Secrets Of A Gay Marine Porn Star Read Online Free PDF

Southerner will tell you, family is of utmost importance. Grandpa Merritt’s house was there, and right next to it was our house, and right next to that was the house of my aunt and uncle. Our house was small; my grandpa built it in 1963 for my parents. We had a big front yard and a driveway, which we shared with my aunt and uncle. There was an extensive wooded area behind our houses that sloped steeply down to a winding river. If you kept on going down the road another mile you would come to a little town called Piedmont built on the banks of the Saluda River.
    At the time I was born my father was working for Duke Power as a meter reader. Soon after I was born my mother went to work doing bookkeeping and secretarial stuff for a big chemical conglomerate.
    I loved my mom. She was beautiful and tender and we were very close but sometimes, it seemed to me, she had trouble expressing herself. For as long as I could remember, I was always, always, always trying to do little things to make her proud of me, but she never seemed be able to satisfy my hunger for approval. She did feel proud of me for many things—my sensitivity, my thick hair, my thoughtfulness—but she wasn’t always able to express it. Or maybe I just needed to hear more than she was able to give.
    In the mornings, before my mom left for work, she would take me to Momma King’s. She was my babysitter and the one person in life to whom I could do no wrong. She spoiled me, buying me the kind of apples I liked, making me pinto beans for lunch, and things like that. To this day—and she’s in her late eighties—when I visit her she says, “Richie, do you remember when you were two years old, I was dusting the light, standing on that footstool, and you came in and said, ‘Momma King, be careful. Don’t fall, you’ll hurt yourself.’ At two years old you were the most thoughtful little boy.”
    And that’s the kind of thing my mom would never say to me. She would never point out that I was considerate—because she wanted me to be even better. Yet Momma King made me aware of all those little things I did right. Things like that stand out in my mind because they were so important to me at the time.
    One sunny October morning in 1970, I was staying over at Momma King’s and I remember walking across her driveway as Daddy pulled up in his 1960 black Ford Falcon. Momma was in the passenger seat, looking radiant and lovely, as every mother should appear to her three-year-old child. My mother always looked that way to me. She was holding something across her chest.
    Momma King had already informed me that my parents would be bringing my new little baby brother home from the hospital that day, but I was unprepared for the sight. I was overwhelmed. I had seen Mom hold babies before, but not one of her own. Seeing her sitting there, beaming with this new child, was like magic. She seemed complete. Daddy looked handsome and content, sitting in the driver’s seat with his wife and two sons within his reach. I could hardly believe it—I had a baby sibling! I was thinking, This could be fun! Jimmy, my baby brother, looked like a toy I could play with, he was so cute. We were a happy little family with a promising future ahead of us.
    Sadly, although I did not realize it, Momma King would never again be my babysitter. By the time my mother returned to work several years after my brother was born, I had started school and no longer needed a full-time babysitter.
    But throughout my life, I visited Momma King every few years. People frequently remarked that it was so sweet of me to visit this lonely old widow. Well, perhaps it was sweet of me, but I didn’t visit Momma King only for her sake. I also visited her for my benefit. Everyone needs someone who has known them from an early age, who loves them unconditionally and who believes that they can do no wrong. Momma King has always been that person in my life. Her love flowed freely, extravagantly, unencumbered with