Husband's friend helps out with home renovations and more. Porn Video
Night of seduction & pleasure goes on.
Ever since Dad died, mom had been trying to get "her Oochums-Smoochums Witto Baby Boy, Who Needs His Muh-du" (me!) back home to live with her. Now, I held a set of apparently legal documents, that said I was 'disowned' and 'disinherited,' as a result of "my lust-obsessed sinful behavior to my wife ... who was 'my best friend in the whole world ... who would never lie a single word to her ... that this was all my fault ... that whatever happened to me from now on would be my own fault ... that I was 'legally forbidden' to ever use my family's last name again ... that she and her-best-friend-in-all-the-world would make sure I never-ever got a good job ever again ... and that I was never to see or speak to her again, or 'darken her doorstep' with my foul and sinful shadow."
Mom had been acting very Victorian of late, and I'd been suspecting a slow onset of dementia. I tried calling the phone number that I'd memorized, so many years ago, back to grade school, but found it, too, was disconnected.
I saw that all the documents had the same date (in my handwriting) and bore an identical signature. Completely identical, down to each loop and squiggle of my sloppy-signed legal name ... just as though it had been printed there by my right hand, exerting some force. But, each document was signed and 'witnessed' by my attorney and his legal secretary, acting as notary.
[How could this happen, you ask? Think of a signature and a date, made into a couple of rubber stamps. Very simple and entirely legal. Then take the rubber stamp, and carefully press it into wet alginate, like the stuff a dentist uses to make an impression of your teeth. Let the alginate cure for an hour or so. It retains the impression of the rubber stamp. Pull out the rubber stamp and throw it away. Then pour thick, strong wet clay into the mold you've just created. When the clay is partly dry, but still flexible, form the clay master around a curved wood block, peel away the alginate, let it dry, and then gently bake. When you want a legal signature, just roll the clay-signature, backed by the wood block, across a pad of black pen ink, and then roll it carefully onto the document, pressing hard. Voile! You've just signed a document you've never seen before, initialed parts of it and dated it by the same method. It's not even forged, as it is your signature-you just weren't present when it was done. If someone else gets it notarized, it'll hold up in court ... particularly if a lawyer, and his notary-secretary person swears under oath that you signed it in their presence, and the date was set several weeks or months before you left on a cross-country trip.]
In one carefully pre-planned stroke, my wife and her two new lovers thought they'd reduced me to utter poverty, so deeply in debt that I'd probably never be able to dig myself out, and complete with bad work references.
Knowing Sylvia and how her mind worked, plus my Mom's new-found Victorian-driven revenge fantasies, I probably had 'poison pen' letters and a feminist-oriented whisper-campaign going out to every place I could get a new job, in and around our New Jersey home. A few calls back there confirmed that I had no friends and no contacts left in my former neighborhood.
My mother had 'washed her hands of me.' My son wanted to commit fratricide over the insult to 'his Mummy,' and my daughter was successfully bribed not to communicate with me in any way, and was happily taking that bribe.
My now-ex-wife and her lovers had made sure that I was left with just a few dwindling dollars; just the clothes on my back and the stuff in my tail-bag; a motorbike fixed to a sidecar, plus mountains of debt and taxes owed. No children. No wife. No friends. No job. No house. No savings. No investments. No retirement. No inheritance. No credit or debit cards. No bank accounts. The IRS and State taxing agencies after me. No mother. No future. Not even having any right to use my own name (which was a farce). No legal recourse to any of it, apparently.
On my way over to the restaurant, to get a good st