It turned our little squat into a home. Afterwards, we hadn’t fucked; we’d made love. Same thing, I know, but it’s all about the semantics, righ...? Later, we’d lain on a blanket next to that ugly little tree and, while he dreamed the dreams of the satisfied, I dreamt my own dreams, wide awake, unshed tears in my eyes, knowing that, come Christmas morning, there’d be nothing under it. No presents, no wrapping paper, no ribbons. Fucking Santa never visited the projects, not that I blamed him. Old. She asked me how many times I jerked off in a day and I told her about six to ten times.The next day Mom told me that I was a chronic masturbater and that she was going to take care of my problem. As much as I wanted sex I certainly did not want to fuck my own mother. Not that she was ugly by any means. In fact my mother was gorgeous and had used her good looks to climb the corporate ladder to a very well paying management position.That evening Mom took me to some doctor that she knew. He had. More

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