Son of the South
Nov. 4th, 2007 07:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lsandersonLives
Son of the South
By ROBERT LELEUX
When I was 16, my father left my mother and me for his pregnant mistress, who happened to be a jockey at the racetrack and didn’t ride sidesaddle, if you know what I mean. Well, we’re from Houston; off-color divorce is our municipal hobby. Mother’s first words after reading Daddy’s Dear Jane letter — “All that goes back tomorrow!” — referred to a cluster of shopping bags we collected earlier that day at Neiman’s and addressed the real problem for both of us: with my father gone, the gravy train was over.
What can I say about a gay boy’s love for his mother? Especially my mother, who’s outrageous, even by the standards of over-the-hill Southern belles. From the fitting room to the Costa Brava, our life was one long looping of “Suddenly, Last Summer.”
After Daddy left, Mother spent weeks in bed drinking Smirnoff out of Evian bottles before starting a campaign to win a new, rich husband — cruising Bible-study groups at the better-off Baptist churches, along with some Republican luncheon clubs. “But Mother,” I said, “you’re a registered Democrat.” “From now on, Robert,” Mother replied, “I vote with the Democrats, but I lunch with the Republicans.” Mother’s husband hunt was really the first thing we’d ever not done together. It wasn’t long before I figured out that a man doesn’t propose to a middle-aged jeune fille with another fellow’s son around. And it wasn’t long before Mother’s shoot-where-the-ducks-are strategy proved winning; she was soon off to California with a right-wing fiancé. More
Son of the South
By ROBERT LELEUX
When I was 16, my father left my mother and me for his pregnant mistress, who happened to be a jockey at the racetrack and didn’t ride sidesaddle, if you know what I mean. Well, we’re from Houston; off-color divorce is our municipal hobby. Mother’s first words after reading Daddy’s Dear Jane letter — “All that goes back tomorrow!” — referred to a cluster of shopping bags we collected earlier that day at Neiman’s and addressed the real problem for both of us: with my father gone, the gravy train was over.
What can I say about a gay boy’s love for his mother? Especially my mother, who’s outrageous, even by the standards of over-the-hill Southern belles. From the fitting room to the Costa Brava, our life was one long looping of “Suddenly, Last Summer.”
After Daddy left, Mother spent weeks in bed drinking Smirnoff out of Evian bottles before starting a campaign to win a new, rich husband — cruising Bible-study groups at the better-off Baptist churches, along with some Republican luncheon clubs. “But Mother,” I said, “you’re a registered Democrat.” “From now on, Robert,” Mother replied, “I vote with the Democrats, but I lunch with the Republicans.” Mother’s husband hunt was really the first thing we’d ever not done together. It wasn’t long before I figured out that a man doesn’t propose to a middle-aged jeune fille with another fellow’s son around. And it wasn’t long before Mother’s shoot-where-the-ducks-are strategy proved winning; she was soon off to California with a right-wing fiancé. More
