Lolita’s Mother 33

Sexy woman in boots and a school girl skirtCongratulations to Lily and all the folks helping her out at eLust Sex Blogs for getting to the 1oth edition I’ve had a great time participating and appreciate the effort you put into your great publication.


Life is filled with so many ironies. Cruel twists of fate.  Odd coincidences.  Apparent contradictions that are all but constant in everyday life.

The name her mother chose for her was one of them.

Lolita was a tall thin raven haired beauty, but the irony behind her mother’s choice in name was the fact that despite at 18 having resembled Nabokov’s infamous character, she was not at all coquettish.  She did not consider herself particularly pretty and was oblivious to the fact that the rest of the world found her completely ravishing.  The pulses of both men and boys quickened when she was in sight.  Women guarded their lovers and eyed her with jealous suspicion as she approached with her long elegant stride.  Lolita remained clueless to this fact, offering only a shy smile that could easily be misinterpreted until she spoke.  She was not the nymph and temptress that her literary name sake was.  Instead, she was decidedly intellectual and academic in her pursuits.  Until her 19th birthday, carnal desires were of no significant interest to her.

Then there was the case of Lolita’s mother, Rebel.  Rebel was in every sense of the word a very self- aware person.  Unlike her progeny, the woman who went by “Reb” to friends and enemies alike was exactly the type of woman whom young men’s mothers warned them about.  She dressed in an elegantly provocative manner even when she attended Sunday services at the local Presbyterian church.  She had been a fixture in the third pew on the left since they day she moved to her small city. Since that time, she became infamous for her tempting strut and brazenly swinging hips.  For her ample and often- featured breasts, a woman once criticized the cleavage displayed.  Rebel simply looked down at her own chest before she eyed her critic and replied.  “Well Honey, had Eve not eaten that goddamned apple this wouldn’t be an issue now, would it?  Besides, if the good Lord didn’t want me to have them, they wouldn’t be like this.”

While this might have seemed like a rather playful deflection, in truth, it was direct assault on the other woman. They believed her long kept-secret was that she had had Rhinoplasty and a few nips and tucks along the way was a matter of national security.  She instantly knew that Rebel knew. Going forward,  she  decided to keep her opinions to herself.

Lolita never gave it much thought. She was peripherally aware that her mother’s style seemed a bit ‘over the top’ at times, but it was never a matter of quality or taste.  Her mother was not tawdry or trashy like a street corner whore.  No, Rebel was a fashion plate whose tastes were in perfect sync with her times living in big cities. It was a mixture of LA pretensions and South Beach ease.   Her home and her cars reflected the same style.  There were always men other than her father talking to Lo’s mother.  It was as if she courted their attention and affections. Reb would would toy with them like a spider torments the prey that had flown into its web.

When Lo was a teenager, couples would come by the house from time to time.  There was a regular set of friends and the occasional younger woman.  Lo grew up going to socials at the club and to dinner and theme parties at her house.   Both of her parents were successful business people. Having people over to socialize seemed perfectly natural.

For as long a Lo could remember, every other Saturday night was ‘date night’ for her parents.  During her teenage years, she never thought twice about how nice it was that her parents both dressed up even more than usual to just go out with each other.  Lo would spend the evenings with sitters or friends as she got older.  She read and studied all the while; keeping an eye on her future when she could escape the small city she grew up in and spend her college years in California.

In so many ways, Lo was her mother’s daughter.  She had her mother’s long thin legs, and had she wanted to, she could have easily picked up Reb’s home-wrecking stride.  Lo had her mother’s high cheeks and thick wavy hair.  Despite the rumors and whispers, her mother was the rare creature with honest- to-goodness natural blonde hair.  Lo’s chestnut locks came from her father.  Unlike her mother, who was drawn to the theater and all things literary, Lo was a math and science geek.  She may not have had a wicked bone in her body, but she was wicked smart and she couldn’t understand people who were not.

Nothing had ever seemed to be hidden from her.  Her parents were open about their bodies and sex, talked frankly about politics, and their views on religion.  Intellectual discourse and honest conversations and debate occurred with unrelenting regularity.  Lo had traveled all over the world and seen the richest, most privileged parts of society. In contrast, she had walked through some of the poorest of the poor.  She understood the context and her place in between both of those worlds.  While Rebel flirted and fawned over others reveling in their attention, Lo longed for something more.  She longed for something more so like so many young people had throughout our country’s history:  she traveled West to make her life attending a large California University.

