Threesome with Mom & Dad

THREESOME WITH MOM AND DAD

or

THE CHURCH OF SEXUAL CONTENTMENT

I never knew my father while growing up. If you are thirty-five or forty years old, you probably knew more about him than I did. Why? Because twenty years ago, he was called ‘The Kid Bank Bandit.’ I’m sure you might have read about him. His story was the fodder for the TV evening news and newspaper pulp.

Here are a few clippings from that time and some recent ones that might jog your memory:

Dateline March 5th, 2001- San Francisco, California

Gary Weaver is being tried on federal charges for the robbery of three banks during the last six months. Known as “The Kid Bank Bandit,” Gary would walk into a small bank where only one guard was working. With the butt of a homemade sawed-off shotgun, he’d attack the guard, disarm him, handcuff him, and shoot the lock of the door to the teller’s cage. He’d demand the tellers “hand over the loot.”

One of the shotgun pellets took out the eye of a young teller. Delores Frumkin. Being a good Christian, testified in court while wearing an eye patch, that she had forgiven Weaver.

Sentenced to 30 years, Gary struck a defiant pose and shouted, “I’ll be back,” in an Austrian accent as he was forcibly dragged out of the courtroom to start his sentence.”

Here’s another clipping:

Dateline August 16, 2020 – San Quinton

Gary Weaver was released today, almost twenty years after the “Kid Bandit” was sentenced for a series of bank robberies. Weaver, no longer a kid, reformed and became a preacher who led the prison inmates as a church deacon. In relation to the and bank robbery that cost Delores Frumkin her left eye, Gary stated,

“At that time of my terrible act, I was young and wild and under the influence of Satan. It was he who pulled the trigger. I was just holding the gun. As for the lady Frumkin, I will do all within my means to provide restitution to this dear lady who has forgiven me, visited me in prison once a month for the past 19 years, and is the mother of my son.”

So there you have it, if that doesn’t jog your memory, it means you are very young or live in a cave without a TV.

Now you might be asking, “How did Weaver impregnate Frumkin while behind bars?” Rumor has it that a frozen sperm sample secreted in the middle of an ice cube was passed to Delores by someone in Weaver’s legal staff. During his trial. Mom popped it in her vagina, and voila– nine months later, I was born.

Dear Reader, you have probably figured out, I am Atticus Frumkin Weaver.

If there was any doubt who my daddy was, subsequent DNA tests when I was 14 months old were processed and announced on TV by Maury Povich, who said without hesitation,

“In the case of Delores Frumkin, Gary Weaver, who is standing by in prison, ‘Can you hear us, Gary?’ You are the father.”

God bless Maury Povich, who proved I was the son of Gary Weaver.

Of course, I was too young to know any of this. I was never permitted to accompany Mom on her visits to the prison. My parents had decided such visits would be traumatic and tarnish our family’s chances of normality.

My mother had petitioned President Obama, saying Dad applauded every time Obama appeared on CNN. Obama never responded, but his campaign committee did send me a stickup for the refrigerator. Mom called it a ‘stuck up.’

President Trump was asked to allow Dad an early release, and responded by asking if Dad was a Republican. Mom said he watched Fox New in prison and supported the President’s wall-building program. Afterward, we got a MAGNA hat in the mail that would fit a head the size of a peanut. We had hoped ‘the Donald’ would introduce us as a family unit during his State of the Union Address, but when their photographer came and saw we were not black, they scrapped our participation. A lovely family from Alabama took our slot. That same family was arrested six months later for scamming $13,000,000 from the stimulus program. I really admired them!

Nonetheless, it was the parole board who made the ultimate decision to let Dad go. They didn’t care what news channel Dad was watching or who his political favorite was. What impressed them was that he was a saved born again Christian who had a following in prison. They didn’t know much about the fudge packing or circle jerk sessions, and it is just as well.

Those events gave rise to the following sound bite:

“Frumkin and her son are expected to welcome ‘Dad’ back, upon his release from prison, after almost 20 years. Stay tuned, this week, live on the Maury Povich Show.”

I chose not to appear at the last minute, but Mom was there with her arms outstretched. After playing the old tapes, Maury even kissed her. He was so happy with the ratings. Mom said he smelled of garlic.

Mom drove two hours to the prison and brought Dad home. He gave Mom the $20 the Warden gave him. Mom used it for gas money.

