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Life on the Farm

by Joe Writer Man

Chapter 1

Author's note: Life on the Farm is a spin-off to a story I wrote named The Redemption. The Transition is James Richardson (Talley)'s story. James was first introduced to The Redemption in Chapter 10 of Book II.

James has several smaller roles in The Redemption after his initial introduction but those roles are not written 'first person' by James whereas The Transition is indeed written first person.

What that said, I offer you the first installment of Life on the Farm. I hope you enjoy it.

Hey, I'm James Richardson. You first met me in Book II Chapter 10 in Joe Writer Man's story "The Redemption". As a bit of a recap, I'm 14, have medium length straight blond hair and green eyes, weigh about 110 pounds, have a nice narrow nose, full lips that like to kiss and be kissed, and fairly broad shoulders for my age that like to hug and be hugged.

I know, I know, that's the pretty typical lead in to a story about teenage love, coming out, and all that kind of stuff (Thanks Nifty!). But then again what I'm writing about is about me and my travels to get to the 14 year old, medium length blond hair, green eyes, 110 pounds, and nice narrow nose, full lips that like to kiss and to be kissed that I am now. I should probably add that I have a nice but not overgrown bush of pubes which sit below a nice 5 inch pole of pleasure, also known as a penis, also known as a cock... etc. etc. Anyway, more about the poles of pleasures a little later.

Any story needs a beginning... so I'll get started... I just jacked off a steamy hot trail so I'm relaxed. So without further adieu...

Oh yeah, after hearing my story my adopted brothers Skeeter, Joey, Mark, Eric and Luke suggested I write so I'll try to do just that.

Okay, currently, I live on a farm middle of Podunk Bumfuck Egypt... no, not really, I live in a small town in central Kansas in the US of A, and I love it here. The farm has been in dad's family for four generations. We have all the normal stuff found on a farm... crops, animals of all kinds, fucking thunderstorms second to none, tornadoes even and two 'rents who actually give a flying fuck about their kids.

You probably already know Skeeter and Joey so I'll not get into their story. They've been nothing but supportive. Thanks guys. Your love and support means the world to me.

I had a pretty long and hard row to hoe (farm talk heh heh heh) in order to get 'here' though I didn't really realize it at the time it was all going down. Since I've been 'safe' for while now I've thought a lot about everything and decided to go ahead with what I've been asked to do. I've decided that what happened then and since have made me who and what I am today.

A couple of weeks ago I asked mom and dad Richardson what they thought about me writing my story out with details added in, some of which I am not proud of today because some of those travels have been skanky. My asking them was and is one more step in trusting them. They said to go for it, that they'd be behind me, and that I needed to write it because it's me.

Dad's okay. He pulled me out of the sewer of life, of living on the streets. So did you mom. Thank you both. I love you.

I doubt that mom will read my story because she's heard it. If something comes up while I'm writing I'll probably talk to her. I don't really want her to read it because she doesn't need to know about some, you know ''intimate details' and she damn well doesn't like hearing me cuss. She's really good people. Dad tolerates my mouth to a point. If I get too far gone with my vocal cords then he steps in and 'leads' (more about this later heh heh heh, ouch) to the 'real' dictionary, not the Urban dictionary which I am also familiar with.

Here goes.

I guess I'll start when I was 11 since that's when the shit really started happening, or it is when I first started noticing that things just weren't right.

My natural parents... they were winners – NOT. Sure I had food to eat, a place to lay my head down (when I was home – more about this later), and the basic necessities of living such as food, water, and plenty of discipline. I do not consider 'them' mom and dad. I defer mom and dad to respectful people who actually give a fuck about their kids, the directions they're taking, education, and love. The people I am growing to love and accept their love is Mom and Dad Richardson (notice the capital letters!).

Love is a weird word. It can mean all sorts of things like 'holy shit I love that candy bar' or 'I love that dinner, thanks mom' or 'I love that sunrise' or 'I love that sunset' or 'geezus man I love you fucking me' or 'geezus, you took me to Nirvana, thanks!... hope you get the drift.

