Logotherapy

All characters are over eighteen.

These stories are all true. Only names have been changed.

This an attempt to recount my lived and vicariously experienced sexual experiences from the mid 80's to the present. I want to explore how the past affects the present, and how the present helps us to more clearly understand the past.

This is an attempt to confront Jung: Does the unexplored subconscious rule us and we call it fate? What is the root of the subconscious paradigm(s) that drive us? Did they evolve in a moment, or over a slow and protracted pace that may be too difficult to trace? Or, are our urges, desires, and drives more fundamental to the human rather than being conditioned by experience, perhaps our primeval drives shape and condition the experiences of our lives. Who is it that is questioning who?

Part of this undertaking is trying to put together in a logical order all or at least some of the outlandish sexual experiences I've had. In an effort not to put them all behind me, but so that I can give some form and some order to all the seemingly disparate experiences I have lived through.

The goal of living should ultimately be to make an art out of what seems like a chaotic hurricane of random events. Maybe if I can put some order to it - give it form and perhaps, who knows, thereby giving meaning?

While I can faithfully claim that each of the stories told in here is one hundred percent true, I cannot so faithfully report a verbatim copy of all of the dialogue surrounding each of these vignettes. I have tried as much as possible to be faithful to that person's voice, worldview, tone, and demeanor and filled in any gaps in dialogue accordingly.

Told through the perspective of the now Omniscient Observer, these stories are all true to the best of my ability. I must reiterate, it's been over 30 years so detailed precision, timing, exact words have given way to historical fiction more than historical fact. However, each of the scenes and stories in the dialogue, and the interaction is true as best as I can remember it.

I'll try not to fill in the gaps of what I assume was going on now with my adult mind, and rather just relay the images as they came to me then. I hope to share these stories with you, the reader, so that you can help me process and understand how my past sexual experiences have shaped the way in which I fantasize today.

The goal of this text then, is ultimately a personal reflection to expiate these experiences, feelings, thoughts, and fantasies out of my mind, onto the paper, and, hopefully finding a meaning subtrata/logos/order (logical relationship between seemingly disparate people and events); did I encounter each of these of experience of engender them? even create them?

If we do not confront our subconscious, it will continue to control us and we will call it fate - Carl Jung

Where to begin?

I had just come home after four years away at college.

I was twenty-two years old and had nowhere to live but back with my parents.

Suffice it to say, I had grown more bold and brazen in my attempts to realize fantasies while away. Of course, I had started smoking pot and found that it fueled my horny rage and put me into a near trance-like state of eroticism. I will eventually describe the experiences I had in college and prior that led to this openness and exploration that further fueled my already deep Oedipal desires for my mom. However, many of those early stories I think are better explored later, in a different context.

I had just finished my useless college degree in literature from a small liberal arts school in the American South.

It was the summer of 1991, I had a four year degree, I had lived abroad for a year in Europe living like a rock star, summer in Mexico, vice-president of m fraternity, and now the music has come to a crashing halt.

Here I was back in my bedroom at my parents house. No prospects for jobs and more importantly, no prospects of girls. We lived in a fairly large town, but my "crew" had largely all moved away, so I spent most nights alone, in my room.

I had a vague notion of going to grad school for British Lit, so I had devised a plan to read the British Masters that summer before applying to grad school in the fall.

Not much had changed at home though. My dad was gone most of the time. Mom still worked her job in the ER. So, schedules, travel, and dad's secret affairs he maintained in other cities kept him gone most of the time. Although I had known for years about his affairs, I never said anything. I guess I just didn't want to hurt her feelings.

My disinterest had turned to protection as a guardian who wants to protect his beloved. I also felt some sense of justice that it certainly wasn't fair that he got to have his dalliances across the state and keep my mother, as it were, as it kept a woman. She was beautiful when she was younger she had won the Miss South Carolina Peach beauty contest. She looked exactly like Charlize Theron when she was younger.

