Lavender Blue Panties Ch. 05

Page One

It's 6.am.

How can those lavender blue panties continue to plague my life?

Lavender blue panties shock-slapped me as I entered my kitchen, flipped on the ceiling embedded light system and reached for my coffee cup. I froze momentarily in stunned incredulity.

Those freakish pussy covering hell holders have reappeared. I kid you not. (My apologies. But only gross language will suffice here.)

There on my breakfast table lay an open box from Victoria's Secret. And displayed daintily inside in professionally layered fashion were six ensembles of lingerie that included six changes of those damnable lavender blue panties.

Disturbingly, the girls, my adult daughters, had moved back home to Burlingame and into the two upstairs guest suites. They had accomplished this mystically swift feat even before their mother had been chained into the corrections department bus for transport to her cell in the desert.

"They're a gift from mom," my youngest daughter, Helena, laughed as she strode into the kitchen wrapped in an old housecoat, sporting some kind of hardware distributed through her hair. As she poured her coffee, I was aware of her eyes appraising me with more than passing interest.

"Your mother is in prison, Helena," I said testily. "She has no freedom to shop at Victoria's Secret for sexy gifts for her daughters."

What's going on? And I could not restrain myself from shouting that I wanted answers.

"Your mother apparently whored herself out for years and played me for a fool," I shouted. "Now my daughters apparently are preparing to their asses on the market."

Page Two

I punctuated my outburst with a demand to see their bank statements and income tax returns. Unfortunately, my loss of control reached a destructive crescendo during which I called them whores and indicted them as co-conspirators with their mother. I waved my arm inclusively as alluded to the sudden money wash that was enveloping them.

"Am I cursed to spend my life choking on pussy money?" I asked rhetorically. "Obviously, you two bank more than the skanks that peddle their asses on street corners."

Such surging verbal violence was so unlike me. But I failed miserably when I reached my James Bond climax. My bravado collapsed just as I demanded satisfaction. My subconscious reflected my behavior informing that I appeared to my daughters as a perfect fool. Rather than retreating into the cautious trenches of my strengths, I was seeking hand to hand combat with an enemy of unknown potentials and strengths.

I could not maintain my threatening posture or my best tax lawyer's imitation of a confident omniscient TV lawyer. You know those posturing never-lose stereotypes who are always accustomed to wielding power with the expectation of immediate results.

Page Three

Only a sympathetic bemusement framed my daughter's beautiful face as she patiently endured my uncharacteristic outburst. Some how Julie was different. At 24 she had miraculously qualified as a Nurse Practitioner, and I was proud during those

celebratory months to see her dedication and integrity strengthen as she assumed her duties. Of course, we must agree that "integrity" for me meant Christian core values, and that should tell you something.

You probably immediately defined and understand the generational disconnect that lies at the heart of my tragedies. Confessing that I knew of the conflict between the Christian era hegemony and the post modern 21st Century monolithic determinism obviously makes me a fool and a useless academic.

Again, just as obviously, my wife, the renowned professor of psychology and prodigy in 21st Century money lore, suffered from no residual restraints. So many times my wife had smiled patronizingly at my questions about her mounting wealth and unconscionable absences. During those disconcerting moments, Dr. Julia Harvey, the genius in behavior management, effectively thoug condescendingly would defuse my interrogation with sex.

Page Four

Dr. Julia Harvey seemed infallible in her post modern objective brilliance. By all emerging 21 Century standards Dr. Juluia Harvey was a success. Her books pparently were producing riches so unique and monumental that my mediocre tax lawyer's prowess could never qualify to administer.

True! I knew nothing of my wife's business accounts or legal affairs. All of her business Was conducted three blocks from my office in the 12-story modernist glass and steel jurisprudential citadel owned by the highly esteemed but elusive law firm designated as "Larson, Cannon, Face and Steele.

True! I gave considerable thought to weighing and analyzing the implications. By what standards, could I condone Julia's spending more hours a week in Attorney Robert "Bobby" Steele's tower of global influence than in her offices as chairman of the psychology department of a highly regarded university.

