As a young teenager I would leave for school every weekday morning equipped with the tools my mother felt I needed to endure the day‘s tribulations: a stomach filled with bacon and eggs, a school bag filled with pens, pencils, note books, and text books, a brown paper bag filled with two bologna sandwiches, a juice box, an apple and a cup of pudding, and a prayer filled with annoying, though sincere, concern.  This last item was of the utmost importance to my mother, so out of appreciation for the preparation she placed into my day, I suffered it with a pseudo smile to satisfy.  Then I would walk past the ‘Footprints In the Sand’ poem which my mother had been inspired through blind faith to hang on the wall, reminding me of her overzealous fanaticism for faith.  Each afternoon when I returned home from school, I was greeted by my mother’s plastic smile, carefully crafted makeup, and chequered apron.  She would have a small snack waiting for me which would hold me over until dinner which wasn’t served until my father was delivered home from his day at work.

Weekends were a different routine altogether for my mother.  On Saturday mornings she would suit up for her aerobics workout and sweat to the oldies for several hours, while in the afternoon she would blare gospel music for what seemed like a hellish eternity as she diligently cleaned every crevice in the house and sang along in a voice that was neither fair no fine, but very flat, and very loud all the same: this was one of the many reasons I never brought friends over to the house.  Sundays were plagued by lectures which vainly attempted to illustrate why it was important that I go to church.  I usually conceded to do, but only so I could check out the girls in their form fitting skirts and erection-inducing stockings.  Weekends were capped off with a roast beef dinner which was escorted into our bellies by a prayer of appreciation (as all meals were in our home), and a family movie which I usually tried to skip out on.

The odd thing about my mother though, she never went to church herself.  She always insisted that I go, but she would never come herself, nor did she venture out in public much at all.  With all her praise and worship and off-key singing, I always thought this to be odd so naturally I had asked her about this, and on a number of occasions, but never once did I received a satisfying answer from her.

One evening I was at my friend’s house in the summer between grade ten and eleven, attending a ‘house party’ that would have been more aptly named a sausage fest.  We were doing the things sixteen and seventeen year old boys normally do: drinking, smoking, and trying to get laid.  My friend Jake had invited three times as many girls as guys to this party, but as was the case with too many parties that summer, the girls just didn’t seem to show up.

That’s when Jake’s older brother decided to ‘bless’ us by lending us a porno video.  I had seen a couple videos on the internet, but nothing that was over thirty seconds long, and nothing that wasn’t shot with a night-vision camera.  This would be my first official experience with porn.

Jake’s brother was kind enough to give us an introduction:

“Ok ladies, this is what we adults call ‘Grade A, Triple X Porn.’  The chick in this one was the wildest of the wild back in her day, and my friend’s older brother handed it down to him. I naturally lifted it when he wasn’t looking, and now, I continue this sacred tradition and hand this video down to you.  You are about to watch Sharon Cox, aka: the Cum-Bucket, take on three guys in clown suits in this epic porn about a carney groupie who was starving for some monster clown cock.  The film?  Circus Sex with Slutty Strippers.  And now, I present to you, the lovely Sharon Cox!”

The premise sounded lame, but I was excited to see tits.

A living room full of desperate virgins leaned forward to watch and Jake’s brother pushed the tape in.  It hadn’t been rewound so it started right in the middle of a scene.

There was a juicy plump ass, sticking up in the air and a mop of red clown hair bobbing back and forth as some anonymous clown defiled this young woman.  This girl was groaning and moaning like primal beast from Animal Planet.  “More cock!” she begged in a voice that seemed uncomfortably familiar.  “I need more clown cock!”

The fat scallywag in face paint responded.  “Send in the clowns!  This cum-bucket needs more clown cock!”  Two more depraved scoundrels in white face paint and rainbow coloured afros walked in and proceeded to rearrange ‘Sharon Cox’ so that all three clowns could be adequately accommodated.

