips, lustrous black hair parted in the center of her head reminded me of Morticia in The Adams Family or Elvira. On this Halloween night my sexy mother costumed as a gothic sexpot. Mom as a biker bitch feasted on by troop of blood crazed Harley riding vampires, Ava Goodwill, Vlad the Impaler's sexy and sultry vixen run through by his lance. It suddenly hit me. The meteor, the cross country trip, all of it packaged into a neat and exceptionally vivid nightmare. No, it was precariously close to being wet dream not a nightmare. I wasn't nearing graduation from Yale but I had been accepted by this august institution. In reality, I had just turned 18. On Halloween. In reality, Ava Goodwill, premier porno star, Bethany Johnson, daughter of Josiah Johnson and my buxom mother stood next to my bed playing with her pussy. Or was she? Was this merely another dreamscape? Was my mother actually a short, frumpy and morose looking woman with sagging tits and varicose veins? Please, God, say it isn't so. No, this had to be real. "Do you like?" "Yes, I like very much," I said. "The costume sweetheart, not me playing with my pussy." "Both." Mom drew back the sheets covering my naked body. "Looks like you have been thinking about someone. Was my nasty boy thinking of fucking his Momma?" More Trick or Treaters knocked on the door seeking a handout; Mom dropped to her knees, took me in her mouth. I did not really care if this was a dream or the real thing. I wanted more of whatever it was. I wanted to fuck it and keep fucking it.