Mother and Father Talley were the egg and sperm donors. My father was a man in his early 40's at the time of my birth, and a successful banker. Though his wages were modest we weren't rich in 'any' sense of the word. He was mostly passive, largely ignorant, and at times a stupid fuck. He often had no clue. Gives new meaning to the term 'pussy whipped'. They did 'it' (fucking) all the damn time whether or not I was there. And we're talking about daytime, nighttime, afternoon delights, good morning's... damn, you don't do that shit where your kids can see and hear it... parents having sex? Yuck.

I digress. I like sex... but...

I was an accident waiting to happen. According to her, she was a woman in her middle 20's at the time of my birth; I WAS indeed an accident as they had no plans to EVER have brats running around crimping their partying lifestyle. I was reminded on a regular basis. The last two years with them I was reminded continuously as I guess my mouth got me into more trouble than the 11 years prior to that. I would later learn that I was becoming independent and a free thinker, common to most late pre-teen and early adolescent children, boys more so than girls.

Speaking of accidents, she who called me accident had consulted with a notorious doctor known to perform mid to late term pregnancies. He told her, and she reminded me often, that she would have been laid up for 2 to 4 weeks post abortion to heal and stuff. That would have severely crimped her party style and an important business trip for he who called me brat.

So... they had me - which now seems moronic and stupid... two to four weeks laid up vs. 18 years of constant 'misery'. See what I mean?

No, the battering around was not necessarily physical though she reverted to slapping at the end, rather she used stinging words such as mistake, worthless, a fuck up, never amounting to anything... yet at the same time commended my resilience since she'd drank and drugged throughout the pregnancy.

Basically, I believed them in that I had trouble learning and paying attention in school and at home and everywhere I went. The root seemed to be held in not actually giving a fuck about myself or others – other than to take care of number one, me. When I got to my adopted family my grades went up remarkably - could be that in the beginning the 'rents were watching every step that I took in order to get acclimated to their way of doing things (yup, they were all over my back morning, afternoon and night - well not ALL the time. A dude's gotta have his privacy, and they knew it. Thanks!)

At age 9 I started running away, searching for and never really finding what I was looking for... yet looking back I'm not really sure what I was looking for... something different I'd say. I'd seen my few friends living in loving and nurturing homes. I found it strange yet I liked it because it -was- different and in a good way. Usually I'd wear out my welcome.

Often times I'd sleep wherever I could and did whatever I to have a warm place to stay. I learned early on to not ask for any kind of help because that meant a visit from CPS (Child Protective Services).

Now, you see, I was largely unsupervised, and since nobody really gave a rats' behind anyway, I started running off for hours at a time. Since I loved my freedom sometimes those 'running away' periods lasted for a day or two. Since I really didn't get into any kind of trouble for going away, my travels lasted longer and longer. I liked school, especially the sciences including health. The studies were easy. I bored easily. I also learned how to sign my father's name to cover for absences.

One day, though, as I was wandering the streets (I was a dumb ass kid then), a truant officer nabbed my ass. I was turned over to my parents after the mother gave assurances that I would be there every day. She whacked my ass hard. She lost control and ended up beating me up pretty good. That kept me in school for a while because I was too sore to hit the streets.

Nevertheless, as soon as the soreness left, my anger stayed and flourished.

As fate would have it my first foster home was... I guess I was about 11 and a half. They were in it just for the money. Mother pleaded with the court to have me returned. They did a family study, found some deficiencies, and once those were 'corrected' I was returned home. The social services department did monthly follow up visits but soon those changed to infrequently and scheduled since everything looked okay on the outside. I was forbidden to say anything about the 'real' situation for fear of another beating. I learned quickly.

The second foster home happened about 6 months later. They were okay except that I had to go to church and be a part of their bullshit. They told me what I had to believe, and how. They lived on the far east side of town, amongst all the rich and not-so-famous assholes with their peckerwood kids running all around like a bunch of chickens with their heads up their asses.

The good thing out of that second foster home was their oldest son taught me how to give a super good blow job. He even showed me how a good blow was supposed to feel. I was addicted. What can I say?

