But all good things come to an end.
I’m not sure how my pictures came into my dad’s possession, but I’ve got a good idea. Like any loving, caring parent, my dad probably searched my room one fine day looking for drugs and instead found my picture collection that I had hidden in an inside pocket of an old coat in the back of my closet. My dad’s a thurough guy.
But instead of deciding that maybe it was time we had “the talk”, he kept the pictures for himself. And instead of hiding them better, just kept them in an envelop in his travel bag. It didn’t take long for mom to find them.
Dad was a truck driver. Mom suspected he’d had his share of lot lizards, some of them probably not of legal fucking age. She kind of accepted it, I think because she was probably fucking other dudes while dad was away. No one goes to the gym twice a day with only a day’s worth to show for it.
Now, it was pretty damned obvious that I took those pictures, but they never said anything. But they both knew because mom not only kicked dad out, but me as well, under the guise of, “a boy needs his dad and this way, neither of us needs to worry about child support.”
By then, dad had already hooked up with some black chick in Florida, a twenty-seven year-old waitress with twin girls around my age. Yeah, more twins.
All good things must come to an end to begin new good things.
Dad had bought a trailer and the ten acres of land with which it came literally for a song. His dad had written a country song back in the fifties and it briefly blipped on the country Top 40 chart at number forty for one week and then was lost to time. But it earned the elder Larsen a happy chunk of change he didn’t have a chance to spend. He died in ‘Nam when dad was a kid. Anyway, when dad turned eighteen, he got access to a $200,000 trust fund. Mom got her half in the divorce in the form of the house in Tennessee and dad used his portion to buy this little slice of paradise. He was saving up now to pad the remainder with enough dough to get a construction loan to build a house on it. Dad may have been a pedophile, creep and all around horndog, but he wasn’t stupid when he didn’t think with his dick.
This will make sense later.
Until I met the “Three Ryssas”; Maryssa, Laryssa and Klaryssa; I never gave black girls much thought. During our more cordial moments, Janie had told me that I only liked black girls that looked like dark, white girls.
Maryssa, the mom, was about my height, which was five-six at the time. She was a little on the chunky side, but still well toned with a nice set of d-cups and a round, firm ass. Her black and honey-brown curls went just to her shoulders and her smooth and very dark skin made her look younger.
She was not dressed the way a woman should around children. She wore a flimsy tank top that revealed her left tit, still standing up firm despite their size and lack of a bra, a pair of tight cut-off short and what my dad always called “hooker heels”, clear plastic with four inch stilletos.