AfternoonStu
Oedipalist
- Joined
- May 21, 2004
- Posts
- 224
I had an idea of paraphrasing a famous opening of a novel, but can't really fit it into a proper Literotica story. Instead, I'll use it to start a new thread, which I hope could stir some curiosity...
Call me Anthony. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having few relationships, and nothing particular to interest me in my social circles, I thought I would visit my mother's house and see the most intimate part of her laundry bin. It is a way I have of driving off the libido and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing watery about the mouth; whenever it is a burgeoning, hot June in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before lingerie boutiques, and checking out the rear of every motherly figure I meet; and especially whenever my urges get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically lifting ladies' skirts up — then, I account it high time to reconnect with my Oedipal desires as soon I can. This is my substitute for one-night-stands and PornHub. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly turn to incestuous fantasies. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards mother with me.
Call me Anthony. Some years ago — never mind how long precisely — having few relationships, and nothing particular to interest me in my social circles, I thought I would visit my mother's house and see the most intimate part of her laundry bin. It is a way I have of driving off the libido and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing watery about the mouth; whenever it is a burgeoning, hot June in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before lingerie boutiques, and checking out the rear of every motherly figure I meet; and especially whenever my urges get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically lifting ladies' skirts up — then, I account it high time to reconnect with my Oedipal desires as soon I can. This is my substitute for one-night-stands and PornHub. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly turn to incestuous fantasies. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards mother with me.