Mother and father petitioned me to return home again. The foster parents sort of fought it but in the end they quit because their standing in the community was being held in a negative limelight. Oh well.

So I returned home, went to school, did what I was supposed to be like a good little boy (I vomit as I write this – what they didn't know didn't hurt them, or me), and largely stayed out of trouble.

What I didn't know at the time was that I was still a ward of the state... and this meant the 'rents received monthly stipends of $560.00 per month, food stamps, and 'counseling' for me because the system thought I was going down the wrong road. The counselor would sit across the desk... seriously, the motherfucker spent most of his time sleeping while I was dumping my woebegone stories (NOT). When he was really, really asleep (snoring sleep) I'd tell him about the guys' dicks I sucked, and the little kid down the street that I had taught. The last two visits, I skipped out halfway through the session. Mother never said anything about my skipping because she thought they were all a bunch of fruitcakes.

I kinda found a group of guys who were doing what I did for the pretty many of the same reasons though most of them were pussies in that they usually always returned home to mommy and daddy when the going got rough. Some of them were like I had been... you know – lost in the system. But I was determined. I learned early on to not bring attention to myself, to just stay nondescript, to keep my nose clean, and to fade into the shadows. For the most part it worked out pretty well.

One of the times I was on a long run, a couple of days past 2 weeks, some things changed. I dared not go back home for any reason until I was ready, or when I was bone cold, hungry, pissed off or had been beaten up. Mind you, I returned during the day when the folks were at work, if either of them were home then I'd just do something else, or make do with what I had. Since I traveled light I didn't have much to hide, or to lose.

Early one morning I returned to the neighborhood but 'she' was home, or her car was there so I turned around and went back into town and stopped at a convenience store where I kyped two packages of Zingers, a pack of cigarettes, a container of chocolate milk to wash down the donuts, and two of those small shampoo bottles... the motel sized ones to be precise. Wearing Cargo pants with multiple pockets had its advantages. Because I'd been regular 'paying' customer during my travels they didn't give me any trouble when I entered wearing dirty filthy shorts, t-shirt, socks and worn out tennis shoes. I paid for a Coke then left after telling them that they didn't have what I was looking for.

I headed for the lake in the park located fairly close to 'home', went to 'my' secluded spot under some overgrow bushes and tall trees. I liked to hang out and it provided a nice shady and out of the mainstream traffic 'bath tub'. Nobody was there. Sometimes there were kids hiding down there smoking their cigarettes or doing do or skipping out of school. Since I was pretty big it wasn't that hard to scare the little ones away.

After removing everything from my pockets, I stripped down, and after one last check to make sure nobody was around, my underwear found the ground leaving me naked as the day I'd been born. Although the water was a bit chilly my body soon acclimated. I washed and rinsed down then gathered up my clothes and washed them the best I could under the circumstances. I laid them out on the ground so that they could dry in the warm sun. I lit up a cigarette and lay back on the warm grassy knoll after checking once again to make sure nobody was around. While scratching my pubes to dry them out too I was met with a very hard erection. Though I'd never jacked off at that particuloar spot I'd sure thought about it but never really had the guts to actually do it for fear that I'd be caught, or worse.

Bold and brazen I finished the cigarette and flicked it into the water, got up and checked one last time before I did the deed. Finding nobody around, I grasped my cock and gave it a few tentative strokes. It responded. I knew that I'd need to finish. Being paranoid, I sat up and looked all around, listened carefully, and after feeling the coast was all clear I lay back down and stroked for all I was worth. About 10 minutes later, my body went spaz as it experienced a colossal orgasm. I lay there for couple of minutes while my mind returned and my body once again felt present in the here and now.

Just as I was about to get up to check on my clothes and their drying process I heard a rustling sound made by shoes hitting the grass still littered from dry leaves from the fall before. Regardless of whether or not my clothes were dry, at least my shorts, I reached over, grabbed my Cargo shorts and put them on just in the nick of time as a man arrived. Quickly I stood and faced him.

