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Fucking young daughter ass

My daddy is Prime Minister. I was born in the back room of a whorehouse on Popeshead Street. I lived there with my mother. I was willowy and almost ghostly compared to the force of nature that she was. The backroom that we lived in was not the whorehouse where she worked, but one in a series of rooming houses — home to mostly immigrant women and their offspring. Their conversation was like the different parts of a multilingual choir: a bit of Spanglish, some Jamaican, and a sprinkling of Guyanese. It was like music — the rapid pitter patter, the lazy rabble-dee-dash, the rhythmic round up round up slang. I was surrounded by this, the inevitable fights and the competing beats of soca, reggae, reggaeton and rap that barely distinguished themselves one from the other. They were more like pulses of sound blasting the air, especially on weekend nights. My mother hated them and the life we lived.
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I fucked your daughter up the ass boy I fucked your mama too I fucked your granny in the alley I think I'll fuck you up too. You're such a goddamn pussy I'll make you shine my fucking shoes I fucked your daughter in the ass boy Well damn' that's a fine how do you do. I'll take your Lincoln continental I'll take that fly ride Oldsmobile I fucked your daughter in the ass, boy And when I did she said, "Bobby I love that way that make me feel. I'll take your cold cash money That your daughter's been giving me I'm gonna buy me a brand new sweater It's gonna make me feel all groovy. Oh yeah you know I'm only joking You know I'd never do that to you I would never take anything of yours That's something I would never do. But I did fuck your daughter up the ass boy While we were messing around late last Saturday night She started playing with my tickly testicles I said, "baby what you doing? Please click here if you are not redirected within a few seconds. Advisory - the following lyrics contain explicit language: I fucked your daughter up the ass boy I fucked your mama too I fucked your granny in the alley I think I'll fuck you up too You're such a goddamn pussy I'll make you shine my fucking shoes I fucked your daughter in the ass boy Well damn' that's a fine how do you do I'll take your Lincoln continental I'll take that fly ride Oldsmobile I fucked your daughter in the ass, boy And when I did she said, "Bobby I love that way that make me feel. Check Out. You gotta check out.

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My daddy is Prime Minister. I was born in the back room of a whorehouse on Popeshead Street. I lived there with my mother. I was willowy and almost ghostly compared to the force of nature that she was. The backroom that we lived in was not the whorehouse where she worked, but one in a series of rooming houses — home to mostly immigrant women and their offspring.

Their conversation was like the different parts of a multilingual choir: a bit of Spanglish, some Jamaican, and a sprinkling of Guyanese. It was like music — the rapid pitter patter, the lazy rabble-dee-dash, the rhythmic round up round up slang. I was surrounded by this, the inevitable fights and the competing beats of soca, reggae, reggaeton and rap that barely distinguished themselves one from the other.

They were more like pulses of sound blasting the air, especially on weekend nights. My mother hated them and the life we lived. Mom walking me from school — she insisted on this though the school was just two streets across and up the road from where we lived. I was 10 and now at big school — the youngest in my class, but old enough to walk by myself.

Hitching my knapsack higher, I kept pace with her, as their laughter followed us. The hill we climbed was at the outer edge of the city and seemed a million miles from our world. We lived at the bottom of the city — close enough to the harbour to have gotten used to the assorted smells of the run-off from human activity on the island, and from the big ships that docked there.

We had never had reason to go uphill — a cascade of plain buildings where the starched people did office work. We had no business there as far as I could see. The building at the very top of the hill, washed in white and trimmed in gold, was as impressive as a palace. That day, the day she tugged me up that hill , Mom was a hurricane, category five and I a sapling trying to bond to the earth for fear of being uprooted.

I was winded by the time we stopped at the gate and peered between its gold tipped bars. A chill ran through me at the sight of those two gargoyles, with their bat wings spread out behind them and their faces frozen in a snarl that I could almost hear. Up close, their grey skin seemed to ripple in anticipation of taking flight. I almost peed myself when I passed between them. Mom dragging me along the marble tiles, between the columns on top of which the gargoyles stood poised, was the only thing that kept my overly Vaselined legs moving.

He was shaking his head before my Mom had said a word. Mom just stiffened her back and hoisted her impressive breasts as though they were shields. Her head was cocked and her eyes spat fire. I come return them. I looked up at her confused, hardly recognising her, though the buxomly shape and flowery scent of her was as familiar as ever.

The guard looked equally confused. And then, just like that, we were through. We cut through the guards at the metal detectors just as easily. She looked like the ladies at church — the old ones who sometimes served as lay priests, pumped up on their own importance — cutting their eyes at my mother and looking at me with pity.

This one parked herself in front of my mother and attempted to hand her a brown envelope. And when Mom stopped and attempted to raise her voice, the woman slapped the envelope against her breasts. When I looked back, the guard was standing at the gate, watching us, his mouth twisted into something too ugly to be a smile. The women had laughed when my mother readied us for that climb up the hill to the palace where the gargoyles guarded the evil overlord. Maybe my mother was a warrior and I, the fragile princess.

Maybe we were pirates seeking the treasure in that palace. That day was the start of me writing down the stories I made up in my head. The guard at the gold-tipped gate, the gargoyles, and the church lady with the brown envelope were the beginning of other gates I had to break through — gates built to keep out the daughters of women from Popeshead street.

There was a guard there too when I entered, and no tray vendors, like you might see outside the fence of other schools, with their haphazard shelters and their tray of treats such as tamarind balls.

My student ID was pinned to my clean and starched beige jumper. My Mom had coconut-oiled my hair, powdered and lotioned my skin, and sprayed my underarms with some of her flowery scent. I smelled like her and she smelled like a garden. I stayed there seven years. Now I was preparing to go through another set of gates.

There was a guard here too, one waiting to check and double check my passport, tickets, immigration and customs forms. Mom seemed softer to me as she stood waiting to see me through. She seemed smaller too, and I was afraid to turn away. She saw me hesitate and shoved me, roughly. Then she pulled me back and hugged me against breasts which sagged a little more now, though they were still impressive. My eyes prickled. I clung to her. But then she let me go. This one was in a suit and spoke quietly, menacingly. She was speaking like my English teacher, Ms.

Benjamin, at Crescent. Benjamin, when she spoke, parsed her words carefully — each a perfectly laid out island of sound. My Mom was speaking like that now. In the end, even the quiet man with the dark suit and even darker glasses walked away. And in my story, my community was the kind that was outraged about things like that.

Joanne C. Her writing has appeared in several Caribbean and international journals and anthologies. She freelances as a writer, editor, writing coach and workshop facilitator; and founded and coordinates the Wadadli Youth Pen Prize to nurture and showcase the literary arts in Antigua and Barbuda. Visit her website here: jhohadli.

The online magazine of new writing from around the globe. About Submissions Contributors. The Other Daughter. It happened like this… Mom walking me from school — she insisted on this though the school was just two streets across and up the road from where we lived. And the Prime Minister fell. And in both tales — fiction and reality — I left my mother behind. About the Author. Hillhouse Joanne C. Related Articles. I Am Not My Skin. Nassau Burning. Purple Voices.

Lament of the Lovelorn Cook.



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