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  While Justine was busy busting out like springtime, Myrna was having a lot more difficulty accepting the possibility that her thirteen-year old Meredith might also be fucking boys, probably much older than herself. Two beautiful nymphets dancing through her house, Meredith was filling out just as lovely as Justine; she loved fitting into her older sister’s clothes. There was a lot of sensational imaging floating around the dinner table as the girls would tease each other while salaciously licking their spoons.

  Who am I kidding, the ugly thought kept buzzing in Myrna’s ears. She was scared to death to ask, for she didn’t want to know because she wouldn’t know what to do.

  Anyway, now days, everybody was doing it, she would think. God, let them not get pregnant. Was it her fault that she had beautiful daughters? Well, maybe, because she did bear them. What was a mother to do? Scar their faces as in the days of old, or as in some scary uncivilized countries of today, mutilate them even worse, drown them, she would frown in riddled ambivalence.

  Alone, with no one to discuss the issue, she didn’t know what to make of her daughters. She was so proud that they were so rare and beautiful but scared to death that bad men would take advantage of them and contaminate them pregnant. She thought of making them carry prophylactics in their backpacks along with their school books but the necessary instructions of when and how to use them scared that thought. Same for pills; what else was a mother to do with two such totally fucking desirable daughters?

  Mothers with ugly daughters are the lucky ones, she thought.

  One day as she watched Meredith step out of her shower, Myrna’s heart melted away at her daughter’s pink, luscious body, and out of love she said, “Why couldn’t you be a little uglier?”

  She caught her breath and hugged her daughter and Meredith knew that her mother loved her but that she was a little wacko.

  Worrisome as the thoughts about her girls were, they never detracted from Myrna’s powerful mother’s love. During all her motherly days she knew that her daughters were “a gift from God,” as her husband had often said. For sure Myrna would never want the girls to become wallflowers; no mother would ever wish that for her daughter. To Myrna’s delight, both girls were very popular in school. Justine was going steady with a senior on the varsity football team. He was a handsome boy named Doug whom Myrna approved of because he reminded her a lot of young Hank Merker, her best friend Sharon’s husband whom Myrna also knew when they were in high school. Myrna had witnessed Justine’s and Sharon’s evolving big girls’ best friends’ flirtatious bonding and she approved, for Sharon was one of her best friends that she could forever trust. She was happy that Justine confided her boyfriend secrets to best friend Sharon. She well remembered when uncle Hank had been a varsity quarterback like boyfriend Doug, and when Hank and Sharon and Myrna shared love in high school.

  Doug was a good-looking young man but a bit on the shy side, not very talkative, just like young Hank, Myrna thought. It seemed to her that Doug was from a solid, wealthy family. Whenever he came to the house, he hurriedly mumbled his greetings to her as if he had places to go and off he would rush with Justine to her room. They seemed to like each other a lot and Myrna was happy for her daughter. What else could she do? It would never occur to Myrna to snoop into her daughter’s private affairs. Jesus, that would take her back a couple of generations, an age before soccer in America.

  Meredith didn’t have a steady, yet, but she was always an exhausting thirteen year old going on eighteen when every day she would recount all the school juicy gossip to her mother. Who was going steady with whom, suspicions as to what girls in her class were doing it already, and on-and-on with the latest fads, like which girls were coming to school commando. All the news were daily similar to Myrna’s ears: unending, exhausting exposes. But Myrna did love the glow on Meredith’s face and her melodious voice that rose with each wide-eyed revelations as she disingenuously related stories about the ‘stupid boys’ in her classes. Every day there would be tons of calls from many boys from school for both girls. Without doubt, the girls were very popular, and definitely part of the in-crowd. When you’re popular, you got it all; and when you’re very pretty, you’re very popular. Boys always want to cup a feel and grab your breasts when you’re pretty. Having your breasts and ass felt by boys in your class is always a good indicator of how popular a school girl is: the more they cup and feel, and the more they grab, the better the girls feel and more emotionally secure they become that they’re popular and on their way to a satisfying life. And when you’re a pretty popular girl, you can’t wait to run home to happily relate all the day’s events to your over-the-moon mama, except about your own felt pinches, or about the removal of your panties in the girl’s bathroom before attending classes.

  What the hell, Myrna had concluded; she herself had been twelve the first time it happened to her and she survived the lift-off ok. I have to stop worrying about the girls, she thought. I’m sure they’ll find their way. We all do somehow.

  *

  “Here I am with so much free time to do all those things that I use to think I would want to do, and yet not much stirring in the brain,” she stared out of her bright kitchen window. “I am so brain dead,” she said to the world.