I looked at his eyes... they were warm and inviting. I watched how he handled himself... he was calm and assured, not threatening, not scary; the hairs on the back of my arms didn't stand up and away from the skin that held them in.

When he broke into the small clearing, after surveying the scene, surely seeing my clothes scattered about for drying purposes he asked kindly, "Whatcha up to?"

Somewhat angry at life, and definitely angry at being disturbed, and wondering if my 'privacy' had been violated I gave my standard response, "What the fuck business is it of yours?"

He definitely wasn't expecting that response because his eyes widened and he took a step backwards as if he were protecting himself. I guess he was protecting his person since an angry boy had basically told him to fuck off and die – though that was not my intention I had actually found a place where I could hang and be myself. He replied, "I just came to say hey. I've seen you around a few times. Don't worry. I've got to go anyway. It's the last few minutes of my lunch time. I'll leave you alone. I mean no harm."

I looked into his eyes, watched him turn around and begin walking up the hill. My senses told me that he seemed to be okay but still I kept the tough guy going just because that's how I was. If you don't get close then ya can't be hurt. If ya don't get close then you don't have to experience loss because you didn't have anything to start with. I said, "I travel alone. I'm just down here to mess around. I've got to get home. Mommy and daddy are waiting. Mom's got a 3 course meal, and I have a Scout meeting, so I gotta go. See ya around sometime."

" Yeah, I'll see ya around sometime. Be careful kid. There are bad people to watch out for." The man said after turning around and looking at me with curious eyes.

" I cover my ass. Don't worry any about me."

He turned around and walked up the hill toward an old pickup truck sitting in the parking lot. He started it up and drove away. I gathered up my clothes which were still mostly wet, dropped my shorts, put on my underwear then redressed, chugged down the Zingers and the milk since I was hungry and thirsty.

I then disappeared into the bowels of the crime infested inner city, cuddled up in my safe place – a dumpster that usually always had bedding of cardboard for a soft place to sleep on. When it was cold my blankets consisted of other folded up cardboard boxes. It worked.

A couple of weeks later, I was in a diner getting a bite to eat, which I had no intention of paying for. I was pretty good at finding new restaurants to hang out in. They didn't know me. And they didn't know that I'd skip out with the ruse of going to the bathroom then taking off through the kitchen or the back door. Other times, I'd tell them a sad sob story to the point where they'd feel sorry for my runt ass and tell me to go on, to not worry about paying that they'd take care of it 'this time'. This activity meant I had to move around the city quite frequently. I couldn't stay in one place for any length of time for fear that they'd catch on.

One day, quite by accident, or was it Karma, I was running down an alleyway to get away from the cops who were chasing me on foot. I turned a corner and, literally, ran into the man who had been at the park that one day right after I'd taken my 'bath'. I got knocked to the ground, hit my head on the curb, bashed my hip against a fire hydrant, and twisted my arm back behind me. Quickly, I got up and started to run again, but in my dazed state ran right into the light pole, again knocking me to the ground. After regaining my breath, once again I got up, ran into traffic and was grazed by a car speeding down the street. That could have killed me yet all in all I couldn't have cared less if I'd died. Nevertheless, once again I was knocked on my ass. Like I said, I didn't give a fuck anymore so I just laid there in the middle of the street hoping against hope that some other driver wouldn't see me, that some other driver would just run me over and get the job done.

People were driving around me, screaming their stupid shit that I was a dumb fuck, that I was in their way, and that they didn't want to be responsible for killing a kid. One dumb fuck got out of his car and kicked me to the center turn lane and out of the way. One or more drivers flipped me off as I made my way to get up since nobody had or would run me all the way over. Still dazed and disoriented I stumbled into a cop car that had stopped with his lights running around in little circles.

As I was getting up, the cop was getting out of his vehicle. At the same time he was looking away from me, he was looking at something or someone behind me. The next thing that happened was that Someone had put their hands on my shoulders and said, "He's with me. What in the hell do you think you're doing, Jason?"

