The Woman with 6 Kids

The Woman with 6 Kids

She was Catholic. My father wasn’t.

She was Catholic and divorced with six kids, so she only got half that equation right.

She was divorced with six kids and little education and a few years older than my father, which may be the reasons she and my father got along. Not that he wanted her or her six kids since he barely wanted me, but he probably fetched her and kept her around for a while because nobody else wanted her with her six kids.

I couldn’t have been older then 10. She and my father were together for the Saturday. Back then I didn’t know much about fucking but now I’d have to say that’s what they were up to that night. We were at our apartment and for some reason one of her daughters, the one a couple of years older than me, was there and spending the night with us.

My father and the Catholic went to a room, leaving me and the daughter to a bed to ourselves. To this day, I don’t know what that was. I don’t know the details of how and why all this fell into place. Was it some sort of test to see if one or both of us were gay? And where were her brothers and sisters and why wasn’t she with them for the night? Even today, I’m still not sure.

The lights were off. The daughter and I went to bed together. We touched and kissed for a long time. I remember being very aroused, though I don’t remember the specifics of what arousal for a 10 year old was like. I remember being very nervous, as if I was doing something wrong. Our parents were right down the hall in a room of their own . I remember being afraid that if our parents caught us fooling around, we’d be in terrible trouble.

My father and the Catholic didn’t date too long after that. She found another guy willing to accept her, so long as she dumped those six kids on her ex. My father never kept up with her or her kids after that.

It musta been ten years later, at least, when my father said he ran into that daughter somewhere. By then she would have been in her twenties. The thing I remember my father saying about her was how big her tits were.

Still today, I think it’s strange that the main thing to say about a woman you only remember from when she was 12 was how big her tits were.

My father wouldn’t like me telling this story.

But I don’t much like my father for being the kind of guy who commented like that on her tits.

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