I grew up as part of the largest group of parasitic, society-sucking losers on the face of the earth. We're talking about a group of people that has pervaded every city, every town, and every rural area of these great United States since the Mayflower came ashore at Plymouth Rock. We're talking about the people who made the trailer park what it is today, the people who keep the generic beer companies on the stock exchange, the people who fund every state lottery and bingo hall, the people responsible for the continued existence of the World Wresting Federation. We're talking about white trash.

I was born in 1965, the first child of an occasionally employed automotive mechanic and a rarely employed nursing assistant. I grew up in a rented doublewide trailer located in one of the many trailer parks in the Tacoma, Washington area. I watched my parents drink three cases of beer a week, squander our welfare money on lottery tickets and generic cigarettes, and pump out an additional brother or sister for me every thirteen months. How, with this upbringing, with these distorted morals that I was raised with, I ever turned out as I am today is a mystery to me, a miracle probably on the order of winning the lottery that my parents were so fond of. But that is a different story, a longer story, and one that I have no desire to go into right now. What I would like to tell you about on this fine day is the story of my first trip to Disneyland. A trip my Uncle Dave took me on in 1980 when I was just a white trash lad of fifteen.

Uncle Dave was considered the successful member of our family, the one we should look up to, should try to emulate. Dave, after all, owned his very own big rig and worked as an independent long-haul truck driver. Dave made nearly twenty thousand dollars every year and he OWNED a doublewide in a very nice trailer park in the good part of Tacoma. Dave could afford brand-name beer, Marlboro cigarettes, and cable television. In our clan this made him the epitome of high-class, the envy of all who talked to him. When I was fifteen years old I wanted to grow up to be just like Uncle Dave.

It was a daring dream, granted, but I was determined to go for it.

Dave's premium status in the hierarchy of white trash naturally guaranteed him a premium choice of woman to call his own. He took what was due him back in 1971 and married Marla, the youngest daughter of a Puget Sound fishing boat owner. Marla was nineteen at the time and I believe I fell into instant lust with her from the first time, during my sixth year of life, that I'd met her. As she grew older, and as I did, my lust for her increased both with my own emerging sexual instinct and her growing maturity into a woman. Uncle Dave and Marla frequently invited our family to their trailer for barbecues and beer drinking parties and during those years I used to stare at Marla, who was usually dressed in short shorts and a halter top, the entire time, memorizing her features for later masturbation sessions. She was dishwater blonde and had a smooth, unlined, un-acned face. She had all of her teeth - a rarity among white trash females over the age of twenty - but her body was where her best assets lie. She was tall and pleasantly proportioned, with large breasts that she enjoyed showing off in a collection of halter-tops. She was blessed with a trim waist, hips that were just made for childbearing, and long, sexy legs that looked good in a pair of short shorts; her favorite fashion item.

Much to my delight, and the delight of my three younger brothers, Marla was a hugger. When we would visit their trailer she would greet each one of us with a huge hug and a large kiss on the cheek. I would live for the brief sensation of her large breasts pushing against my chest, of her thick, full lips pressing against my face. She always smelled clean. I remember that most of all. Her scent, instead of the sour odor of stale sweat that marked most other members of the white trash race, was always of shampoo, of perfumed soap, and it was an olfactory stimulation that never failed to make my penis stiffen up beneath my secondhand store jeans.

From the time I was thirteen years old onward, Marla always seemed to have a hug for me that was a little tighter, a little more affectionate than that she gave my siblings. Her kisses would linger a little longer upon my face, would be geographically a little closer to my mouth. Her smiles always seemed a little larger for me as well. Perhaps this was because I shared some of her attitudes about cleanliness. Unlike my parents, unlike my brothers and sisters, I could not stand to go more than forty-eight hours without some form of bathing. Nor could I stand to wear any clothes that I'd already worn the day before. I did a lot of my own laundry in order to achieve this goal, but I achieved it.

