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You’ll Go Down in History

Category: Incest
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Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw it
You would even say it glows

I hate that Rudolph song. Bioluminescent reindeer are offensive in every way – not realistic. And I don’t know why we should fill kids’ heads with shit like that. I mean, I know very well what being bioluminescent is like and it’s not all rainbows and unicorns. It’s not kid stuff by any means. And Christmas is total crap, too.

The night I found out I was a freak was the worst of my shitty life. I didn’t think it could get worse, but it did. Let me give you some background before this memoir goes totally off the rails. My mother, whose name I can’t bear to repeat here, was an addict. Yeah, so my life was like a hollywood idea of hell. We were mostly homeless and mom went from man to man, prostituted herself for smack, yada, yada, yada.

I’d been taking care of her as best a teenage boy could and I’d learned to work the system over the years. I found us food, charity, clothes, a place to crash between the useless men she hooked up with. Being small for an eighteen-year-old, I was particularly good at pathetic begging. I could con with the best of them. “My little Pippin”, she called me. Which I thought was an apple until recently. I didn’t get much school.

At this particular time we were traveling with a guy I’ll call the Trucker, riding in his long-haul rig while mom was on a brief clean spell. I know now that she was bipolar and self-medicating, but then I could only ride along on her roller coaster and protect her as best I could. I’d believed that my own survival depended on keeping her alive. And not getting close to anyone else.

“Tommy,” she would say, “you sleep out here in the rig while we stay in the motel room.” She knew I hated her men and this guy I didn’t trust in the least. See, he was nicer than the others. With them you knew where you stood. You knew you were gonna get hit eventually. They were mostly drunks and emotionally defective. The Trucker was polite and patient and careful. I knew he was using mom as a traveling piece of tail, though, so while I was OK with being by myself in the rig, I made sure to keep an eye to the gap in the motel room curtain until they were asleep. He wasn’t rough with her like the others. He didn’t slap her face with his dick and laugh while she knelt in front of him.

I watched them cuddle and canoodle and slowly peel away their clothes until mom reached up smiling at him and pulled him over and into her. I’d seen her fuck before, of course. I was her bodyguard even if she didn’t know it. More than once I had snuck in and cracked a bottle over the head of some asshole and dressed her and dragged her away. Sometimes the best time to escape was after the drunk had passed out, but sometimes that meant her getting more of a beating than I could stand. She was skinny like a sack of bones, living on alcohol and dumpster dinner, so I could throw her over my shoulder, small though I was. If the asshole had any cash I took it and we’d go as far and as fast as I could make mom go. But the Trucker didn’t beat her and didn’t pass out either. He’d tuck her in afterward and fold himself around her and fall asleep with her in his arms. Well, he didn’t know how bad she would get. I could wait.

The situation bothered the hell out of me and I didn’t know why. That night we were at a motel off I-40 somewhere in eastern North Carolina. An early fall chill was in the air and wet brown leaves drifted in the gutters under a cloudy sky. The lights of the parking lot where haloed in the mist as I made my way back to the rig, the diner across the road dark except for the security lights, an oasis in a wilderness of tobacco fields and slash pine forest. I always feel homesick in the fall even if I ain’t never had a home. A steady swish of tires on the interstate reminded me of the beach, waves rising and falling across the sand, hissing back out to sea. I always loved the shore. I never felt more calm than when I could walk for miles alone and feel apart from the world. That awful night I dreamed of drowning.

I was swimming in an ink-black sea. I knew the beach was behind me and receding fast – the undertow had me. I struggled against it, sucking in salt water as the waves overcame me. There was a sense of huge, dark malevolent creatures moving in the water. Then, in the distance, a lighthouse pulsing. I lost sight of it as I rose up and down in the troughs, the sea getting rougher, but I knew I must reach it. I couldn’t make my legs kick right. I felt paralyzed. Something wrapped itself around my body. I was held in multiple slippery arms. This beast held me up in the water, yet squeezed the air from my lungs. I knew it was a female, like you know things in dreams. Warmth built between my body and hers. Even in her tight grip I felt the tips of her many limbs caress me gently. Were there suckers making little kisses on my skin? I was repulsed and excited, both.

Thin warm tendrils inched their way into my crotch, nosing into the flesh around my balls, curling around my now erect shaft, pulling me, squeezing me. I gulped for air and tried to scream, my throat frozen. She was pulling my cock toward her body, guiding me into some fleshy, bloody cavity. I was helpless to stop her slow devouring. I sensed thick lips opening to my cock and heat there as I slipped into her. Cold water was replaced with molten soft meat around my shaft. She mounted me in the water, rolling with me in her arms, my cock buried in her grotesque, slimy body. She rode me, enveloped me, consumed me, made me cum despite my terror. I went rigid and struggled no more.

My breathing stopped as I slipped under the surface in her embrace. With one last effort of will I thrashed and screamed, knowing I was sinking to my death.

And with that I woke into a sleeper filled with bright pulsing light. Looking down I saw my cock shining like a thousand-watt light bulb. Panting and delirious with terror, I stared, legs spread as my cock beamed and pulsed, streaks of glowing semen running down, splattered on the walls of the sleeper. It took two hours for the glow to fade.

