Penniless and humiliated, I had been forced to move back in with my widowed mother, who was dismayed at her twenty-six-year-old son's failure to live up to her eminently bourgeois expectations. I was equally disappointed in myself. Indeed, I had much to be disappointed about, for not only had I utterly failed as a writer; I hadn't even managed to consummate my relationship with the woman I loved. And yet all was not lost. I lit a cigarette and stared out the window of Mama's little house on Guernsey Street. Not all was lost. Not yet.

In desperation, I had taken a deadend office job to support my unsustainable writing habit. True, the stories I wrote were the best that I was able to produce, but after years of publishing nothing but mediocrity I had burnt out my muse completely, and now focused on one topic I knew dearly: Lillian. Specifically, my mother.

I would stay after work and begin typing without pause, only stopping to fiddle with the adjustment knob on the ancient and perpetually broken office room typewriter—my only tool in my one-man war against decency.

After midnight, a sheaf of closely typed pages—a torrent of words—laid next to my typewriter. Dozens of pages of notes all detailing my mother in the most graphic of ways, conjuring her image in my mind like some forbidden pin-up that had permanently damaged me at a tender age. My mother—blatantly and shamelessly portrayed in the way I knew she secretly wanted to be: violated, how I always wanted.

Mother had found the entire contents of my latest story collection—bound and ready to be printed under the title, 'Mama', and waved them around in the air like a rattlesnake's tail at me in my room.

"I'd love to offer my personal critique," She replied friskily, fanning the gaily colored binding at her face attempting to cool her lustful feelings, "But It's gotten me quite flustered."

Mother thumbed to one of the more obscene pages about I wrote about her, and read it aloud in a deliberately seductive tone, "