My Youth
Chapter 1: Mom Am I Crazy?

Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, Ma/ft, Teenagers, Consensual, BiSexual, Heterosexual, True Story, Incest, Mother, Brother, Sister, Daughter, Group Sex, Anal Sex, Analingus, Cream Pie, Double Penetration, First, Fisting, Oral Sex, Safe Sex, Sex Toys, Squirting, Tit-Fucking, Voyeurism,

Desc: Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1: Mom Am I Crazy? - Recounting growing up and certain indiscretions along the way

I would say there’s a small bit of importance to you reading this section 1st. It helps explain the possibly weird way I grew up.

I guess the only way to start is to start at the beginning, at least as far back as I can remember.

1950- year of my birth. According to my mother, Satan spawned another child.

1952- not that I can remember much, but later, thinking backwards, I could not recall my mother ever holding me. At this time, I just have vague recollections. You’ll notice the name ‘mom’ is never capitalized ... I hate the bitch.

1953- I DO have a vivid recollection of one incident here. I was watching my mom at her sewing machine. For some reason, I kept touching the cloth as it ran under the pressure foot. mom rewarded me by sewing two of my fingers together as she forced my hand into the works. I think now that she was scared of what she’d done because I was made to sit on a chair while she removed the thread from my baby fingers. I never told anyone. I didn’t know I could.

1954- She had Dad build a playpen for me on the side of our wash house. It was to keep me out of mischief while she did the wash. Trouble was, the pen was outside in the summer sun and I was there from breakfast until shortly before my Dad came home from work in the evening. Damned good thing I don’t sunburn easily. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one.

1955- I could not leave our yard and was refused playmates until their mother’s stopped asking. I didn’t know better, so I never complained.

I had an older brother- 17 years older, and an older sister- 11 years older. The brother was gone all the time, either at Jr college or off in the National Guard. As early as I could remember, mom told me I’d never be as smart, never make as much money, never be a football star [that was his only sport – our school only had 15 high schoolers in all 3 grades, so just going out for a sport meant a place on the team.] and finally, never grow up to be as handsome as he. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one.

Sis became my mother substitute. She tried to protect me as much as she could by keeping me with her outside, out of mom’s reach. I didn’t know any better. At the age of five, I DID notice I was getting a beating every time I turned around, at least during the day when Dad was at work. At 16, Sis was dating, ONLY the boys that mom approved of, being the sons of wealthy farmers in our area. In my eyes, Sis was a raving beauty; red haired, busty ... and most of the boys in her class thought so too.

1956- My world collapsed, as did Sis’s. Sis ran off and got married, and not to one of mom’s chosen. Sis was banished from the house. I THINK 9 months later she had my first nephew. mom refused to allow Sis, her husband or their new baby in the house. He joined the Air force and they moved a thousand miles away. My protector was gone and I was alone with mom ... all day long. I didn’t know any better, I told no one, but the beatings increased in occurrence and severity. Before, mom beat me with a switch that I had to go cut from a tree. If it didn’t meet her standards, I got to cut a bigger one. I didn’t know any better, so I told no one. Eventually, I got used to the switch, so mom changed tactics and moved to a belt of Dad’s. She’d whip me, pants around my ankles and bent over a chair until she couldn’t raise her arm anymore. Then I got to listen to her tell me I was an accident she blamed Dad for and wished I’d never been born. If she got worked up enough in her tirade, she’d beat me some more. Dad never knew any of this. I didn’t know any better and never told anyone.

1957- The beatings continued, but I’d gotten used to the belt, or at least as used to it as you can get. It even stopped hurting my feelings. mom told me I was being punished for the bad things I did when she wasn’t around. I didn’t know any better and I told no one. Since the belt didn’t hurt much more than my pride, mom changed to using an extension cord ... that fucking hurt and she wasn’t above drawing blood.

She did start doing something new at night. Her nightgown was a baggy shapeless thing with a stretched-out neckline and looking back, even then I knew it held no sex appeal for Dad. They’d slept in separate bedrooms for as long as I can remember. I’d go to bed and shortly, she’d put in an appearance, leaning over me, making sure I got an eyeful. I had a close-up look at her dugs, every night, but they meant little to me. mom would ask me what I was looking at and truthfully, I had no clue. It did, however, earn me several face slaps and a beating when I got up if Dad were gone. I didn’t know any better so I never told anyone.

1958- I changed. I went into puberty at the tender age of eight. Hair under my arms, sprouting around my penis and darkening wispy little hairs creeping out on my chin and upper lip. My child’s dick grew, along with my balls, I suppose. Later in life, a psychiatrist friend of mine [no, I wasn’t seeing him, he was an officer over me in the Air Force] decided it happened because of the emotional stress I’d been under growing up. Why had I never told anyone. I didn’t know any better and never knew I could.