Yes, I have to admit it. My father’s physical beauty surprised me. I’m not gay, but when I glimpsed him nude coming out of the shower, my cock started twitching. Dad was covered with erotic tattoos. I could not help but notice that his penis was very grand and quasi erect. Afterward, I figured out that he had just finished giving Mom her welcome home fuck.

Dad’s blue eyes reminded me of Charles Manson. They say that if you stared at Manson’s face long enough, you would become hypnotized. My father’s range of vocal expression was reminiscent of Jim Jones, whose excellent sermons Dad studied in prison. Dad patterned his preaching voice on Jone’s tapes. It was soft and constant, like the tide beating on a breakwater.

The Reverend Jones was an electric speaker who brought new meaning to a galvanized audience. Yes, that same Jimmy who fed kool-aid and arsenic to his followers on an off day was able to thin the 900 member congregation down to a handful. Dad viewed that result as Jone’s one mistake. Never thin your audience.

Dad was really something, someone you wanted on your team. After his years in the clink, he was a physical powerhouse, but he was always warm and loving. I didn’t realize at the time how caring he was going to be.

Once Dad was released, the media grew silent. The true story of his successful bank robberies was never shared with the newspapers. He confided in me that Mom had managed to put the money into a Cayman Island Bank and transferred it to a managed stock account in a noted Swiss Bank. After twenty years, it had grown to a sizable fortune, over $400,000.

The existence of the funds was never revealed to the authorities. Mom’s summer trips to Zurich for spiritual revival were where she’d cash in enough of the securities for us to live another year. We paid cash for everything we bought. There was no easy way for the feds to trace our fund’s provenance.

Mom played along, buying only dented cans and discounted veggies in roach-filled markets. The Fed’s efforts proved useless. They even went through our garbage. The Feds must have been afraid of bugs, big ones. After visiting Mom at her place of employment (the massage parlor), the federal agents stopped tailing her. Her hands worked wonders.

In the meantime, we kept a low profile and lived frugally. Of course, we had social assistance. Mom took advantage of any government or state giveaways. I did get sick of eating the complimentary large tins of free truckles. Even today, my stomach revolts at the sight of Mac and Cheese.

Somehow Mom managed for us both to be in the audience that wonderful day when Oprah gave everyone in the studio a new car. God bless her! I wanted to ask why there is a silent ‘h’ in her name, and since her real name is Orpah, why did she change it?

“Shut up? ” Mom, “You don’t bite the cow’s tit.”

I’d noticed that Oprah had two big ones, her dark nips were still visible under her white chiffon dress.

I also had some questions about that big dude that Oprah was paying to be her beard while playing ‘pin the pussy’ with Gail. Mom nixed those questions as well.

We did get to drive home in a rented car. It took a few months for the Oprah car to arrive. What a fucking lemon! I suspected it was one of those flood cars with engine rust on the bottom. We traded it in three months for a decent car, a little Korean model with a 10-year warranty.

If God is just, then why did our car get crushed by a city garbage truck? Somehow the nitwit driving the truck forgot to raise his forklift used to pick up the garbage cans. Instead, he hooked the bumper of the Oprah car and busted it up real bad. We were back on our bicycles Pretty soon, but Mom did get a payoff from the city a few months later. She had to give a thousand to the garbage man who dreamed up the whole con in the first place.

So as I was saying, Dad got out of the hoosegow just around my 19th birthday. You don’t have to do the math? A year in jail before trial, three months for the trial. Around the second month, the frozen sperm passed to Mom, who quickly slipped it into her snatch. Voila, nine months later, I was hatched. Mom said I looked like a little bird; big eyes, big nose, and a receding hairline from day one.

Once we were finally living together, Mom observed that I was a chronic masturbator all through my teen years. She insisted Dad instruct me on the birds and the elephants. At Mom’s insistence, Dad took me out of the house for a walk in the park. Once we hit the nature walk, there was a lengthy talk about the birds and the bees. Part of the ‘fascino’ of being a preacher, Dad said, was that all the men in the prison congregation fell in love with him.

“You have to understand, son, that the human body is a holy vessel. If there is no female pussy around to anoint, there are holy holes that men are blessed to fill as well.”

“Does that mean you were fucking men in prison?”

“Nevermore than a few a day. But the urge is always there, and I’m beginning to get a bit horny even now,”

When Dad placed his hands on my shoulders, right then I had a feeling I was going to be drawn into his sex life. I noticed he drooled a bit while patting my ass. Ending our sex walk, Dad said,

“There is plenty more I intend on teaching you, not by talking, that’s boring, but by practical demonstrations of the flesh.”