Everyone including my daughters cautioned that my questioning her mother's hours or any facet of her behavior constituted disloyalty and lack of trust, both considered failures beneath my perceived persona as a strong man able to live comfortably with the successes of a superior wife and mother.

Page Four

Yes! Julia held sway as my superior for more than a decade.

But, of course, Dr. Julia Harvey was in jail. No matter that I entertained gnawing doubts about the incredible twists and turns reflected in the official transcript of the trial.

Nevertheless,

Now you see even more clearly the confusion that must prevail between my concept of being a kind and loving father and my daughters' and wife's vision of me as a comic wimp.

"I'll be damned if you aren't almost as beautiful as your mother," I whimpered. My blustering little wimp in my heart had beaten me once more.

Heavy silence hung between us for an agonizing minute. She busied herself with a minute of her finger nails progressing methodically to her toes.

At length she raised her eyes to meet mine, smiled tauntingly shrugged, turning her attention to her toe nails, her foot raised to the edge of the chair, obscenely displaying those lavender blue panties. She obviously was debating the wisdom of meeting my challenge for a show down.

"You would do well to talk to me, Julie," I said, almost whispering. "If I learn the essence before you do me the courtesy of accounting for these life shattering events, we will be beyond the fail-safe point."

Page Five

Once more I saw their mother's arrogance and obstinacy in her cold blue eyes. And I knew that I had failed. My profound urgency was to discover for how many years had served as exemplary cuckold and comic relief father.

We existed in different universes.

"So be it," I wheezed. "You girls obviously are part of your mother's insidious rackets."

Julie studiously sipped her coffee, crossed her legs dramatically and smiled her contempt.

Have you ever been lacerated and humiliated by pure silence?

"We are on opposite sides in a brutal tournament."

Everyone will lose, I attempted to convey.

Fighting to the finish leaves no margin for error, I attempted to inform her, straining to suppress my anger.

"Call Uncle Jenks,"Julie responded, smiling indulgently before her voice fell flat and unaccommodating. "You'll need to talk to mother's Independent Agent and Executor and Uncle Jenks as mother's Guardian Ad litem.

Page Six

Uncle Jenks? Agent? Guardian?

Stunned beyond pain, I was still sufficiently rational to understand that these administrative mechanics could not have been achieved in the brief time since their mother was convicted and sentenced.

Also, something didn't mesh. Yes! I am enough of a lawyer to perceive and sense that the three authority figures faced overlapping, redundant and conflicting powers. My wife's conservator, however, by the nature of the office unquestionably would have control of a treasure trove quite different in contrast and comparison to the other two.

This emerging interlocking directorate was above my pay grade.

I designated this suddenly germane mystery asset as a "treasure trove"; because the appointment of a conservator, obviously by legal necessity, would imply the existence of varietal and massive wealth.

Ever have the sinking experience of being sexually assaulted and learning of it only after the successful conclusion of the orgasm?

Page Seven

I persisted in my demands for names and places and times. But the girls adamantly referred me to "Uncle Jenks" and their mother's Managing Agent or Conservator.

Then Julie terminated another frustrating conversation laced with veiled threats and pernicious irritants by casually tossing out the fact that her mother also was represented by an "observing and interested party in San Diego."

You need all of this variety of representation only if you have monumental holdings and wealth, I finally concluded. I needed counsel. I knew that. But who? Did I dare trust any attorney known commonly by my family, friends and associates?

But who could their mother have empowered as a Conservator? And why did she need three functionaries and an "interested observer"? The girls insisted that I must talk to "Uncle Jenks."

Suddenly I felt a change in my respiration and my cheeks glowed with an unfamiliar heat. Jenks! Of course! What a dolt I must be not to have seen it over the years.

Signs were there! No betrayal foments without form and structure.

Page Eight

At that moment, I knew that I must find and learn how to use that damnable Glock.

Now that I was rising to the level of conscious moron, I realized that soon I very likely would be engaged in a dramatic discourse of terminal mayhem. At that moment, I knew that I could not indolently get off my metaphorical elevator of humiliation at the "Moron or Idiot floor."

Apparently I had never cared sufficiently to know that I was routinely ascending and descending irrationally and considering that comic existence to be the essence of freedom and happiness.

