Fucking Vietnam Lullaby Point Bank, VA -- Late June 1969. I had just returned from Nam, and I was hungry for more than sanity. I wanted more than the ordinary round eye sex. Remembering the Point Black fuck motel from college before Nam, I pushed my life in that direction and before I knew it I was halfway down the Jersey Turnpike passing exit 9 going too fast and wondering if I ever would stop racing towards that wall where it might all end. Something about the Jersey Turnpike and its unusual scenery that made me feel right at home. Back in those easy days, one of my high school buddies had attended UVA, and I would shoot down there from Columbia. Once there we would run his wheels down a country road looking for action. We were just college boys with a buck in our pants, if you can believe that shit. When I found Paradise Cove trailer fell in love with its mixture of trash and dirty history. My buddy Richard saw nothing there, and we left, after both of us dipped our peckers. I returned the following weekend without him. Cindy Huston's trailer court kept me sane, but I was not sure how, until I remembered her life and my own sad skin in Vietnam. After I left Cindy, spending almost a week, I had vowed to return not for the sex exactly, but the unusual mixture of visual beauty juxtaposed with all the American trash you can handle. If you can imagine eating five to ten White Castle Murder burgers and three fries and a chocolate shake. No mayonnaise. Passing through the Baltimore Tunnel, six years later, I was tickled to be alone. I needed to breathe that fetid American air and gaze on worn down beauty of mountains and hills of tits and ass. I wanted pure sex without any pretense of love and affection. I just wanted cunt without any excuse you can name. After fourteen months of Hopalong Cassidy or MASH in slicks (helicopters) in Nam, I was ready to get lost not just in America but in her vital muddle of cheap sex, fast food, monster movies and women with an attitude you could really nail. I wanted truth really, but who knows about truth. I certainly was just a kid back then, and after real life war movies (I remembered Audie Murphy played himself in WWII) I sensed that death and sex were easy companions. Murphy never had any, and in NAM real and imaginary sex is all that I wanted in my mind or my mouth. PARADISE COVE FUCK MOTEL: When you rode past the Gas Station and Motel signs that led you inside Point Blank, you imagined you were in the old south riding on horseback down a dirt rode to a dark cabin where you might get a place to sleep, some burnt steaks, and beer. If you were lucky, you might find a cheap woman to wash your back in a steamy bath made up with hot with kettles of boiling water carried through the room to an old iron tub. The woman would be sassy, hard to understand, and have tough hands and worn skin. Some times in Nam, fantasy reached where the core never rested, and you are opened too soft, and left to dry out without any tenderness. I know I love to imagine such intricate bullshit and make into a mantra for a sore dick and swollen balls. At first when you rode into the falling trees, the white washed mansion hung back from the roadway and was hard to see in detail. Believing the ads I had expected grand vistas and a toy model of the Appomattox Park Court House, east of Lynchburg, where Ulysses S. Grant surrendered to Robert E. Lee in 1865. You have seen the picture in history books. Riding down the VA trail, I had expected lyrical graciousness and the dry painted mouth of a too young matron reclined in her pout, wanting to be served rather than a servant. I wanted that mouth to take my cock in layers like I would suck her cunt finding the inside of the vulva without sucking the outside just a casual exploration of the rings of her ass and when she moved on my lap I knew it was living. Riding up the blind gray skyline, up the hills, my car pushing grease, I entered the time lock of another daylight soap opera where sex was the morning page of a national fuck you paper like Screw or some silly tabloid with the fake of head of an infant attached to a goat with electric dildoes suspended from its ears. "On my right," I could hear the tour guide say "is the almost West Virginia trailer park, Paradise Cove, owned by Cindy Huston, as it rises along the ridge line where State Highway #311 and Craig County Road #18 cross." As I heard the voice of the imaginary fucking tour guide trail off into what passed for rock music, I knew the motel was still there. All my days in Nam I recalled it, and the silken shaved cunny of Cindy. I needed to know that my life-sustaining dream in Nam existed. I had to tell her she saved my life. Cindy had written me two letters when I was in country. In the first, she told me how sorry she had been to hear that I was going to Vietnam and how brave I must