Gay Interracial - Sex Stories

Gay Interracial

... inner picture of what she was doing these days . . . for fun. **** We had always been happy together, the three of us. Mom was there when I got home from school. We'd talk in the kitchen until Dad got home. Every night we had dinner at exactly seven o'clock, because Dad and I liked to watch Star Trek reruns at six. We'd eat dinner, and then most nights we'd take a walk in Riverside Park. We were a good family. Like most we had our problems, and like the better ones they were handled with care. Now that I'm an adult and understand relationships I have a deeper picture of their problems. My mother had always wanted another child. Even then I could see the look in her eyes at the children in the park, and now I understand why my father stiffened whenever she pointed them out. She spoke often to me about what I was like when I was little, and I knew from the sound in her voice that I was killing something inside her by doing what all boys do: growing up. But whatever disappointments they had between them, they were managed, they never flared above a low simmer. But the earth shifted on them, the January day my father was laid off, the snow day when I was home with mom, and we heard him walk in the door and saw first the flakes of snow and ice on his uniform, and the look he gave my mother. Dad was a 44 yearold bus driver who never went to college. He tried. There were many nights when mom and I ate alone because he was out in the suburbs looking for work. I'd say goodnight to ...

... him while he was sitting at the kitchen table, pecking slowly at the typewriter in a cloud of cigarette smoke. I'd lay awake, listening to the tap of the typewriter. So there were a few weeks of intense effort, but that was all he had. By the early spring, the phone stopped ringing and the typewriter was back up on the top shelf in the closet. He'd be sleeping in the morning when I left for school, he'd be asleep in the recliner when I got home. They were desperate for money. My mother came home and said the car was gone, and when they made a few phone calls they learned that the finance company had taken it away. My mother went to work. She was even less employable than my father - the only job she could get was a ticket collector in a ancient movie palace on Broadway and 107th where she once took me to see the Sound of Music. That was a long time ago. The surest sign of their panic was that she swallowed her reticence and kept the job even after they started showing XXX movies. Mom was working, and Dad sat home, floundering in some backwater of despair. He blamed the world for what happened to him, complaining that "none of them paid the fares." I had no doubt of that "they" referred to blacks. There was a puzzle though. I remember when I was small hearing him talk of his bus as if it was a fiefdom, how if there was any trouble, if anyone dared to sneak on, or smoke, he'd stop the bus and "take care of it." He didn't say what he did, all he said was that he "didn't need the ...