White Wedding Woes; I Miss My Father

 

So. At yesterday’s breakfast Gram revealed my mother’s most closely-guarded secret. While I laughed at it and made jokes at the table, I find myself more than a little unsettled with the findings. Mother was being pissy about my ostrich wearing white to his wedding when he’s obviously not a virgin, and Gram reminded my Mommy Dearest that she wore white to her wedding and was anything but virginic. And why isn’t virginic a word? I don’t want to use virginal.

Virginal sounds like a porcelain bowl where you place used virgins.

And a used virgin is precisely what my mother was when she married. It turns out that she had not only had sex with my daddy, but my daddy didn’t even ask her out on a date until Junior Spellman told him about Mother’s skilled hands. According to Gram—whose story was not questioned by Mother at any phase—Junior and Daddy were hanging out down to the South Congress Pool Hall where Daddy was the under-18 champ. They were playing Rotation—my father’s best game—and Junior said to him, he said, “Chigger, you need to take this girl out to Walgreens for a soda. I swear she’ll do most anything for a chocolate phosphate, and she’s got a firm, but gentle hand with a man’s privates.” Everyone who knew my father called him Chigger.

Daddy, according to Gram, talked to his daddy, my grandfather, and asked him if he would go to hell if he got a hand job from a girl before marriage. Again according to Gram, Granddaddy said to Daddy, he said, “Well, Chigger, if that would be the case, I reckon I’ll meet you in hell. Your momma could rub the chrome off a flagpole—still can for that matter.”

My randy old grandmother had a wistful smile on her face when she recounted Daddy’s first encounter with Mother. She said, “Chigger comes home real late after his date with yer mother an went right straight ta bed. I didn’t hear him a huffin’ inna bathroom so he didn’t rub one out. That boy beat off more ‘an you, Mooner, an’ tha bathroom was right next ta my bed.”

She sighed deeply, chuckled, and added, “Didn’t hear that boy rubbin’ off ’till after they was married an’ little Miss huffy-ass over there cut ‘im off.” Here she looked Mother’s way. “I still blame you, Mother Johnson, for givin’ my boy tha ass cancer. He must a been so stoved up that his insides ate their ownselves right up.”

Gram got up and opened her first Carta Blanca beer of the day and sat back down, took a healthy swig. “I told that boy don’t never let a woman use sexin’ agin him, but he didn’t listen ta me.”

Gram fixed her eyes to the spot on the paper where Mother’s face was on the other side. “Hell, after you took tha nookie away I told ‘im I’d hold yer skinny ass down fer him if need be. An I’d a done it!”

Mother finally peeked from behind the newspaper where it was hidden for most of this conversation. “Mooner,” Mother addressed me instead of Gram, a tactic calculated to ease tension, “your father would use the lord’s name in vain, he read girly magazines and he kept asking me to do unnatural things in the bedroom. The only way I could get him to do the right things was to withhold sexual pleasures. I’m a christian, lady.”

“OK, first, dear Mother, I agree with Gram and would like to say that I too think you sent my father to an early grave. You were mean and spiteful and you never let Daddy have a sense that you were glad he was your mate. And don’t give me that look, Mother, Daddy told me that himself.”

After saying that to my mother, the memories of that conversation with my father came flooding back into my memory. It was the day I graduated from high school, the traditional day when fathers told sons about life when I was a kid. It isn’t that my parents and grandparents ever spared me any embarrassment or life lessons, it’s just that this was the first conversation we had when my father made certain that I felt like a man as we spoke.

The memory brought tears to my eyes. Hell, I’m starting to leak eye water as I tell you about it now. Back in my time, the day you graduated from high school you had a big all-night party with your senior classmates. Everybody would “sneak” out to chug drinks hidden in their cars and then return to the party. Many high school girls lost their virginity on these trips for booze, boys as well, and Daddy knew this.

Me, I had been hoping for weeks that this would be the day I first got laid. OK, wait. This was when I hoped to get the first sex not sex inflicted upon me by my baptist deacon Boy Scout Leader. Getting raped as a thirteen-year-old had stunted my sexual development and relational health, and in typical victim form I had wondered if I had encouraged the asshole to rape me. I thought I might be gay for several years and withdrew from all my peers save Streaker Jones, the smartest human I have ever known.

Like I say, I lived a couple years in an angst-filled depression and Streaker Jones grew tired of it. One day we were sitting down to the creek under the big cypress tree and Streaker Jones said to me, he said, “I’m sick a yer shit, Mooner,” and he took his pecker out of his pants. “Iffn yur homosexual, stick this in yur mouth. Otherwise, git you a girlfriend.”

Like I say, my best friend is a smart sumbitch. His method wasn’t very scientific, but I quickly realized I wasn’t gay. In the next few years I began to repair my stunted social and sexual development and grew a healthy interest in girls. By graduation day, I’d had hand and mouth sex with a girl but no actual intercourse, and I can tell you that I was ready. R-E-A-D-Y ready for sex.