Obviously, all those years my wife and her lovers had been soaring through space indulging rich appetites and ambitions, living a "protean" existence of which I was oblivious.

The word protean is helpful here. Having awareness of Proteus, a minor Greek god, has been very useful. You, see Proteus could assume whatever form or character he needed to meet a given set of circumstance.

Proteus originated the seminal pattern for our 21st Century genius. Proteus could assume whatever identity he chose. He could be anything and everything at any time he elected to change.

Page Nine

As the author of our prevailing "situational ethics," the ancient demigod Proteus serves as godfather of the post modern rulers and their nihilistic followers.

Have you observed that successful power brokers of 2015 vintage, primarily lawyer and their derivatives such as judges and politicians, of are always in a fever to "do whatever is necessary" to enforce the dictates of their whims, material wisdom and wistful lusts?

Proteus created post modern racketeer of contemporary description.

My wife and apparently my daughters have earned degrees and certificates from Proteus' universities.

(I realize that some readers have closed their books and stand poised to drop the course. And that saddens me. But I'll get back to the world of high roller assholes and pulsing commercial pussies after three more lines about essences.)

Solipsism! This prevails when you declare yourself to be your own god.

Page Ten

You must understand the importance of detecting solipsism. My wife became a devoted solipsist.

Then Dr. Julia Harvey, tireless psychology professor and community service volunteer, having confirmed and anointed herself, reveled in her deified view of her own beauty; and it came to pass that she became a whore, an exemplary whore, but nevertheless a whore.

Then, then once comfortable in her protective shell of solipsism, she promoted herself to world class racketeer and whore. As her own god, Dr. Julia Harvey was imbued with the certainty that she could always fix the dice and roll sevens, assuring that she would walk away with the pot.

Solipsism serves as the new world order's religiosity; and to appreciate my poor efforts in relating my unworthy story, you must either be a solipsist or subscribe to dogma.

Now I hope you will listen to my tale of ignominious defeat and rising from the ashes to sail the seven seas in my friend's 50-foot luxury brothel with sails.

Page 11

As I recall, before I paused for a moment of clarification, my oldest daughter sat at the kitchen table sipping morning coffee studying me dispassionately. My daughters had become cool and unresponsive but at the same time strangely tolerant of my outbursts.

It was if they were stoically marking time waiting for something to happen.

There were many pivotal moments during those days. Most of the events were impersonal redirectives of daily trial preparations, scheduling and performance expected during any crisis involving a criminal trial.

Sadly, I must state that this morning opened strange and sinister new avenues of humiliation and intimidation.

Monstrous incredulity personified governed this pivotal moment.

and my daughter smirked, crossed her legs and brazenly

And, though only a mediocre tax lawyer, I now understood that I must find sufficient smarts to avoid my wife's fate. Thoughts of bullets intruding into any part of my body did not inspire any perverse aesthetic curiosities. You must believe also that I hate the California desert and the thought of living the rest of my life in a 12 by 12 prison cell turns my feces to cement and produces menstrual-like cramps.

Page 12

There you have it. After Julia settled into prison in the California desert, my role in this mortal coil had become frighteningly bizarre if not dangerously fatalistic.

I have by inference addressed the autonomic aspect of this chaos. That isn't sufficient, I know.

Paradox governed. In a dizzying cognitive pivot, my heretofore aloof adult daughters had spun like moral dervishes.

They dressed in porn industry certified miniskirts that frequently displayed their lavender blue panties as the mocking gusset twisted, stretched or sprawled. No! I have no erotic compulsions toward either of my daughters, but those lavender blue panties taunt me into a spontaneous rage that increasingly defies control. Julie abuses my sensibilities with her frequent displays of a very expertly merchandised body part between her legs; but Helena seems uncomfortable with the pernicious tableau.

Yes! I am determined leave the Marina manor as soon as possible. But keep in mind that bank less than $75,000 a year, and that won't buy much of an address in San Francisco. No! I don't qualify for rent subsidies as does 50 percent of the inhabitants of Baghdad by The Bay.

Have I been cursed to repeat Lot's horrifically catastrophic downfall? Lot's wife owned the legendary brothels of Sodom and probably Gamorrah,

too. I am told by a scholar friend that Lot's wife was called Edith and that she sat or lay as the case may be on the most honored societal perch in Sodom, luxuriating in the fruits of her creative adventures in lust.