In that time I lost my mind. Fear overcame me and I stumbled out of the truck cab and ran. I can’t explain how terrifying it was to suddenly become a freak like that. Can you imagine a life as shitty as mine getting worse? Who in the hell would I share this deformity with? I couldn’t imagine going to anyone with this secret. My mother wasn’t mentally or emotionally capable of even understanding what happened. She could barely get from morning to night even with my help. And the Trucker, who viewed me suspiciously at the best of times, would probably turn me in to some doctor, glad to be rid of me.

I ran into the woods thinking these thoughts and spent a cold, wet night under the pines. I was chasing my own tail in my head trying just to accept what had occurred. After a while, doubting my own eyes, I tried masturbating to see what would happen. I’d done some drugs with mom and her boyfriends. I knew I could be hallucinating. Or crazy. I was almost sure I was crazy, in fact. My worst fear – that I would be as crazy as my mom and as useless.

Stroking myself to orgasm under those circumstances was nearly impossible, but I had to know. So I thought my dirtiest thoughts. I wasn’t proud of these. It proved I was one sick bastard, I had to admit. But everything about me was always secret and, being secret, must be sick. So what’s one more sick fantasy? Except this one made me ashamed. It was the one I couldn’t accept in myself. But it got me off every time.

After all this time I’ve begun to understand why, but no amount of therapy can erase the shame. It can only make it bearable. But that’s a later chapter.

That night I had to know what was going on with me. So I leaned back against the rough pine bark at five in the morning deep in a dark wood and thought about fucking my mother. After all, I was her pimp, really. I kept her alive, but just enough to go from one enabling man to another, one meal ticket to another. With her body as the payment. I didn’t prostitute myself. I didn’t have to when she was so easy.

I liked to start with us sitting together at a kitchen table sharing a cup of coffee. Good coffee. That was something we rarely had. Why shouldn’t my fantasy be filled with pleasant, rare things? We would talk about our day like normal people. How was work? What did you learn in school today? We would feel the love we were supposed to feel for each other. And then I would look in her eyes and see it. And she would see the love in mine. Our hands would touch on the red checked tablecloth. A spark. The look we shared became smoldering, like the looks she often gave her men.

As passion rose in me I became forceful. I stood and pulled her up, roughly dragging her into my embrace, crushing her lips to mine, feeling the hot rush of the taboo breaking. And knowing that she was helpless to stop what was about to happen. Because she needed it too. She needed me. For everything.

I picked her up in my arms and carried her to the bedroom where clean, soft, golden sheets waited. And flowery smells. And crisp, sanitizing sunlight fell across the bed. She whimpered in my strong arms, burying her face in my neck, breathing gentle, warm sighs. This was enough to get me hard sitting under that North Carolina pine. I peeked and saw my cock dimly glowing in my hand. Damn. It was real.

I threw her down on the bed and ripped off my shirt. My belt and pants followed quickly. She kept her eyes on mine as she picked at her blouse buttons, but I reached and tore it off of her. She squealed and made to crawl away, her grass-green skirt riding up as she rolled face-down. Grabbing her by the ankle I pulled her back and clawed at the white panties peeking out. I stripped them down her thighs with one hand while gripping her skirt waistband with the other. The panties joined the other clothes on the carpet.

Climbing on the bed behind her, pulling up on the waistband, I raised her onto her knees and threw the skirt up over her back. I cupped her sex and felt that she was wet, dragging a finger along her slippery cleft to diddle her clit.

“Hurry, Tommy,” she cried, face buried in the golden sheets. I held her by the waistband and aimed my cock with my other hand, pressing into her, parting her dripping pussy lips with my fat, pulsing head. She gasped as I sank down and in. I drew a sharp, whistling breath through my teeth as her heat engulfed mine. Then I rode her like a mare, pounding against her, my balls slapping her clit with each thrust. And she screamed in pleasure, in thrall to my prowess.

The cock in my actual hand lit the woods for fifty feet around as I stroked it. I could see the bones in my fingers.

“Let me suck you,” she always begged. I let her up on her knees as I lay on my back, and I watched her lick her own juices off of me lovingly, hungrily. She smiled and her eyes shone with love and desire. With each slow descent of her mouth on my cock I came closer.

I got my hands under her arms and dragged her over me, spreading her legs. She reached down and aimed my spit-dripping cock into her and sank down with a rattling sigh. We both needed it. We both became our best selves when we fucked. She looked with love into my eyes as I got her around the waist and began shoving her down onto my thrusting shaft. Her eyes went far away and she cried out her orgasms, one after the other, shuddering in my hands, her fingers pinching at my nipples as she whipped her hair, her clenching pussy sucking the life out of me.

In the pine wood I watched as I shot stream after long, glowing stream of semen into the loam. They arced away and wrote shining calligraphy on the pine needles. My orgasm caused the light from my cock to burst like a flash bulb, blinding me for a long minute. I squeezed at my shrinking cock and began to cry

The eastern sky began to lighten. I dragged myself to my feet, fastened my pants and stumbled around in the wood until I found my way to the road. By the sound of the interstate I located the motel and climbed into the sleeper cab, it’s cold metal body sheathed in dew. I grabbed my backpack with my few clothes and made to leave. But I hesitated. I should leave a note, I thought. On the back of the Trucker’s log sheet I scrawled:

I’m 18. I should go. Good luck. Love, Tommy.

Possibly the lamest farewell letter ever and another stone of shame piled onto the load I was carrying. I was a freak. My life was over. I was alone. Worst of all, I had pussied out in the end and I had betrayed my mother. I could never see her again.

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