Jake’s brother interrupted:

“This is called ‘double penetration,’ or DP for short.  It’s when a girl has one guy’s cock in her pussy, and another guy’s cock in her ass.  Sweet shit man!  This chick is a nasty whore!”

It was at this time I finally caught a good glimpse of Sharon’s face.  The hair was teased, and the makeup was heavy, but birth mark on her neck gave it away: Sharon Cox was my very own mother!

I was dumbfounded as Jake’s brother continued his commentary:

“That was an ATM, short for ‘ass to mouth.’  Sick shit.  It’s when a guy takes his pecker outta the chick’s ass and then puts it in her mouth.  Nasty!”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  Some fat guy in a clown suit called my mom a cum-bucket?  I’m sure I would have been just as disgusted if some stud with a veiny, nine inch dick was debasing my mother, but it somehow seemed worse that this fat sack of shit with a needle dick was ordering my mother around like a dog.

“Double anal!”  Jake’s brother erupted with right fist pumping in the air.  “This is the best part!”

I’m not even sure how my mom and these clowns got themselves in a position where two of the clowns could both be in her ass at the same time, but they managed it somehow, and it seemed all to easy for them.

I was trying to look away, but it was like a train wreck.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. And to think, I had been drooling over my own mother’s ass when the tape first started.  Disgusting!

The next scene reminded me of a joke I’d heard in school where a woman fit a bowling pin in her ass, to which I responded: “That is impossible.”  Never in a million years did I ever imagine that my own mother would prove me wrong.

“This is only one of Sharon Cox’s movies.” Jake’s brother continued:  “She’s got a whole shit load.  There’s: Dirty Street Whores Vol. 73, where she sucks and fucks random guys off the street, Things That Were Never Meant Enter a Woman’s Vagina, American Bukakke Vol. 69 and Prison Pussy Vol. 13, where she plays a desperate prison guard who gives herself over to over thirty horny prisoners. Oh yeah, and The World Largest Gang Bang, an eighteen hour fuck-a-thon where over five-hundred guys line up to take turns with this skank.  Not to mention all the chick-on-chick flicks she did.  Man does this slut love eating pussy!”  He paused to watch the movie before continuing: “Now comes the facial!” He threw his hands up in a double riff as if he were some wanker rocking out at a Guns and Roses concert.

The three clowns proceeded to take turns ‘dumping their loads’ on my mother’s face and chest.  That’s when Jake’s brother clarified the difference between a ‘facial’ and a ‘pearl necklace.’

I couldn’t believe that was the channel I entered the world through.  These… clowns had… I couldn’t bear to watch.  Then my mother proceeded to licked the cum (or ‘sicky man juice’ as Jake’s brother called it) off of the breasts that I, as an innocent infant once suckled for nutrition.

Jake’s brother continued to catalogue more movies.  It seemed that he had her entire filmorgaphy memorized: “This skank even did a series of sci-fi porn flicks that integrated the two greatest sci-fi traditions together and turned them into lustful space odysseys: Star Whores: the Next Penetration, Star Whores: Deep Space 69, Star Whores the Girth of Khan, and of course Star Whores: The Search for Cock. And of course there was the Citizen Kane of sci-fi porn: Lust in Space!”  I didn’t want to picture my mother with a third breast, or with blue skin, or with purple dots and giant floppy ears.  Nor did I want to imagine the orifices that the Klingon and Vulcan porn stars would be penetrating, but still, it all flooded through my mind.  My mom with a Wookie?  Or a Ferengi?  Or worse yet, midget dressed up a Yoda?  I still shudder to this day.


I didn’t stay for the scene with the elephant, which Jake‘s brother toted as the greatest scene in porn history.  Instead, I feigned illness and walked home.  But it was on that day, a hot August evening, that I finally discovered why it was my mother didn’t care to go out in public much.


Subsequently I have joined a Buddhist monastery where I intend on spending the rest of my days in quiet deliberations.

Rambler About Rambler

Jason John Horn is a writer and critic who recently completed his Master's in English Literature at the University of Windsor. He has composed a play, a novella and a number of short stories and satirical essays.

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