I looked back over my shoulder. The man, looking angry, looked into my eyes. He was the same man back at the lake. I said, "Sorry about that. I was in a hurry, and well I wasn't paying attention. Officer this is my dad. Can we go now? I'll pay better attention next time."

The officer regarded me carefully. I could tell he didn't believe one fucking word me or the man was saying but he really had no other recourse but to let us go. I was getting dizzy as shit. The man kept his hands on my shoulders. He wasn't pushy. After traffic stopped to let us go across the man gently led me to a store front and urged me to sit down. I didn't feel in any position to start running so I sat down. He joined me. I said, "Thanks. I guess I wasn't paying attention." I thought, for a second, about telling him I didn't give a fuck anymore but then thought otherwise because he'd risked his own life.

He didn't say anything but kept looking at my leg. I thought he was pervert because that's what perverts did.

Then he said, "Your leg, it's bleeding."

" Yeah no kidding, it'll be okay." I said without even looking but then I did look down. Damn it. There indeed was a trail of semi-congealed blood on the front of my leg that had arced its way into my sock. I felt a sting on that bone just outside of the pubic triangle. Then my other hip started hurting... and it hurt badly. I was cramping up so I began massaging out the knotted muscle with so so results. I moved my leg around and found that they worked okay, just slowly. That was a bit worrisome... what if I needed to make a run for it?

The man, seeing my discomfort asked, "Do you need for me to call EMS so they can check you out?"

" Nah, it's just a scrape. I'll be fine. I've got to go. Uhm thanks."

" Yeah, okay. Take care of yourself, I'll just run along." The man replied gently, caringly.

From inside of my brain, from its far reaches, I stole a kind word and said, "Yeah, see you around. Thanks mister."

He stopped, turned around, smiled and then said, "You're welcome. What's your real name, may I ask?"

" Jason works." I replied then turned and walked back into the alley, albeit much slower because my hip hurt something fierce.

When I was out of sight and out of mind (hopefully), I stopped at a dumpster, walked behind it then dropped my shorts. The side of my underwear was red and wet. But the light was such that I couldn't really see anything so I ran my hand over the area that was really sore. I felt a cut though it wasn't deep or anything. I didn't feel anything gushing. Remembering what dad had said about Coke cleaning battery terminals, I thought the Coke would be good for skin too so I fetched out the can of Coke still riding in one of the leg pockets, opened it, took a deep slug then poured some on the cut. It stung like hell but then I thought that no pain was no gain. Quickly, I drank down the rest of the drink and tossed the can into the dumpster. I turned and faced the wall, whipped my dick out and peed.

Knowing that I wouldn't get too far and that I'd be unable to run from the cops again, at least for a while anyway, I made my way into the dumpster. Thankfully, it was located behind a printing company meaning that I'd not have to deal with garbage, instead, the receptacle was filled with cardboard boxes and discarded paper. I tore down one of the boxes, folded it up into a pillow, laid down, and within seconds fell sound asleep even though it couldn't have been much past 6pm since it was still light outside.

Sometime later I woke up. It was hot and humid inside the closed up dumpster. I needed to pee again, and I needed to take a shit. Before I left though, I unzipped, lowered my jeans and underwear to check out the cut. I still couldn't see it very well since it was dark inside the trash receptacle. I opened the lid and found the sky the light to be such that it appeared to be early in the morning.

I looked around in all directions. The coast was clear so I dropped my shorts and underwear just far enough to get a good look at the cut. As I'd anticipated, it wasn't deep but it was red and inflamed and still slightly oozing. With quite a bit of difficulty I climbed up and out of the dumpster landing on my feet. I looked around to see if I'd brought any attention to myself. I hadn't. I lowered my jeans and underwear to my ankles and turned toward the wall and peed. I checked the coast again and seeing that it was clear, turned around, backed up against the wall and took care of other matters. I reached into the dumpster and found some news print type paper and wiped the best I could. After using several I felt somewhat satisfied that I was clean. I'd smelled others and that wasn't something I wanted to smell like. After putting myself together, I reached into my pockets and took out the Zinger packages. They'd been smashed all to hell but they were edible. They slightly took away the hunger pains racking my stomach. I had nothing to drink. I found some more newspaper in the dumpster to wipe my mouth, to get remnants of the donuts off my mouth.