Hah! A high point I can remember- every year for Christmas, we made the trek to Grandma’s house. My oldest cousin was 12 and grandma gave him an Uncle Wiggly game while I got a Gillette razor set with blades, aftershave and all. I was not at all popular that day with my cousin. Dad thought it was great, mom took a different approach. She still did her nightly appearance in the baggy nightgown only now, she bent over and made me look at her dangling breasts, then she’d slap me until my ears rang, asking me ‘WHAT was I looking at?’ Her attitude when Dad was away working changed too and so did her brand of punishment.

Previously, I mentioned I’d gotten used to getting a belt wore out over my ass. I’d been outside, playing by myself and was called inside. I hadn’t seen nor talked to my mom since breakfast and Dad had left for work. “Go in your Dad’s closet and get his belt.” Nothing new there. Coming back, she told me I’d grabbed the wrong belt. She wanted the one with a big bull rider’s belt buckle he’d picked up somewhere. I never remember him ever wearing it. “Drop your pants you little bastard” [first time she’d called me that].

OK, this wasn’t anything new, except for her choice of weapon. I bent over the chair with my ass sticking out when she said “No, stand up and move away from the chair.” Strange, but OK. She had me put my hands on my head and reared back and hit me across the groin with the buckle using the full length of the belt. I suddenly knew what pain was all about. Gawd, I never knew anything could hurt that bad but I managed to stand up straight and grabbed the belt out of her hands.

Both her hands turned to claws but before she could touch me again, I cold-cocked her. I took the belt back to Dad’s closet and hung it up, then went outside. I stayed out of the house until Dad’s truck pulled into the drive. For some reason, I said nothing about this afternoon’s happening. I hadn’t made up my mind that I wouldn’t get in trouble with Dad – I KNEW the shit would hit the fan with mom if I told. mom put supper on the table and as we ate, she calmly informed Dad I’d doubled up my fist and punched her. Without a word, Dad backhanded me out of my chair.

“But...”

“There is no but. You NEVER hit a woman and you especially never hit your mother.” I picked myself up and dropped my pants. Across my entire groin area was a bruise in the shape of that belt buckle.

“You want to tell me how you got that, son?” I explained mom’s new method of beating me. Dad grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into his bedroom and WW3 started. Dad came out later and semi-apologized for hitting me, however, he reminded me I was never to hit a woman again. For the first time, Dad took me out to his domain, the garage. He fiddled with some things on his workbench and I could tell he was working up to say something.

“Buck, I don’t know what to say about your mom, it wasn’t called for and it wasn’t right. Maybe my first reaction would have been to hit back ... I just don’t know. My advice is to do what I do- whatever she says, do it the first time around with no argument, get it done then stay the hell away from her.”

“What good is that gonna do?” I asked, “I get beat for things she THINKS I’ve done or maybe she’s just in the mood.”

“How often?”

“Every day, sometimes ALL day.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know any better and didn’t know I could.” Dad got real silent and stood shaking his head.

mom upped the daytime ante. At this point in my life, I didn’t know or appreciate what girls were. As far as I was concerned, they were weird, giggling ‘things’ with nasty cooties. The guys at school felt pretty much the same way, but then, I was different. I was shaving my stubble about every other week, my voice was changing and I never knew when I spoke if I was going to be a soprano or a baritone. Mom decided I needed to ‘observe’ when she went in the bathroom to pee and she was always there when I had to go.

1961- Dad’s job required we move 45 miles from where I grew up. New school, new kids, new house. Dad’s hours changed too. He’d go to work at 8AM and get home, a lot of times, around eleven or noon for the day. The more Dad was ‘underfoot’, the more agitated mom got.

I’d gotten up one morning to eat with Dad and after he left, mom was in some kind of state. I was ordered to pick up my room and sweep and mop my linoleum floor. Not a big deal. I was required to do it every week. I’d been following Dad’s advice and doing everything just the way she demanded. After straightening up, making my bed, sweeping and finally, mopping, I started to go outside and look up a neighbor kid to play with. I was in fifth grade.

mom locked my heels and told me to wait in the adjoining kitchen while she ‘inspected’. This was new. She’d never been able to raise any complaints about my room’s housekeeping before. About two minutes later, she called me in and peeled back my chenille bedspread. Clinging to the underside of it was a black, fuzzy dress sock. We weren’t religious and seldom, if ever went to church. The only time I’d ever worn those socks was the odd wedding or odder funeral where I had to wear my suit. Last time was over a year ago, so I didn’t have a clue how the sock got stuck to my bed spread.

mom started making real funny noises and ran into the kitchen to return with a steak knife in her fist. I stood there, wondering what in the hell she was doing with it until she stabbed me high on my chest below my left shoulder. Luckily, it hit a rib or something. I took the knife away from her and she was babbling totally unintelligible noises and cussing me, my Dad and my Sis.