Rebel was never at a loss for words, but as they packed cartons that would be shipped and delivered to her daughter’s dorm room, the self- assured mother looked over at her daughter and offered, “You know, Honey, there may be some things for which your father and I haven’t exactly prepared you.”  Lo was a young woman who had confidence.

“I’ll be fine, Mother.”  After all, she was not going to California to be a star, a model, or some other useless and improbable flight of fancy.  It was not if she didn’t know that people were less than trustworthy and many were dangerously promiscuous.  Lolita knew all these things.  She was not some poor country bumpkin about to turn up in the big city.

“ I know, Baby, but you might learn or hear some things that will be shocking.  If you do, just remember who you are and who other people have always been to you” Lo nodded at the rare, awkward conversation continued.

Like so many other girls her age, Lo went away to college. She loved walking in the early morning sunshine down the palm tree-lined streets that led from the dorms to the lecture halls and labs.   A year passed. She visited home in the summer, but quickly returned to school for additional classes.   She was happy and content at having the charmed life that she had always dreamed of.

During the second week of November in her sophomore year, Lo sat listening attentively in her Abnormal Psychology class.  As the class concluded, she crossed campus to attend one of those classes that could only be taught in State of California’s University system:  The History of Sex in Entertainment.   It counted as Fine Arts credit that needed to be gotten out of the way.  It fit her schedule and would be a relatively easy “A”.  To date, the class had been predictable. It was filled with harmless innuendo, old school, grandmotherly embraces, and had moved through a few edgy classics in the 1960’s and 1970’s.

As Lo sat down and opened her notebook, a guest lecturer was introduced by her professor.  The man looked strangely familiar.  It had to be coincidence, but her sense of Déjà Vu only grew stronger as the man spoke. There was something eerily familiar about his speech pattern, something unique to his cadence.  Perhaps he was someone she had heard in the background on a TV show at some point in her life.   Fifteen minutes later, Lolita sat stunned as he detailed the history of pornography. He had worked through backroom stag films, pin up girls, and nudie magazines. He talked about his role in the 1970’s and how, by the mid 1980’s, pornographic movies would move the venue from seedy theaters and quarter operated booths in seedy shops to the living rooms and bedrooms of more and more American’s.

It was completely out of character, that she was fixated by the conversation from the withering old man who was an admitted pornographer. Yet, it was more than academic.  While other hormone- ravaged classmates found the conversation stimulating and alluring in a deeply carnal way, Lolita just couldn’t look away.  She knew something strange was going on. Perhaps it was her reaction to her such a graphic topic. Then as he changed the slide, it was there.  How could she not see it the picture had sat on her mother’s desk her entire life?  It was Uncle Bobby next to her mother and on the other side was her father.  They  were young.  Lo touched her chin.  She looked at the aged man on the stage and studied his chin and his neck.

Her grandmother’s words rushed through her mind, “I will never understand young women and their May to December romances.”  She remembered how Bobby had been a fixture around holidays until she was in her teens. She never knew how or if they were really related.  Snapping out of her daze for a second, the man on the stage changed the slide. Suddenly, there was her mother in all her naked glory as a young woman.   The whispers and glances in her home town suddenly made sense.  Her mother hadn’t been a model, an actress or the town whore.  No, her mother had been not only a porn star. She was a paid whore who had sex in front of cameras for money and brought sex in to the average family’s homes.  She couldn’t take it her perfect existence was falling down around her.

As the lecture continued, she stood up in the center of her row and made her way to aisle in the dark auditorium.  She turned to leave. The voice called out from the stage “Miss, wait a minute. Please.”

She stopped and turned, still having every intention of getting the hell out of there and gathering her thoughts.

The speaker froze and flushed a troubling shade of red.  For the past 45 minutes, he had been talking about filming sex acts so deviant for their era that the Federal government had tried to prosecute him. Now, one college student looking at him had stopped him in his tracks.

He asked in a barely audible voice, “Lolita?”

She trembled uncontrollably looking back at him, “Uncle Bobby?”

The old man just nodded.

She sat down right where she stood on the stairs.  He resumed his talk in a somewhat odd and scattered manner.  His talk was less bold and more subtle.  It was as if he had begun telling his life’s story to someone that really mattered.  Not once did he look away from his daughter.  For the first time in her life, Lo finally understood what had always been there.

She sat there silently with tears running down her beautiful face.

In more than one way, this was her awakening.


About Malflic

Minor Demon, life long hedonist, sadist and general nerd. Women are my weakness and greatest addiction of choice followed by torrid love affair with coffee and caffeine. When not committing sins of the flesh I'm an unrepentant capitalist, avid reader, Star Wars, and B rate comedy movie geek.

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