I needed to do something with that damned cut so I decided to hit the drug store down the road and acquire something to cover it up and to prevent it from getting infected. Even then I knew that a doctor or hospital visit meant parents or a visit from the CPS worker.

Slowly, carefully and stealing my 'whatever the fuck' attitude I walked down the alleyway, turned right at the corner after remembering a Walgreen's just down the road. I arrived in short order, walked in, and was immediately noticed by the cashier (not good). Putting that out of my mind, I walked to the cooler, grabbed two cans of Coke then went to the isle containing dressings and other wound care supplies, kyped a tube of antibiotic cream and a box of big Band-aids from the lower shelf and put them into my pocket. I had all I needed at that point in time. I reached into another pocket, found a ten dollar bill then went to the cashier paid for the Cokes then quickly made my way out of the store and headed to the dumpster where I stood behind it and carefully bandaged the wound.

With that done I decided to go 'home' if it were possible where I'd get something to eat and take a shower... provided mother and father were gone, of course. While leaving the alleyway on my way home the bank on the corner had 8:10 on it. I figured I had slept for over 12 hours but I wasn't worried about time since time really meant nothing but it did tell me that mother and father would have left for work, if they were going to work.

I took off and arrived some time later. The driveway was clear of vehicles. They never used the garage for automobile storage so I knew they were gone.

I walked around back, pulled the passkey from my pants pocket and let myself in. I didn't hear anything. I went room to room and found nobody home. Good.

Since I was, or considered myself, filthy dirty, the first order of business was to get cleaned up. I stripped naked tossing my clothes on the floor, got into the shower, got the water to temperature then spent the next 45 minutes soaping up and just feeling the nice hot water cascading down my body. I'd only been permitted 5 minutes and no more than 10 when they were home. I laughed my ass off at realizing that I'd spent about 6 weeks' worth of rationed time in that one shower. Even when I'd returned home before I'd only spend no more than 10 minutes at a time.

Once dried off I decided to run around the house naked. The first stop was the kitchen where I rummaged through the refrigerator and found plenty to eat. Soon I was stuffed, my hunger satiated, at least for the time being. I cleaned the table and counter then went to my room, laid down on my bed on top of the covers.

I spent a couple of minutes teasing my 3.5 inch cut cock into a fully standing position yet it was lying firmly against the lower most portion of my belly, and then beat it into submission which sent convulsive shock waves throughout my body.

I was coming down from the colossal orgasm when I heard someone at the front door. Quickly, I jumped out of bed and reached into my dresser drawers, retrieved a pair of underwear then went to see who was there. I saw the mailman walking down the front sidewalk. I breathed a collective sigh of relief. I opened the door and retrieved several items from the mailbox. Most of it was junk but there were light, gas and water bills. There were also two envelopes from CPS. I suspected one was the monthly check for my 'care and maintenance' and the other I knew to contain the food stamps card. My assumptions were correct. The check was for $560.00. Usually the food stamp card was for $125.00 though the amount was not printed on the card. Both would be of substantial value.

Normally, they cashed the check and used the money to support mother's drug habit but they did use the food stamps for purchasing food to support 'their' fake lives.

An idea popped in my head.

I dressed the cut and emptied my pants pockets into a pair of clean Cargo shorts, tossed the dirty clothes into the hamper and put on clean clothes consisting of a long sleeved shirt, white socks and a pair of tight white brief underwear, blow dried and combed out my hair and then took off – with purpose and a plan. I figured the money would keep me off the cops' radar screen for a while since I wouldn't have to steal and pilfer.

Don't worry, I said before that dad was a bank teller. What I didn't tell you was that he worked in corporate offices upstairs. Though I sweat bullets knowing he 'could' enter the lobby at any time my purpose and plan was firmly locked. The transaction took only a few minutes. From when I'd left the house, completed the transaction, and returned to the dumpster it all took a little over an hour. At the dumpster, after looking around, I stuck the wad of cash into the back of my underwear and nestled it deep between my butt crack for safe keeping.