I was curious how Dad managed his sexual needs in the cell block. I wasn’t looking forward to finding out if he was some big guy’s Mary or if he’d found an ass that fit his requirements. It turns out he was boffing his psychiatrist and any other ass-pussy he could get close enough to in the shower.

“If you end up in jail, one thing I can teach you, son, don’t drop the soap in the shower,” Dad warned me.

I wasn’t planning on going to jail, so I paid little attention. It turned out to be good advice, especially in the community college football team’s locker room, where the coach invited me to use his private shower.

Yep, in a variation of a theme, Coach Littlefield kept dropping the soap and asking me to bend over to reach it for him. He almost nailed my butt a few times. After I smacked his wang, he lost his erection and calmed down. I gave up my extra credit position as a team ball carrier to Harvey Cardassian, who had the biggest ass I ever saw. That worked out well for the two of them. In the coach’s job security interests, I recommended Harvey lock the office door while showering.

Of course, Mom was 100% in charge of my sex life at home. By the time I was eighteen, we’d slept together and shared all intimacies that a man and woman could perform. Mom believed that incest kept family members closely bound to one another.

Mom said Dad would understand that she groomed me. I certainly hoped so. I’d seen plenty of son-mom romances on the Jerry Springer show that often ended with a brutal slugfest between the son and the Dad, fighting over the ownership of Mom’s puss.

Jerry always stood back. I don’t remember him ever talking about fucking his Mom, although I’m sure she was a nice lady.

Before Dad was released, our family consisted only of Mom and myself. I did not need to look elsewhere for sexual gratification. Although school chums were ass-grabbers and the girls were into tight clothes and showing off their tits, Mom was my tudor for oral, anal, or vaginal sex.

The only exception was Senior Prom night when Gilda Demeter insisted on losing her virginity in the front seat of her Dad’s Plymouth. She had even brought along a box of condoms she’d purloined from her brother. Being an agreeable date, I did my best to satisfy her. The only bugaboo was when the full condom got lost between the car seat and surfaced the following day when her Dad sat on it. After that, I was barred from dating Gilda. I didn’t care; I had Mom.

About six months before Dad’s release, Mom started wearing a strapon and familiarizing me with “taking it up the old kazoo,” as Mom called the act. I didn’t adapt to it easily.

Why? Well, it hurt, and she was forever increasing the size of the “Dicky birds” as Mom called the multi-sized dildos she used to stretch my bong hole.

Anal preparation, until I got used to it, was rather stinky. I did what Mom said. Little by little, I learned beforehand to empty my colon in the most hygienic manner. Then the act became less annoying. What I came to think of as “the education of my ass hole” opened my eyes, or should I say opened my ass to a new world of pleasures that previously I had only associated with my cock and balls. I realized that had I chosen anal on prom night, there wouldn’t have been the same mess up.

Here is a curiosity: When Mom blew me, before I came, she’d stop sucking on my dick and suck my balls, especially the left one, so hard and strong that I’d cum. My left ball seemed to get a lot bigger. Even Jose, the tailor, noticed when he asked what side I dressed on.

When Dad came home to live with us, I wanted to learn my family history. I requested Dad chronicle the three bank robberies, how, why, and what happened. I’ll put it in his words as much as I can remember. I’m told anal sex shortens one’s memory, but I don’t know if scientists have substantiated this fact. I’ve heard one famous politician’s wife claim she can’t remember shit from before her marriage. But, as any curmudgeon will tell you, you gotta try hard to make any marriage work, even if it shortens your memory.

Dad said:

“The first robbery took place on October 10th, 1994. It was a Monday. Columbus Day was the next day, the 11th. With all the upchucking about whether Columbus was a good or a bad guy, I wasn’t sure if it was still a holiday. In any event, I figured the banks were open Tuesday. I’d decided in church on Sunday, that is where I have always done my deepest thinking, that Tuesday was the day the Lord designated for me.”

“I got to the National bank on Oakhurst Street early Tuesday morning. I sat in my car in the parking lot and watched the employees enter, the early ones, the manager, and then the stranglers. I had compiled a dossier and knew who all the principal employees were.”

“Once they were all in the building, busy at their stations, I put on my Nixon mask, even though it was out of date. Tricky Dick had quit the throne in 1974. We were getting used to the new President Willie Clinton, who was busy fucking every pussy north of Mississippi except his wifey. She was getting her white water from some other stooge if you know what I mean.”