be, and in the second months later, received just after my R&R, when I almost lost it and ran too far away. When I opened that second letter, I knew she had led me alive again. In that letter, Cindy told me how she had hoped I would come again to dwell as she put it inside my hospitality. That letter seemed more an advertisement from a high-class whorehouse and not a broken down mansion in the middle of nowhere Virginia. What the fuck did I care. It was a love letter from home that didn't cost me an allotment or empty promises. I remember telling one of the guys in my squad how I looked forward to breaking down the walls with fucking when I got there back in the world. I screamed at this deep dark wonderful black soldier as we were advised to call them, not that I needed that advice, that I intended to fuck myself into kingdom come without dying. I told him how I would fuck that whore so hard the earth collapsed underneath the building. I remember the Sgt. who over heard what I had said respond. "Fuck, son, you'd be lucky to get out of tomorrow the way this shit sticks to our ass." Back in the world, all I thought about was getting me some, but now as I travel in this 5&10 American paradise cove the garish street front of a racetrack car parking lot brought me back to the sink hole brothels of Thailand. Back mid-tour, I wondered how I would live, or how I could die. I played the Stones as my car headed inside under the broken sign marked the motel. I remembered being drunk with two slope bitches and I seriously thought of getting drunker and then fucking them dead just before I blew my own brains out with the .45 I always strapped against my ankle when I was wearing the usual civilian dress of too loud shirt, slacks and comfortable shoes on leave. I am not sure why or how I made such a connection. The war in Vietnam should have nothing to do with this sleaze bag motel and it curved driveway leading up to a hill that descended on the other side to an open clearing about half the size of a football field. FAST FOOD MOTHER FUCKER There, sitting astride two greasy chicken and rib fast food station, Cindy Huston's trailer park had two large neon lights flashing, blowing over the halo, shaking the TV lights set up I imagined to mark the first Presidential speech ever given by a dwarf while he sank deep to the elbows in the largest twat ever known. OK, so I like to exaggerate. Almost hidden by more than fallen tree arms, vines and thick briars, the trailer park was closed in and off by heavy, ancient brown bark maple and some water oak; without cars and trailers, it could have once had the appearance of country estates with wide open drive and a large iron gate that had tumbled down like those old great haunted Hollywood movie monuments to the Northern free the slaves tyrants who with Sherman on his march politically had lost the great southern war. Just as toys at night seem to have many textures from gray to sometimes grief, my map of one fuck motel sat within the clutter of small plastic fences, and cannibalized stock cars. I still called it mythical knowing the perfect memory always has some flaws. Perhaps, it was my malaise and the fake joy I felt sloshing away in the worn out cunt of some twenty- five-year-old hooker who had been selling her worn pubic lips for ten years six years ago. Down the dirt road, where half naked colored children danced easily as an anachronism, a tin roof train station leaned far to the river side of the road way, marking its aged white doors, as heaven open and automobiles and motorcycles stopped your eyes as you reached up towards the black face of the sky before a storm. The dead train station stood in the fast lane without tracks or equipment. More than a relic or a statue, it marked the place where last summer in 1869 or was it 1870 Jake Wells shot himself to death while attempting to murder his wife's female lover, Anne Short. Anne was smart. Anne turned that gun back on the man, bending the steel pipe as a great Wrestler might break the ropes falling to his death beside the bald headed woman he brought with him to the match. She screamed so loud when the half nelson broke his wrist, and the bleach blond with the speckled tits tumbled off the canvas into the mud bath while the men and ladies cheered drinking bourbon and salt. Yes, Driving down death in NAM I played with History and her mighty come quick schemes. I thought anything to stay alive. In my mind as I rode those ten yards towards Cindy's open door in good old 1969 I thought, oh God prepares me for thy heaven oh Lord. Show me how to open my pants and preach the last words before I fall to my death out of sight of Jesus, my dick numb and my lips fully engaged in sucking pussy. Just like I imagined that historical Anne, hands raised above my head in chorus with all the other sinners, as the tender man