PART TWO e – the Bad Thing

  "Half the boys in the town? All older, too. Had me in one night. If that's not a slut? I don't know what is."

  "You didn't go out for a choo-choo, Light. You were raped. It wasn't your fault. One thing comes out of all this? You'll realize it."

  "I don't know. I asked for it. Even if I didn't know any better, I still asked. So, they made me a slut I guess."

  "Light? You were 14. You… didn't leave the house that afternoon, ever dreaming that would happen. Did you?"

  "No. Never in a million years. Mom's boyfriend's son, started it. I mean, sure, maybe he spped me when he was drinking once or twice, but… I never expected that. Honest."

  "Well. First off. Do you maybe see now what I was talking about? Men that can sp you, they're capable of other stuff. A man like him, that can't hit you? He can't hurt you that way. Now, its your job not to get drunk and sp the guy, asking for it, or… sleeping with his friends, and making fun of him, throwing it in his face. You do that, yeah, you're asking for a hand across the face. But if you don't ask for it, it should never happen. Now he's a safety model. Not all guys… have that airbag installed."

  "Sounds good."

  "Now. How is it, that you think you were asking for that. Is that what they told you?"

  "Uh. I think I remember that maybe, I mean I was drunk, but…"

  I sighed.

  "Eh. Some kinda you shouldn't have worn that dress thing, right?"

  "Well. Yeah, but it was more I remember the boots. Boys like those high heeled leather boots. How about you, Wizzy. Daddy wants me to wear the hooker boots for you sometime, huh? I bet you do…"

  "Light. You didn't deserve what happened. And you didn't ask for it. They… could have been drunk, and told you that it was because the moon is made of cheese. Doesn't make it true, honey."

  "Yeah, but. The football coach says… even Wizzy said so. I dressed like a girl it happens to, so… there we go. Its my fault that way."

  I went to him. He was great up to now. Lets see what his winning streak looks like.

  "Wizzy? Can you help me out here?"

  "Yeah. Light?"

  "Wizzy."

  "Lightning. Its like this. This is no different than leaving your purse on the hood of that car overnight. When your money and cellphone are gone in the morning? The person that stole it? Is 100 over 100 guilty as sin, same as if they picked the lock on the door, and cracked the safe to steal the same thing. No different. Now, when I say you asked for it, by leaving your purse on the car overnight, you realize that's just something that wasn't a very bright thing to do, right? It doesn't mean you wanted it, or actually asked for it."

  "Hmm. Yeah…"

  "Light?"

  "Yeah Wizzy."

  "Let me ask you some questions. See, I ran with the Military Police guys. I have some experience, with… motive, and figuring out what was going on. You know? Mind if I try it."

  "I have to talk to the police, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  She giggled and shook her hair, and held her wrists out to him, smiling.

  "Then where's the cuffs… don't you wanna… interrogate me, hmm?"

  "Save that for our third date, hun. You're here of your own free will."

  "Pooh. Go on."

  "You said, your mom used to buy you… rich dy clothes. Did you look older, when you were younger? Example. I bet you were tall for your age. With the right hair, clothes, makeup and jewelry? I bet you passed for an older girl. Bet when you were 14, you could fool a 16 or 17 year old boy you were older. Am I right."

  "Oh yeah. I was a dancer. Older girls, get done up younger. Younger girls, get made up to look older. Normal. But yeah. I always could pass a couple years more than I was. Like you said, I was tall."

  "All right. So, you're 12. You look older, and your mom was priming you, buying you… nice dresses and stockings. Maybe some cheap pearls. Making you look… like an older girl. That came from money. To learn to attract…"

  "Boys with money."

  "Right. Now, she was training you? To be a dancer. Dressing you up to look all cssy. Now… when was the switch?"

  "What switch."

  "Your mom started buying you… hooker boots, wham bam mini's… ripped up look at my tits and tummy shirts… when did that shit start? Because your mom switched from my daughter has css, she deserves that kind of boy… and went more for…"

  "The slut look."

