She blew my mind and then other things.

by Oediplex 8==3~

The graveyard was quiet. In the space enclosed by a cedar hedge, I sat on the bench toking a fat doobie in remembrance of my Granny. She would have shared it with me, if she was there. I felt her spirit like a presence, a wisp of pungent smoke rose ghost like from the joint and seemed to signal she was with me. The buzz pervaded my whole self; the tingling in my groin was a memory of our secret life. No one knew of what we had shared. We were more than simply family, not just close; she was my buddy, I was her lover.

She installed the seating and insured seclusion so that I could visit her in peace and privacy and enjoy the time when I was here. She had left me her wealth to make sure that I could live the good life after she died. I took another hit, holding it in, letting my mind wander as I pondered her final resting place. There, carved in the rock which stood upright across her plot from where I sat, were the words Granny had written herself.

Below this headstone lies the stoned head of
Grace Elizabeth BonGrasse
b. Jan. 7, 1946 - d. Dec. 28, 2008

I Hope to be High in Heaven

The marble that marks my resting place,
The rock which notes the grave of Grace;
Does tell the tale of how I coped,
By toking up my share of dope.
My marijuana made me full of mirth,
For being high was paradise on earth.
If I have gone to my hoped reward,
I'll be talkin' and tokin' with the Lord;
So now in death I make my point,
Heaven must be a hell of a joint!
by Gracie B

Yeah! Granny was a real fucker, literally. I know. She called her cunt, 'The Deceiver Beaver', because she did it on the sly with me. I would be up in her room and we'd close the door - lock it - and have a quickie. Other times, when my folks were gone for a few days, we would romp on their queen-size bed. Of course we never left any sign or evidence of our playtime. Gran was a firm believer in being covert and stealthy. And she taught me those skills, passed down from generations of my ancestors. There were no angels on her side of the family, though she claimed that my dad seemed to have suppressed the training she provided when she was trying to raise him to be a rascal; though he proved to be something of a rake later on.

I inhaled more weed and thought about the wild heritage Granny detailed in our sharing of pot and sex and secrets. For the past hundred years at least, a skein of scoundrel seems to have been inherited through my paternal genes. But I'm getting ahead of my story, being high does that to me. My history lessons started on a hot August night a few weeks before my Junior year in college. I was out on the deck of our suburban home, when out of nowhere a gruff voice growled, “Don't bogart that joint, kid!” I almost shit myself. My folks were gone for a week's vacation and Grandma was in bed asleep, or so I thought.

It was her though, she stepped through the sliding glass doors from behind the curtains and boldly snatched the doobie I was smoking from my hand. She took a long drag, held it like a 'old' pro and gave me a huge wicked grin. The moment was frozen as I freaked out at my sixty year young Gran, who stood in her robe and toked my grass. “Primo!” was all she said before sucking deep again on it and passing the dope back to me. I didn't know what else to do, so I took another hit myself. I never would have guessed! Looking back, it ought to not have been so shocking, just that the topic had never been breached in my hearing. Grandma Gracie was good at appearing innocent when quite the opposite.

“Have you got any more of this?” she asked?

“Uh . . . a another already rolled and some in a baggie, Gran.” I confessed, astounded at her conspiratorial tone.

“Get the other joint and come with me!”

I was unsure of what she had in mind, but I dutifully handed her the doobie and fetched the second.

“Take off your tee and get bare foot.” She ordered when I returned. What the hell? What was this crazy coot planning? I shed my shirt and kicked off my sandals. She passed the smoldering marijuana cigarette to me and took me by the hand as I took a hit. “We're going to the Benjamin's pool!” she whispered.

Our next door neighbors, the Benjamin's were out of town for this month, up to their cabin in Vermont. They had a nice swimming pool they didn't mind us using, but that was always in the day. It was certainly warm enough for a late night dip, but I never expected Grams to initiate such an adventure. “I'll get my trunks in a jiffy,” I offered.

“No need! We are going to skinny-dip. And don't tell me you never did! You and your girlfriend slipped in, back in July at three AM! I watched the whole thing through my window.”