Now that I was in my early twenties she was 46 and my dad was 52. in my eyes she hadn't changed a bit she still had long shoulder length blonde hair natural blonde. bright blue eyes that in the '80s were hidden behind huge coke bottle glasses that made her look all the more adorable as her hair spilled around the rooms of her glasses.

She only stood about 5 ft 6 in tall and although her body had definitely turned into a mom body over the years she was still absolutely stunning. She never dressed provocatively but since she worked in a hospital she wears scrubs everyday which is a weakness for most men especially if worn by a woman with a blonde ponytail size 34 D's and a beautiful red smile that never relents. This was before we knew about the word milf but certainly I had heard most of my life about how hot my mom was.

I never really thought about it until I came home that summer and realized what an amazing woman she was and what a limited life she was being allowed to live. Since coming home we definitely grew closer and our relationship and dialogue of course began to change since we were both adults.

We would have dinners together at night and she always got home at 7:00 and eventually I tried to have dinner ready for. She would have a glass of wine and I would drink Coronas with limes

Over time our relationship opened up and we became much more honest with each other. Eventually I asked her why she put up with his coming and going for years and years. She didn't have much of a response and just said that she likes her life the way it is. She loves her house, she loves her job and it was almost as though she saw her marriage as a necessary inconvenience to keep the relationships she had developed that were important to her.

I didn't know enough at the time because I was young and it seems to those in their twenties that action is easily changed and ready and at any moment you can get up and change your life if you so desire. But now that I've grown older I realize the ruts and routines that life gets us into and how hard it is to change and how willing we are to put up with the unnecessary and even unwanted in order to avoid a drastic change.

I still didn't press her but it was obvious to me through her tones and intonation that she did not want my dad coming home anymore. however even though we would talk at length for multiple days about how he shouldn't have the right to come and go into our lives and to her life especially and even though she agreed wholeheartedly sure enough as soon as he showed up her entire demeanor changed.

She went from strong independent woman to almost a helpless sycophant around him. he drove me nuts mostly because I knew that the way in which I loved her in the way in which I respected her and the way in which I wanted her to be in life was a more powerful vision of who she could be then the woman that she is with him.

I felt jealous that not only for her and her body and our time together but it was more I felt jealous for a type of life that I felt was being robbed from her one that she could have lived that was full of different choices, experiences and opportunities.

Rather she continued the same life, the same job, the same absent husband, the same returning home in the same continued ignorance of the obvious truth of his infidelities over the years. it was not a vision of my mom that I wanted her to have of herself.

That jealousy of a life that could have been for my mom plays itself out as arrival against the vision my father had for her. He wanted obviously to maintain a kept woman a house that he could return to in a certain stability that he could count on whenever he felt like he needed to return to it. I wanted her to be independent and travel and enjoy all the experiences that she had put aside to raise me. That jealousy for a future type of woman that she could be gave rise to a new possessiveness over her that I had never felt before.

I didn't want him anywhere near her I didn't want him in the house and that's certainly didn't want to near my mom and taking advantage not only of her hard work and home but also of her body. And mostly I did not want her to want any of that I didn't want her to want him.

I wanted her to want the life that I had laid out in our conversations of the type of woman that she could be the type of life that she could live the powerfu, beautiful, milf second life that she could create for herself.

But to no avail. Each time he would return home the same scene would play out. some long-winded story about what had happened on his journeys again this was the early 90s late '80s there were no cell phones there were only pay phones so the ability to stay hidden was much easier than it is now.

He would start pouring a drink. he would offer her one she would feign resistance but eventually cave in. She was a distinctly different woman not only when he was around but when she drank alcohol. She would eventually accept the offer for a drink and he poured her usually a rum and coke. and by she had time she ended the first cup it was clear that whatever independent vision of herself she had prior to his arrival was now gone as she began to fall on him and allow him to paw at her body groping her ass and squeezing her tits when she would walk by. her giggle and her feign resistance drove me crazy.