  "Yeah. Bet there was a hairstyle change. Different make up. The works."

  "Hmm. Yeah. It would attract boys for me. Mom wanted me to have… experience with boys. For when I was older."

  "Yeah. So, what age did this… cssy look, turn into the slutty look? Hmm? Ballpark it."

  "Oh… te 12, early 13… maybe 13-ish… somewhere in there."

  "Now. Did you go on dates with boys, back in the cssy rich girl days?"

  "Well. When you're 10 or 12, your big date is more like… getting dropped at the roller skating rink, you know."

  "Normal. But, car dates started. When was that switch."

  "Oh… mom said I needed more… experience with boys. So I could get a head start on the other girls. Know what I was doing with handling men, she called it. Hmm. I guess… around the time I started being bought the sexier clothes."

  "And Light… you were tall for your age. Had those dancer's legs. Bet as a 12 year old, you could snag dates with 16 year old boys. Boys that drove a car. Right?"

  "Oh… pffft. Whole point there. Boy drives a nice car? Better boy. Ask anyone, boys and girls both know you want a boy with a nicer car."

  "So, what does a 12 year old girl, know about how much a car is worth. To judge. How do you know a good car. Mom taught you?"

  "Yeah. Sports cars are nice. Not older, trashy ones. Nice ones. And nice cars, too."

  "Nice cars?"

  "Mercedes, BMW? Great. Cadilc, Lincoln? Good. Ford, Chevy? Pooh."

  I stepped in.

  "Honey. We already know her mom was training her to be a gold digger, so she could scratch for nuggets with the best of them. This, we know."

  "You sure that's where I'm going. Hmm?"

  "Uh. I was. Continue."

  "Now Lightning. Switching from roller rink, to car dating. That's a big step. You told me, your mom didn't require you to be home early. You were allowed te, on car dates. Go to parties. Whatever."

  "Yeah. Other girls? Pretty jealous of me. Those were pretty good days, Wiz. Mom bought me clothes the other girls couldn't get bought. I was allowed to car date. Stay out te. I was allowed to have a couple drinks, but not get sloshed and get into trouble. Man. I was… you know. Pretty damn popur."

  "Oh, I bet you were. I think we established before, your mom wasn't exactly a stickler for birth control, was she?"

  "No. The opposite, really. Mom didn't believe in it, it was wrong. And… I was going to have kids some day anyways, so if it happened it wasn't a bad thing. But, no abortions. My mom wasn't all bad, she didn't believe in killing babies. And, well… make sure if it does happen? That's why you only date quality boys."

  I was beginning to follow his logic train now.

  "And your mom taught you how to pick boys with quality. Like quality cars."

  "Well, yeah. She taught me which dads had the good jobs. You can tell by the uniforms they wore to work. By the house and car."

  "So. Most parents, put an age limit on how old the boy is. What age of boy were you allowed to date?"

  "Oh. Girls like older boys, Wizzy. My friends were all jealous, too. It was bad, I know it now, but back then? I'm young, I'm dressing sexy and living rge. Driven around in expensive sports cars, going to older kids parties…"

  "Yeah. I get that. How old?"

  "Well, no real age limit, really. Mom always said, you can't put a number on love and marriage. Plenty of women have a husband older than they are. Its normal."

  "When you're older? Yeah, ten years its common. Expected, even. But you're what. 12, 13. How… old… were these boys taking you to the older kids parties, Light."

  "Oh. No age limit."

  "Over 18."

  "Usually, yeah. Boy ain't going to college? Starts working at the good job, where his dad works. At 18. Wizzy… his own new sports car, brand new? Making money like the guys with the nice houses and families in town made? No wife and kids?"

  "Okay. Prime gold digging training program, I get that. Any of these boys… over 21?"

  "Well, I mean…"

  "You mean what?"