died with his brains baked and refried at the lunch house later that night and his wife beating his ass home, his pants down over his ankles, tripping him up as she beats his back. Same man said he was hungry; the man lied to his wife. Creating this tall tale, he told his wife that the women simply fed him some soup and just by accident a tit popped out. Can't help that now, can I darling?" As I imagined the man trying to suck soup through a tit, or a straw, the scream INCOMING hit dark black night. I thought rather than what happened. They fed the poor hen pecked sap brains, Henry imagined. They must have lost the last chapter of the book when some new broad (in full color) crept over the hedge exposing her fur pie, open legged, darker, and then losing the echo of her voice as some visual signal, she followed the notes like Daisy duck did to Donald as they danced down some fucked up white lane to nowhere town. Inside the fantasy of the fake dream, in Nam or back in the world I heard an ancient voice clamor for my skin as if the devil was my eyes. Cindy appearing as her self in some big star production with cast and director in place startled the sinners by masturbating in the front pew while some Pastor who looked like the Captain joined the Hallelujah chorus as the great rock band from Alexandria, now that's hard to believe, sang all night before the bar maid came out and personally gave blow jobs to each grunt/band member behind a screen set up just for that purpose. She did it well, licking the tips after each grunt came. Making sure she swallowed it all showing them the shine on her teeth, and making sure every man got kissed with every soldiers leavings. I saw it all, Henry imagined, waiting again for the light and return to the place where he lost consciousness. Back in another more mundane reality, riding into the Cove courtyard, before getting out, I flashed back to a bar girl I had met in Saigon just before DEROS. She called herself Paradise, and when I tried to fuck her I found she was closed up with active clap. That is what life is like when filled with disappointment. I knew better than to rape her fulsome cunt although some horny Joe might have tried. Back In Paradise, behind what appeared to be a working well (stink of chlorine), beside the gray gas pumps long dry, and the necessary clutter I felt all the sad mistakes of my life. I traveled back to the women I used, the women who had used me, and in every empty gas tank, in every sun-baked car, we like all of there were parked in fourteen directions. Blocking this way in or out. Just like blocking pleasure with pain, or for some, pain with pleasure. These walls, these symbols that lead to that trailer park temple where Cindy Huston sucked and fucked for fun and profit had their own vocabulary. Crudely painted on almost every truck door panel that faced the street one subtle message: colored not wanted. Go another way. Odd because Cindy had a black lover, and two of her kids were tan not pink. Everywhere you rode, up and down the on the skyline, foul words prayed for cheap sex and dirty books, dancing parlors and blowjob halls. Beneath this holy canopy, two elderly white women argued, not too softly, about Jesus. Would Jesus save us all from Hell if we allowed the coloreds to mix and walk wit us without a by your leave. Paradise Court trailer park named by some randy fool who later lost his dick in a freak accident that had the whole town talking for weeks. Seems the gentleman, if you care to call him that, drunk out of his mind fell down between the screen door and the front door of the main house. As his dick was flapping out of his pant, when he fell he caught it between the hinge and the spring. The bitch that he chased, not liking the fuck much, instead of helping him free himself, slammed the door hard on his cock. By the time the cops got there he had nearly bled to death. "I wasn't going to touch his thing, no way," the bitch said, "not after the way he beat the shit out of me last week. I wanted the motherfucker to die. Too bad he lived. Left a piece of his dick in the door. He won't miss it. Who wants to fuck the old coot anyway." How did it get the name Paradise? Good question. It seems when the old fuck was shaking and crying he begged for paradise. Some old black hooker stuck her head out the door, and said, that me hon., but I ain't gonna do anything for that bloody stump, no fucking way. Everybody starting calling the camp Paradise after that old coot. Cindy loved to make things fancy added the word COVE said it stood for cunt. Of course it did and didn't. Yea, I heard the old bastard had a son who died on the Battleship NJ on December 7, 1941. We all have our prayers and our ways of being paid back for sex and sin or both. Poor toothless cuss never knew one grand kid except his nephew by marriage. He fucked