But aside from the physical affections that Marla displayed for me, she also paid me a certain intellectual attention that she paid no one else, including her own husband. When we were over for a visit she would always find time to sit down and talk to me about the hidden, shameful hobby that we both shared: reading. Yes, we were guilty of it. I discovered the library at about the age of eleven and it was my favorite hangout after school. I checked out books of all sorts and sneaked them home, hiding them under the mattress on the bedroom floor where I slept. I hid library copies of Catcher in the Rye, or The Lord of the Flies, or Salem's Lot, or The World Almanac and Book of Facts, the same way other teenagers hid copies of Hustler and Penthouse. Marla did very much the same and our discussions in the corner of the double-wide, while Dad and Dave were working on their tenth or eleventh beer, while Mom was whopping the crap out of one of my younger siblings, usually centered upon the latest books we had discovered. Talking to Marla, almost more than hugging her, was a highlight of any visit to Uncle Dave's, was reason enough to look forward to it.

Marla and Dave did not have any children of their own. Had this been by choice they undoubtedly would have been asked to turn in their white trash membership cards, but it was not. Uncle Dave, as a helicopter door gunner during the Vietnam War, had suffered a debilitating wartime affliction that left him unable to produce healthy sperm cells or even, I was told later, much of an erection. This affliction did not come as a result of enemy fire but as a result of multiple cases of gonorrhea picked up in Danang whorehouses and left too long untreated. I guess all that public service crap they feed you in school about VD - and believe me, in our school they fed it to us a lot - actually has some truth to it.

Since they were childless and since Marla did not have a job of her own, she often accompanied Dave on his long-haul trips around the country, keeping him company in the cab of the rig as he delivered supplies to this great nation. They were often gone for weeks at a time on trips to such places as Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Los Angeles, or Detroit. It was the night before a run down to Los Angeles, as our family was visiting them for a pre-departure barbecue, that the idea of Disneyland popped up.

"So I was thinkin'," Dave said, slurring his words badly because he and my dad were well into their second case, "about checkin out that there Disneyland whilst we're down there. I heard it's some shit."

"Yep," Dad agreed thoughtfully, taking a drag off what was probably his fiftieth cigarette of the day. "That's what I heard too."

Marla and I had been sitting on the couch about six feet away, quietly discussing a Pat Conroy book that we had both just read. Marla was wearing one of her typical outfits that night: a pair of tight shorts and a halter-top that showed off a good portion of her generous cleavage. Though I had been holding up my end of the conversation it had been a struggle because every time she leaned forward to make some point or to hear my words a little better, I would be given a tantalizing view down the front of the halter. I wasn't able to make out her nipples, not quite, but I remained hopeful. When she heard the word "Disneyland" mentioned, she stopped in mid-sentence and turned her attention to the two men.

"Dave," she said sweetly. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could take one of these here yung'uns down to Disneyland with us? I bet they'd love to see it."

"I reckon we could do sumpin like that there," Dave, always the generous one when he was drunk, agreed. "But...

Before he could say another word my two brothers and three sisters were gathered around him, jumping up and down, demanding that they be allowed to go to Disneyland. "Take me! Take me!" they yelled. "I wanna go!"

"No, no," Marla said, hushing them all down. "I'm sorry y'all, but there's only room fer one extra in the rig. If'n we could take y'all, we would, but we can't now. I think it would only be fair if Mikey was the one to go this year 'cause he's the oldest, don't you Dave?"

"Yep," Dave agreed. "That sound good to you Billy?" he asked my dad.

Dad shrugged disinterestedly. He was so inebriated that I'm not completely sure he even knew what everyone was talking about. But that did not make a difference. The matter was settled. Although my younger siblings all began whining and crying and claiming the whole thing was unfair, a few swift slaps across a few faces by my mom quickly quelled the rebellion.

Just before we left Dave's trailer to pile into our panel truck for the ten-minute drive home, Marla distributed her usual round of hugs and kisses.

When she got to me she kissed my ear softly, her large, puffy lips leaving a little of her saliva behind. "Be sure to have all your stuff packed and be ready to go at 6:00 tomorrow," she whispered, the feel of her breath against the wet spot she had made sending tingles down my spine.

"Okay," I answered shyly, desperately trying to fight down the erection that was threatening to poke her in the leg.

"I'll see you then," she said, smiling at me. She gave me one more kiss, on the forehead this time, and a moment later I was out the door.