  "They can buy beer, Wizzy. Big deal when you're young, you know. Man, you know how much weight I swung at school? My friends could just about order beer, bottles, what they wanted. I could get it. I was the girl to know, trust me. Not like I was a drug dealer, but… I could score a bag of schwag. You smoke with us. You know how it is."

  I was really starting to follow his logic train. Wow.

  "Now for the big one, Light. This st boy. You know the one I mean."

  She went from happy, remembering being the girl you had to know, to… feeling like dirt.

  "Yeah…"

  "Your mom ever date the fathers of those other boys?"

  "Oh. They were all married, boys had moms. I mean, maybe she dated a few casually on the side, but… its not the end of the world, you know. Single mom gets lonely. It happens."

  "Oh. I'm sure it did. Now, back to this… st guy."

  She sighed.

  "Uh huh…"

  "Your mom dated him. He was divorced. She could slide right into the picture, huh?"

  "Yeah. Mom wanted a quality older guy at her age too, Wizzy."

  "Now. These other boys. You dated the boy, and your mom helped you pick them out. For quality control."

  "Yep. Wizzy? I'm well aware, I was raised and trained a gold digger. I know it. Please quit reminding me, would you? You're… making me feel… cheap."

  "Bear with me, Little Lightning. Its on your mom, not you, dear. Now, this st time. That boy. Did your mom date his dad first?"

  "Oh. I never thought about it. Yeah."

  "This guy, he owned a business. He put other guys into his good jobs. This guy was loaded."

  "Oh yeah. Trust me. He was."

  "Now… one other little detail. Maybe one more. Stay with me. I know its painful, but. Try. Okay? You can be brave for me? Try to stay."

  She shook her head yes, sitting up on him. Like I do. It was uncanny.

  "You mentioned, that boy used to sp you a couple times. When he was drinking. The other older boys sp you around?"

  "Well. No. Just him. I mean, other than that? He was okay."

  "He had the reputation, that he put his hands on girls, didn't he?"

  "I guess. Not trying to sound like I'm kissing your ass Wizzy, but, not all the boys out there are as nice as you are."

  "I know honey. And thank you. Now… back to free with hands boy. How old was he again?"

  "20, 21… ish. Something like that."

  "Uh huh. I'm going to look into my crystal ball, Lightning. He didn't date a lot. I mean, not like a kid that rich should have, right?"

  "Well. How much should a kid that age, dad owns a big company, date?"

  "Line of sports cars and Mercedes and BMW's outside?"

  "Yeah. Mom was very happy. Her gold digger meter was pegged."

  "Oh, I'm sure mom was ecstatic. Now… you were a dancer. Good at it. Looked older than you were. Mom dressed you in hooker boots and wham bam skirts, show my tits and tummy shirts. Big hair do… the works."

  "Hey. Boys like it. Bme them. If boys would have responded to the cssy girl look? Well…"

  "I bet he had you dance for him, didn't he? For him and his friends."

  "Sure. Boys always did like to watch me dance, Wizzy. Its the whole point of being good at it."

  "Yeah. I'm sure you danced around the campfire, at the keg parties, with the other older boys. Sure… but… this was a little different, wasn't it?"

  "Eh. Little more audience, sure."

  "Where did this take pce? These little parties he threw. Had his buddies over to watch you dance, dressed like that. Light? Come on. You went this far. Tell the nice, friendly Military Policeman about it. You can do it."

  "All right. Maybe it was a little more… you know… bump and grind. Than real dancing. Sure. Young boys, drinking. I mean, go figure."

  I was catching his drift. I was getting pissed. He kept me quiet with a look.

  "Bet the boys had a line of coke, here and there. Rich kids."

  "Eh. Sure."

  "I'm sure they gave you a little bit here and there."

  "Tried it a few times. Sure."

  "That's fine. Kids do what others are doing, around them. Its an environment thing. Now. One st thing, Light. You okay?"

  She was quiet. She nodded her head.

  "You said, and I quote. You were allowed to drink, just not shit loads. Couple drinks. Loosen up. But, your mom taught her 12 year old to drink responsibly."

  "Yeah."