  Even gardening had become a chore. Lately, she had begun having fantasies of negotiated affairs with pick-up strangers at the supermarket or even in parking lots but had rejected the thoughts as bad form if her teen daughters ever found out. She hadn’t had sex for many weeks now, ever since before her husband left her, and rarely did they fuck even then when he was around. Phil wasn’t much of a lover and she should have cheated on him, then, but he had given her such beautiful daughters, she found contentment in them instead of him. And in her lovely fantasies of sexual exploits one adventure repeated time and again into her uninhibited mind as she silently puffed away alone in her handsome house. Time and again, ever since high school, her mind would drift to handsome quarterback Hank her secret lover whom big tit Sharon, a discarded waif, had beaten her to. She would have given anything to be with Hank, to make love to him, to be married to him. And now that she was free from the cloistered monk that once had been her husband, her mind would wildly channel the possibilities with handsome Hank and to hell with best friend Sharon. In her sweet mind, every night Hank would smilingly visit with Myrna for long bouts of reckless love-making. Fantasizing about him, though, wasn’t like the real thing, she concluded one night after an arduous exercise of sexual fantasies. Up until then, she couldn’t bring herself to do it with Hank. But that night she decided to reset and enjoy him as she once knew him.

  “We lived the hermitic life,” she would smile with conviction to friends about life with Phil. “But now no more, no more. I’m free and available.”

  “Say no more, Myrna, my beloved,” Sharon would laugh, and Myrna would wonder if Sharon could read her mind.

  She had been a good wife but she should have cheated on the bastard, then, when he was sniffing around far afield. Though she wasn’t so sure he deserved it, the thought would come crumbling into her brain with a vengeance. It wasn’t too late to cuckold the son-of-a-bitch even now after he had flown the coup; two-time him now with lustful fantasies of lurid sexual encounters with lifeguards and high school champion athletes. She loved the thoughts of champions humping her. Warm, early morning mellow fantasies to dust anew the lovely memories of once hot, immaculate, teenage salacious sex. Hot fantasies of lustful encounters with strangers and not so strangers, sometimes would come fast and furious, and felt awfully good, as silly daydreams often do, assuring her that she still hadn’t dried out.

  She took a deep drag to calm her revving mind away from all the sex shit.

  But the real thing of being pushed hard against the wall by some tall basketball champ, or even a footballer, would be so much nicer than any fantasy, she would wiggle her handsome ass in punishment of that bastard ex-husband who so dastardly had dum
ped her.

  Fuck him, who cares, let him mildew in some cave, she thought.

  She poured herself another cup of hot coffee, lit another cigarette, and became restless again; still no thoughts to occupy the young day. She liked her coffee like her father did: strong and dark, no sugar, no cream. Her father was a beautiful man, strong and silent. He made a lot of money selling real estate in the Van Nuys, Sherman Oaks areas of LA.

  Funny how every time she thought of her dead father her eyes would tear up and she’d go into a momentary trance. She couldn’t help it. He was one of the greats; an all-American guy who made it big by the strap of his will. Bob Lawson started out as an accountant in Robert Sargent’s Pioneer Bank. He made good and after a few years of hard work he was put in charge of Mortgages and Loans where he became a true believer of capitalism. He left the bank, after being assured by the bank’s friendly management of special help in getting easier mortgages for his prospective buyers. He quickly made a bundle and opened a plush real estate office determined to mentor his son, Robert Jr., in the all-American art of making big money. Bob Lawson believed that making money was God’s greatest invention to mankind. And he and Junior made a huge fortune. Unfortunately, and in spite Myrna’s unbounded love for her daddy, All-American Bob’s plans did not include daughter Myrna in any meaningful way, she being a girl. As a father, he loved her as any American father loved his daughter and he spoiled her with girly things all the time, and when she married Phil, the Lawsons were all too happy, and very generous to Myrna: Daddy Bob bought her an expensive six thousand square feet house in Brentwood, and smiled good riddance to the female. Eerily, the morning of Myrna’s wedding, Bob’s stressed out body gave way to a massive heart failure, and two weeks later, his widowed wife Alice died of a broken heart. The whole affair was too much for Junior who proceeded to blow his brains out leaving Myrna an unexpectedly huge inheritance.

  Even dead, Bob Lawson was always in Myrna’s mind. Like a little girl still worshipping her daddy, she often recalled the last night before her wedding: she had spent it with her fabulous father. It was in the early morning hours when they had returned from an exaggerated pre-nuptial dinner that Bob had hosted for his one and only daughter. Exhausted, Alice had gone to bed but father and daughter had continued the celebration at home enjoying clean vodka martinis.

  “I love Latino music, don’t you,” he said to his daughter.

  “Well, Daddy, I think you mean South American music,” and she gave him a little peck on his chubby cheeks as he pretended some sort of cha-cha in their bar-room.

  “Mostly Brazil,” he smiled delighted in his luxurious condition.

  He had been to Havana when he was eighteen and had brought back two albums, “Havana at Night One”, and “Havana at Night Two” which he always played when he was making merry.

  “No city in this entire world is as exciting as Havana at night …” he danced the night away back in fun loving Havana, now happy to bring another closure to his successful life.

  “Besame, besame mucho … love me forever and ever … this last night together…” he danced and drank the night away.

  It was the very next day that his heart blew up while he was sleeping the day away.

  “Too many martinis,” said Alice.

  “You’re a horrible wife to say that,” said Myrna.

  “Go fuck yourself,” said the heartbroken mother who was now confronted with a wedding and a funeral at the same time.

  Life is so strange, thought Myrna, recalling the sad episode.

