Bitchs Slutty Genes Ch 05
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Gonna Sell The Bitch's CarChapter 3 free porn video
I did something I never do.
I turned off the radio, disconnected the Ipod, and listened to the sound of silence.
Music was and is my life. We all have a personal soundtrack to our lives. We're almost always within listening distance of a radio, CD, Ipod, some guy in the park with a slightly out of tune guitar, or a live band.
A song will start playing and you think, "That's what was playing at my sisters' wedding, my uncles' funeral, while I lost my virginity, or when she dumped me, when I found out I was going to be a father, etc." Music and memories are so intertwined we take them for granted. We don't have to watch, or read, or focus on anything. All we have to do is let the music wash over us.
And just this minute, I wanted to be one of the unwashed masses.
I didn't want to remember any song that would remind me of Sandy's betrayal. Too much respect for the music.
I learned how women could betray you at an early age, and my mother taught the lesson.
I was thirteen, had been playing the guitar for two years, and had a habit of sneaking into my parents' room when they weren't around to listen to their records. They had a killer stereo, and excellent headphones. I would kick off my shoes, pick the albums, load the turntable and lie back. I would carefully straighten the bed and put everything back exactly, but I think they knew.
It was a Saturday morning in June. I was listening to the Beatles, "In My Life", off the Rubber Soul album I think, when my grandmother burst into the room, yelling at the top of her lungs.She had been calling for me but I didn't hear her because of the headphones. She was crying.
I knew something was wrong. She was a strong woman, the only time I saw her cry was when my grandfather died, so I scrambled up.
"Wiley, why didn't you answer the phone? Never mind, come with me right now."
"Gram what's wrong? Why are you crying? Is something wrong with Dad?"
I assumed it was my dad. He worked in a factory with a lot of machinery and was always talking about someone getting careless and being injured. My Mom stayed at home, so he worked a lot of Saturdays for the overtime. It was worth it to him so Mom could stay home with my little brother Chip. He was four, and the plan was for her to return to work when he entered school.
"No, child. It's your Mom, she and Chip were in an accident. I don't know all the details, but your Dad wants you at the hospital."
Dad was already there when we got there. I could see the tracks of tears but he was composed by then.
"How's Mom? How's Chip?" Gram and I pretty much said in unison.
He looked me in the eye. I had always admired his directness, but not today. He took me by my hand, something he almost never did. I never knew if it was shyness or upbringing, but he didn't touch much. Mom had to virtually sit on his lap to get attention. There was no doubt he loved us, he told us often.
"Son, you're mother is dying. They were hit over by the high school, a big rig lost his brakes on Simpson Hill and ran through the red light. You need to go in and see her now. She's unconscious, but maybe she'll hear you say goodbye."
I pretty much went into shock. Gram led me in. You almost couldn't recognize her with the bandages and tubes. She was on a ventilator, the machine keeping her alive. I held her hand and talked to her. To this day I don't remember what I said but it had Gram crying pretty hard. As soon as I left they turned the machines off, She just simply stopped breathing. They only left her as long as they did at my fathers' insistence.
Outside the room I saw my father talking to a doctor. He had him by the arm and wouldn't let go.
"If he needs blood my family will give it. Tell us what to do."
Chip was in a bad way. He had lost a lot of blood, and was still losing it as fast as they pumped it in him. they were running low, something about having a rare blood type, AB something.
The doctor agreed to take our blood if the types matched.
"Of course they'll match, we're his blood kin. and no, I don't remember our blood types."
He arranged for a quick test. A very odd expression was on his face when he came back.
"I'm sorry, none of you are a match. We've contacted the Red Cross and we're giving him plasma to hold him over. We're doing all we can, don't give up hope."
My Dad jumped up, indignant.
"That's not possible, one of us has to be a match. We're all related by blood. There has to be a mistake."