  "Question. The day… it happened. And stay with me."

  She whispered.

  "Okay…"

  "You drank, your couple normal drinks, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "But… you got trashed. It was out of the ordinary."

  "Hot day."

  "Yeah. I remember, you said that they said, and I quote. Its hot out. You're sweating a lot. Let us help you off with those clothes. Stay with me honey, I'm almost done."

  She started to get a few tears, but… stayed sitting up on him.

  "If you started coming around… they put a mouthful of drink in your mouth. Held your mouth so you had to swallow, to breathe."

  She teared more, but silent. Sobbing now.

  "Come down here honey… shh. Its going to be okay, daddy promises… shh."

  She was still sitting on his hips, now crying into his neck. Sobbing quietly. Her chest was heaving, but fairly quiet. She locked her arms around his neck and held on for dear life. He continued to shush into her ear. He does this to me, when I want a slow ride. I call it his sugar daddy routine. Kinda hot when you're in the mood for it. It was perverse in some small way, that he was using it now to calm her, and keep her with him. He had her on the ragged edge of losing it, but was fighting for something, trying desperately to get that one, st, fish. What was it?

  "Shh."

  She nodded, sobbing into his neck. I heard him whisper sweetly into her ear.

  "Its okay, honey. Its all right, to tell. No one can hurt you any more. Its all gone, Light… just tell me honey, tell daddy the truth. How many times did this really happen… go on. How many times did you have a couple drinks, and it was like that."

  She held her hand up, because she was sobbing and couldn't talk. Five fingers if you counted the thumb. Then she closed into a fist, and fshed again. Then wiggled the hand. Something like ten times or more, guessing.

  "That's a good girl. Now, its gonna get better, okay? You told the truth, and no one else will ever know, its gonna be fine. Now, you can start to get better with mommy over there, okay? Shh… you just had to tell her, because what you tell her, goes away eventually. If you held it back, she couldn't make it better… now? You're gonna be all right… shh."

  "Daddy's very proud of you, honey. Do you know that? Shh. You're a very brave girl. I'm very proud."

  He sat a little propped up, pillows behind his head, and she stayed there a little while. Sitting on him but now no longer in control. The quiet sobbing took her. She occasionally dug in with her knees and shins, like she was going to get somewhere, other than tighter into him. When not, she tended to hang her knees and ankles loose, or to tuck them in tight to his lower body. She would not loosen her death clutch she had around his neck for love nor money.

  Odd phrase for me to use there, I guess. For love nor money. Love was something she knew little of, if anything. She was sparking and trying figure out what the hell that even was. Sex was love, love was sex. Rape and regur date sex? Same thing. They were functionally equivalent. Money, she knew about. Because her gold digging mommy had taught her all about that. Money was what made her mom's world go around. Odd. For love nor money. One she knew nothing about; the other? More than she ever wanted to.

  It took her a long time to quit digging her knees and shins into the bedclothes. Trying to propel her body somewhere. More into the safe space I would assume, into the daddy. Safer. She finally sobbed herself out, and her periodic faux propulsion slowly ebbed and faded. Into still trying, and failing. Her streams of tears slowed with it. She now regained a little sob-soaked speech power and used it. Into his tear wet neck.

  "Please don't tell."

  He said he wouldn't. Just me, him, and herself. And even that was just for work, because there was simply no other way to make it all go away. If not for needing that, we would just forget it. When we were done dispelling the bad things, though. We would just forget it then. But it would all get better now.

  She begged him not tell, to please keep her secret. She begged for no police, no interviews, no one could ever know. Please. He shushed her, told her there would be no cops, nothing like that. Ever. He said that wasn't a problem at all. She compined that now he knew how dirty she was, he wouldn't want her. He shushed her, told her that wasn't the case. He couldn't wait for her third date, it was the single most thing that he was looking forward to. He assured her, how smart and beautiful and strong and brave she really was. How much everyone here loved her. Him, me. Her roomies too. The team as a whole, loved her, needed her. Only a few girls were jealous of her, that was all. And they couldn't hurt her either. Hurry made bad things go away. That's what she did.

