I'm Dating Our Mailgirl Ch. 09

Mama came in carrying a bed tray. She was followed obediently by Kyle dressed in his boxers. “Mama, you’re drunk. You should be passed out in bed.” I laughed.

“Monica, you know the Ross family Thanksgiving tradition.”

“But we usually do this around 9:00. We’re all sleepy, it’s after midnight and you’re still three sheets to the wind.” We all knew that was in no way intended to be an insult, but just a statement of fact.

9 reprimanded me, “Monica, don’t talk to your mother that way.”

I explained to 9, “Mama always serves us pumpkin pie and pumpkin spiced hot tea at the end of the Thanksgiving evening.”

“Oh, that would be so nice!” I gave 9 a look as if to admonish her, “Don’t encourage her.” But to no avail. The next thing I knew we were all eating pumpkin pie and drinking spiced tea. 9 and I kept the sheet over our lower torsos but our breasts were exposed. For 9, no big deal, but except for the wild events at the dinner table, I might have otherwise been a little embarrassed. But I was not.

We all consumed the offering, got rid of Mama and Kyle, looked at each other and giggled wildly. “Your mother is a piece of work. And I’m beginning to believe you are a chip off the old block.”

We made love far into the night.

FRIDAY MORNING

The next morning, in keeping with our tradition, I took a shit with the door wide open. For a brief moment, I got nostalgic for Joyce. I wished she could be there to get a nose full of, what she referred to as, my fragrance. I still wasn’t use to 9’s fragrance. We showered together. I paid careful attention to cleaning out 9’s rectum, but I was afraid I wasn’t going to have ample time to inspect it beyond a quick inspection with my finger. I dressed, casually; 9 not at all. We went down for breakfast. We wound up going to the Cracker Barrel in Alpharetta for breakfast. 9 did get dressed.

When we went in, 9 started snickering. “Do you remember how we tried to shock everyone at the Cracker Barrel back home by kissing each other?” I modestly lowered my head trying not to extend the conversation. We were seated and 9 grabbed me, pulled my head to her and made up for a lot of lost time.

“9, please. Not in public.” I pleaded. Strangely, Mama is the one who reprimanded me.

“Honey, if you love someone, you should never be ashamed to show it.”

“But you always used to tell me a lady does not engage in PDA!”

Mama answered, “I think we can make an exception here. It looks to me like these old geezer need to have their pacemakers jump started.”

9 burst out laughing, “That’s exactly what Monica told me when we kissed at the Cracker Barrel back home.”

“Troublemaker.” Mama’s laugh gave away she was poking fun at me, as if I didn’t realize it.

9 GETS ANOTHER DOSE OF SOUTHERN COOKING

Friday night, Mama wanted to take us to a fine restaurant. We went to the South City Kitchen. The name, which suggested a restaurant barely one notch above the Cracker Barrel, belies the 5-star menu and its excellent reputation as one of Atlanta’s finest restaurants. Mama insisted on ordering for everyone. No one really objected. Certainly, she knew my and Bubba’s preferences. but 9 was game and trusted her. “We’ll have a Georgia Peach salad and a field pea salad, pimento cheese and pita points, two orders of fried green tomatoes, and the chicken livers. We’ll share the entrees of grilled quail and braised rabbit, collard greens, butter beans, and salted potatoes.

“Mama, have you lost your mind? 9 is going to think we all live in Dog Patch and look forward to roadkill stew on special occasions.”

Now, Sissy, you shut yo’ mouth.” I don’t hear Bubba complainin’ and certainly Miss 9 is much too refined and polite to say anything.” She may not be from the South and she may not speak the same language as us, but 9 had the biggest shit-eatin’ grin on her face. And, oh, yea, also noteworthy, this was the first time since our “coming out” that Mama used the terms Sissy and Bubba. But I’ll come back to that.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Margaret, I just love it when you treat her like a misbehaving 10 year old. And she just tucks her tail and gets quiet. Can you teach me how to do that with her?”

The meal was absolutely sumptuous. 9 ate a little of everything. I was afraid she wasn’t going to leave enough on the plates for the rest of us. There was a lot of food consumed.

At the end of the meal, the waiter came back to take our dessert order. “One order of pineapple upside down cake, one bruleed banana pudding, a pecan blondie and a slice of hummingbird cake. Oh, and four straws.” The last phrase was the traditional way of saying bring 4 forks since we would all be sharing.

I could understand 9’s bewilderment, “Is it really made from little hummingbirds?”