I forced her to the floor and kept her in a leg lock until Dad got home a couple of hours later. My hands were free and having a smattering of first aid training from Cub Scouts, I kept pressure over my wound. By the time Dad got there, the front of my T-shirt was pretty well soaked. I released mom and backed away from her as quick as I could. Dad gathered both of us up and took us to the hospital. I got three stitches and an arm sling. They kept mom for a week.

Stupid me. I didn’t know what I’d done or why she felt the need to stab me. During that week, I went to work with Dad while I thought over this new event. I was never considered slow, but it finally dawned on me – mom had tried to kill me. I questioned Dad about it and he explained the doctors wrote it off to menopause and put her on some pills. You had to be totally bug-nuts in those days to see a psychiatrist. I guess they didn’t think she was a threat anymore, but on that day, I mentally ceased to have a mother, I would never trust her again. Two years later, we moved back to my hometown and I was in Junior High.

1963- Girls. Tall ones, short ones, curvy ones and skinny ones and I KNEW what their purpose in life was. I had the regular crappy classes common to all Jr High’s but possibly, the worst one was gym. We had to take communal SHOWERS and you got NAKED with a bunch of other guys. I suppose it wasn’t that big of a deal except I was coming OUT of puberty while the other guys were praying for it to start. I had under arm hair, a thick patch around my 6 inch dick, a deeper voice and was shaving once a week now.

All but one other guy still looked like grade schoolers. The other odd kid failed a grade, so he was the oldest of us. This was one of those kids who looked like they should be on the varsity football team in high school instead of in junior high. Like I said, he was a big, muscular dude. I was short but far more matured than my peers. That didn’t stop the ribbing in the dressing room. The other guys made ape noises whenever they saw me in the altogether. My standard response was ‘What are you looking at, pencil dick! ‘We’ shared’ an athletic field with the girl’s gym class. They had a separate door to enter their dressing room and after running or doing whatever, both sexes lined up with their respective class. We alternated every other day going in the dressing room and showers with a ten or fifteen minute lag before the other sex entered.

To this day, I still don’t understand the logic. It wasn’t like we shared dressing rooms, showers or even a hallway. On the day in question, the boys had been running the 880 track while the girls cheered us on. The coaches blew the whistle to line up and we took our places. Today was our turn to hit the showers first. I stripped out of my gym clothes, grabbed my towel and soap and got wet. I’d no sooner stepped out to dry off when several guys grabbed my towel and pushed me down that short hallway and out the door to the athletic field. I pounded on the door, cussing them all until I heard the tittering behind me.

I wanted to just let the earth swallow me up. There were maybe fifty girls all staring at my backside. To make matters worse, their coach came over and demanded the boys open the door. They finally did and I got dressed. The girl’s coach waited for me at our gym door and marched me down to the office. I think the only saving grace was the principle was my mechanical drawing teacher. We got along pretty well in his class and after the girl’s coach pitched her bitch about ‘scarring innocent young girls’[rumor had it she was a dyke, anyway], he was doing all he could to keep from laughing out loud. I failed to see the humor.

1964- I turned nerd, at least according to everyone in my school. I’d always been interested in science and our biology teacher took me under his wing. The previous year, I’d built a working rocket engine and demonstrated it for the class. The General Science teacher was impressed but my class mates were even more so. I smoked and stank up the whole room, causing class to be moved to the Student Union until the janitor could get the room aired out. Ninth grade rolled around and I was strongly encouraged to enter the state science fair. My project was a ‘Lord Kelvin Dripper’. Rather than go into specifics here, Google it. Bottom line is, it make electricity by dripping water down through a series of metal rings. I won.

During the early fall, we had our county fair and for some reason, I bought this huge orange helium balloon. I just drug it around the rides with me until Dad picked me up. Getting home, I knew what I was going to do with it. I took a magic marker and drew a checkerboard over the entire balloon and fashioned a waterproof ‘capsule’ on the string with a note saying I’d give a $20 reward for proof anyone found it. Taking it to the front yard, I let it go into a stiff, autumn wind and promptly forgot about it.

Imagine my surprise when two weeks later, I got a letter in the mail with a Polaroid picture of my deflated balloon hanging from a nail on the edge of a garage roof. The damned thing traveled over a thousand miles and lacked 50 feet from landing in Lake Michigan. I made plans to get a money order and pay this guy for his trouble. mom had other ideas. She called the newspaper and they sent out a reporter to get the story, however, according to HER, the whole thing was mom’s idea. SHE encouraged me to make up the balloon and let it go. I thought my Dad was gonna shit. To her dying day, she had that picture [which she’d confiscated] and the newspaper clipping sandwiched between two pieces of glass framed and hanging on the wall.