  I'm sitting there fuming. I'm supposed to be the rape therapist, learning my trade's craft in Psych major csses. He's sitting here dragging the real story out of her in one go. I noticed, the numb thing went away. It was now repced with the breakdown. The more typical response when they came clean and upped the goods. She must have known she was holding back before, telling a partial to get closer to the real story. Fooling with the odd narrative method. It had gotten her close enough. It brought out the real truth she always tried to bury up again, like unearthing a decaying corpse in her mind. She went numb, realizing this thing had to be dug up. But this time, she broke down because the foul and unclean thing was shown the light of day. It could be dismissed now.

  I'm… not fuming mad, am I? I feel hot, like I would be though. Then I thought about the damn haunted denim mini. Oh shit. I had liked it. It had called to me. Put me on, I'll make you feel good. And it had. I pranced and strutted for my boyfriend and for complete strangers. Loved the feeling of having dirty leers on me. It felt so good, so seductive to be the thing in the room that every boy and man wanted to possess.

  I had worn it to the party. I had enjoyed strutting it there. Enjoyed under its spell the eyes around me, as I went down to panties, like Lightning would and did. Into the hot tub. Let everyone see your goods, the denim devil whispered to me. Boys like it. Fuck me, I even had boots on, like she had when it was st used. Different boots, farm slut boots instead of hooker heeled bck leather ones. But boys liked boots, and we all knew it. I had enjoyed being used like a complete slut, a complete whore… and loved every second of it. Restrained, practically fucked almost to death. It was that damn denim mini. It was evil.

  When I was done being restrained and fucked half to death, I had went about insane and fucked him almost to death, and he had loved it too. I rendered him helpless, and fucked him mercilessly and relentlessly. He then begged for more as well, just as I had.

  I suddenly realized I wasn't mad he was outdoing me at my own rape counselor job I had appointed myself to. I was hot skin to the touch, because I felt ill. Sick, or… oh Christ. Images of the picture he had painted, drawing it out of her. And it went on ten times? Or more, she had lost track. At least one time, the st time? She had remembered a good bit of it. That had to be the worst one. The others, happened while she was out of it. But that one… she would know, she would smell, she would hear, and feel… everything.

  Half the small town? Jesus. And she knew. The boys and young men around town, all pointed and ughed at… the whore. The rest of her life, she was doomed if she stayed there. She would be considered the foulest and most unclean girl imaginable to sit next to, let alone have and keep. And she came here. Now, a treasured soccer goddess. With golden feet, acrobatic skills and grace. Dancer's skill and grace. She was a star now, and she was ashamed of what she had been made into when young. He took one look at her, and couldn't believe his luck. He got to ask one of his calendar girls out, in real life. Being not taken up on his coffee line? Was enough. He had gotten to see her, speak to her, maybe touch her hand.

  I was the consummate good girl. She gravitated to me. I was bigger, stronger, and protective. When some big bull dyke had started cornering her and touching her against her will, no wonder she had frozen in something beyond fear. That… evil thing? Its followed me here, where I could be happy for once.

  She knew who he was, he was Toot. He was my nicest guy ever that I talked about. She felt like she was foul and unclean, and broken. She knew I wanted him, she knew something I would like about him, and she told me. She passed from ruining him, so I could have my once a year thing I wanted.

  No wonder she was so impressed with him. He told her how beautiful and amazing she was. He politely ended people calling her a whore. He had cimed her, never once ever knowing her in the biblical sense. Made her feel decent and clean. Over his physical infatuation, she likely marveled at how his interest went down slightly when she acted like a dumb blonde with Right every day. When she carried on with straight up free sex with any boy that took her fancy. Then, when she showed him she had some intellect and insight? He fell all over her again. He liked her for something other than her dancer's legs, that had gotten her inadvertently into so much of a horrible mess.