I am quite sure that the next morning Uncle Dave had no memory whatsoever of inviting me to come to Los Angeles and Disneyland with him. When you grow up in a family of drunks, you quickly become accustomed to having extravagant promises made to you under the influence of alcohol and then completely forgotten in the light of the next day. But I also somehow knew that Marla would remind him of his promise and see to it that he kept it, come hell or high water. Marla, I instinctively knew, wanted me to take this trip with them and I had no doubt that I would be going. It was with excitement that I pulled myself off of my mattress at five that morning and packed up a few changes of clothes, some deodorant and other toiletries, and a few of my favorite books. While the rest of the family snored away I took a quick shower and put on fresh cut-off shorts and a fresh T-shirt. I left a note for mom and dad, who probably wouldn't remember the promise Uncle Dave had made either, and began waiting for Marla to show up at my door.

She did so at five minutes to six. She greeted me with another hug and a kiss when I opened the door. She was wearing a different version of the clothes she had worn the night before, clothes that showed off her breasts and her legs. "We're going to have a lot of fun," she told me, kissing me one more time on my eyelid. "Just you wait and see."

I smiled at her shyly, not saying anything, not knowing what to say, and finally she released her embrace. Side by side, as the sun was just starting to peek over the eastern horizon, we walked hand in hand through the silent trailer park to where Uncle Dave's big rig was idling on the main road.

Dave's eighteen wheeler was a Peterbilt cab-over with a matching enclosed trailer. He had picked it up eight years before from a retiring owner-operator. It was black, somewhat battered, and required constant maintenance and repairs just to keep running but the cab did contain a large sleeping compartment. When I was a younger lad, the highlight of visiting Uncle Dave was being allowed to play in the cab or in the empty trailer. For this particular trip the trailer was full of Olympia beer bound for a distributor in the industrial section of Los Angeles.

As I climbed inside I expected Dave to be surly and out-of-sorts, the way my old man was the morning after drinking eighteen or twenty cans of beer (which meant just about every morning). But to my surprise, he actually was quite chipper, even giddy. He grabbed my bag from me and tossed it into the sleeper compartment as he wished me a hearty good morning and welcomed me aboard. "Pop on into the sleeper there," he said, sipping out of a large cup of coffee. "That'll be your home till we gits to LA."

"Right," I said, edging my way between the two cab seats, over a large thermos, and through a canvas zip panel. The sleeper was actually quite nice. The bed was soft, relatively spacious, and had clean sheets and blankets upon it as well as two pillows. Mounted on the passenger side wall was a thirteen-inch television set that was connected to an antenna on the roof. Mounted on the driver side wall was a small fan. Two windows, both closed, were on either side. The odor was not musty, as I'd expected it would be, but rather fresh and clean; the odor of freshly laundered linen. I pushed my bag against the far wall and went about the task of making myself comfortable for the trip. The first thing I did was take off my shoes and socks, not wanting to profane the sanctity of Marla's sheets.

"All settled?" Marla asked me from her position in the passenger seat.

"You bet," I replied, stretching my legs out and letting my head stick out a little through the flap.

Uncle Dave put the rig into gear and then released the brakes, making an audible hiss of escaping air. He pulled forward and began heading for the freeway. "We're off," he announced cheerfully, taking another large slug of his coffee. "You can watch TV or sleep or do whatever back there," he told me as he accelerated. "And if you need to take a piss, just let me know and I'll pull her off the road. We'll stop in Vancouver and grab some breakfast, we'll stop in Sacramento and grab some dinner, but otherwise we're non-stop to LA. Should roll in there about two in the AM tomorrow mornin."

"Right," I said, excited to be underway, even more excited by the view of Marla's legs that I had. Her shorts had ridden up and I could see almost to the point where her panties should be visible. I shifted position a little, trying to get a better angle.

