Date: Wed, 10 Dec 2003 23:34:44 EST
From: RandomThoughts46@aol.com
Subject: Exploring Grounds 3

What you are about to read are true events from my past.  They involve me
and my father.  What you wish to think about these events is solely up to
you, as in my opinion, what happened was educational and appreciated.  All
rules apply, if you do not wish to read the contents of this autobiography,
please turn away, although anything you will read here is not subject to
violations by law or nature.  I am proud to write an account of how I
became sexually responsible in life, due to my dad.  He is gone now, but
remembered with great kindness and affection.  I do not write these
accounts to make anyone horny or fanatical about family sexuality.  Just
enjoy what I have to this day think as my 'Exploring Grounds' of life.

Okay.  Not everything in my life was wonderful.  As I grew up, I became
more aware of things around me.  I knew that both of my parents were heavy
drinkers, that when they were married they came home fighting in the middle
of the night.  There were many nights when my two younger sisters, Trish
and Susan, would come into my room and we'd huddle on my bed, listening to
the loud voices of our parents down stairs.  A lot of the times we didn't
even really hear their words, just a lot of screaming out loud.
	It's funny, I'll always remember that when they were together and
not drinking, the two seemed to fit perfectly, but when they drank, it was
a completely different situation.  Sometimes, only our dad would come home,
that last year before they got divorced.  When he came home alone, he'd
usually wake us all up, and though he was drunk, he'd be chipper, and want
to make popcorn or roast marshmallows over the stove heater.  That was a
sight to see for a stranger, I'm sure, but for us kids, even though we were
woken in the middle of the night, it was like camping, and a lot of fun.
	On rare occasions, our mom would come home alone.  She was
completely opposite.  When she came home alone, we were all woken by the
sounds of country western music.  She'd blast the record player to the max.
And if any of us ventured down stairs to be with her, she'd be moody and
negative and irritable.  We never knew with our mother what she'd be like
when she was drunk.
	Anyway, shortly after the time in my last installment, an issue
came up that made me mad as hell.  Before I started staying with my dad for
the summer, I had always been the babysitter of my two younger sisters.
And from the above mentioned situations, you can see that from a young age,
since I was ten, I guess, we three kids were left home alone a lot of the
times.  It was okay, I was pretty responsible, and we three thought it was
great to not have the parents around.  If fights occurred between me and my
sisters, I knew how to use the phone to call to the bars where I knew our
parents might be.  There were a lot of calls, and I'm laughing as I'm
typing this to remember it.
	So one night when I'd come home to dad's house, my mom was there.
She said she needed me to stay at the house to baby sit my sisters.  My dad
said also that he was going out too, and that I had to stay at moms that
night.  I was cool with it the first time.  Then it kept happening.  Mom
loved to go out.  The gears in my head started seeing patterns of what I'd
soon learn to be alcoholism.  It made me hate liquor through my teen years.
	This went on through the rest of the summer, and it was a bother
for me personally because I had just learned to enjoy jacking off.  I
wanted a lot of privacy.  Not really any privacy away from my dad, but from
the rest of the world.  My sisters became a pain in my rear side.  Just
when they thought I was a fun older brother, I was going through changes I
couldn't tell them about.  Things changed for me, but that is the common
law of nature as you develop and get older.  I didn't know that then, but I
know how to explain it now.
	I moved back to mom's house the beginning of September, and soon
after, the new school year began.  I loved staying at my dad's, yet I was
also happy to have mom's good ol' home cooking.  She could always cook
great meals; I'll give her that.  No matter how often she went out to the
bars, she always made sure we were fed with good food.  No matter what the
events that I am about to explain about her in future installments, she
made sure we were fed, clothed, and in school.  She just left us alone a
lot, which to us kids was okay, unless we fought.  Then we'd do the calling
to the bars to find her.
	Most of the time, when we'd call and she'd get on the phone, we'd
fight to talk with her on the phone, well, me and Trish anyway; Susan was
so young at the time and she just had to go along with things.  We never
seemed to ever ask for dad to come to the phone, and I don't know why, it
was just that way.  But mostly mom would appease us with telling us that
she'd bring us home treats if we behaved.  That usually calmed our spats,
and she always did have something the next day for us, like candy or giving
us money, or taking us to Dairy Queen.
	In October of that year, we three kids were alone, mom was out, we
didn't know what our dad was doing, but we got into a huge fight about who
was going to watch what on TV.  So I started calling around for mom, and I
found her at her favorite bar.  When she got on the phone, I could tell by
the sound of her voice that she was happy and tipsy.  When I started
complaining about the problem we were having at home, she simply said that
she'd be at the house in a moment.  The bar where she was at was only five
minutes away.
	I was quite the cocky kid at my age, and me and my sisters just sat
in the living room until she arrived.  When she entered, Trish and I
immediately started rambling and complaining about watching TV.