  On top of it, he was slightly older, moralistic and protective. She loved that, no doubt. He could keep bad things away, like I did. She had her surrogate mommy and daddy. The evil mommy had been repced with a young good one, only a year or so older than her. The missing daddy was repced by him, four years older or thereabouts to me, so five more to her.

  I can't imagine having that much self loathing and self hate inside me. Oh god, sick was an understatement. Another attack of a little movie of what went on, that she remembered. I ran holding my mouth, sweating hot beads of rancid perspiration forming on my forehead. I gripped the toilet, thank god I keep it pristine and sterilized. I tucked my head down into the bowl, on my knees praying to it. Hugging it for all I had as the dizziness came, then… I retched and purged. The coffee came up. That ran out quick. Foam, stomach acid and stuff like that I would imagine, too. But it kept convulsing and heaving. It was like I could taste my ass coming up in the back of my throat. Then the dry heaves, that slowly subsided.

  Oh, I'm the consummate rape victim interviewer, ain't I? I can't get the story out of her. No men allowed on this job site? Yet without this one, we'd still be pying ring around the Rosie. Christ, I can't even stomach hearing and imagining it all, and he's not only able to get it out of her? He had to have been guessing parts of it, like a… well, like someone who…

  Like someone who had been around Military Police on a big base for four years. He taught rape prevention, as a free service, he volunteered. He had heard this shit before. He had some idea how to get it out of her. He had the stomach for hearing this shit, and telling her it was all right. Good lord, I almost sent him away the first time I tried, I wouldn't have even got the weird narrative one time story that preceded this… abomination coming to light. I kept yelling at him to quit making jokes. But it had worked.

  Not only was I wholly incompetent at this? I was getting in the way and trying my damnedest to prevent it from happening. Because I was going by textbook rote. Like a good girl. He had spent four years near enough the trenches, that he knew what was in them. He had that big morality streak, and that big sense of justice. When he saw this filth before? He had first tried to prevent it, then…

  When you get a bad enough head injury? The bckout timeline starts ten minutes or more, before the head injury, and sts until they wake up in the emergency room. He was the trained fighter, that didn't have a badge and oaths holding him back. He had heard and seen, from them, from being around… and from the csses. Yeah, he had gone out and a few really bad people had no doubt ended up face down in a pool of their own blood. Concussions so bad, they literally didn't even know who or what had taken them down.

  Well thank god there was someone out there now and then doing it. God himself knows the system itself sure isn't working. The system? Don't make me hurl my guts out again. Who in their right goddamn mind, could stomach even calling it a "system" even as a goddamn sick joke. System my ass. Its a random collection of shit, the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. And when it does? Its so they can wash each other, that's all.

  Who in the hell could cim its a "system", when it works against itself so much. All we all hear about, shouted from the rooftops, on the TV and cable, on the radio, on the internet. Girl power. All these wonderful and selfless poor and hardworking single mommies. I don't need no man, I don't need no man. Oh really? The truth is right there. In bck and white. By any metric you choose, single moms produce offspring that fail to perform as good as kids with dual parents. And its not just their performance, its their quality of life. They love to show you that one success, they won't speak about the 19 failures for every "success".

  Take Little Lightning's story. Her true and complete and unexpurgated story. Man, they and that's whoever they really are? Oh boy, they would "spin" that story until it whirled faster than a gyroscope bancing itself on a pencil point, seemingly defying all reason and gravity. They would emphasize, again and again, hammering the point home. That Little Lightning, Little Miss two Feet, the pride of one of the biggest university's dies soccer team, in one of if not the toughest division to be found.

  Look how tall, strong, and proud she is. Look how much harder than everyone else she works. Self starter, she made a name for herself in a big high school, and led her team in the super bowl all stars game the year she graduated. Got knocked out senseless, while scoring the winning goal she'll never remember. Schorship to a top academic and athletic university. Getting her degree. Why, she's strong, pretty, smart, loyal, dedicated, giving of herself. All from a single mother led household. What awesome parenting this must have been, right? Sure. How else can it be expined. Why, a great single mom is better than any two good parents, no other expnation. Her mom didn't need no man, and look what a star she is now. So, you don't need no man either. Get rid of of him, and churn out the next Little Lightning, the next Little Miss Two Feet, the next big star.

