Gods and Molases

A nudist-cult camp away from the crowd.

n the underling years of my ABCs and getting my mouth washed out with soap, my sister and I made do with sneaking peeks as mom screwed the hermit preacher. You wouldn’t believe the number of times, my sister and I had to confess to the man who drove a Cadillac, from the dealership he worked in Savannah. My mom delighted in being saved, several times a week. It showed in her glow. Forcing us to witness her transformation. Whatever that meant as she went down on the hermit and other salespeople. She called them the disciples of Wynter Parrish. The community where we lived.

The 40 acres soon became a nudist haven for wayfaring bible thumpers and sharecroppers who grew sugarcane The human body and mind, unashamed, unfaked. This is how I lived it, +aroused with sexual passion and no taboos. It’s an imperfect world but it’s my molasses.

I arrived at puberty’s door failing to take advantage of my hand. My mom ruled with an iron claw and forbid the leakage of semen. I love her dearly and over the years, she has softened. We were “homeschooled and spent several summers at a nudist colony for Christians. It didn’t work out so well.

The other kids my age in the commune, did not shy away from their nudity, but my size or lack of made me self-conscious. I had become close to a kid name Kole, and we traded blow jobs. Sometimes several times a day. My sister became a confidante, but with demands. Then came the little red dress and her insisting that I get a cock piercing.

I had recently been sneaking out at night to rendezvous with Kole wearing only a pair of my mom’s panties. The evening vespers brought with it the viewing of me in a dress. The choir hummed, mom cried happy and my sister went below my dress.

I was morphing into a dream, not knowing that the gods had come home to roost.

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