	It was sudden, what happened.  The next thing I knew, I saw the
back of my mother's hand flash before me, and crash into my face.  I hit
the wall behind me.  I was very stunned, and shocked.  My mother had never
hit me before.  All I could do was try not to cry, though I didn't succeed,
and I stared at her, wide eyed.
	She leaned into me and said these words, to the best of my
memory... "Never, ever, ever, call me again when I'm out having fun.  You
are old enough to know how to get along with your sisters."  She said this
to all of us then...  "Do I always have to make decisions for you?  Am I
not allowed to go out and have fun without you constantly bothering me?
Huh?  Answer me!"
	I think that seeing our mother hit me scared my sisters.  Trish was
trembling and Susan was just crying.  She was just crying.
	"I'm leaving now."  Our mother said.  She was so serious, and
drunk.  "Don't call me at the bar again."  And she did, she left.
	Moments later, I was so mad, and hurt, I started calling the bars
asking for my dad, but I couldn't find him.  Frustrated, and with two
sisters crying around me, I ran to the back porch, slammed the door behind
me, and just cried.
	We had gotten a lot of snow that year.  A neighbor of ours, Mary,
was out in her back yard shoveling the pathway to their garage.  She saw me
through the windows of our back porch.  I was a twelve year old boy she'd
known for more then four years, and her husband was a bartender of one our
parents favorite bars.  She knew our family, our history, the divorce
between our parents, she probably knew more about our parents then we did
at the time.
	She came to the edge of the fence between our yards.  Our porch
didn't have glass windows, only mesh screens.  I was freezing, but I didn't
care.  I had wanted to get away from crying in front of my sisters.  Mary
said, "Ricky, what's wrong?"
	I didn't answer immediately.  I was cold, and pissed, and confused.
	"Why are you crying?"  Mary asked.  She was a caring, good person.
She had three daughters, and she was a great mother.  I liked her a lot.
Her husband, Lou, was a womanizer, I learned in later years, and they'd get
divorced too a couple years from the time.
	"My mom hit me."  I was shivering and crying and snot running out
of my nose.
	She looked at me with concern.  "Why?"  She asked.
	"Be-be-because I called her at the bar."
	I don't know what mattered to Mary about that, but she became
serious, and what followed next was the first of two times that my mother
had to go to treatment for alcoholism.  It was also the first of many times
that I had to adjust to having to be responsible for myself and my sisters.
	Mary told me to get in the house before I caught a cold.  I did, I
just went inside, and tried to control myself.  Me, Trish and Susan just
sat together on the couch and started watching anything on TV that
interested us.  It was only late afternoon.
	I'd say about two hours after I had spoken with Mary out on the
porch, there was a knock on our door.  I went to the door and opened it.
Mary was there, and there were two deputies with her.  I learned later one
of them was a sheriff.
	After a lot of questions, the three of us were taken in the back of
a police car to some place, not a house, but an institution.  My sisters
were scared, but I was interested in what was going on with us.  A friendly
woman greeted us and tried to make us feel comfortable, yet we kind of
weren't.  It was late at night when all this was happening, and my sisters
were terrified.  We were surrounded by strangers, and we were asking to
talk to our mom and dad.  That was denied to us for the time being.  Being
it was so late, we were escorted to beds, in a room with several other
sleeping children.
	None of us struggled, we were tired, confused and just needed
sleep.
	The next day, my sisters and I huddled together among all the other
kids there.  So many of them seemed happy, and some were not.  We weren't.
We didn't know what to think, or what was going on.  The adults were
friendly and attentive to us, to all the kids.  We just wanted to go home.
That didn't really happen.
	Late that afternoon, our Aunt Mary arrived.  She was married to our
mom's brother, Uncle Scott.  She said we'd be going to stay with them for a
month or so.  They lived in a town about eighteen miles from our hometown.
During the car ride to their house, Aunt Mary explained to us in the best
way she could that our mom needed to get help about her drinking, that she
loved us, and there's nothing to worry about.  My sisters didn't take
kindly to being away from our mother at all, and became quite distant and
silent.  We loved our aunt and uncle, but it wasn't home.
	The next day, our dad showed up at Uncle Scott's.  He hugged us all
and was, I suppose, trying to be in a good mood about all that was
happening.  I could tell that Aunt Mary didn't like my dad much, but Uncle
Scott didn't seem to mind him at all.  My sisters hung onto our dad because
he was more familiar, and they couldn't understand where mom was, or why
she wasn't there.  It was a difficult situation.
	When our dad finally was ready to leave, he hugged us again, and
thanked my aunt and uncle, and left.  I ran after him.  I was more aware of
the situation than my sisters.  I didn't want to be at my uncle's.  I loved
the guy, but my dad was there.  I didn't want to be away from him.
	I ran to his car and before he could close the car door I went into
this tirade about a lot of things.  I was kind of desperate.  I said, "Dad,
please let me come home with you.  I don't want to stay here.  I promise to
be good!  I'll get myself up for school, I'll wash my own clothes, I'll
clean the house..."  Blah blah blah.  I just went on and on.