Hold! I do have a Joker to play in this Satan's sadism tournement that somewhat regains my sanity. Hear! Hear! Dr. Julia Harvey lies devastated on a bunk in prison cell in the California desert. And that always calls for a seven-up toast to my Muse of Weird Retributions.

Within a month of their mother's being cast into mortal hell for 25 years, my daughters acting jointly had paid $2.8 million cash for a five-bedroom stately two-story mansion overlooking San Francisco's Marina Green.

How could my daughters suddenly join the gilded elite of San Francisco without my having gotten at least a whiff of what was going on. I felt like an addled comic book buffoon. And that's a classic understatement.

Page?? (You Know) (I'm superstitious.)

But there was more, all of it debasing and all of it powered by abject measures of humiliation. I still had not confronted my long commiserating bosom buddy, "Uncle Jenks," And I knew that I was still compounding my risk and jeopardy by avoiding the necessary task of identifying my wife's mysterious "Conservator" and "General Managing Agent."

To add insult to injury, the girls summarily had sold the family home in Burlingame, informing me at breakfast that Attorney Steele held their mother's power of attorney. Only their mother's name, moreover, was on the purchase agreements and deed; therefore, since we continued in the eyes of a California Judge as man and wife, Steele could the house and manage the considerable proceeds.

Once again it was during that terrible that I Was informed of the sale. That same rainy morning, my older daughter informed me diffidently morning that my possessions were in the process of being moved that day to the San Francisco manor.

First things first. I must report that Julia is not faring well in prison. And in a

Page 14

Absolutely nothing has evolved according to any so called "natural law." As you probably know, "natural law" social theorists, those good civilization nurturing souls who fortunately seem to persist, believe with Plato that absolute immutable and indestructible models of truths stand eternally. Standing like the time resistant Roman architectural signature, somewhere in the continuum of human existence, truth stands uncreated and immutable.

True! This persistent blue-pantie challenge to my core values has produced a malignant tendency toward degradation. No man can endure a constant assault by daughters who have become accomplished young whores idolizing their mother, who as time tells becomes more brilliant as a brothel empress.

Methodically, I have succeeded at a snail's pace, through global legal research, in opening files and public records that depict Dr. Julia Harvey as the virtuoso capitalist in organizing the sex industry, empowering the sex worker and perfecting the product. Obviously, the universities do have a potential for enhancing the earning power of someone somewhere.

Julia's influence in West Coast film cartels has given the cartels the industrial psychology canon and behavioral legitimacy to develop merchandising systems market direction to bank billions instead of millions.

Page 15

My faith in an uncreated, omniscient and omnipotent directive truth suffers a new attack almost as the clock ticks. But I am grimly determined to survive with my soul intact. You better believe I will!

And I am increasingly aware of the now rapidly crystallizing resolve to kill my old friend, the girl's favorite power broker, "Uncle Jenks."

I keep dithering between using the Glock to lock all his joints with led pills or present him with box full of Mumbai Cobras for Christmas.

No! I have not forgotten the unnamed Managing General Agent and Conservator. I will know who they are by Wednesday. Then the curtain will go up and the ubiquitous Greek chorus will tell you all about it. Remember, the Glock has a niner clip, I am told.

Preposterous in the extreme. Any behaviorist as apposed to cognitive would contend that such a swing in my instinctual make up could never occur.

Any good cognitive would look beyond the obvious and ask about that brutal experience I endures while in high school. Maybe that would have a bearing on my probable reaction to my developing Dante's Inferno. This will have more decisive relevance later.

Page 16

Yes! I continued to drive from the mansion by The San Francisco Marina each day to Bulingame. And I ritually performed a mundane full day's work computing, balancing and advising. And no! I still would pay taxes on less than $75,000 this year.

Surprise! The great host of lawyers muddling about out there in your world are nothing short of mediocre at best. Many must have concern about finding the money to pay the rent the end of each month. I kid you not. Since I pay the rent and bank sufficient funds keep the lights on, I must be functioning above average. Not much consolation, I agree.