Art Of Growing Up Ch 02

Tonya loved her Tuesdays!

Following dinner, she would drop a cup, or plate or two, about the kitchen area, during the washing-up; she recalled.

I would curse out loud. That! usually, got daddy up from his couch - half-heartedly, of course - attempting a re-establishment of himself, like a lame horse, a rebooting as top-dog, again, flapping about, clucking worse than a frightened farmyard hen: Unenthusiastically ordering - his yapping mouth foaming at the corners bordering - the immediate cleanup of broken, splattered, crockery, strewn across the stark linoleum floor, of printed colored pebbles, reminiscent of sea-side rockery gardens, polished to threadbare limits, in gleaming tattered mockery – of nature.

Lazy gardeners, grimace. His aggressive mind, carousing the limits – our homely stench of former cooking – tainted; with reeks of subtle humid nasal strands, born of detergent-popping quasi pine-scented bubbles of a kind, impregnated into ripe kitchen airs, stirred into action, by the pairs; of red-knuckled dish-swilling hands -- of mine.

Point-blank, Tonya would blatantly refuse and stomp her foot in sympathy with her concocted principles; wearing her naively feigned rationale and phony objection's on her cuff - the delivery of which, held, just short of a rant, a quarrel and all that stuff - reminded daddy, that, although his daughter was closer to him than his son, she was still a woman, and that came not from him, but from her Mom. Tonya recalled...

The very fact of the existence - at all though - of my refusal to obey his command, seemed to daddy - it seems to me - as if sand, itself, were being kicked into the very face of his manly Right, to be: Obliterated from sight - the blind acceptance he needed to rule -- especially that night – torn out of his gut, by his loving daughter of a slut, seemed to him, as it seemed to me – doubtfully contrite!

Daddy's illusion of authority was thrown on the line! To him, it all added up to the same thing - his manhood was being challenged, and he didn't like it - but to me, that was just fine.

I questioned his self-appointed superiority, and fought him on it: Now and again rattling his lock and chain, which held lobby -- wresting apart rusted gates, of self-righteousness: Corroded steel doors, guarding entrance at the very core of his being.

My reluctance to dwell within the narrow bandwidth of blind compliance - father-daughter style - tearing mercilessly at the very heart of his soul with razor sharp nail-varnished talons, dug deep at the quick of his male persona – it seemed, as I policed my daddy, like a London Bobby: I learned how to do this when watching mommy fighting against him – it became my hobby.

I tried to keep to the program, I tried to hold the format: I wanted to be consistent: I wanted to be a good daughter, I didn't care about no Totem or Taboo: I knew what I wanted – sort 'a: My little pussy was stinking; all I wanted was for it to get licked.

My daddy – I love my daddy, but he is a man, and I had become a woman, and my slit had blossomed up into a vibrant open flower under me, and it opened like a clam, and as daddy's wife, on mommy's sewing night, I used my given Tuesday Right, but not out flat, to have my young ass treated like a caveat.I wanted my toosh sniffed and sucked, and caressed, not used by fictitious giant's, or their boots -- as a convenient doormat.

I didn't want to do it, but I couldn't resist!

I love daddy, and I wanted to make him feel at home with – me; as his "Tuesday wife", in a three-way love-tryst.

I wanted him to feel as he did when mommy is around, so I ripped his heart out, and ate it, laughing into his face, as it pumped frightened between the claws of my burning femininity, and the cool talons of my daughterly love - and I viciously tore at his flesh - like the eagles of Zeus sent daily on errands of maligned laceration – feathered sorties of dissection and ruin.

The Promethean liver tattooed with hieroglyphs from a daddy's tome; an intuitive male instruction manual handed down to him by all the Mothers of the world: An unwritten body embroidered with descriptions of ill-gotten goods, laced with hereditary promise of pseudo-superiority, male-privilege and entitlement.

A "How-to..." leather-bound hardback, outlining coded directives of what it means to be - a man.

The encryption cipher broken, and its esoteric secrets spilled out the instant mother's nipple-fountains pumped-out its warm life giving milk into her infants hungry suckling mouth, issuing forth cascades of broken secrets for only "Him" to ponder.

A closed-book, one in which my "Mother-Eagle" disposition, was intent upon opening, and once read, ripping down to the very spine, page by page; exposing the dripping backbone within.

Picking over the carrion, reducing it down to its skeletal remains, with the incisive instrument of my word – in vain: Never to judge a cover, by the book – again.

I would rush up at him, babbling like mom 'til red in the face; shaking my belligerent finger, blatantly, into the very magnitude of his trumped-up authority; until, until -- until finally, I got what I was after.

(To be continued...)