  She's leading her team on a charge through her division, and look at her go. Cue those clips, that show her sweating profusely. That hungry, driven look we all know her for. Her streaking in a blur up field, getting there sometimes before the damn ball makes it. Single mommies make these! Py that dramatic music, as they show slow motion action clips of her off the ground, one timing impossible angled shots so thin there's barely room for the ball to make it to the net. Team mates carrying her off the field. Show interview clips of her being asked what she thinks her team's chances are this year, not to be bridesmaids yet again in the finals. That the stats are showing they might even be favored to finally take home their big win.

  The coach, expining how her famous knocked out national final game goal video clip, got her noticed and recruited. How her fame from that clip, has driven recruiting up so now he has the best talent just like her coming to him, he's not going around hat in hand begging for the stars to come here. The more she wins, the more her team wins, the more girls just like her want to come and get a chance to py beside her. If they get another national back to back title, how its starting to look like a setup for a dynasty in the making, a chance to dominate and clear out their division and become the powerhouse they once were twenty years back. This girl is one of several who put them back on the map, damn it.

  Then, they'll once again make sure you didn't possibly miss the most important thing of all, that she came from a broken home, from a small town, where one of those wonderful single mommies made this… uberfrau.

  If you even gave them the true story? They'll edit out everything that doesn't support the narrative. They'll spin that motherfucker until the moon surely, is made out of cheese. And whatever cheese company pays the highest advertising bucks to produce the little feel good documentary? That's the kind of cheese the goddamn moon's made out of, simple as that.

  I could tell you it all makes me want to puke? But I already did. They'll casually skip right over the fact that her own single mother was the biggest gold digging whore, that god ever saw fit to grace her state with. I'm sure she's competitive in the national standings, when you adjust for local economies, to normalize the stats. No, I'm sure that ounce for ounce? Her mom, stacks up against all comers in her gold digging division, and gives a good showing for her abilities. If there was such a thing as the gold digging whore's super bowl? Her cunt single mother stands a decent chance of finally getting the recognition she deserves. And to take home the solid gold trophy ring to show off her stelr achievement. With surely a cock engraved on one side, and a dolr sign embossed on the other.

  If they only knew about the st time she saw her mother before leaving for her schorship never to return. Here's what I really think of you mom. She kicked her half to death with her prized soccer spikes. Thanks for pimping me out, until I finally got ran through by half the young men in town, thank the lord it was a small town or my cock odometer would have rolled over. Those long legs, working her madam mother over. Like an ostrich, trying to kick a lion to death. Because lions will eat their young. That's what she did, her mother ate her and shit her out.

  After several days, and the police never showed up? She was free. She went about her life, broken, and went as best she could to carve something out for herself. Guess mommy was too smart and realized that if the police got involved because her daughter almost kicked her to death? Lots more about the "why" were going to come out. Fuck it, let my little meal ticket go. I got enough out of her already, begone. Because if you won't dance and fuck to get me paid for sitting on my worthless ass? I have no further use for you.

  Ah, if you made them tell that part of the story? The mother would be some kind of did what I had to do to survive heroine, oh poor me. If only alimony and child support were higher, why, then I wouldn't have had to pimp my daughter out to make ends meet, oh woe is poor little me. I've gone through how many husbands, and its tough I tell you. Sniffle and dab a tear with a tissue for the camera, pying the heartstrings music in the background.

  The whole situation? Makes me want to shit and puke in a bucket, and unch it in a big enema up the mother's gold digging daughter pimping ass. Hook a fucking hose up to that ass, so that when it all shoots out? It goes into the mother's mouth and into her gullet. And just keeps going and cycling through, again and again. Because that's what a mother like that deserves. The young men in that town? Need to be fyed alive, slowly, in town center. With a crowd drawn so they can see what they get, if they try this shit.