Mom’s beatings turned to literally that – no more belts but a slap across the cheeks or a fist to my head. I’d finally had enough. After Dad came home, I pulled him into the garage and told him I’d had enough of her abuse ... I couldn’t bring friends home because she 1st degree’d them. What did their parents do, how much money did they make ... ect. Also, she made it clear that the only girls attracted to me HAD to be sluts of the first rank and neither they nor me was actually welcome in HER home. Add to that the punches and slaps, regardless of who saw it, I was moving out.

I know. How does a 14 yd old move from home. Dad and I had a friend (a barber) that would let me stay in his back room, which started life as an efficiency apartment, only requiring that I sweep up after closing each day. It seemed that he’d never used it and ANYPLACE was better than ‘home’. Dad “up’d” my allowance to cover food and clothing. I also got an after school job sweeping up and straightening two gas stations close by. Dad did insist I come home Thanksgiving and Christmas.

1965- I started a garage band. Frank [the barber] told my dad and he insisted we practice at home in the garage. You know how new bands are- louder HAS to be better, right? We were vibrating things out of the kitchen cabinets and dad ‘suggested’ we open the garage doors. During our 2nd practice with the doors open, a police car pulled up and informed us we shut it off or so low it couldn’t be heard outside.

Ok, we could do that. The next practice, we’d hardly tuned up when the cops knocked on the door saying there had been another noise complaint. Dad told the police he’d walked outside during our tune up and could barely hear us. Got an idea where this is going? Mom had been calling the cops. ANYTHING to make life miserable for me.

Dad sat her down and explained that the money he was spending on her YWCA membership, her charitable donations and her credit cards had just been cut off. Instead, he was going to rent a small, vacant warehouse for us to hold practice. If mom felt the need to continue her current lifestyle, she could get a job.

1968- Life went on. I went to school, studied, did my homework and did band practice. A very strange thing- my gym coach took an ‘interest’ in me as a sophomore. I was scrawny and let’s be truthful here; weak, short and pitiful. He put me on a weight training regimen, lots of track work, and lo and behold- I could max my phys-ed tests. Maxing them only had him push me harder.

The band was doing well, the family (mainly Dad) bought a truck stop and I was bringing in my own money from the station and the band. The band and the amazing amount of my real MONEY was a major sore spot to mom. In her thinking, I should turn half of it to HER for all the years she ‘put up’ with me. Needless to say, Dad was apoplectic over this ... I never heard the real argument they had, but Dad seemed to pour more interest in making the band a success. As a side note, a major, local radio station had taken the band on, with us playing gigs from Nebraska to Texas... ‘Friday or Saturday night at a Nat’l Guard Armory near you’.

Graduation rolled around and I got an award [which I was expecting]in Distributive Education. For those not familiar with it, it encourages high schoolers to go out and learn management skills. I had managed the truck stop for two years prior to Dad buying it and afterwards between hissy fits from my older brother about who SHOULD be manager.

However, the surprise wasn’t over yet. I got called on stage AGAIN, along with the gym coach and I was presented with a plaque and a blazer with the Presidential Seal on both, stating I’d won The President’s Council on Physical Fitness, one of seventeen winners in the whole US. Boy, did I take shit over that! And surprise surprise, MOM snatched up the plaque and the blazer once I got home. I’ve never seen them since.

A whole five days passed after graduation and Uncle Sam claimed me, more or less saying ‘please come to our war’. [Read Caroline 9]

1970- Dad finally died of a brain tumor. My Sis and I were told we weren’t invited to a reading of his will. Somehow, mom got named executrix of his estate, I was pissed about being excluded from the last ‘family’ thing we’d have. Dad had told me I was to inherit $175K for my part, his estate being divided equally between the remaining four of us after paying off the house.

Mom informed Sis and I we’d never see a dime and she promptly began to spent it on jewelry and clothes. There seemed to be a codicil in the will that cut Sis and I off if we contested the will. I can only guess where THAT stipulation came. From that point on, mom and I rarely spoke. I moved around the country with only my sister keeping track of me. Sis succumbed to congestive heart failure years later, all the while still trying to show she was a ‘good’ daughter.

During her time in the nursing home and hospice, mom came to see her exactly one time, staying ten minutes and leaving without speaking a word to anyone. mom finally DIED less than a year afterwards, disinheriting me and my sister and any offspring we may have had. A load had been lifted off my shoulders. I WAS a little pissed because Dad had left ¼ of his estate to me when he died, but mom was the trustee for it. She spent every dime, only splitting part, possibly half, with my older brother. Brother followed a year after. Now, all my family ties were, for the most part, over. My niece and nephew were still bitter about their grandmother’s treatment of their mother and them and we seldom communicated.

A chapter closed in my life. My family, such as it were, was gone and now I was totally on my own.

Chapter 2 »