“I entered the bank and came up behind the fat security guard. I discharged a ‘stunner,’ a shocking electric device, right in his carotid region. BINGO! He went down like a sick bull.”

“When the bank manager noticed the security guard had crumpled, he ran over to see what had happened. I jabbed him in the ribs with a shiny.44 Smith & Wesson Safety revolver, the one with the safety built into the back of the handle. I steered him into the vault area with the sawed shotgun I held in my other hand. I knew where they kept extra cash. I told him we had his wife hostage, and if he did not cooperate, she would be shot between the tits.”

“You mean between the eyes,” he corrected me.

“Whatever,” I said.

He cooperated but said, “As far as I’m concerned, you guys can shoot my wife.”

After forty years, he was tired of his wife, and his young secretary was adept at giving blow jobs.

I asked, “Which of the women is your secretary,” figuring I had time for a quicky, but the manager clammed up. I had eyes on one of the employees, a black girl with tits as big as the moon.”

When we got inside the vault, Otto Grumsky and I were on a first-name basis. Otto filled my shopping bag with about $70,000 in new hundreds. Of course, he took a pack of hundreds for himself, saying, “They won’t miss an extra ten thou.”

I warned Otto, no ink packs, and told him to remain in the vault for ten minutes once I’d left. I said we were watching him and would kill his wife if he left precipitously.

He said, “Stop talking about it. Do it. It will save me the trouble of a divorce.”

Once we finished, I took his car keys and walked calmly out to the parking lot. Earlier I’d seen where he’d parked, right next to the sign ‘Parking reserved for Bank Manager.’

“I drove off in his caddy. Easy as vanilla pie, stopping on the way to hide the money in an abandoned storm drain. I’d packed the loot in a waterproof bag just in case of rain. It sure was a good place cause, safe and sound two years later, my wife was able to collect it.”

“But you robbed three banks, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah, but was kind of high on Molly and I don’t recall all the detail, but the one, the last one that cost Mom her eye, I remember that as if a motion picture in my brain.”

So that was Dad’s story, the way the mastermind lost nearly 20 years in the clink–what a waste. But now, at long last, the family was reunited.

The very first thing Dad did once he’d rested up was to sign up at Kaiser and check in for a few days to be tested for every known disease and STD.

“In prison, you never know what you are going to pick up ass-on,” Dad said. I guess ‘ass-on’ is prison slang for sexual activities.

When Dad was pronounced healthy, fit, and non-contagious, he came home from the Kaiser Hospital with a big smile on his face and a prominent bulge, and some wet spots on his trousers. A result of a lengthy final examination by Nurse Nancy Kilman. She had examined the length and breadth of his organ as if she was Mozart or Offenbach. Dad said she was doing ‘climatic research,’ but I think he meant ‘climax.’

Over the next few weeks, Dad devoted his time to the creation of a street chapel. Once his small congregation filled the large room at what used to be Sontag’s Ping Pong Parlor, Mom and I were ordered to address him as Minister or Father or Priest. That was when I had realized that Dad had evolved into a formidable religious philosopher.

As Dad says, “Jesus will forgive you, he will cut you slack, and all will be in good grace. In the meantime, keep your private areas clean as you never know when you may enter into a heavenly visit.”

Above the storefront entrance was written, blue letters on a cloud white background, ‘Jacobians–an Evangelical Sect,’ under that in smaller letters was ‘Church of Sexual Contentment.’ The name, ‘Jacobians,’ was based on Dad’s interpretation of the Biblical tale of Jacob’s Ladder. The ladder was the means by which one may approach heaven. By ascending each rung, the climber would be able to confront God after arriving heavenward.

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Dad also asked Mom and me to address him inside the church as ‘Father No-sin.’ His prison congregation had called him ‘No-sin’ because he taught that sex was a manifestation of Godliness. “We are made in the image of God,” said Dad, “by loving one another, we are worshiping the divine.

“Sex is not sinning,” he’d loudly proclaim to his congregants, “sex with a man, sex with a woman, even sex with your mother and father is holy. Any sex act is God’s kiss.” This doctrine went over well with the prison males who often felt guilty about their homosexual coupling. Father ‘No-Sin’ taught them that all variations of male on male were all acceptable. In addition, Dad was an antiracist; he encouraged sexual trysts between men of opposite races, lifestyles, and religions.