“No, silly, it’s called that because it’s so delicious it makes you hum with happiness. Others think the cake is named because it’s sweet enough for hummingbirds. Some say people hover around the cake similar to the way hummingbirds hover around flowers. But perhaps it was named after the way the cake draws people in and is eaten quickly, similar to the eating pattern of those tiny energetic fliers.”

There had been a lot of liquor consumer. I may not have realized how much until I took a big bite of the Pineapple upside down cake. “Mama, do you know that pineapple makes you cunt juice taste sweet?”

9 screamed at me. “MONICA, DO YOU REALIZE YOU JUST TOLD YOUR MOTHER YOU WANT YOUR PUSSY JUICE TO TASTE SWEET?”

“And you tell me you don’t want it to.”

“You’re drunk! Drink some coffee,” 9 ordered.

Mama actually took a big piece of cake, and fed 9. “Here, dear, I don’t want you to be causing my daughter to have any bad tastes in her mouth.” 9 and I both turned beet red, but the whole table erupted in laughter.

A BITTER HISTORY LESSON IS LEARNED

When the meal was over, Mama said, “I’ve got a great idea. Let’s take 9 to Stone Mountain!”

“Mama, she’s not 12 years old. Besides its nothing but an old piece of granite.”

Monica, that monument encapsulizes our struggle for states’ rights.”

I was genuinely embarrassed. “MAMA, WE LOST THE WAR!” I whispered to 9, “I’m sorry, I told you mama would have been in her element if she had been born 100 years ago.”

To my chagrin, 9 persisted. “I’ve never heard of Stone Mountain. What is it?”

Mama launched into her lecture, “It’s a monument to the brave men who defended the South during the War of Northern Aggression.” I could only roll my eyes. “It pictures Jefferson Davis, Stonewall Jackson, Robert E Lee atop their favorite horses, Blackjack, Little Sorrel and Traveler.” I was mortified.

“She even knows the names of their horses!” I exclaimed in exasperation.

“If it’s a sculpture, as an art historian, of course I want to see it.” The next thing I knew we were entering the park at Stone Mountain. When it came into view, bathed in bright lights like a football field, 9 could only say, “My goodness, it’s huge.”

Mama the tour guide told her “It’s nearly a third of a mile high. It’s the largest bas relief in the world. Let’s see all those Confederacy bashers try to tear down this monument.”

“9, Mama really isn’t an unreconstructed Southerner. She fought for civil rights in 80’s when she was barely in her teens. She is not a racist, but I did warn you she fits in better in the antebellum South than modern times.”

9, ever the art historian, moved the conversation back to the mountain. She observed, “It may lack the subtlety and artistic quality of Michelangelo and da Vinci but they never dreamed of attempting anything of this magnitude.”

I looked at 9 in dismay, “You’re comparing the works of Michelangelo and da Vinci to a carving on a big chunk of granite? Seriously?”

“9, slavery will forever be a blot on the history of the South. Any time a human being is forced to perform work for another in a demeaning manner, it is a shameful activity. Those who enslave are destroying the humanity of a human being. They should be condemned in their works.” Did Mama realizing she was describing in a sense how Seahawk was treating 9 and the mailgirls?

Mama continued her lecture on the Civil War. “Sherman passed just south of Roswell on his way to Atlanta. He marched through Decatur and started the burning of Atlanta.”

9 perked up with the mention of Decatur. “Decatur? I had a great, great, great, I don’t know, I lost count, grandfather, Olaf Rasmussen, who wrote a letter from Marietta which my family still has. It just refers to their waiting to march to Decatur, but it doesn’t say anything about Atlanta. I never had any realization of its significance to this place.”

“The burning of Atlanta! That war crime was to come 3 days later.” Mama was dead serious. 9 looked at me, absolutely mortified.

9 got a look of terror on her face. “Oh, Monica, do you realize our ancestors may have shot at one another?”

Mama was revved up. “William Tecumseh Sherman. He should have been hanged from a Georgia Magnolia tree as a war criminal. We didn’t actually have any relatives who died during Sherman’s march. But we did have two ancestors who died during Picket’s Charge at Gerrysburg.”

“Picket’s Charge?” 9 burst into tears. “Oh, Monica. I had two relatives who served in the 1st Minnesota Volunteer Infantry Regiment. This is terrible. I’m sorry. I am so very, very sorry I brought that up.”

Mama smiled. “It was a long, long time ago. And look at you two. You may have had ancestors who were firing at each other, but now you have kissed and made up.” That seemed like a very mild way to put the caresses we have exchanged.