She caught me gawking at her and I quickly averted my gaze, embarrassed. But she simply smiled at me, her blue eyes twinkling. She made no move to reposition her legs. She turned her attention to the stereo system and fiddled with the tape player for a moment, inserting a cassette from a large collection next to her seat. A moment later the cab filled with the sound of Hank Williams Junior. Hank sang to us about country folks, about how you can't stamp 'em out, how you can't make 'em run, about how one of them old boys made his own shotgun. Marla and Dave sang along with the music as we entered Interstate 5 and began heading south. After a moment I joined them. You were not allowed to live in a trailer park unless you knew the words to that song and every once in a while you had to prove yourself.

We rolled on down the highway, passing the cities and towns of central Washington at seventy miles an hour. The radio pumped out an endless stream of Country and Western tunes and Uncle Dave smoked cigarette after cigarette, tossing the butts out into the slipstream before lighting a fresh one. About an hour into the trip I discovered the source of his morning cheerfulness. He opened his thermos and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee into his stained cup. Before drinking it however, he removed a small plastic baggy from his shirt pocket, and dumped a grainy, off-white colored powder into it. As a student at South Tacoma High School I had seen many such baggies in the hands of my peers. It was not sugar he was dumping in there but methamphetamine, also known as "crank", also known as "poor man's cocaine". It is a powerful stimulant and probably the reason that Dave would eventually die of a ruptured brain aneurysm at the age of forty-one.

Not having the benefit of Uncle Dave's wake-up drug I soon grew weary. Though I had been enjoying the sight of Marla's legs and breasts as she bounced in her seat to the music or twisted this way and that, I reluctantly dragged my eyes away and pulled myself into the comfort of the sleeper. After zipping shut the canvas barrier, I flipped the television set on and twisted through the channels for a few minutes, seeing snowy picture after snowy picture run by. At last I settled on an episode of The Andy Griffith Show and turned the volume down a little. The television was merely cover for what I really wanted to do. I rummaged through my bag for a moment and finally located the novel that I was currently reading: The Winds of War by Herman Wouke. I was about halfway through and I opened it to the marker that I'd placed in it the previous afternoon before going to Uncle Dave's. Soon I was transported to Poland in 1939, where Byron Henry was trying to escape with his Jewish girlfriend to the relative safety of Switzerland.

Perhaps an hour later I heard the sound of the zipper being undone. Instinctively I stashed my book under the pillow that sat next to me. In the environment that I was raised in reading was seen as a suspicious act, something that demanded explanation. Though the only person that could have been invading my privacy was Marla, who knew my secret, so ingrained was this habit that I still hid the novel.

"Hi," she said, poking her face through. "What'ya doin? Watchin TV?"

"Yeah," I answered, giving her a wink and holding up the corner of my book for her to see.

She grinned. "I see," she said. "Listen, I'm gettin kinda tired. Late night last night you know. Do you mind if I join you back here for a little nap?"

Join me for a nap? Was she serious? She wanted to come lay down, in a BED, with me? Though the very thought made blood rush to the vessels of my nether parts, I nonetheless said, "You can come on back and nap. I'll sit up front for a while so you can have, ya know, privacy."

She scoffed at this suggestion. "Oh don't worry about leavin your little hole. I'll just scoot over towards the wall. I won't bother ya."

"Really," I said, acutely embarrassed. "I can..."

"Oh hush," she told me, unzipping the canvas the rest of the way. "You just stay right where you are. I won't be no bother to you and you won't be no bother to me." With that, she pushed herself in. As she did so I was offered a breathtaking view down the front of her halter, a view grand enough to allow me to make out the upper circumference of both aureole. They were light brown in color and though the flash was just for a split second as she pulled herself over the top of my legs, it was enough to ingrain the image into my brain for all time.

She settled herself in next to me, right against the back wall of the sleeper, her bare legs about six inches from mine, her head about eight inches from mine. She was close enough that I could smell the fresh scent that she exuded. "Don't worry about me," she said loudly, perhaps a little too loudly. I realized her words were for Dave's benefit. "You just close up the flap for me so Dave's music won't keep me awake." She motioned at the zipper with her hand.

I hesitated for a moment, very unsure of myself. Was she really telling me to zip myself into a sleeping compartment with her? Wouldn't Dave be a bit peeved about something like that? I quickly found out that he wouldn't be.

