$100 Girlfriend

Once, when I was in her trailer, waiting to pay our monthly lot fees, I watched as Miriam told Tammy Welles, the resident of Lot 28 that the death of her infant daughter might be an unexpected expense, but her lot fees were an expected expense.

"So sorry for your loss," Miriam said, in a tone of voice that said he, she, it did not really care about Tammy's loss. "But your failure to plan is not my concern. Have those fees here by five o'clock, or I will lock you out."

"No room for compassion in that queen-sized heart of yours?" I asked him, her, it as a sobbing Tammy rushed out of the trailer.

"Arlington Estates doesn't pay me to have compassion," Miriam snapped at me. "I have to pay my lot fees, just like everyone else, hear?"

I knew Miriam did not pay lot fees. But I didn't say anything, just paid my lot fees and left. Then I found Tammy and 'loaned' her the lot fees.

That was a huge mistake on my part. Within two months, Tammy had borrowed an additional four hundred and fifty bucks from me. The last time Tammy approached me for money, it was Martha that let the girl know the bank was closed.

Why didn't I make myself or Martha the manager? After all, we owned the property. In the land of the blind, the man with one eye might be king, but I'm willing to bet most of those blind resent the hell out of the king.

The same would be true of the residents of the trailer park. If they knew we weren't just another couple in their midst, they'd surely revolt. The majority of the residents would make sure we regretted living among our tenants.

Proving my point, when Doug Farmer, the resident in Lot 12 bought his wife a brand-new Buick sedan, someone keyed the hell out of it, and painted 'Bitch' in paint remover on the driver's door. Someone needs to tell the nameless asshole, 'Bitch' has a 'T' in it.

Even minus Miriam's salary, Arlington Estates provided us with almost two thousand dollars a month income. I worked every day, Monday through Friday, and some Saturdays on a construction crew. This gave us enough to live on and live quite comfortably.

Martha did not work. She suggested it, but I kissed her and told her that her job was to make me happy.

And she does a pretty good job. Most of the time, Martha is running around our double wide trailer, naked as the day she was born. She's packed on another twenty, thirty pounds since the day I rescued her from a Greyhound bus terminal, and it looks good on her. If the sight of her nude body isn't enough to bring life to my Mr. Woody, the occasional scent of lavender lotion will do the trick.

I send Linda eight hundred dollars a month in child support, one hundred a week per child. For my troubles, I'm denied visitation, even denied telephone contact with my daughters. Once a week, I call my ex-wife and ask to talk with Rose and Iris. And once a week, I'm told that they do not want to talk to me.

Twice, we travelled from Dallas, twice we sat in a courtroom, and twice the legal system showed just how stacked against men they truly are. Both times, the court ordered Linda to make my girls available to me, but both times, they failed to assess or administer any punishment against her for failing to do so.

I continued to send the money, continued to send my half of medical and educational expenses. I sent birthday and Christmas presents, even though I never received any acknowledgement of these gifts.

The drugstore down the street was going out of business, so I bought every bottle of lavender lotion they had. Martha laughed as she helped me store the thirty-one bottles and tubes of the stuff. Then, she grabbed one of the tubes and invited me to break the seal on it.

"Know what? We need get married," I said as I slid the closet door closed.

"Hmm. Charged you hundred bucks be your girlfriend. What you think I ought charge you be your wife?" Martha asked, squeezing me in a fierce hug.

"Forget it; I don't have that kind of money," I smiled and kissed her.

"We can set up a payment plan," Martha suggested as she knelt on the bed.

And then suddenly, I had almost enough. I at least had enough for a down payment.

In 2006, someone did a search and found out that I was the owner of twenty acres of land in Arlington, Texas. They offered me two million, one hundred thousand dollars an acre. Some negotiations, some haggling, and I had two point nine million dollars in my bank account.

Whenever an opposing team travels to Dallas to play the Dallas Cowboys, I delight in pointing out, 'see that blue truck? Right there by the north gate? That's where our trailer used to was...'

Of course, when they were negotiating with me, the army of lawyers and paralegals did not let me know that this would be the site of a Dallas Cowboys stadium. Had I known that; I would have milked a little more out of them. After all, what good is a stadium if there is no available parking?

I used some of that money to hire a good lawyer and I was finally able to see my girls. They'd grown quite a bit in the seven years since I'd seen them. At first their attitudes were quite ugly to me and to my wife. For the first two months, they wouldn't even call me 'Dad' or 'Daddy.'

"You never sent no money," Rose accused.

"Yeah, Buddy," Iris agreed. "Lot of times? We didn't have no food."

"Girls, you want to see, I can show you proof your father sent eight hundred every month," Martha quietly said.

"And what about our birthdays, huh?" Rose demanded, not appeased.

"Can show you yeah he did," Martha again intervened.

"Those two Vietnamese dolls for your seventh birthday, the new bicycles for your eighth..." I ticked off on my fingers.

"Those was from Momma Belinda," Rose declared, but some of the steam had left her voice.

To be close to my girls, and to be close to Martha's family, we bought a house in Gonzales, Louisiana. Alcohol had taken its toll on Martha's mother; she was damned near wet brain by now. They were living in Section Eight housing in Baton Rouge, living off of her mother's Social Security Disability. For a month, we moved them into our home. After a month of Momma's drunken screaming tirades and the two sisters stealing our things and inviting strange men into our home, we moved them into a nice trailer in a trailer park just outside of Denham Springs.

Martha's brother was nowhere to be found and Martha's two sisters did not know where he was. Martha had no desire to find him, so we didn't look.

As for Marco, he'd been found in the trunk of that hummer of his, bullet holes making him nearly unrecognizable. The strung-out junkie next door neighbor of mine was eventually charged with Marco's murder.

Adolescence brought on a whole new level of 'bitch' from Rose and Iris. I understand that the time of the month can bring on quite a bit of discomfort, but it really gets overused by Rose and Iris as an excuse for their ugly attitudes. Martha has that time of the month too, but she does not become an angry, spiteful ball of bitterness.

Being brought back home early the first time they gave us shitty attitudes resulted in a screaming match in the front yard. Rose and Iris were the ones screaming; I just threw their tote bags out of the car and drove away.

The second time got me the same results; Rose and Iris screaming their hatred of me and 'that fat ass whore' as I threw their overnight bags out of the car.

The third time I grabbed their overnight bags off of their bunk beds, Iris quickly apologized. Rose wavered for a minute, then caved as well. For the rest of the weekend, they were well-behaved. Sullen, but well-behaved.

We bought the trailer park where Martha's mother and two sisters live. We also bought a trailer park in Pineville, another in Ville Platt, one outside of New Iberia. All in all, they're a good and steady source of income; there is no shortage of people willing to live in a clean, well-maintained park.

For my forty fifth birthday, my beautiful wife bought us a motorhome. Sometimes we take Rose and Iris along on long weekend trips to different sights. But most of the time, it's me and my beautiful Martha driving the highways of America. She likes to sit in the passenger seat, skirt pulled up to her waist, playing with her pretty little pussy. When she thinks I'm not paying enough attention to her, she'll get out the bottle of lavender lotion, grease up her fingers and show me those fingers sliding in and out of that delicious, tight ass of hers.

Right now, we're driving through Atlanta's rush hour traffic. Okay, we're really at a dead stop on I-285, waiting to take the I-85 north exit. My cock is getting hard as I smell the scent of lavender lotion.

**.**

With thanks to Bebop3