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RIV3R
My mother was a harsh, petty woman. I've been told she was once beautiful at 5'3 with blue eyes, black hair, larger breasts, and a size 0 waist but life and more directly... choices had led her to walk a large rotund frame, almost as wide as it was tall.
My father was a wild man who I've been told was darkly handsome and spirited, who, from childhood shirked as much authority as he could get away with. Stories of disappearing for weeks to skip classes, rolling with many a girl, and speeding down main streets in his teens aided by a car that could simply just outspeed the police cars of the time.
This culminated in my father being very anti commitment and my mother being extremely demanding to the point of shadiness to get and keep him. I have no brothers or sisters, at least alive, as my mother would try and get pregnant again and again to have my fathers child, all of which she lost except for myself, whom she gave birth to at the age of 32, My mother being six years older than my father,
My first memories I can recall are from the back of a dirt bike, my back pressed into my fathers front as he deftly weaved around sheep, herding them into pens to be shorn. If I think hard enough I can still remember the feeling of his strong arms either side of me like a protective exoskeleton, the way his body would shake when he laughed. I loved my daddy. Anything was possible with him around.
In fact almost all of my good memories of childhood are centered around my daddy. Whether it be how he would hoist me over his shoulders on his arrival home from work to teaching me what a spark plug was about by deception, requesting me to help hold one still while he kicked over a bikes engine. And while he treated me as though I was more than just a little girl and could in fact behave and do anything a boy could, he would also take time to indulge it, gifting me nail polishes, perfumes, dresses and dolls or even a pony, an actual pony, on my birthdays, giving me hugs at any opportunity with an "I love you little one, the most and no lie." a saying he would use daily. Things that would remind me to be coy, demure and feminine as well as strong and useful.
On the flip side growing up under my mother was mostly a horrible affair, if not wastefully meaningless. Trips into town as just a tagging along kid, trudging silently behind her mother while she browsed aisle after aisle, store after store. How many tables in smokey kitchens I've sat at, listening to middle-aged women hiss and spit at each other like bored vipers, tearing down some person or another over a new piece of sordid gossip they had recently collected, I don't know. Hundreds it feels.
As she grew bigger and bigger it seemed she became meaner and meaner. Barking at my father if he spent to much time away from home, or too much on activities with me. "You're picking up a tractor, why does River have to go with you?! She could be home helping me."
Even still all my happy sun-drenched, fresh air, and father filled memories are the brightest, far outweighing the bad.
With all that said, I'm not sure what started it all, whether it was me or my father. Whether it was the beautiful and confident naked women pinned up over workshop walls, little adult story snippets children often overhear. "He walked in on the bloke balls deep in his wife's asshole!" "She came home early from work to find her husband rubbing his cock over photos of the baby sitter!"
I do remember that I always knew about sex, I had a good idea exactly what was different between a male and a females body and I wanted to know more. In fact, I burned for it. It's strange to say, but factually its a truth. I burned to learn and to know.
I was a creative thing and would often draw when I was forced to sit still for...
My father was a wild man who I've been told was darkly handsome and spirited, who, from childhood shirked as much authority as he could get away with. Stories of disappearing for weeks to skip classes, rolling with many a girl, and speeding down main streets in his teens aided by a car that could simply just outspeed the police cars of the time.
This culminated in my father being very anti commitment and my mother being extremely demanding to the point of shadiness to get and keep him. I have no brothers or sisters, at least alive, as my mother would try and get pregnant again and again to have my fathers child, all of which she lost except for myself, whom she gave birth to at the age of 32, My mother being six years older than my father,
My first memories I can recall are from the back of a dirt bike, my back pressed into my fathers front as he deftly weaved around sheep, herding them into pens to be shorn. If I think hard enough I can still remember the feeling of his strong arms either side of me like a protective exoskeleton, the way his body would shake when he laughed. I loved my daddy. Anything was possible with him around.
In fact almost all of my good memories of childhood are centered around my daddy. Whether it be how he would hoist me over his shoulders on his arrival home from work to teaching me what a spark plug was about by deception, requesting me to help hold one still while he kicked over a bikes engine. And while he treated me as though I was more than just a little girl and could in fact behave and do anything a boy could, he would also take time to indulge it, gifting me nail polishes, perfumes, dresses and dolls or even a pony, an actual pony, on my birthdays, giving me hugs at any opportunity with an "I love you little one, the most and no lie." a saying he would use daily. Things that would remind me to be coy, demure and feminine as well as strong and useful.
On the flip side growing up under my mother was mostly a horrible affair, if not wastefully meaningless. Trips into town as just a tagging along kid, trudging silently behind her mother while she browsed aisle after aisle, store after store. How many tables in smokey kitchens I've sat at, listening to middle-aged women hiss and spit at each other like bored vipers, tearing down some person or another over a new piece of sordid gossip they had recently collected, I don't know. Hundreds it feels.
As she grew bigger and bigger it seemed she became meaner and meaner. Barking at my father if he spent to much time away from home, or too much on activities with me. "You're picking up a tractor, why does River have to go with you?! She could be home helping me."
Even still all my happy sun-drenched, fresh air, and father filled memories are the brightest, far outweighing the bad.
With all that said, I'm not sure what started it all, whether it was me or my father. Whether it was the beautiful and confident naked women pinned up over workshop walls, little adult story snippets children often overhear. "He walked in on the bloke balls deep in his wife's asshole!" "She came home early from work to find her husband rubbing his cock over photos of the baby sitter!"
I do remember that I always knew about sex, I had a good idea exactly what was different between a male and a females body and I wanted to know more. In fact, I burned for it. It's strange to say, but factually its a truth. I burned to learn and to know.
I was a creative thing and would often draw when I was forced to sit still for...