I understood later the doctor was trying to be diplomatic. He suggested Dad come back to the office so they could go over the typing. He agreed and got almost to the door when he realized what the doctor was trying to tell him. He went to his knees. Remembering the wail he let out makes my hair bristle even now.
He stayed on his knees sobbing for two or three minutes while two nurses and the doctor tried to get him inside the office. Shaking them off like flies, he rose slowly and looked them in the eye.
"He's still my son. What can you do?"
They assured him they were doing all they could and rushed back to the intensive care unit.
I was fourteen and found out my mother was dead and my brother may be dying. I was on emotional overload so none of what I witnessed made any sense until later.
Chip didn't recover, but he did last three weeks. I spent every minute they would let me with him. I brought my guitar and sang to him. I brought the ukelele I had given to him and put it on his bed. Through sheer determination, he had learned the notes to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and for about a month he would serenade Mom and Dad, while I backed him on guitar. I told him we would be in a band some day and be rich and famous. But, he never regained consciousness.
I would be at the hospital for hours. I would stay with Chip until I couldn't take it, then roam the halls. The nurses kind of adopted me, and one day they did something that altered my life. One of the older nurses heard me play, and asked if I had time to play for some of the other kids.
Those that could would gather in a common room, and I would play kids songs, funny songs, anything to make them forget they were sick. We made some silly songs up. I would read to the younger ones when I was tired of playing.
Some of the children were being treated for cancer, and a bald head or two was not uncommon. One girl, about eleven, became close to me. I wrote her a little song about a girl who was so pretty she didn't need hair. Just before Chip died she became so weak she couldn't come to the common room so I would go to her room and sing her a song or two every day.
I would stop outside the door and ask permission to enter Kara's Castle, introducing myself as a lowly minstrel passing through and would play for a meal. Our meal was two Hershey's dark chocolate kisses. just about the only candy she was allowed, and then only two pieces. So when I sang her a few songs, we would share the candy like it was a feast. I would bow to her and promise to be back when I was hungry.
Chip held out as long as his broken body allowed. Every day I would say "See you tomorrow", glance around to see if anyone was watching, and kiss his forehead. I guess it was a blessing he passed in the middle of the night. Gram and Dad handled the nights while I would stay during the day.
My Dad spent every minute he didn't have to work at his bedside. Gram spent as much time consoling Dad as she did watching Chip. He was buried beside my Mom.
We were devastated. Gram gave up her house and moved in with us, saying we needed a woman's touch. Dad became even quieter than before the accident. Gram filled the void left by my mother for me, but Dad remained lost, and I feared he would never fully return.
I was always independent minded even as a child, and spent more time with my Mom. When Chip came along he was overjoyed. As soon as he was able to walk he followed Dad everywhere. If you wanted Chip, see where Dad was at. That's how he got his nickname. Everyone said he was a chip off the old block.
It was a pretty bleak summer.
When school started I gradually came out of my funk. Everything was going pretty good until about three weeks into my freshman biology class we began to examine genetics. The teacher did a class on blood types when the partially heard exchanges between my Dad and the doctors jelled in my head. I knew then Dad wasn't Chips' biological father. I became so ill Gram had to pick me up.
When we got home I told her why I had become ill. She hugged me gently and told me one day I would understand that life as an adult could be hard and confusing at times.
It seemed simple to me. You met someone. Fell in love. Spent the rest of your life together. Death do us part and all that. Apparently nothing is so cut and dried in the real world.
Gram told my Dad I had figured it out but he never discussed it with me. He stumbled on in a fog for almost two years.
All those years he told me how dangerous the machinery he worked with was came home to bite him. He slipped and was pulled into a machine, getting lacerations and a broken arm. He healed, but his arm required therapy.
His therapist was named Dorothy, but preferred Dottie. This woman alone restored my faith in females. She was a couple years older than my Dad, and they connected at once. I think it was because of her I went into physical therapy.
She was divorced. Health problems when she was younger made her unable to bear children. Her husband left shortly after. She told me once she had given up on love until she met Dad. They were married seven months after meeting.