  *

  What to cook for her daughters came back to bug her. Pissed off at her every day annoying routine for the need to cook, she stood up, coffee in hand, and walked around her spacious sunny kitchen in deep empty pissed off mood. Finally, after innumerable loops of endless intentions, she decided that she would plan her menu as she shopped, later that morning, soon after her coffee, on her daily browsing of the supermarket aisles. It was too early after breakfast to start worrying about dinner for her two out of control daughters who pretended not to eat very much but ate everything they could forage in the house. Sometimes she felt like in the myth of the children eating the parents – or was it the other way around? Who the fuck cares about stupid myths? As if reality isn’t disturbing enough, she sighed.

  “I need some myths to push the loneliness out of my life,” she continued talking to herself like she was nuts. “Maybe my daughters will eat me as well, and I can disappear from this dizzy boring life.”

  She puffed and puffed and walked the counted steps around her spacious home.

  They are young and insatiable, easily persuadable by deceptive seducers of young girls sweet-talking them to have sex … these guys never think of marriage, only of sex, she rambled on without an ending.

  “Idle cats lick their ass,” she recalled her daddy saying.

  Better yet, laughing to herself, she remembered her daddy also saying “When the Devil has nothing else to do, he fucks his own children.”

  *

  When her dentist husband Phil lived with them, planning menus and cooking dinners were easy undertakings reminiscent of pioneering beef stew recipes that resided in Myrna’s DNA. She loved cooking for him because he was always appreciative of her efforts. In her kitchen she felt like one of those master chefs that come on TV in the early mornings to share ideas with their friends at home about the day’s meal. She was rich, but above all she wanted to be a good pioneering wife preparing meals at home.

  Like sweet Rachel et al what’s her name.

  But cooking for two daughters, only, had become an annoying drag. Unlike her Phil, who had been easy to cook for, her daughters always complained of the meals she prepared for them. Duplicitously they complained after gulping everything down, though, admittedly, the menu had pretty much shrunk to half-cooked, white only no spices, chicken breasts, and supermarket pre-tossed spinach salads, and what’s her name could go to hell.

  Lazily and without aiming to, her mind wandered to recall Phil’s favorite breakfast. It was a yawn, and she giggled at the thought. He would daintily scramble two eggs, sandwich them between two pieces of whole-wheat toast, with dollops of ketchup on top, and purposefully chew each byte slowly and deliberately unaffected by his wife’s and daughters’ presence at the table. She remembered how he would finish the ritual with a series of graceful sips of hot sugary decaffeinated coffee. He was a good simple man, quiet and shy, she now thought; but she still could not forgive him for so callously out-of-nowhere abandoning his family. Every time she thought of him, it pissed her off royally. It was beyond her how a guy like him, always exquisitely extending his little finger away from the rest, could father such beautiful daughters like hers, and then walk away.

  She again filled her huge mug with strong black very hot coffee, which was the way she drank it now days, like her daddy, bitter and hot, and hoped that it wouldn’t whack her too much. She drank the black coffee in a tenacious battle against her drooping ass and multi-folding layered waistline, and damn her high blood pressure. Not very elegant the way she drank her thick dark coffee without any sweetness. She didn’t care; it was simply something to do to pass her indifferent day away.

  From the kitchen window of her very expensive home, a gift from her All-American daddy, she could see the two tall palm trees, each inside the opposite corners of the privacy wall of her huge well-trimmed yard. They had been planted by her husband soon after their marriage. Growing powerfully straight and tall, they reminded her of her two daughters, especially in the spring. Like her beautiful daughters growing tall, the palm trees glistened in the morning sunlight as determined breezes swung them back and forth, and then straight up they stood to meet the blue skies and boundless heavens during the freshness of the day. The odor of the coffee and the thought of Justine and Meredith, the palm trees, and the brightness of the early Southern California spring morning mesmerized her.
Everything in her back yard was in full blossom. Looking at her exquisite drooping racemes of sweet pea flowering in purples and pinks, and climbing wisterias against her privacy walls that were competing with the jasmine bushes for cover, brought smiles to her early morning still without makeup face. Like the cool fresh flowers of her garden, it was an attractive face, hardly touched by time even at forty two, she thought, imagining her lovely natural complexion that was emotionally reflecting the sentimental moment. She watched two blue jays fretting on her expertly trimmed green grass, dumb happy for the day’s sun, and envied their untroubled life. A teal blue hummingbird implausibly weighed in the air, fluttered in and out of her red and yellow hibiscus shrubs, and tears came to her eyes, and she wished that she were twelve again. She loved her back yard and every day she would spend a lot of hours carefully cultivating its year round romance when not too busy daily tending to her two daughters and once upon a time to her husband’s feeding frenzies.

  She wiped the tears and went back to the kitchen table, took another sip of coffee, and thought how very much she loved her daughters. It suddenly occurred to her that her happiness was totally dependent on them; a discomforting thought, but true. Maybe it was the idea of love that, out-of-nowhere, brought another flood of tears to her eyes. She put the mug of coffee down because she was trembling. She couldn’t understand this sudden outburst of choke in her throat so early in the morning.