"Go ahead and zip her up," Dave told me, giving a quick glance over his shoulder. "I don't wanna get her bitchin about the noise. If she gets too whiny in there about the TV or anything, you just come out here Mikey and we'll jaw for a while."

"Okay," I said slowly, reaching for the zipper. "I think I'll take a little nap back here first though."

"Suit yerself," he said, amicably enough. "You need to take a leak or anythin? There's a truck stop comin up."

"No," I told him. "I'm fine for now."

"Good nuf," he said, turning his attention back to the road.

I zipped the tent shut again and then leaned back on my pillow. I found that Marla had inched herself a little closer to me while I'd been leaning forward. Now, my right arm and my right leg were resting against hers. I could feel the warm, soft flesh of her bare leg against the bare skin of my leg. The feeling was silky, smooth, and very exciting. Once again I felt an erection threatening to push the front of my shorts upward. I fought the urge down after a brief but furious battle. Marla had no idea what she was doing to me, I figured, but she was sure to be disgusted, to kick my ass out of the sleeper if she figured it out.

"What are you reading now?" she asked me, twisting her body a little so that she was partially on her side, facing me.

"The Winds of War," I told her, my voice not quite steady as I felt the weight of her left breast pushing gently against my forearm.

"That's a good one," she told me. "I read that, oh, three, four years ago now. It's one of Wouke's better novels and that's saying a lot for him. Be sure to read War and Remembrance when you're done."

I assured her that I would and she then began talking about Wouke's best-known work: The Caine Mutiny. I'm sure she had some brilliant insights into the book and the characterizations within it, but I hardly heard a word she said. Not only was her breast pushing into my arm, distracting me greatly with the sensation, but also the position she was lying in was allowing me a premium view of her cleavage, which was less than eight inches from my face. The pale, lightly freckled skin of the top of her breasts was vibrating softly with the rhythm of the diesel engine that was driving us. It looked absolutely divine, one of the finest sights that I ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. I tried to keep my eyes on her face as she talked but I was fifteen years old, at the height of my sexual potency, and it was a hopeless task.

She had to have known what I was doing, what I was staring at, but she neither made comment on it or made any attempt to conceal the view she was providing. She simply kept going on an on about Captain Queeg and Willie Keith and the great romance contained within those pages. I tried to hold up my end of the conversation, I really did, but my words came out of my mouth in stuttering monosyllables as I tried to memorize the shape of her breasts while simultaneously willing my penis not to stiffen too noticeably.

"Do you have any girlfriends?" she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Girlfriends?" I squeaked.

"Yeah," she said, smiling sexily. "You're a good looking young man, you keep yourself clean and fresh, and you're smart as a whip. Surely you've managed to attract one of the girls at school, or at the trailer park."

"Well," I said, embarrassed. "Not really. The girls at school or in the park usually go for the older guys. You know how it is?" And that was how it was. Though your average white trash girl manages to get herself laid at about the same time she experiences her first menses, it was not quite like that for the male members of the equation. Though girls my age were plentiful both around my trailer and at my school, they wanted nothing to do with me. They wanted the eighteen and twenty year olds and since the eighteen and twenty year olds wanted them too, everyone was happy except us fourteen and fifteen year olds. We were left with nothing. The touch of Marla's breasts against my arm constituted the most intimate contact that I'd ever had with a female to that point. It is sad but true that two of my three younger sisters had already experienced sexual intimacy but that I, their older brother, the one they were supposed to look up to, had never even been kissed before.

"I guess I do," Marla said with commiseration at my words. "But don't you worry your head. You'll make some girl a fine husband some day."

"I suppose," I told her, feeling more tingles go up my spine as she began softly rubbing her leg against mine. The friction was seemingly unintended but the feel of her skin sliding against mine was exciting beyond belief.

"Are you okay Mike?" she asked me, concern in her voice. "You seem a little flushed."

"Oh, it's nothing," I croaked.

She reached her hand upward to feel my forehead. As she did so her top fell even farther away from her breast, this time revealing her nipple to me. It was pink and swollen and about the size of a dime. My breath caught in my throat.