Daddy and I were on our backs under the farm truck making a repair to the u-joints when we had my first man talk. “Look, son, I’m not tellin’ you that you can’t have sex, I’m tellin’ you to be real careful who you sex with. Pussy is powerful, Mooner, maybe the most powerful thing on Earth, and you ain’t got one. You get to borrow them son, not possess them. Once a woman let’s you borrow hers the first time, you’ll do most anything to get more. Don’t. Don’t do anything to get more. Don’t ever sex it up with a girl that thinks givin’ you a taste of her pussy is some kind a prize for doin’ what she wants. If a woman tells you that you can have the pussy if you just fill-in-the-blank, Mooner, don’t fill her blanks for her. And don’t ever fill her pussy either. That’s a woman who’ll hurt you with sex.”

My daddy had tears in his eyes at this point, and he locked mine with his wet eyes and said to me, Daddy said, “Hardest thing you’ll ever do is walk away from pussy, son. Learn to do it before it’s too late.”

Even back then I knew my father’s advice was rooted in a hard-learned lesson of his own. I’ve always known that my mother was a prissy, martyred and pious baptist matron. After a wild child adolescence, Mother turned into a petulant christian prude in the early years of marriage to Daddy. I guess she used sex as a weapon on him. I also know that men can use sex as a weapon as well.

Ugh, but this is unpleasant shit.

Which reminds me. The three-ring circus that is Gnewbt Gangreenich just keeps on giving a laugh a minute. That silly fuckball announced yesterday that he is “suspending” his Presidential campaign. Uh-huh, it’s suspended alright. Suspended, as used in this case, is like when they used to hang convicted murderers, and in that millisecond after the floor dropped from under the prisoner’s feet, he seemed to float in the air.

The former Speaker of the House is a weak, sniveling little weenie. You lost, shithead, and you lost to Herr Schmidt Rommel. What does that tell you, asshole. You lost to a two-faced, flip-flopping pseudo-christian who wears magic undies. Go back and hide under your rock—wait for Mz. Callista to get sick so you can shop for another woman.

You are way better at snagging women than you are at political endorsements.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

5 Responses to “White Wedding Woes; I Miss My Father”

  1. Squatlo says:

    A vessel for used vigins… sort of a porcelain Valhalla yacht? gotcha… (you’re an odd bird, Mooner Johnson)

    My dad didn’t take the time to give me the birds/bees speech, and god knows THAT would have been damned uncomfortable. One of the things I’m most appreciative of was that he didn’t pester me about sex or try to get me “up to speed” on things I was confused about. Mom didn’t, either, and I’m pretty sure if she DID spend time explaining things to my three sisters they hated every minute of it.
    This whole “virginic” thing is pretty quaint, and other than some fundamentalist fuckwads in Afghanistan and Kansas I can’t imagine anyone putting a whole lot of value on it. Think about the Islamic promise of heaven for martyrs… 72 virgins? Jebus, that sounds like hell itself to me! Give me one experienced woman who knows what the fuck she’s doing and you can keep the convent full of hymen-ated women. (by the way, did you know “hymeneal” is a word meaning wedding or wedding song? What other delicate part of the female anatomy has ceremonies and tunes named after it?)

    I’m outta here…

  2. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Squat. Well look who’s back! Did the Spring thaw finally hit the Volunteer State?

    I think the virginal is where Muslim martyers place their used virgins. I’ve always wondered what miracle the virgins must enact to be one of the only 71 others to await a pimply-faced dumbass who’s too fucking stupid to NOT strap a bomb to his nuts.

    Maybe they have to blow an Imman, but why don’t the women get 72 virgin men for martyrdom? Oh, yea, that would be hell for a woman.

    I’ve never dated a Muslim woman but I think I should. Maybe a Muslim woman would appreciate my gentlmanly manner and slow hand. Then again, maybe she’d slit my throat and leave me dead for my heratical leanings.

    PMYS. Enough said.

  3. Squatlo says:

    We haven’t had a big freeze here, just been busy as hell and more than a little sick of the news and blogging. I’ve had few opportunities to surf around to see what you guys have been up to (and BJ must have left the country or something) but haven’t been ignoring you on purpose. Just busy. But I’m back. sort of…

  4. chrisinphx says:

    Mooner, everything I’ve read that you have written about your Father really makes me respect him. The way you speek about him in your book, it is clear what a good, fair, and honest man he was. For what it’s worth, I’d like to think you have put a big ol smile on his face while he’s watching over y’all.

  5. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Chris. Daddy was a man and a gentleman both. I never knew how great his influence was on Mother–how he managed to rein her in–until he was gone.

Leave a Reply