I decided to tempt fate and returned to the house. Nobody was home, and I didn't anticipate anyone coming home for several hours, or so, give or take a few minutes. I'd be okay until about 4:30 at which time I'd leave and disappear.

I suppose it was the excitement, the suspense, the nervousness, and having sustenance in my belly that I was hard as a steel pole. I stripped down naked in the bathroom, took another humongous shit that was runny as hell because I wasn't used to eating so much so quickly and besides my nerves were somewhat on edge, and luxuriated with using real toilet paper.

Finished with that duty I checked the doors. They were both locked. I even locked the dead bolts and then went to my room, lay down on my bed where I spent a relatively short amount of time bringing about yet another round of convulsive orgasmic spasms throughout my body. Once recovered I ran my fingers into my genitalia, gently rolling my growing testicles and reaching into that area between the base of my balls to my anus. I felt a small imperfection so I looked down and saw two pubic hairs growing just above and to the right of my still erect penis. They were dark yet they were downy soft and wispy. I remembered one of the older kids in school who said that as soon as pubic hair started then the chances of having a wet orgasm was very real. I checked the slit of my penis for any trace of liquid or wetness. There were neither. With the attention paid to that area of my anatomy I went for a second forage into bliss because I was once again primed and ready for release. It took about 30 minutes to reach that plateau. The result was even stronger than the previous two times I'd jacked that day. Once again, once I recovered, I checked my penis slit and found it to be dry.

I laid my head on the pillow... and that was that in that I fell into a deep relaxed sleep.

Sometime later I awoke to my mother screaming her fool head off cussing, ranting and raving because the mail had been scattered and left on the floor in front of the door. Obviously she wasn't aware I was or had been home to pillage the contents of the mailbox (hey, I didn't plan to kype the stuff, it was just there so I used it to my full advantage).

Quickly, still stark naked, I raced to the bathroom to retrieve my clothes and to get dressed and to safeguard MY money that I'd stuffed into a pocket.

She saw me exit my room. Why she didn't see me earlier is anybody's guess but I'm glad that things worked out as they did.

" What the fuck are you doing here?" She screamed.

" I fucking live here that's why. Don't worry your fool head off because I'm leaving!"

With that I quickly dressed all the while listening to her rants and screaming -until- she entered the bathroom and began slapping the shit out of my naked back and face. I felt myself going to the red zone with rage. I grabbed her hands and pushed her out of the bathroom and at the same time snapping my shorts shut. I didn't like her seeing my stuff. She'd made fun of my little prick more than once saying I'd never be a man, that I was a pussy, and would never be worth a flying fuck.

I added when she tried to block the doorway, "Get the fuck out of my way; I'm leaving, fuck this shit."

While she didn't move... she was still blocking the doorway, I pushed past her, made my way to the kitchen, snagged two packages of Pop Tarts and then quickly left. As I got to the bottom step of the concrete steps glass went flying. She'd thrown my tennis shoes through the window. I picked them up and muttered something like, "Thanks motherfucker" but I didn't wait around picking and choosing appropriate words or phrases. When I reached the end of the driveway I quickly put my tennis shoes on then took off walking as fast as my sore hips would allow.

When I reached the park, I tied my tennis shoes which had been flapping and slowing me down.

When the adrenalin began waning, my eyes filled with tears which I quickly brushed away with my shirt covered wrist and screamed "FUCK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" from all the frustration I'd gathered with that wicked witch.

I vowed to never return, for any reason. Fuck it, fuck her, and fuck the horses they both rode in on.

(Gotta stop here. I'm pissed as those memories came flooding back. But then a little boy named Kevin stood at the doorway waiting to come in with my permission. I reached out my arms and within a split second had a little boy sitting on my lap hugging me tightly. I totally lost it when, in his little quiet child like voice said, "I love you Jimmy. Your okay, right Jimmy? I love you." Everything seemed to be okay just as he said it was.)

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