him over for his social security check each month. Meet Cindy Huston. Welcome to her world. She is just an honest whore, working out of a trailer who believed and rightly so that she was God's chosen oral instrument. Cindy's perfect gams walked her backwards and forward down the path to a red brick house they say she earned by fucking some old rascal fifty years ago. Soon after he died, they say she took up God's word, and never kept company with any man or woman. A righteous sister the Baptist called her. A motherfucker, some of the more sage black men sang when she sauntered by the downtown store. Most believed she communed with Jesus. Cindy did, and she avoided the bitch whenever possible. That was her classic reply. All the tales we could spin within this fierce land. We could forget sex and the ordinary cat calls silly now when we mark them down, long after the anger or the stench of Nam and its shitters. We could keep track of it as a scroll of this ancient space, but the trailer park with its honest cold light held CH to her simple complaint, just give me a hard man who will fuck my heart out, holy mother of Jesus, please pray for me, my hands can stop my wandering lost in the million cocks and come pots placed underneath my dripping ass and cunt. Let us gather in the sheaves. What an odd mixture I thought as I opened the car door from the inside of my own pleasure, and there in the on coming headlights or the flare shifting down from the back of the slick, I felt my easy opening for the darker lights that shone whenever Cindy danced, parading her ass for an assortment of gents and girlfriends who like to drink, fuck, smoke dope, and get generally get it off each night. Danger spoke as I watched from inside my invisible fancy this handsome, long legged man walked through the lanes, carrying a large canvas roll strung over his shoulder. The open and closed ends were undressed, and if you knew that a sleeping woman was bound at the center, you understood how each step seemed a struggle even as the man walked shouldering the weight easy, without any pain or distance. At that moment all you had seen before transformed, and the trailer park opened like a pale dried flower bud shriveled from summer minding the stiff humid air closed around Cindy Huston as she prepared to walk three steps up the easy metallic stairs to the interior of the three room almost new trailer she won playing hearts and flowers with some funky slut who prayed for a pussy licking party and got cock in its place. Cindy was tall, with easy laughing eyes, and a darker wall, and nothing to stop her, but a closed hand that struck at her legs covering her, and settling what she did as she covered her legs with lotion listening on the telephone to some fucked up Yankee mother fucker banging her brain with his come while he lead her from the top of the trail to the bottom as she spoke louder than the first time, covering her orgasm, as the boy, Henry, who came down the road, laughing at her antics, sad, as the least sinner, she came down to the other side of the street, one tit free, and the other open, sleazy, like some easy mother, her nineteen year old daughter still sucking, flicking the milk from the free tit across the room at some Jack jerking it off while she watched nursing her baby man, so she says she imagined, feeling the let down, as the orgasm, nipple struck, and the toothless mouth pulled, grinned, easy like a man finding his mother separate from death playing with her fingers while she nursed, easily swallowed the milk, wondering why her mother's belly shook rattled as she groaned giving off the fast furious blood letting curdle of crawl, as her old man, come on hand, stood up, walking drunk and silly back to Cindy, and pushing her down, took hold of her mouth and fucked his still stiff cock deep into her spoils where she swallowed letting his prick stuck by too good joy and pleasure, at the end it hurt, or seemed as if he could only die, as the come raised from the dead cock leaked from his fish across Cindy's tit hitting his daughter on her cheek, and stunned, the woman, knowing the orgy had just begun, feeling the seed from more candy or other junk, shook it free, as Cindy put the full grown woman down, picked up her infant, and normally nursed the child showing that infant all respect due. When she finished, and infant was sleeping safe and protected, putting nipple back inside from under her shirt, Cindy spoke without a pause, letting the mumble of the ear and the electricity found in the soon to be soft, strike up the great hardon tale, and easy Cindy pumping up her tits, fell down, kissed the ground where her ass had held the great cock as statues from long ago making me come with anticipation as the fantasy dissolved in the grime of dirty boots and rubbers let loose in every frame. Henry walked outside