  Paying to fuck a woman, I kind of understand. I don't condone it? But I grasp the concept. But… lining up half the town's young men, to watch her dance, buy cocaine and drinks, then form a line boys. Drop your cash in the bucket, and go to town. Come one, come all.

  No, they knew what they were doing was reprehensible. How young she was, and that just made their dicks harder. She's passed out and helpless, that just made them wetter. They should be fed their own genitalia, before being fyed. She was 14. I'd ask where the parents are? I know! Dad was gotten rid of years back. He must have had a spine and some morals. And dear old mom? Counting the cash. Hey, we need to up the number of gangbangers turning out? We're down 3 percent this week. Need a little more eyeliner on my firstborn to up the income. Mommy needs some new expensive shoes, you know.

  Now, you have the gall to call this a system? A system of… what? You gonna sit there and tell me, with a straight face… that not one single cop in town, didn't think something was up? Where the fuck was CYS. They crawl up the ass of parents with a microscope, for nothing. Same house, finding nothing, over and over again. Shit like this going down? Not a CYS agent in sight. You can't tell me not one neighbor suspected something.

  The wyer that organized the gag order payment to the mother, after signing off on the cop's "investigation"? He needs set on fire, right along with everyone else. He made money off that poor girl's ass just like the mother. He got his cut. The cops? Mom's signing off on this. What the ever loving fuck. I'm sure all those young men, who paid for their time in her holes… went on to just be the very best pilrs of the community the town ever saw. I'm sure they're just great prizes to behold for their ongoing contributions to the women unfortunate enough to marry them, and the kids screwed up raised by them. I'm sure the values and morals they pass on to their repcement generation? Are the very best.

  Oh god. I almost made it out the bathroom, and I have to puke again. I know there's nothing left but ass hairs to conjure up, as I turn inside out again. I'm dry heaving so bad, it hurts. I found the miniskirt and ripped up shirt. I wanted to look pretty. I wore it and pranced around, and my boyfriend loved it. So did everyone in the town I ate at and shopped in. At least poor Lightning was raised into that situation, I strutted around like a strumpet willingly, and loved it. She was brainwashed into it, then physically forced to continue as long as possible before she took one ass kicking after another to punish her for wanting to better herself and py sports instead.

  What kind of daughter won't take half the town's young cocks in every hole, to help her mommy not have to go to work and earn a living. What kind of a daughter are you, that you'd rather be a sports star, and try to earn a schorship to make something out of yourself. I'll teach you to win, I'll kick the shit out of you again to show you what I think of you making better life decisions than I ever did.

  This is what can happen only when the father is gotten rid of. Drunken halfwits pying father would have put a stop to this shit-show, the minute it got started. You think my daughter is going on car dates with men old enough to legally buy beer, 13 years old, dressed like a hooker, staying out all night? Woman, have you lost your ever loving mind? Here, let me introduce you to the back of my hand, bitch.

  Maybe that's what some of the men that get drunk and backhand the little dy, are doing it for. I like to think that big welder would have done it. That was his daughter.

  Sweet mercy finally arrives. Last rites now. Just a few more dry heaves, and the… okay… I might be done. I wiped my mouth with water from the sink. Drank and spit to flush the taste out. I walked back into the bedroom, to enjoy the show. She hasn't moved from her riding position. Occasional tears still coming, almost no sobs though. Anything will do for a daddy. Here's one. He showed me warmth and kindness and basic human decency. I can't let this one get away.

  If you turn your back on a decent daddy for ten seconds? They're gone. Then, I know what happens without him around. I got it good now, I’m not letting this one float away. He should be getting a hard on from this, his calendar girl is fucking riding him tight. She won't let go. Her sleeping T shirt is ridden up over her panties, which are are near his cock. Only a sheet between dick and panties. I'm sure he's as shriveled up as he can get. He just looks at me.