A Novel by Mona LaVigne
This is an excerpt from the NaNoWriMo novel:
...Angelica lit a cigarette. "I, uh, I know you and I have not gotten along all that well over the last year or so. I mean, we have our good moments, for sure, but you know what I mean. We have not had exactly the most friendly relationship. But, I, um, I just want to tell you that I am really grateful to have you around. Gysana…" her voice trailed off again and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her sobs. "Mitchell Reinhardt, I am just glad you are here to help raise this child. And no matter what happens, I wanted to say, you know, thanks."
Mitchell Reinhardt did not know what to say to her little speech. His mind was being ripped in a million different directions, the most prominent of which was, of course, guilt. He still could not believe that he had been so sloppy as to let Tamra, that little bitch babysitter, walk off with Gysana. And all because his dick had taken control of his mind. He had to stand there and talk to that woman, Cheryl (even though she WAS pretty hot) and let Tamra take his daughter and go to get ice cream. Had she even gotten ice cream? Or had she just taken Gysana and run? Or had the two of them been kidnapped, maybe? Whatever the case, no matter the circumstance, it had been his fault. It seemed to Mitchell Reinhardt that most of the mistakes and accidents in his life had been the direct result of stupidity in terms of his genitals…
It began at midnight on his thirteenth birthday. His mother, in a heroin-induced stupor, had passed out after the Carvel cake had been served, and his father had decided to take him to a brothel on the seedier side of town.
"Son," he had said when they were standing outside the front door to the unmarked building, "there comes a point in every boy’s life when it is time for him to become a man." Mitchell Reinhardt had looked at his father in that same innocent way that all boys look at their fathers when they are not making any real sense. "This is your time, kiddo."
They had arrived at the whorehouse and Mitchell Reinhardt, trembling with both fear and excitement, had his first sexual encounter with Miranda, a tall, buxom blonde who said she was from Los Angeles. It had been quick and painless. Painless, that is, until about a week later, when Mitchell Reinhardt developed a strange burning sensation whenever he would urinate, which also seemed to be with more frequency than usual. Of course, a quick shot or three of antibiotics took care of that, and once the discomfort passed, he remembered how good it had felt to be inside a woman. For the whole time he was in high school, he had sex with no fewer than fifteen women. A few of them were younger than he was, some of them were his age, but most of them were older. Much older, in fact. There had been Mrs. Hamilton, his biology teacher, who had offered to help him out with some "extra credit" homework. There was Mrs. Larimer, his next door neighbor’s mother. She had been paying him to mow her lawn twice a month in the summer. One day, after seeing him shirtless, sweaty, and dirty, she coyly invited him in for lemonade. Mitchell Reinhardt was not too bright, especially at the age he was then, and fell for her trap like a bee to a sweet, sweet flower. He came into some unfortunate times after having sex with Mrs. Larimer.
About three weeks after their first encounter, and about five hours after their twelfth encounter, Mitchell Reinhardt woke up in the middle of the night, only to find himself face to face with the business end of Mr. Larimer’s 12-gauge shotgun. Terribly afraid of having his brains splattered all over his cowboys and indians bed linens, he pleaded with Mr. Larimer to spare his life. "I’ll do anything you want, sir, please!" he had begged. Not a wise thing to say, he thought to himself five minutes after uttering the words, as he strained his neck with Mr. Larimer’s cock in his mouth and the cool steel of the shotgun leaving a wicked mark on the middle of his forehead. So many years, so much trouble into which he had gotten due to his libido. The worst (and best) of which had been with Mia. No, he did not really care about her, and yes, he had, in fact, murdered her in cold blood in the local state park while she held their baby in her arms (while she was breast feeding, no less). But he felt that for all the errors he had made with his cock, the one good thing, Gysana, his baby girl, made the others seem both incredibly trivial and extremely worthwhile.
Mona LaVigne is a writer from New York City.
November 26, 2002
Gysana: The Novel
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