03 - Katherine and Gabe

(Codes for this chapter are: female teen/female teen, male adult/female adult, consentual, heterosexual, true story, spanking, light bondage, masturbation, anal sex, sex toys.)

I consider Lisa’s parents Katherine and Gabe to be my “real” mother and father. They have always treated me well, as one of their children. It’s interesting, my “biologicals,” I like that term because it sounds like a disease, had material wealth but no souls. Katherine and Gabe have souls and hearts, they do what is right first, then they figure out how to make it work.

In August of 1967 when this chapter starts, Lisa’s grandfather was about 70 and had turned the daily operations of the farm over to his children, including Lisa’s parents. None of the kids had enough money to buy the other two siblings out, and the farm needed cash inflow more than additional workers. So Lisa’s mom, dad, aunts and uncles all had second jobs off the farm.

Gabe had been a truck driver. Katherine a waitress, and then later she drove team with Gabe. The “Little Oil Crunch” in late ‘69 spurred domestic drilling, and they worked in the Permian basin for a while in ‘70-’71.

My brother Hugh, who was probably not such a bad caregiver considering that he was only four years older than me and drunk much of the time himself had kept me alive. Buying me $0.99 meals at the Dairy Queen ... Our commercial grade refrigerator had plenty of Vodka and mixers, but no food inside. Monica was two years older than me, I can only guess how she made it through high school drunk off her ass literally all of the time. She was the pass-around-Queen of Billy Goat High.

One day back when I still rode my bike to the “biologicals” after school, I was eating olives and drinking orange juice in the kitchen when her “copain du jour” started screaming. If an emergency occurred after two or so my parents were easy to find. They were passed out on the floor in the sunken living room overlooking my grandpa’s land. Easy to find, impossible to waken. Monica’s boyfriend was screaming his lungs out two rooms away, they heard nothing.

Monica had passed out cold while having sex with him on the sofa in the den. He was drunk too, and thought that she had died. Hugh was smart enough not to be there, a lesson I soon learned. After calmly assessing the situation, I washed my plate, fork and cup and put them away. Then I got on my bike and rode to the airport, or the church, or to Lisa’s house. Somewhere sane...

I was thirteen when Hugh left home to go to the University of Texas in Austin at the end of summer 1967. Punch and George had worked for Mr. Santiago over at the airport that summer and we hung out there, at the church Eva’s dad preached at, and at Lisa’s house. I was crashing on the sofa at Katherine and Gabe’s a lot. Because with Hugh gone and Monica unconconscious who-knows-where, I was locked out.

After trying unsuccessfully to contact the “biologicals,” Gabe and Katherine said I could stay over until they came looking for me. It took them three months to notice I was gone. I never went back. After I was there two weeks George made me a bed. He literally built it from pine boards and painted it a pale buttercup yellow because I liked the color. He said it was an early, about two months early, birthday present.

Kathrine, my mom, and our talks

“No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man, God is faithful and will not let you be tempted before your ability.” -First Corinthians 10:13

“And you shall know the truth. And the truth shall set you free.” -John 8:32

Mom never told me that she was sexally submissive, or that she enjoyed the careful application of sexual pain. I just kind of figured it out on my own, over time, from the clues. Years later when I asked her questions involving submission, pain, or masochism she would just smile, sometimes blush, and change the subject.

We have an interesting relationship, Mom and I. Once I reached my teenaged years I do not believe that either of us has ever once lied to the other. We always tell “The truth.” But we don’t tell each other everything. “But not the whole truth.” We respect each other’s privacy.

Mom knows that Jamie and I are lovers. That we have been since the night of “our” sixteenth birthday. My real birthday is eleven days before Jamie’s, but since number sixteen, we have always celebrated them together. Mom knows that my big brother George is the biological father of Phillip, her grandchild by Jamie. She knows that Punch is the biological father of Stuart, her grandchild my moi.

Mom knows that I idolize George. I once told her, I think I was maybe 14 at the time, that if were he not my brother I would marry him. Mom knows me well enough not to have pointed out that he would have a choice in the matter. She knows me, Lisa is driven and she gets what she wants. Well, everything except that one thing I really, truly wanted.

At first mom thought that I was gay because no boy, no man, could ever hope to live up to the idealized image that I hold of my big brother George. I think she figured the whole situation out when we all left San Angelo together and convoyed up to Alaska in ‘74. Claire told her years later, but she already knew by then.

Mom was never a prude about sex. I am guessing that this was easier with Jamie and me because we were both girls. She never shared any intimate personal information with me other than she did not have to worry about birth control because my father had a vasectomy. But she shared lots of general information with all of her children including the boys, just ask Claire.

Mom told us “that there were ways to be intimate which could not lead to unforeseen difficulties.” As in being sixteen and pregnant. She taught us how human beings reproduce, and how to avoid doing so “until the time is right.” Meaning “when you are able to properly care for my grandchildren.” Ways that “boys and girls find equally pleasurable,” while still satisfying “the natural urges we all have”.

Mom taught me that if someone really, truly loved me, that they - she actually said “he” - would put my needs first, before their own. “Like the way that George does with you and Jamie.” She could not have been more right about that. Not that she meant George as anything other than an example of the perfect platonic love that so often exists between siblings. But she did use him as her exemplar.

For a decade I thought about just blurting out, “Mom, I found the PERFECT guy for me, and I know YOU WILL JUST LOVE HIM, actually you already do.” But I couldn’t hurt them in that way. Mom and dad figured it out on their own. They weren’t happy at first, but they came to terms with it. They live across the street. In my life so far, there are only two closely related real things that I truly regret.

The first thing I would have done anything for. The thing that I truly would have loved to have, but knew that I could never have, would have been to have George’s child growing inside of me. The second is the guilt I feel for saying Punch was not my first choice, because nobody was a better father than Punch.

Once in her seventies, mom responded to a general question about dad’s health with, “Well, he still knows how to ride a bicycle.” This was something new, I had never seen my father on a bicycle. “When did Dad take up cycling?” I inquired, she blushed, smiled and replied. “It’s called a metaphor, honey. I really am surprised that you didn’t learn about them in school.”

Even back when everyone was saying in an unkind way that Jamie and I were gay together, the only thing she wanted to know was: was I happy. As I always do, I told her the truth, that I was very happy. Just not the whole truth, as I often do - or should that be do not. That what made me so very, very happy was that Jamie and I were both basically our big brother George’s sex slaves, and loving every minute of it.