Mama give 9 a quick history of most of the battles that had been fought around Atlanta, Buck Head Creek, Marietta, Kennesaw Mountain, Chicamauga, “My God, Margaret, my ancestors may have shed their blood around here. You are really making my family history, of which I know very little, come alive. Thank you. Thank you so very much.”

“Tell me more about this Olaf Rasmussen,” Mama asked.

“He immigrated to the United States from Sweden in the 1850’s. They settled in Minnesota because of the similarity in climate.”

“Is that your family name, dear?”

“MAMA! You can’t ask her that.’

“Come, come, dear. I can’t see a boatload of 9’s landing at Ellis Island from Uppsala Sweden.”

“Mama, Ellis Island wasn’t even established until the end of the 19th century.”

“Well, thank YOU for the history lesson, Miss Smartypants. 9 knew what I meant, but she was much to polite to correct me.”

9 redirected us away from a mother admonishing her little girl back to her family history. “With marriages and a strong tradition of bachelors never having children, my parents name is now Christensen. My parents are Nils and Daniella Christensen.

I had to refrain from screaming at my mother. “I’ve been trying to find this out for 3 months. I feel like George Costanza when he found out Kremer’s name was Cosmo. I can’t believe it. What has taken me 3 months, it took you less than 3 days!”

“Monica, I told you I have become estranged from my parents. Please respect me and let this information rest in a very hidden and secret place,” 9 pleaded.

“Of course, I will.” We embraced and kissed passionately.

“You, and Margaret and Kyle are my family now. Margaret, you have a very soothing and welcoming manner about you. I had never wanted to share this information with Monica, but I’m glad I shared it with you. As long as we are able to put the grief and woe back into Pandora’s box, I’m glad I shared this burden with all of you.”

“My parents never shared with me much of my family’s Civil War heritage. You made it come alive for me. Margaret, you truly are my family teaching me to cherish those family traditions I had never known until now.” She hugged Margaret, still crying, “Thank you!”

We returned home in almost compete silence. Much had come from a visit to a rock, recognition of ancestors who may have fired at or even killed one another, alienation from a family 1000 miles away, lost identity that had been found with melancholy.

We arrived home and retired to our respective bedrooms. 9 disrobed, as did I, and we got into bed. “Monica, I feel very sad. Can we just go to sleep?”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Oh, no, no, no. I just feel very melancholy. I’ve upset Margaret, inadvertently, of course, but that makes me sad. Please just hold me tonight. We embraced and fell asleep.

SATURDAY -- OUR LAST FULL DAY IN ATLANTA

The next morning, we showered and 9 was more responsive to my embracing. I licked her pussy as she licked mine. I took particular care to massage the various crevices of her sweet vagina with my tongue. I explored her anus and brought her to orgasm. I had an orgasm just in performing that act. I came again when we turned around and she planted her tongue in my pussy. I dressed and we went down to breakfast.

Mama had gotten over her melancholy and the meal was very cheerful. “Margaret, thank you for last night.”

“It was very intense. Are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?”

“No, no. In a strange way it made me aware of my own mortality, how fragile life itself is. Two brothers each enlisted in the 1st Minnesota volunteers. One was shot and died and the other lived. If it had been the other way around, why I wouldn’t even be here now. There would be no 9. I wouldn’t have had you. Now I want to spend as much time with those close to me, those who love me as I am. That’s all of you.” Again she kissed me in front of Mama, not the first time, but the most intense time. “Monica, I hope I never lose you.”

I spoke up. “This is our last full day in Atlanta, we’re flying out tomorrow evening at 9:29. Tonight, we’re going clubbing. Mama you’re going with us. We’re going to meet up with Jill and set the town on fire.”

9 stopped me, “Uh, Monica, not really a good image, under the circumstances.”

“I’m sorry. We’re going to paint the town red.”

“Or at least 7 pastel colors of the rainbow flag.” We laughed at this imagery.

We explained to Mama and Bubba that Jill was the lesbian stewardess we had met on our flight. I texted her to make sure we were still on for tonight. I suggested 8:15 for supper, our treat. It was all arranged.

Bubba drive us and as the little brother, I told him he would be the designated driver. He protested and said, “What if I get lucky and one of the lesbians wants to take me home?” 9 wasn’t offended by that remark and I just chalked it up to his being his usual annoying self, a trait he had kept in check all week up until now.”

“Bubba, the only luck you are going to have is hooking up with some 6’4” transgender queer with a 42DD breast and a 10 inch schlong.” That quieted him down.

