Art Of Growing Up Ch. 02


Tonya loved her Tuesdays!

Following dinner, she would drop a cup, or plate or two, about the kitchen area, during the washing-up; she recalled.

I would curse out loud. That! usually, got daddy up from his couch – half-heartedly, of course – attempting a re-establishment of himself, like a lame horse, a rebooting as top-dog, again, flapping about, clucking worse than a frightened farmyard hen: Unenthusiastically ordering – his yapping mouth foaming at the corners bordering – the immediate cleanup of broken, splattered, crockery, strewn across the stark linoleum floor, of printed colored pebbles, reminiscent of sea-side rockery gardens, polished to threadbare limits, in gleaming tattered mockery – of nature.

Lazy gardeners, grimace. His aggressive mind, carousing the limits – our homely stench of former cooking – tainted; with reeks of subtle humid nasal strands, born of detergent-popping quasi pine-scented bubbles of a kind, impregnated into ripe kitchen airs, stirred into action, by the pairs; of red-knuckled dish-swilling hands — of mine.

Point-blank, Tonya would blatantly refuse and stomp her foot in sympathy with her concocted principles; wearing her naively feigned rationale and phony objection’s on her cuff – the delivery of which, held, just short of a rant, a quarrel casino siteleri and all that stuff – reminded daddy, that, although his daughter was closer to him than his son, she was still a woman, and that came not from him, but from her Mom. Tonya recalled…

The very fact of the existence – at all though – of my refusal to obey his command, seemed to daddy – it seems to me – as if sand, itself, were being kicked into the very face of his manly Right, to be: Obliterated from sight – the blind acceptance he needed to rule — especially that night – torn out of his gut, by his loving daughter of a slut, seemed to him, as it seemed to me – doubtfully contrite!

Daddy’s illusion of authority was thrown on the line! To him, it all added up to the same thing – his manhood was being challenged, and he didn’t like it – but to me, that was just fine.

I questioned his self-appointed superiority, and fought him on it: Now and again rattling his lock and chain, which held lobby — wresting apart rusted gates, of self-righteousness: Corroded steel doors, guarding entrance at the very core of his being.

My reluctance to dwell within the narrow bandwidth of blind compliance – father-daughter style – tearing mercilessly at the very heart of his soul with razor sharp nail-varnished talons, slot oyna dug deep at the quick of his male persona – it seemed, as I policed my daddy, like a London Bobby: I learned how to do this when watching mommy fighting against him – it became my hobby.

I tried to keep to the program, I tried to hold the format: I wanted to be consistent: I wanted to be a good daughter, I didn’t care about no Totem or Taboo: I knew what I wanted – sort ‘a: My little pussy was stinking; all I wanted was for it to get licked.

My daddy – I love my daddy, but he is a man, and I had become a woman, and my slit had blossomed up into a vibrant open flower under me, and it opened like a clam, and as daddy’s wife, on mommy’s sewing night, I used my given Tuesday Right, but not out flat, to have my young ass treated like a caveat.I wanted my toosh sniffed and sucked, and caressed, not used by fictitious giant’s, or their boots — as a convenient doormat.

I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t resist!

I love daddy, and I wanted to make him feel at home with – me; as his “Tuesday wife”, in a three-way love-tryst.

I wanted him to feel as he did when mommy is around, so I ripped his heart out, and ate it, laughing into his face, as it pumped frightened between the claws of my burning femininity, and the canlı casino siteleri cool talons of my daughterly love – and I viciously tore at his flesh – like the eagles of Zeus sent daily on errands of maligned laceration – feathered sorties of dissection and ruin.

The Promethean liver tattooed with hieroglyphs from a daddy’s tome; an intuitive male instruction manual handed down to him by all the Mothers of the world: An unwritten body embroidered with descriptions of ill-gotten goods, laced with hereditary promise of pseudo-superiority, male-privilege and entitlement.

A “How-to…” leather-bound hardback, outlining coded directives of what it means to be – a man.

The encryption cipher broken, and its esoteric secrets spilled out the instant mother’s nipple-fountains pumped-out its warm life giving milk into her infants hungry suckling mouth, issuing forth cascades of broken secrets for only “Him” to ponder.

A closed-book, one in which my “Mother-Eagle” disposition, was intent upon opening, and once read, ripping down to the very spine, page by page; exposing the dripping backbone within.

Picking over the carrion, reducing it down to its skeletal remains, with the incisive instrument of my word – in vain: Never to judge a cover, by the book – again.

I would rush up at him, babbling like mom ’til red in the face; shaking my belligerent finger, blatantly, into the very magnitude of his trumped-up authority; until, until — until finally, I got what I was after.

(To be continued…)

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