Over the years I've looked at Dottie and understood why there were so many mean spirited in the world. God had accidentally given Dottie the love capacity of ten people. I never met a sweeter woman.
We started out slowly. Dottie had never been exposed to teen age boys and I had never had a stepmother. Enough time had gone by that I knew she wasn't a replacement for my mother, so I looked at her as a new experience with no baggage.
I wasn't cold to her, and we gradually warmed to each other. Her vast capacity to love found a willing recipient in a lonely teenage boy.
I never realized what I meant to her until one day about six months after she had moved in. My friends came by and wanted me to go to the mall. I still had about a month to go until I was sixteen and couldn't drive.
"Let me ask my Mom if I can go." I yelled to them. Turning around I saw Dottie looking at me with an odd expression.
I had never called her Mom before, even though I had been thinking in those terms for about a month.
"What about it, Mom? Can I go?"
She put her hands up to her mouth, burst into tears, and ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. I was freaked out.
Dad found me on the couch thirty minutes later. One look and he knew something was wrong.
"What's the matter?"
"It's Dottie, Dad. I said something and she started crying and ran into the bedroom. I don't know what I did to hurt her, honest."
He knocked on the door.
"Dottie, what's wrong hon? Did Wiley hurt your feelings?"
The door flew open and he was dragged into the bedroom. She was still crying, and it upset him.
"I'm gonna have a long talk to that boy, straighten him up, I promise."
She finally found her voice.
"YOU WILL NOT! He didn't say anything mean. He did something I thought no one would ever do. He called me MOM. He thinks of me as a mother. His mother. I never thought it would happen to me. I'm so happy I can't stop crying."
My father grinned, his life was just about perfect now. He looked at Dottie with pure love.
"Dottie, when you calm down, you better talk to your son. He thinks you're upset with him. He's sitting on the couch badly confused."
She immediately jumped up and ran into the living room and nearly suffocated me with her hug.
"I love you, honey, So much."
When I finally got her to let me breathe I made another error that sent her back into the bedroom.
"Geez, Mom. I love you too. What's the big deal?"
Dad just grinned at me and told me to get my ass in the truck. I was still confused when he dropped me off at the mall and gave me thirty bucks. If I didn't find my friends I was to call him to be picked up.
"I need to spend a little private time with your mother, and don't worry. You did a very good thing today."
When I got home there was a huge chocolate cake on the table. We destroyed it.
When I was seventeen and playing in bands for money, I scraped together enough to get Dottie a ring for Mothers Day. It had her birthstone, my birthstone, and Dads' birthstone in it. She treated it with the same reverence as her wedding ring.
When I got back to town I was pretty ill tempered for awhile. In fact, I was a first class asshole.
I went back to my old ways. Screwing every woman I could get my hands on, except the married ones. Probably did a few of those too, they were just smart enough to take their rings off. It made things a little tense in the band.
We were about to fall apart anyway. Two guys were catching grief from the wives about the time they spent away from the family. Another was starting to miss practices and even missed a job. We had backup material and arrangements for four instead of five, but the contract called for five, and we had to take 20% less. It didn't hurt the ones who showed financially but it did damage our credibility. If you got the reputation of not delivering what you promised, you got fewer jobs. Normally, when things happened and one of us couldn't make it, we all knew enough guys floating around between bands or in semi retirement to fill the void.
It had been seven weeks since Sandy, and we hadn't been booked into Scooters', the club where Sandy had worked and Sammi still did work, so I hadn't been there.
One night we were playing at a place across town, and had just started a break when Sammi walked in. Walked isn't an adequate word. Strutted would be more apt. Instead of her trademark shorts, she had on a short clingy black dress that hugged her curves and exposed her long, sexy legs. Every man in the place watched her glide to the table reserved for band members and friends.
She spoke to all the band members pleasantly before turning her attention to me.
"HI, Wiley. Long time no see."
