Master Mistress

October 26, 2006

Solo mums

Filed under: Random Everyday Texts — mastermistress @ 10:23 am

I remember all about solo mums when I was growing up in the early seventies. They were the sluts where all the men went for sex, because they were hot for it and did it for free. They were man-eaters. I heard the young guys talking about it. Boys of about twelve. One of them knew of a solo mum down the road from the school that would break the young boys in, teach them how to be a man. They spoke of her with disgust but with an appreciative look in their eye, secretly hoping that she or someone like her would be around when their time came. 

Solo mums looked hard with dark hair and thick eyeliner. They smoke and swore and had a twang in their voices when they yelled at their kids. They wore gothic clothing and dangly earrings and they smelled of patchouli oil and incense. They walked in packs with their pushchairs and drank at the pubs on benefit day. My mother told me they were homewreckers, because they weren’t afraid to sleep with married men. She reckoned they were secretly jealous that they didn’t have their own husbands. We always walked wide around them on the footpaths like they were contagious. 

Nice girls waited to have sex, so my mum told me. Sex was for people who loved each other and once they had sex, they should be together forever. It was best to get married first and avoid sex before that otherwise it would bring shame to you and the family, even more so if you got pregnant. So just don’t do it my parents said. There is no need for sex before marriage or once you have kids. My parents were proof of that pudding, having separate rooms from as far back as I can remember. 

All kids of solo mums were smelly and delinquent, or so the word was. They had the most calls to the school dental office, had nits discovered by the health nurse checks in class and were sent to health camps. They would round us up at assembly every six weeks and announce the latest person being sent there, like it was a competition … and the winner is… trying to make it look like a treat. There was always a slight sneer on the faces of the kids in the second before and after the name was called. A part of us wishing that we could be picked to go away for all that time on holiday and feeling the disappointment of not hearing your name. Then there was the shame of your name being called out, some kind of sign that your parents didn’t care for you and you were neglected. More often than not, it was the solo parent kids that got picked and they would be teased until the day they left, resuming again once they were back. 

Solo mums were mostly teenagers. They had sex way too young and with anyone they pleased. Girls were disowned by their families once they were pregnant and god forbid she should keep her baby. The fathers were long gone to
Australia, the land of golden opportunity that made them forget the fruitful seed that sprang forth from their loins. Somewhere they could blend into oblivion, avoiding the costs of some stupid bitch allowing herself to get knocked up so she could get a benefit and not have to work.

There weren’t all that many solo mums back then. It was the big shame. Parents stayed together to avoid the shame. I endured years of my parents hating, blaming and all but killing each other, but avoiding the big shame. It would be my fathers shame to leave his wife and kids, and my mothers shame to be in the category of the woman that would now be available to any man that took a fancy to her. 

Whatever way you look at any of it, it was a whole lot of shame. Shame and guilt. The guilt that comes in anticipation of the shame and then the guilt you feel once you have the shame. Always waiting for the moment when you shamed someone in the family, degraded the family name and lost your pride. Guilt and shame kept families together. It was stronger than love. 

Love, sex, guilt and shame.


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