'Jeez!' I thought - 'she must have seen us screwing too!' “ Do you have your suit on under your robe?” I asked. Not getting the concept yet of grandma and grandson in the all-together in the Benjamin's pool in the dead of night.

“Skinny-dipping is in the raw youngster, so I've just got my birthday suit on underneath. Savvy?” She scampered across the lawns still hanging onto my hand, like lovers eloping, we scurried.

“Jeez! Grandma, what if we get caught?”

“What if we do? It ain't like it's never been done before in the history of the world. Just keep it quiet 'cause I don't want you busted for possession.”

I hadn't considered that aspect, being befuddled by the prospect of swimming in the nude with my own flesh and blood. We reached the fence and she opened it silently. Going directly to the water she dropped the robe and the white of her skin was even paler in the moonlight. Gran walked down the steps, dipped to get wet all over, turned and came to the side, looking up at me.

“Fire up that roach, and let's get a good buzz on!” I did, took a toke, then leaned down to give it to the wet and wild lady. “Been quite a while since I got stoned, too long.”

“Gran, I didn't know you ever had smoked grass.”

She drew a big toke and then said - without exhaling, “ There's lots you don't know, kiddo - 'bout time you learned. We got so many skeletons in the proverbial closet that . . .” she ran out of air, expelled the puff and took a breath before she continued. “That . . . damn, what was I saying? I do that when I get high.”

“Skeletons . . . “

“Yeah, lots, back to your great, great grandfather at least. What are you waiting for? Get in, the water is wonderful!” I took off my jeans but left my jockeys on and began to climb down a ladder into the pool. “Come on! All the way. I know what a guy's got. Don't be shy! Let it all hang out!” I shucked my shorts and dived in bare-assed.

We swam around for a while then Grandma climbed out and sat on a lawn chair by the side of the water watching me. Her body was not so flabby, a bit thick but firm and while her breasts sagged some, the nipples were pink and pointed. Her thatch was still a brown bush. (Yeah I looked, not like she was modest. She acted totally nonchalant about her nudity.) I realized she was still attractive, maybe even sexy in a mature way. How come I had never been aware of that before, I wondered.

”Come up and let's light up the other joint. You got matches right?”

I hauled myself out of the pool on the side right in front of my Grams, dripping all over, my cock dangling for her to see, a couple feet from her face. Shit if she didn't mind, why should I? “They're both in my back pocket.” She fished and came up with them immediately, lit up, sucked smoke and passed the maryjane to me. “Thanks, Gran.” I took a lounger and pulled it beside her and stretched out. My length lewdly displayed, lolling in my lap.

“You can call me Gracie when we are intimate like this. We are going to be best of buddies from now on.” For a while we toked in silence. She pinched out the end to save the last inch or so, to have for later. “Feeling mellow, my fine fellow?" She quipped. "I am nice and high, you?”


“Then, I'm going to let all the cats out of the bag and the pussy loose too! Your dad never told you, and your mom would have a fit if he had, but our family money came originally from Canada in the Nineteen-Twenties, the 'roaring-twenties'.”

“How so?”

In gallon cans marked maple syrup, but it wasn't. It was booze, my grandpa was a bootlegger. By the truckloads.”

“Gangsters? Like Al Capone?”

“Nah . . . he just ran an import operation that included the basic ingredients for bathtub gin. The rest was legit, so when Prohibition ended, he had the rest of the business to fall back on, while he set up to bring in Canadian whiskey of top quality, lumber and raw materials for the auto industry. Made a fortune. Since then my father and husband carefully nurtured the investments and diversified, so that today, while we ain't Rockafellers, we are damn well off.”


“My Grandpa bought land and had a cabin up on a lake in up-state, rather isolated. I wish we still owned it, but it's all developed now. Anyway, that's where my grandparents and their best friends Jack and Florence would go to and swap partners.”

“GRANNY! . . . Gracie . . you mean that they were swingers? ”

“Just between the two couples, but faithfulness was never a ...

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