She leaned over and gave me a deep, long, sensuous kiss. Then she slapped me so hard I felt like my goatee was knocked sideways.
"Get over it. The bitch dumped you. You're better off."
Then she handed me a napkin with her number on it in case I had 'forgotten' it, blew me a kiss, and strutted right back out.
I called her the next day. We talked but made no plans. Three days later she called to tell me she was off the next day, and what would we be doing?
We went to dinner and a movie, her choice. I didn't want to be anywhere near a dance club or a bar. It went very well. We took the Mach 1.
I think she loved that car more than she ever loved me. She used every excuse she could think of to get into it.
It was four weeks before she got me into bed. She was sensual, flexible, firm. I don't think she had an ounce of fat on her. Her breasts were proportional to her body, but they were the firmest I had ever felt. And her nipples, long and slender and very sensitive. I learned quickly if she was stressed or irritated at me or anything all I had to do was get a nipple in my mouth and she instantly relaxed, at least for a little while.
The fact that she had done yoga for years and was double jointed, coupled with the fact I was a certified massage specialist, made for some interesting evenings. Downward facing dog met upward thrusting penis regularly.
I didn't know how ticklish she was until one night she showed up at the hotel we were playing at and joined me in my room. She had brought our toy box and I had her in light restraints. I had warmed some scented oil and was in the process of painting her whole body with a two inch paintbrush while she screamed at the top of her lungs. I swear, I thought the room was soundproof.
The night manager suggested I cease and desist or find another place to spend the night. I compromised and gagged her. She gurgled and cried, but I got her off three times with just the bristles of the brush against her clit. I think she may have even passed out at one time.
She got her revenge by bringing me to the edge four times in an hour before finally giving me release.
We slowly got comfortable with each other. While asserting her independence, she was a bit possessive and jealous about me. We had to compromise. We realized both our professions were prone to casual liaisons, and not to allow ourselves to be tempted. It worked, I never heard anything bad about her, and she got no negative reports about me. We were progressing nicely.
Several months went by and we grew closer. The roommate that replaced Sandy was kind of unreliable, and when the lease came up she left Sammi hanging.
"What am I gonna do, honey? No way I can afford the apartment by myself, and no one seems to want to share. I'm going to be homeless soon."
It seemed simple to me.
"Sammi, relax. Move in with me. You're here most of the time anyway, shit, most of your stuff is already here. Let's try, if it doesn't work out I won't evict you. You can take the other bedroom until you can find a place."
It took a little adjustment but we soon settled down into domestic semi-bliss. She didn't like it when we had to travel for the weekend, and I didn't like it when her schedule kept her away from me.
I gently tried to persuade her to get a regular job and go back to school. She looked around but couldn't find anything that paid enough to quit the bar.
The band had smoothed out. We replaced the guy with attendance problems. The lead guitarist split from his wife, nothing to do with the band. We were working steadily, life was good.
When I went to college I made friends with a psychology major. I stopped in at one of the snack bars and it was crowded. There was a woman sitting at a table for two and I asked if she would mind sharing.
Dressed in tee shirt and jeans, no make up and with buzzed hair, she practically screamed BUTCH. Looking over the text book at me she shrugged. There was a hard edge to her voice.
"Sure, but don't expect anything, I'm gay."
In mock surprise I said "Really? Damn, I was already thinking of names for our kids."
It wasn't what she was expecting. She didn't know what to say for a second, then grinned.
"Sorry to break your heart. But if my girlfriend and I ever need a surrogate, I'll look you up. I'm Angie."
"Wiley," I said extended my hand and pulling it back in mock pain after we shook.
I looked at her text book.
"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar," I quoted.
"Freud. I'm impressed."
She looked at mine.
"The knee bone connected to the thigh bone, the thigh bone connected to the hip bone..."
"Yeah, physical therapy."
We had a nice friendship. She was gay and I was a musician, go figure. She had to interview someone and create a psychological profile for a class project. She chose me.
