Story: Daddy's Lessons   
      
   An Erotic Story   
      
      
      
         I'm not sure, but I think I was about 6 or 7 years old, When   
   Mother decided that it was time that all of us kids learned what   
   sex was, and how babies were made, so that we didn't accidentally   
   get knocked-up (or in the case of my younger brother, knock   
   someone up).  As I say, I was about 6 or 7.  My older sister   
   Karen, was about 10, my younger brother, Mike was about 5 or 6,   
   and my younger sister, Susan (Suzy, to everybody in the family)   
   was about 4 or 5.  Diane hadn't been born yet.   
         Oh yes, I'm Tamara Dugan (Tammy to my family and friends,   
   and you'd better be my friend, or you shouldn't be reading this).   
         The night I'm talking about must have been early in the   
   summer, because I distinctly remember that there wasn't any   
   school.  Neither that night, nor for quite a while afterwards.   
   As I remember, it all started when my little brother found this   
   magazine over at the dump.   
         Perhaps I'd better explain about where we live, so you'd   
   understand.  If you take the main highway north out of Chequat   
   (No that's not the real name of our town, but If you already know   
   where I'm from, you'll know what I'm talking about, if you don't.   
   This information won't tell you.)  As I was saying, If you take   
   the main highway north, out of town, you'll see signs saying,   
   "Chequat Sanitary Landfill," about 4 miles out.  If you continue   
   north, you'll come to a nondescript dirt road leading to the left   
   about a half-mile farther on.  The only sign, is a battered tin   
   label, saying, "Fire-Road #227," or something like that.  Take   
   that (bumpy) dirt road about a half mile, and go south on the   
   second dirt road to the South.  (If you take the first one,   
   you'll end up in a big hole in the ground.)  The road twists   
   first to the right, and then to the left, then runs up a little   
   hill to our house.  Nobody else lives anywhere near, except our   
   cousins, about another half-mile down the road.  There's a string   
   of mailboxes across from the landfill, and you'll find the name   
   "Dugan" on one of them.   
         Daddy both works for, and is part owner of the landfill, so   
   he keeps the mailbox there, as it's more convenient.  Daddy   
   doesn't really have to work, as he gets a good income from his   
   share of the company, but he likes to keep an eye on the place   
   (as it's partly his) and it's nice to have the money come back to   
   the family, instead of paying some stranger to do it.  (As you   
   might have guessed, the whole landfill, and also the sand-pit,   
   and Cement-factory are all either family owned, or at least owned   
   by relatives.  All of the Dugans, (and Carols, and McKinleys)   
   live relatively isolated.  When our great-grandparents split up   
   the big tree-farm, they let each of their 8 children have their   
   choice of a 160 acre parcel, and the remaining 4000 plus acres   
   were incorporated into a family-owned business.  As I said, we're   
   not poor.   
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
                                    1   
      
      
         Daddy works as a night-watchman, because he doesn't have to   
   either give, or take orders then, and he has a personal interest   
   in seeing that nobody steals anything.  Most of the family does   
   things like that.  For instance, Uncle Joe maintains the   
   machinery, because he LIKES being a mechanic.  The company hires   
   a business manager, to run the day-to-day stuff, and men to run   
   the machinery, but except for those five, everyone in the company   
   is family.   
         I'm telling you all this, so that you'll understand what the   
   dump means to us.  We always call it the dump; though officially,   
   it's the landfill.  The dump is over the hill from us, about a   
   quarter to half a mile, depending on what part you're heading   
   for.  We almost never smell the dump from our house, unless the   
   wind is exactly wrong, as the hill somewhat shields us, and the   
   prevailing winds go the other direction.  Still, we always know   
   that it's there.   
         All of us kids (including all of our cousins) are dump-   
   scroungers.  After the dump closes, you'll always find a group of   
   us poking through the current pile looking for lord-knows-what.   
   The family doesn't bury the day's rubbish, until after it's been   
   there, at least one day, as the whole family does this.  I've   
   even seen Mother poking around, when she was bored at home. Daddy   
   doesn't mind, as he used to do it when he was a kid, and   
   sometimes still does, for that matter.  He does insist, that we   
   wear gloves, and anyone found out at the dump without them, has   
   his dump-privileges revoked for a month.   
         Well, this time Mike found a pile of magazines, and sorted   
   through them.  You never know what kind of magazines you'll find.   
   One person's trash, is another person's treasure.  My cousin Mike   
   once found a stack of pre-world-war-2 science-fiction magazines,   
   and sold them for over $200 to an antique book seller.  These   
   magazines weren't like that though.  They were mostly paperbacks,   
   and pretty beat-up.  No pictures, and according to Mike, "Mushy   
   stuff."  I wish I'd scavenged some of them, before they got   
   covered up, but by the time I thought of it, they were buried.   
   Several months later, I found a batch of my own, but that's   
   another story.  This time, just when Mike was about to give up on   
   finding anything interesting, he found that one of the books was   
   slightly larger than the rest, and had pictures in it.  That one,   
   he brought home to look at closer, as he couldn't read the   
   writing, and the pictures were funny.  He thought it might be   
   valuable.  Well, it wasn't valuable, and yet, in a way it was, to   
   our family.  Two years later, I traded Mike for it.  He made me   
   pay through the nose.  He wanted my share of the TV-video-game-   
   set that our grandmother had given both of us.  I know now, that   
   you can't buy books like this any more, anywhere.  So maybe I got   
   the best deal after all.   
         That night, Karen, Mike, and I were sorting our latest   
   "acquisitions," when Mike asked us, what we thought this magazine   
   might be worth.  At first, I thought it was a nudist magazine,   
   and I was kind of scornful, as we ran across them all the time in   
   the dump.  At least I thought that, until Karen said, "Let me see   
   that!" and reached for the magazine.  At first, I was tempted to   
   hold onto it, until Mike's look reminded me that it was his   
   magazine, not mine.   
      
      
                                    2   
      
      
         (Our parents strictly enforced the rule, that what we got   
   from the dump was OURS, until we either gave it away, sold it, or   
   indicated that we no longer wanted it.  There was a special bin   
   out in the garage, where we put dump-items we no longer wanted,   
   and every one was free to go through it.  Once a month, Daddy   
   emptied it out.  Even Daddy and Mother didn't break this rule.   
   If we found it at the dump, and we wanted it, it was OURS.  My   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)