MY SISTER’S ROOM

We got there at 8:00 so Jill wouldn’t have to be by herself before we got there. Jill came in promptly at 8:15 and was, in fact, by herself. Introductions were made and we ordered our supper. It wasn’t the most extensive menu, but there were plenty of appetizers, burgers, tacos and quesadillas. 9 said we’ve been pigging out enough all week, maybe we should start tapering off. She was delighted to find beer cheese curd bites on the menu. “More Wisconsin than Minnesota, but I’ll take them.”

Mama ordered some buffalo battered cauliflower. “You girls need to eat your vegetables.” Never mind they were prepared in high cholesterol, artery hardening fried batter.

We all laughed, “Spoken like a true Mama.” Soon 9 and I and Jill were dancing. 9 asked Jill to dance first just to make sure she was not ignored. I got in a few dances with her and then 9 and I hit the floor. Even Kyle found a girl who wanted to dance with him. She was there with her girlfriend, but apparently they weren’t too militant. He also danced with her partner.

When we came back to the table, Mama, the ever gracious host, was talking up a storm with Jill. We found out later they had laughed at how I had not come out before and Mama caught 9 and me naked in bed Thursday morning. We told her about 9 and Amber eating the Thanksgiving meal naked. We also filled her in on how 9 had shed her clothing early on. We were all laughing and having a great time. Jill invited Mama to dance. Mama had protested and acted embarrassed. Jill tried to convince her, “Come on, Margaret, don’t be such a prude. I’m not asking you to have sex with me. At least not yet.” She winked at us all. “Margaret, I’m 33 and probably closer in age to you than these two whippersnappers.”

“Well, not quite.” She filled Jill in on the census demographic information about all of our ages.

Jill persisted, “For heaven’s sake, I’m not asking you for a date. Now get your homophobic ass out on the dance floor with me.” Mama gave a wry smile, took her hand and they disappeared for 30 minutes. 9 and I joined them on the floor for a couple of dances. We could tell they were having an animated conversation. I wished I could have been a fly on the wall. Finally after a slow dance, where Jill had been holding Mama sensuously, 9 poked me frantically and pointed to them on the dance floor. They were actually kissing, or rather Jill was kissing Mama, but Mama wasn’t coming up for air.

When they got back to the table, I and the 4 beers I had consumed asked, “So, Mama, is Jill going to be my stepmother?” Mama turned beet red.

Jill patted my cheek, “You should be so lucky! I’m curious, is the daughter’s kiss as nice as the mother’s?” With that, she kissed me. Frankly, not as intensely as she had kissed Mama, but our tongues touched even if they didn’t explore fully each other’s mouth.

Jill went back onto the floor with 9. Kyle was dancing with his new friends and it was just me and Mama. “Monica, your father died a few years ago. I really haven’t found anyone I wanted to date, but it hasn’t bothered me.” She looked me straight in the eyes, “but I’ve missed that warm human touch. I felt Jill’s lips on mine and I closed my eyes. I didn’t even know it was a woman’s touch. But it was much more gentle than your father’s kiss. In one sense, I didn’t care that it was a woman, but in another sense, I was glad to have been embraced, . . .and kissed a person that had been able to relate to me on a warm, human level.” I smiled knowingly, caressed her arm and then her face. We held hands until 9 and Jill returned.

At the end of the evening, around midnight, Jill said she had to call Uber since she hadn’t driven. She had wanted to be able to let loose. We told her we would give her a ride home. As we were all walking out to the car, 9 and I held back. We could see Jill and Mama holding hands. 9 asked my in a low voice, “Should we kidnap Jill and bring her home?” I know she was kidding, I think, but I did wonder how we could pull it off.

Jill gave Kyle her address in Peachtree City, a community near the airport. “That’s way on the other side of town,” he protested. I spoke up, “Why don’t you come home with us and we can drop you off in the morning.” Looks were exchanged all around.

Mama jumped in, “Well, we do have a spare bedroom. You two carpet munchers aren’t going to be using it.” We giggled at her use of that pejorative term.

“Now, Mama, I don’t want to come into your bedroom tomorrow morning and find you two in bed, naked.” Jill was familiar with Mama catching 9 and me in bed Thursday morning.

Jill asked, “So what if you catch us in bed but we’re not naked?” She and Mama exchanged winks and big grins. Mama initiated the gentle kiss. They were still holding hands.

“I’ll tell you what. Mama, you come tuck 9 and me into bed tonight. I’ll assume you’ll take Jill to the guest bedroom. She can fit into one of your nightgowns.”

Jill interrupted, “Or I can just sleep in the nude like I usually do,” She and Mama again exchanged winks and smiles. Mama quickly added, “She can sleep naked since we won’t be sleeping in the same bed.”