	At some point, I noticed Uncle Scott standing on the other side of
the car, and I stopped talking.  Perhaps I didn't want him to feel that I
didn't like him.  But I think he understood my thoughts.  He walked around
to my side, and my dad stepped out of the car and the two of them faced
each other.
	Uncle Scott sighed.  "Ray, these are your kids.  They're more then
welcome to stay with us while Maggie is in treatment."  He looked down at
me and ruffled my hair.  He smiled, and looked back at my dad.  "If you
want them, I won't stand in your way."
	My dad seemed perplexed.  I was in the middle of an adult
situation, and all I could do was listen and hope.  Then my dad said,
"Scott, I can't take care of them.  I don't know how.  I want to, but I
don't know how."
	My uncle nodded, looking at me.  He must have seen the
determination in my eyes about being with my dad.  "Look, Mary and I can
take care of them, but Ricky wants to be with you.  He'd be miserable here
without you."
	"Yeah dad!"  I chirped in.  "PLEASE?  Only until mom comes home!"
	Regardless of his thoughts, my dad nodded.  I ran around to the
other side of the car and got in.  Uncle Scott and my dad had a few more
words about letting such and such know about the situation, and we were off
back to my home town, to dad's house.
	When we arrived, it was quite late.  My dad just wanted to go to
bed.  He seemed very worn out from the days' events.  In all the confusion,
I didn't even have any questions about what happened, even about what my
mom was going through.  I'd learn later about that, but even I was tired
that night.  Yet flustered.
	I tried to go to sleep in what would always be considered my room,
but I couldn't.  I got up and wandered to my dad's bedroom.  I just wanted
to be close to him, considering everything that was happening.  So I
slipped under the covers and tried to go to sleep.
	Dad felt me get into bed, and he moved around and I felt his arm
engulf me, and felt his other arm move under my pillow.  "Your mom will be
okay," he said.
	After a moment of consideration, I responded.  "I know.  Can I
sleep here with you dad?"
	"It's okay.  None of this has anything to do with you."
	He hugged me to his warm body, and I fell asleep.

	The next morning, I woke up lazily, just staring at the ceiling.
It took a moment or more for me to realize where I was.  I looked over and
my dad was sleeping on his back next to me.  I half raised my upper body,
noticing the tent in the sheet over my dad's body.  He was asleep with a
hard on.
	Timidly, and curiously, I pulled the sheet away, revealing his
erection.  I couldn't help it: it was there.  I took his hard cock in my
hand and started playing with it.  Of course it woke my dad up.  He moved
his forearm over his face and said, "Do you think my cock is a toy, son?"
	I laughed.  I actually laughed.  Yet I didn't stop playing with it.
I moved my position on the bed to be against his leg and just kept stroking
him.  He was so hard, I bent it away from his body and let it go.  It
slapped his stomach with such a loud noise he shook, and I laughed again.
	I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and started stroking him
again.  Then I watched him take his left hand and point at the nightstand
next to the bed.  I had no idea what he was doing, but I reached over and
opened the drawer.  Inside I saw the jar of vaseline.  I knew instantly
what he meant.  So I opened it, put some on my fingers, and applied it to
his cock.
	His right forearm was still over his face as I started jacking him
off.  It was slippery: I wasn't expecting that.  Dad surprised me when he
stated, "You're learning."
	His right leg started to rise, almost to protest my jacking him off
because I had to get between his legs to continue.  He had powerful legs.
To this day, I love strong legs.
	I jacked his cock for about three minutes before he started huffing
and puffing.  At the rhythm I was stroking him, he told me, "I'm close,
Rick.  Stroke faster."  So I did.  I was pretty clumsy, but I was learning.
Yet, whatever dad meant, his big hand enclosed my hand and he started
jacking too, it went fast, then he was cumming, and breathing heavily.  The
first spurts struck his chest as his strong legs again surrounded me.  I
was having the time of my life seeing this.  It was great.
	When it was over, dad asked, "Would you go get a towel from the
bathroom?"
	I eagerly jumped up and complied.  When I returned, he was just
lying there, relaxed.  On instinct, I knew what to do.  I wiped his chest
off, then toweled off his cock, making it dry again.
	He turned over on his side away from me.
	"Aren't you going to get up, dad?"  I asked.
	"I'm still sleepy," he told me.  "It's Saturday, go watch cartoons,
Rick."
	To this day, I still enjoy Saturday morning cartoons, and so on
that day in the past, I did run to the living room and turn on cartoons.  I
also jacked off on the couch, loving the feeling of shooting.  I couldn't
help myself.  Once you start, you can't stop.
	Other family events happened in the months following, yet I had my
dad to have fun with no matter what. It was a great time in my life.  I
have no regrets about anything.  I don't think my dad did either.  At
least, in the time span, he didn't say he had any regrets.  All I can do is
speculate about it.

I hope you're enjoying these events of my past.  It is as fun for me to
recollect them as it is for you to read them.  I'd enjoy hearing your
comments at any time at RandomThoughts46@aol.com