the porch watching the story imagined he had blown in Cindy's ear softly cradled her head, turning her hair and the room was bright and open. She had light hair and a darker smile hidden by the loose curls cascaded down shoulders covering her huge breasts closed open when she pushed her arms together, bending over, exposing almost the whole face of the nipple, spreading the pace of pear, as an orbit colored with an ancient flesh paint. Henry, mesmerized, nineteen, reached for whatever she wanted. Reaching up, down, anything was easy too for the Lad, as Cindy called him, and careful, for whenever the young woman (not really much older than Henry in years) laughed, and the refreshment showed deeply, as the ample skin, and mouth, at least as dark as the morning when nothing was closed. Cindy had a strong chin, and angular jaw. Her eyes were round, open, fraudulent and innocent turned on herself, with a speck of violet and green. Just to show I'm a liar, she said, about her eyes, staring into a hand held mirror, as she turned quickly, placing the mirror face down on her dresser. I can't stand you too, she spoke to herself about herself, really smiling, convinced, and then pulling off tee shirt, stripping him of his, and putting it on. "You magical slut," Henry said, pulling Cindy back, gently twisting her arm, like he had seen Gable do, not to hurt, but direct, assert, and then throwing Cindy on the bed in one motion. "Don't fucking play," Cindy's bald and black old man warned Cindy, fuck the boy. He paid. Do it now, and no back talk, here, opening Cindy's robe, ripping off her underpants, the black duded finger fucking Cindy two wide fingers, pressing down and up, making her face tighten and scowl. Nothing else was said as the man brought Cindy to her knees for the boy. Hard the boy fucked her solid while Cindy's man laughed. "I lie too easily," Cindy said, and she reached down, turned and the curve of her hip pointed, as her legs open, falling on her back, allowing muscular boy/man to fuck her openly, in front of anyone, not caring if after he finished another fuck slapped his prick into her too loose quiff. He came leaking. Cindy wiped it away, and another lover watched peeping while she let it spill out sitting over the commode, the nineteen- year-old boy Henry had his face plastered against her pussy as Cindy peed. She was too drunk and fucked up to care, At the end the boy stretched his finger into her stream, as she stopped, he stopped it, the urine running down his forearm. He pushed at the folds letting her soft parts glisten while Henry pushed past the ribs to the other pelvis pushing his head back inside his mother-fucking vulva. Cindy held him on his return to mother and life. She watched while he licked and sucked at the swarm of sex making her pussy squeal with fifty blasts of orgasm drawn down beneath the belly and another five drawn down the spine to the toes and upward to her breasts and the circular drift through her milky teats and back down as lifted up her own tit to suck her own nipple clean off, coming through her teeth by God. She had the most wonderful face at that moment Henry was born a second time. "I like to watch men live," Cindy laughed. Paradise Motel trailer court, marvelous game. Wonderful. Everyone was involved. Skin was clean and the night had its peculiar strength as Cindy cupped his chest, struck off the dead man's mouth, and placed the infant back where the she child rightfully sucked her mother dry first emptying milk, then blood, and finally the come Cindy had sucked since her fourteenth year of her first great yes as permission. At twenty- nine, Cindy was almost old, worn down, but Henry didn't care. Six kids fuck up any one's figure. Henry was alive. That is all he knew. When the slick picked him up shivering, suffering from heat prostration, and hungry, fucked up with two rounds in the meat of his side, both passing through, Henry knew that fantasy, mirage had saved him. Perhaps it was a dream, but first chance back in the world he would find Cindy and tell her how out of the black hole of Nam she was the guardian angel. She sucked death away and I came waiting for the bird to sway hovering over the landscape carried by buddies up and home. Knocking at Cindy's door Henry found nothing. No one was there. A passing man asked Henry his business as he walked back to his car. He told Henry that Cindy ran off with a trucker last year. He told Henry that he heard that the trucker kicked her ass so much she finally took her own life. The passing man said he was sorry, and Henry kicking up some dust ran his car faster back down the road from Paradise Cove, and laughing said to him self, well at least I knew life once upon a time. How many grunts can say they were born again from the cunt of a whore. Sure, they say it, but they don't really mean it. Henry did.