It was a little irritating at first to have someone follow me around to watch my interactions but she soon faded to the background. She met the people I associated with and interviewed them about me. Notes and voice recordings piled up. She wouldn't let me read it when she was done, but she got an A.
I finally nagged her into sharing her findings about me. One night after she, her girlfriend, and I had consumed two bottles of wine, she opened up.
"You're an onion Wiley, an enigma hidden in a riddle surrounded by a puzzle."
"You like people, but you don't trust most you meet, including all women. You know lots of people but have very few friends."
"You keep your thoughts to yourself. Highly compartmentalized, you keep people segregated. Your school friends know nothing about your work friends, or the people you do volunteer work with, or the people you interact with through your side business, and none know anything about your family. You, re a chameleon, Wiley, different things to different people, and you get very uncomfortable when they blend. I don't think anyone will ever know the real you, including yourself."
"You're a Gemini by birth, so you're supposed to have a split personality. But damn, Wiley, there's a whole crowd in your head. It's one of the reasons I like to hang out with you. I never know who's coming to the party."
"If it's any consolation, only highly intelligent people tend to compartmentalize. Bill Clinton is the most prominent figure I know of who does compartmentalization. It's the reason he could look the American public in the eye and say he never had sex with Monica Lewinsky. In his mind, he had separated it completely from the real world definition of sexual activity."
With that speech, she passed out on the couch.
Wow.
Compartmentalized. A fancy word for fucked up.
She was right. I didn't like anyone to know too much about me. Sammi lived with me, and she had no idea what I did when I was away from her.
She knew I bought and sold vintage guitars, but she had no idea how many I had or the volume of business I did.
She didn't know I volunteered at the hospital. I had been doing it since I was fourteen, when I had been at the hospital with Chip.
Most of all, she didn't know what I owned or what I was worth.
I owned the house I was living in out right. The man I rented from came to me after I had been there two years to tell me he was retiring and moving out of state, and putting all his holdings up for sale. I liked the house, and the neighborhood. Most of the neighbors were middle aged or older. Everyone, included the landlord, was afraid I would be having wild parties and be loud.
The fears eased when that didn't happen, and because I was around in the daytime a lot I ended up helping out some of the older neighbors with odds and ends when they needed me. A lot of them asked for advice in dealing with grandkids. I gave what advice I considered reasonable, reminding them I had no practical experience with kids.
I also owned some property with mini warehouses on it. This came about by accident but was a very nice investment.
All right, I was thirty years old and played in a band for a living. Where was the money coming from?
I actually made pretty good money playing music. After expenses I usually netted about forty five grand a year. The buying and selling guitars varies widely from year to year, as high as fifty thousand some years, as low as fifteen others. This was a cash thing, no IRS.
I got around twenty five thousand a year off the storage units after taxes and upkeep. So, I didn't look like much, but made more than a lot of middle management types.
The seed money for all this came from my mother. She had an insurance policy for both Chip and myself, 50,000 each. It was double indemnity, and had a clause that if either one of us happened to pass away at the same time, both policies went to the survivor.
The big truck that hit my Mom was from a national chain. They offered my Dad 100,000 to settle while Chip was still alive. He was in no shape to talk to them, so that offer slid. After Chip died they offered him fifty percent more. He settled for four times the original offer, after lawyer fees. Normally he wouldn't have gotten so much, but the trucking firm subbed out maintenance, so both companies were on the hook.
My money was in trust until I was twenty five, a good thing. I don't think I could have handled it at twenty one. At twenty five it was still a pretty big temptation, but I had been living on my own since I was nineteen, and had a pretty good grasp of how the real world worked. The only splurge I allowed myself was to buy a bass guitar I had always wanted. Collector item of course, a Dan Armstrong Ampeg with the clear acrylic body.
Oh, and I bought my house.
