It didn't take my mother long to decide the perfect career for me. While I was worrying about getting my first piece of ass, she had made up her mind I was going to be a preacher.
When my uncle heard about it, he laughed and said, "Hey, that's great. You ever look at the inside of a church building on Sunday and seen all the great looking women and girls sitting there? What a great place to find pussy. All of it you can handle. If a preacher's wife doesn't keep an eye on him, he must wallow in it."
That cinched it. I'd be a preacher. Then I found out there was hell to pay if Mom caught a can of beer in my hand. After that came a whole string of things I couldn't do, because a preacher didn't do them. Like one day I was driving Mom to the shopping center and some asshole nearly crumpled a front fender. I hollered at him that he was a dim-witted mother-fucking cocksucker. Apparently a preacher never says that.
I found out that if I wanted to go on smoking and keep Mom from finding out I was doing it, I had to go out to the utility shed and sit with the lawn mower and garden tools. Preachers, of course, were trying to stamp out smoking.
Then, when I was eighteen, Mom found out I was fucking the woman next door while her husband was at work. And another one just up the street. She went bonkers. When she found out that I had the hot thing going with her dearest and closest friend when her husband wasn't around, Mom lost it. To be a preacher I had to keep my pecker in my pants.