I would often get in my car, smoke multiple joints, and go for a ride and try to return home having cleared my mind but that was never the case. Absence only made it worse. Not knowing what was happening filled my mind with images of what could potentially be happening while I was not there.

I raced home determined to either stop it or watch it. I was too late and the door was shut to their bedroom. Whatever nefarious Acts he had performed on my mother were already done. I was determined to do anything from that point forward to stop them to stop her, But the horny rage inside of me also wanted to see them in the act I had to see them in the act. Had to. As if the entire universe were demanding this of me. I was powerless before my lust.

It took weeks to set up, as I recall.

The first time I had an opportunity, when I was able to both stay awake and coordinate whether he was even home, or if he would just pass out in the chair downstairs.

I was so angry and rage filled on the mornings I awakened and he was in her bed with my door closed all the way. I knew he had snuck up without me knowing. I could not let my inattention and lack of self-control get the better of me. I would stay up no matter what.

It finally happened that all the conditions lined up one sweltering hot night in early July. This was in the 90's and we did not have AC, fans in all the windows and one in the main hallway was as good as it got. However, the fans provided both a frustrating noise that could cover his footsteps coming up the stairs but also proved useful for me as a cover for my midnight creeping around.

This night I remember like it was yesterday.

I was raging horny.

He had been gone for a week or more, and had come home like nothing was wrong.

He drank his wine, tried to make us all laugh, and act like everything was normal. It made me even more irate that he tried to gaslight us (a term unknown to me then) to thinking he was the victim in the family and that his extended absences were a result of his feeling unwelcome in our home.

My mom bought it and played into his game of seeming sympathies. It drove me nuts. How could she be so facile? In her career, she is responsible for people's lives in the ER and she makes competent, quick decisions. But when it comes to her husband, all rationality went out the window.

And, I could tell from his touching and teasing her that night, and by her playful faux-defense. Sexual tension was in the air. I was livid. I wanted to scream, set a fire, anything to stop him from putting his hands and worse on the women that I love, cherish, and care for during his extended "business" trips. But, I also wanted so badly to see her vulnerable, naked, and sexual.

So, eventually, I said I was going to bed, said my requisite good nights, and headed up the stairs to my room.

I tried to linger on the stairs to see if I could hear any nefarious planning going on, but to no avail.

Mom went to change the laundry and I felt both relief and disappointment that it wasn't going to happen tonight.

I brushed my teeth, changed, and got in the bed.

My room was directly across the hall from theirs. My bed was against the far wall, so I could see anyone walking in the hallway.

I tried my best to stay awake. Jerking off and edging for what seemed like and may have been hours.

As I reached a state of delirium or more like lucid-pornographic dreaming, while straining to keep my eyes open, but lying down, and acting as well as I could as though I was asleep.

Then, finally, I heard a slow but heavy cream, the tell tell give away our second floors stairs made as you began your ascent. Only the rooms were carpeted, but not the hallways, so the wooden creaking would come into play in myriad ways over the next decade. Little did I know then, who I would hear creaking down the hallway years later to my door.

There it was again, the second and third steps gave way to the pressure of the climber.

This was it, I knew it.

I was now wide awake, with my heart pounding. I thought for sure if anyone looked in on me they would certainly see the sheets pulsating with my racing heart.

I closed my eyes and tried to look as "natural" as possible, asleep.

The steps made it to my doorway and stopped. I knew he was checking to see if I was asleep.

I must have passed the test. He next reached for the door knob and slowly closed my door, careful not to make the latch click.

As soon as I thought he was gone, I ran to the door and placed my ear against the thin, hollow wood to hear where he had gone.

Within a second, I could hear the click of my mother's bedroom door open and then close with a fairly loud click. I knew he was in there.

RAGE!

Jealousy!