My accountant, a genius, incorporated me. Crazy Coyote, Ltd. He instilled the habit of meticulous record keeping. I had a company card I put everything on while on the road. Everything was on my laptop I carried with me everywhere, plus printed hard copies I kept in a file cabinet in my spare bedroom.
Nobody except my parents knew what I was worth.
Things were going really well for Sammi and I. Co-habitating went smoother than I expected. There were minor clashes, I was a neat freak and her less so. She hated most of the music I played at home. Her procrastination drove me crazy. My tendency to over analyze things made her grit her teeth.
But we got used to each other, each agreeing to give in and compromise on most things.
The one thing that really got to me was her complete indifference to car maintenance. Her 2001 ugly brown Camry was held together by faith and imagination. She ran out of gas constantly because the gas gauge didn't work.
I had my mechanic check it out and his best advice was let it die a natural death. He did a patch job on most of the major problems but made no guarantees. Still, it ran much better when we got it back. I gave her a serious lecture about preventative maintenance that went in one ear and out the other.
We never fought about money. I told her not to worry about rent, I would cover it. She did insist on paying the power bill and we split the groceries. Instead of saving the extra money she had for a new car as I suggested, she updated her wardrobe.
She did find another job, mostly by accident. One of the regulars at her bar had a friend with a high end restaurant who was looking for a new hostess. It was better hours, she would be home by 10:30 instead of 3:00 a.m., and the pay was about a third more than she was making now including tips.
It was a win/win situation for both of us. Her hours were long, 10:30 until 10, but only four days a week, Wednesday through Saturday. Since my schedule usually left me free the first part of the week, it was perfect. She even scheduled some classes at the community college in hotel/restaurant management.
We had just had a lust/love filled morning. I was drained and she was full of energy, like always. She was folded up like a pretzel across me, idly rubbing my buzz cut.
"Wiley, ever think about what our kids would look like?"
"Sure. Slender, tall, beautiful, a lot like their mother. I just hope they get my brains."
She slapped at me gently. Then smiled.
"I hope they get your brains, too."
I wasn't sure, but I think a step was just taken towards marriage.
I thought about it a lot for the next few days. The decision was easy.
I made a reservation at her restaurant. I got the staff involved, and slipped in while she was distracted. Carefully placing the box on a table, I had the waitress get Sammi, saying there was a problem with the table, and could she help sort it out.
She went to the table with half the staff in tow. When she got to the table it was empty.
"What's going on?" Asked an obviously confused Sammi.
I was standing behind her, dressed in a nice suit, the first she had ever seen me in.
"The problem, my dearest Sammi, is the ring in that box is not on your finger. The problem is, when I say "Samantha Anderson, will you marry me?", you have to say "YES!", as loudly as possible. The problem is you're not sitting across the table sipping champagne, toasting the rest of our lives together."
"As hostess, isn't it up to you to fix my problem? I'm waiting."
She twirled around as I made the little speech I had rehearsed. Smothered me with kisses and hugged me tightly. Regaining her breath she stepped back and became very formal.
"Sir, it is the goal of this establishment to satisfy every customer."
She slid the ring on her finger while the waitress poured the champagne.
"Now, before we enjoy this excellent wine, isn't there a question you need to ask me?"
"Samantha Anderson, will you--"
She pulled me up from my knee and tried to suck all the air in my lungs out.
"Yes, Wiley Patterson, I believe I will."
The rest of the night was a blur of congratulations. It was one of the happiest days of my life. The only person who didn't look happy was Gary, the manager.
You know how you can sometimes look at a person and instinctively dislike them? That was me with Gary. He was tall, good looking in a slick kind of way, and the asshole had a full head of hair. I felt like he could have been a snake oil peddler in a past life.
His seemingly sour attitude made me feel even better as I raised my glass to him.
Her car finally died and she sold it for junk. She just naturally got into the Mach 1. I warned her not to get too comfortable, the car was an investment, and sooner or later I would need the money for something else. It was why I got it in the first place.
Mila
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