Chapter 130: Shannon Trudeau, 44, the Chart...

The Son-Fucker Chart was tongue-in-cheek in a way. But it had also become a sort of measuring stick to some of the more ambitious moms in Sausalito.

Weeks earlier, when Shannon was interviewing Kate on WZYD, Kate had admitted it was challenging to come up with a precise number of son-fuckers in town. She had said that many were doing it in private; although that was an exaggeration. If a mom was secretly fucking her son, Kate would have heard about it. Her network was too broad and too plugged in for a secret like that to remain hidden.

Not counting the Elite Eight and the Dirty Dozen, and seven of the Calendar Girls, she currently had only two couples — Kitty and Jared, Naomi and Randy. Carole had some possibles in the pipeline, but that would take more time.

So Kate began doing what Kate did — beating the son-fucking drums. Making the subject more visible, more talked about. She went back on the widely-popular Shannon Saysprogram.

“Kate, do you have any better handle on the number of son-fuckers we have here in town?”

“Unfortunately, I only have a lot of anecdotal evidence that it’s gaining traction. It’s not like it is down in the Cajun Bayous — there are over 20 moms doing their sons. And, they fuck them right out in the open at the Bayou Bar and Bank.”

“The way it should be here in town.”

“Absolutely. Of course I have my two local moms who love the idea of going public. In fact, I’m staging a live show this Friday night.”

“Kate, I want you to be absolutely clear — will we be able to see a mother fucking her own son? Yes or no.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

“And she’s not one of your whores?”

“No, Shannon — she’s a regular housewife and mother. Married to a successful man so she was under no financial pressure. Fucking her son was simply a long-held fantasy that she brought to life.”

“You heard it here, Sausalito. Friday night. Miss Kitty’s. A well-known Sausalito mom will fuck her son. What else do we need to know, Kate?”

“This is Monday. Your Son-Fucking Chart in the Chronicle comes out on Friday morning. The live show is Friday night.”

“I’m not sure I’m following, Kate.”

“Pay attention. Because of the unique nature of the performance, I’m charging $100 per person to watch.”

“A bargain at double the price.”

“I agree. However — and this applies only to the Top Ten on your Son-Fucking Chart this coming Friday — those ten mothers and their sons will be my special guests. No entrance fee, free food and drinks, plus front-row seats. And later they will be treated to a special private meeting with our nude performers at the Cajun Arms Motel.”

“Kate, I am speechless. That is beyond generous. Okay, you Sausalito mommies, listen up. You have four days to rise up into the Top Ten. And you girls know exactly what you need to do to inspire your boys to up your score. Strip. Stroke. Suck.”

Kate, “That’s right, Shannon. These son-fucker scores are volatile — they jump up and down every week.”

“Let’s examine this from a different perspective. You horny little boys out there — the ones who vote on your moms. This is your chance. Sit down with mommy. Talk it over. Get creative. Tell her what you want to see. Want to do.”

“Give them some examples, Shannon.”

“Of course. Okay, boys — at the least, at the bare minimum — you want to see your sweet mama naked. Now don’t go crazy, don’t get all grabby. Ask permission first. You should be able to do some little, innocent things — suck a nipple. Touch a pussy. But be gentle.”

“Good advice, Shannon. Back to you moms — cop a fee with your son. Why not plant a motherly smooch on the tip of his cock. Use your imagination — but most of all have fun. Let yourselves go. Enjoy it.”

The program not only generated the expected explosion of excited gossip, but it set the table for Eulalie’s new and expanded campaign.