Murderous Pathos....I cannot think of words in English that come close to the emotions surging through me that night.

Hamlet's rage at Gertrude comes close.

Now, I panicked. I did not know what to do. I hadn't thought it through more than to this point.

Now what? I can't just burst in. Nor can I take the chance of them hearing me at the door.

My hormones and curiosity got the best of me. I opened my door, slowly, carefully, and waited to hear a response.

I told myself I could claim I was going to the bathroom, if they emerged from their room.

I thought my only hope for seeing what was happening was to get on my hands and knees and try to look under the door jam, through the inch or two crack.

So I got on all fours and crawled and crept away across the hall and down five feet or so to their door.

My heart was racing and my cock was throbbing. There was no hiding it through my thin cotton boxers. I had a massive tent, as they say.

I tried to stay frozen like a statue on all fours, with my ear as close to the door as I could, and my eyes straining to see under the door.

Nothing.

Silence and pitch black.

I was again filled with equal parts relief and disappointment.

After what seemed like an extremely long time, I resolved that they must be just sleeping, and was about to start a disappointed retreat to my room, where my stash of my mom's panties I had purloined over the years would have to suffice for tonight.

Just as I was planning my escape, I heard a giggle and shuffling.

I froze. This was it. It had to be.

I listened again.

Frozen.

Cock throbbing and aching it was so hard and I could not touch it knowing I would explode.

I could make out only muffled voices in whispered tones. The crack beneath the door offered no help, as their room was pitch black.

I had the idea to retreat to the bathroom that connected from the hallway to the shower, to their room through a separate door. I thought maybe I could see them through the connecting bathroom, if both doors were open.

I crawled and crept back down the hall. When I made it to the bathroom, I stood again. Now, I felt better about actually having a cover, if I was discovered.

I tiptoed through the first bathroom. The door to the shared shower was open. I made my way into the second room, and hoped the door to their private bath and their bedroom would be open, and I could just see right in.

No luck. The door joining the shared shower to their private bath was closed and shut all the way. I knew if I opened it, and the door joining their half bath to the bedroom were open, I would see and hear straight away. Our house is not huge. From the shower to their bed was only 15 feet at most.

I froze again in the shower room, listening intently again.

Then I heard what sounded like giggling again, and what I was sure were the sheets and light covers being thrown to the floor.

I had to act; I had to stop it, right? I had no idea what to do.

I reached out to slightly push open the door adjoining my present room and theirs.

I was reckless, unsteady, scared and shaking, which in retrospect contributed to the climax of the situation, and would start a lifelong obsession with the most taboo image known to any culture that I was about to be granted.

I turned the knob and, at first, all was well. The fans whining in the window sill covered the opening. I waited, but not long enough, I suppose. I heard nothing. Silence. I was petrified. I was caught for sure.

Thinking that for certain they were lying there looking at me, I thought I had to come up with a plan and fast.

I rashly let go of the door handle and sprang into position with a clank.

That did it. Immediately, I heard them sit up and say my name with a querying tone.

I ran as fast as I could back to my side of the bathroom and quickly sat on the toilet.

After a few seconds, I flushed the toilet.

I got up, slowly. I could see that a light was now on, in my mom's room.

Gathering what courage I could and with my best acting skills ready, I began to walk out of the bathroom, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible, like it was a normal nightly bathroom visit.

As I turned the corner, my mother was walking down the hall, still trying to wrap her white, silk robe (one that I rubbed on my cock countless times during my afternoon panty draw explorations) over her shoulders and fumbling with her right arm not getting back into the tangled sleeve. Her shoulder length blonde hair was tangled and a mess.

I looked up just as she closed the front of her robe around her, as best she could.

But in the dim light and rush of the moment, she inadvertently left her right breast completely exposed. I was in shock. All I could see and think was how huge and round and red how bright red her nipple was and all the little raised bumps in a constellation around the center of her perfect pale white breast.