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"How much longer?" he asked. "Just tit fuck a minute dear, I have to finish doing the laundry," she said. "Come on Ma! Are we going to have sex or what?" "Oh God," she moaned, "Will you please just give me a minute? I have to fold these clothes and set the stove on for dinner. Your father will be home any moment," she went on distractedly. "Exactly," he said, "come on, let's just do it before dad gets home."On "County Z" highway, my father and I talked tit fuck about Freud for the first and last time the summer after my fifth grade. The same best friend had learned about Sigmund from his parents as part of his second-wave hippie upbringing. He translated Oedipus to me the best he was able. I got, more or less, the gist and tried to impress my father with it. The conversation went like this: "Dad, did you know that all boys love their mothers when they are little, like sexually? That they want to have sex with them?" "Yea, that's right. That's true," he said. "And you know what? If you don't stop, then you become gay!"Years
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