"You don't seem hot," she said, leaning in a little closer, widening the view. My penis, which I had fought to a stalemate on the issue of hardening until that point, suddenly threw a furious counter-attack at me, overwhelming my defenses. The front of my shorts began to push upward. Marla, looking down at herself, seeing what I was seeing, finally acknowledged her actions. "Oh my goodness," she giggled. "I'm being a little naughty, aren't I?" She pulled herself back a little, covering her breast back up and removing the weight of the other one from my arm. "No wonder you look so embarrassed."

"I'm sorry," I said, blushing, horribly ashamed at being caught. "I wasn't trying to look or nothin, but..."

"I understand," she said gently, her hand reaching up to stroke my hair away from face. "It's okay, really. It's just natural curiosity. All boys have it." She took a quick glance down at my shorts, which were still noticeably tented outward. Her smile widened. "I'm kind of flattered that an old broad like me can have that sort of affect. I'm sure you're used to seeing nice young teenage boobs that haven't had gravity pulling on them for fifteen years. It's nice to know mine can compare."

"I never seen any boobs before," I blurted out. "And I hardly saw yours at all. I swear!"

She giggled again. "That statement could be taken the wrong way," she said.

"But I think I know what you meant. Is what you say true? You've never seen boobs before?"

"No ma'am," I assured her, although I had seen pictures of them before. Understandably, I did not really want to go into any fine detail here. I just wanted this conversation to end and I was telling her what I thought she wanted to hear. "I never have."

"Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, a strange twinkle in her eye. She twisted onto her back but kept her eyes on my face. "Do you want to play a little?" she whispered at me.

"Play?" I asked carefully, with no idea what she was talking about.

"Like adults play," she told me conspiratorially. "You're almost a man now Mike. If you're old enough to get excited at the sight of my boobies, then I think you're old enough to do some adult things."

"Adult things?" I squeaked, feeling myself starting to tremble. Was she really talking about... well, adult things?

"Pull my shirt down," she commanded.

"Marla," I said hoarsely, with a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. Pull her shirt down? Had she really just said that? Was she really inviting me to bare her breasts? I was suddenly very scared, almost petrified by how fast things had gone from innocent to, well to naughty. I did not know how I was supposed to act here, how I was supposed to feel. "I don't...," I stuttered, "I mean how do..., I mean, I mean..." My mind seized upon a concrete fact to worry about. "I mean..., what about Uncle Dave?"

"Oh, I don't think we should tell him about it," she said, reaching out and taking my hands in hers. "He probably wouldn't approve. But don't worry. I know how to keep a secret." She pulled my hands to her chest and placed them on the top of her halter. I could now feel her breasts against my wrists.

"But," I stammered, "he's right on the other side of that..."

"Hush," she told me, arching her chest upward, pushing those mammaries into me insistently. Oh how nice, how soft, how right they felt. "As long as the rig is still moving he won't hear us and he can't look in here. Now pull my shirt down Mike. I know you want to. Look at my tits. Touch them."

With shaking hands I did as she asked. I slid my fingers beneath the material of her halter, feeling the soft breast flesh against my knuckles, and pulled downward. They sprang into the dim light of the sleeper compartment and my eyes feasted upon them. They were pale, lightly freckled, and so large that they were pulled slightly down to her sides by gravity. The nipples were turgid, protruding nearly half an inch outward from the aureole. She took my hands in hers once again and gently placed them in position, one on each breast. They were unbelievably soft, yet firm and springy at the same time. The nipples pushed into my palms.

"Go ahead," she told me, a little breathless and flushed herself at that point. "Play with them. Squeeze them. They're all yours."

They were all mine! I heard myself groan a little in the back of my throat with a mixture of fear and desire. Was this really happening to me? Was Marla really letting me feel her tits, the tits that I'd fantasized about so many times? My hands, unconcerned whether this was real or a dream, went to work independent of my mind. I began to squeeze and feel her globes. I ran my fingers over the flesh, caressing it, memorizing the sensation. I explored the nipples, tweaking them gently, feeling the hardness of them, the ridges and bumps that covered their surface. Do you remember the first time you ever had a bare breast in your hand? It is truly one of life's pivotal moments. Marla moaned a little under my touch. "That feels good," she whispered. "You're getting the hang of it right quick."