Between a Mother and Son

This is a true story, a love story; some of the details have been changed, some altered by the fog of time, but this is my memory of the events as they happened so very long ago. It is a memoir, so it's very slow and not particularly erotic. I've done what I can to bring some of the passion I remember into my account. I hope those who have the patience for it find it worthwhile. Thanks for reading. The characters are all over 18 years of age.

*

It didn't happen overnight. It took years to break down those thick walls, the ones built through centuries of conditioning, by church and state, popes and presidents, priests and principals, authority figures large and small. Those codes of conduct are impressed upon our brain cells before we're barely conscious; they don't simply disappear with the wave of a hand, or more to the point, the brush of a thigh.

Maybe some people smash through the wall in one determined push; I don't know. But for others of us, the wall comes down in pieces; brick by brick, stone by stone, over years, so at the time you don't even realize it's happening. That's how it was for my mother and I. And when it did come down, when that very last brick was thrown aside and we became lovers, what was unleashed was as powerful and unstoppable as if the Colorado river had burst the Hoover dam, sweeping us away, drowning us in its passion and unrelenting fury.

Looking back, it seems inevitable, that one day she would lay beneath me and welcome me into her; it was built into the dynamic of our relationship, although neither of us could have seen it then. We were mother and son, but as I matured and my parents relationship deteriorated, I willingly became her confidante, her therapist, her best friend. There was no coercion; I wasn't forced into service; she was my mother, I loved her and genuinely wanted to help her. I took pride in being the favorite of her children, the one she came to when she needed to talk. It took me years to understand that the sexual relationship that developed later was merely a physical demonstration of the emotional relationship we'd always had. Although we didn't touch until well past my eighteenth bIrthday, what became an all-consuming sexual passion was an expression of the relationship we'd had since I was thirteen.

Did she seduce me, or did I seduce her? I think we both engaged in that game over a period of time, but I remember the moment when I first made it apparent that I saw her not only as my mother, but as a desirable woman. The memory of it still brings up the same breathless excitement I felt that day.

I love everything about women: their hair, their eyes, their noses, their lips, their smiles, their breasts, their thighs, their conversation, their insights, their laughs and cries; but if there's one characteristic that can drive me to distraction, it's those lovely, curvaceous, ovoid mounds of pleasure we call the derrière.

Big or small, soft or firm, stuffed into a tight pair of form-fitting jeans, wrapped and caressed by a snug-fitting skirt or proudly displayed in a thong bikini, I am powerless before the majesty of an exquisitely shaped booty. I had no choice in the matter, really. The first important woman in my life had a figure defined by generous hips and a well-endowed backside, and long before I would actually explore its hills and valleys it was my erotic obsession, filling the dreams of many an adolescent night.

My mother's ass was "The Ass", the defining derrière of my desires and the rear by which all other rears would be judged. In contemporary terms, her generous cheeks were of the Kim Kardashian variety; exquisitely shaped, erotically charged mounds of flesh that seemed to promise both the thrill of the climb and the sweet release of descent.

My mother was an unconventionally beautiful woman, in the mold of Italian movie stars of the day. She combined elements of Anna Magnani, Sophia Loren and—oddly enough, Joan Baez, adding up to an exotic beauty of uncertain origins. Some thought her Italian or Spanish, some thought her Middle Eastern. She was none of these, but her dark hair and coloring suggested mystery and another world. She was smart and generous, but also needy. She could be maddeningly self-centered one moment and selfless the next; angry and bitter, but full of laughter and love. She was in her prime in her late 30's and early 40's; she was petite, with shoulder length black hair, parted evocatively to the side, and her figure was full in the manner of those aforementioned Italian film stars, her breasts large and round to match her earth-mother hips.

She preferred to wear form fitting stretch pants, not the leggings of today, exactly, but flattering nonetheless—and I delighted in the way her hips and ass filled them. She must have been aware of how I stared at her( somehow, women always are); I was young and not capable of subtlety. And my stare was relentless, to the point of causing me anxiety and frustration. I didn't know then what it did for her, but years later she told me the erotic thrill she got from my gaze was when she first began to fantasize about "us".

So I could hardly be blamed, after a long adolescence of obsessing over my mother's beautiful bounty, that one fateful day well past my 18th birthday and into my early adulthood, I could no longer keep my hands to myself.

We had taken on the task of cleaning the basement in preparation for a renovation project, boxing miscellaneous junk and sweeping up, when, as we both bent over to pick up some trash, I found my face inches from her backside. For a moment, the thought entered my mind to kiss those full, exquisitely curved cheeks, to take them in my hands and bury my face in her soft pillows—-but instead I took the broom in my hand and gently, but provocatively, swatted her with it. Jumping, she shrieked in laughter and surprise and turned to look at me, daring me to repeat the gesture. I did so gladly, and chased her around the room for a few seconds, like the proverbial dirty old boss chasing his secretary around the desk. We giggled and laughed like naughty schoolchildren.

I was ecstatic; I had broken through! I had flirted with her, I had let her know how I felt—and more than that—she enjoyed it, no—she went so far as to encourage it! Oh, I couldn't wait to do it again!

The promise of that day, the thrill of it—takes my breath away, makes my heart beat faster—even today, forty-some years afterwards. That was the first moment, the first break in the ice, when I knew something was possible between us, From that moment on, it was all I could think about. Strange, how it's all I think about now, these many years later.

Of course, our lives didn't immediately become a porno-version of a Marx brothers routine, with endless repeats of me as Harpo chasing the young beauty around the deck. Life went on, there were difficulties in my parents marriage, and in her loneliness, my mother would come to me to talk about things. Sometimes she'd tear up, sometimes I'd give her a shoulder to cry on. We didn't talk about "the broom incident".

The slow escalation in our flirtations was precipitated by a much more rapid deterioration in my parents relationship, and an equally fast increase in her emotional dependence on me. My father was an alcoholic, although in those days we didn't recognize it as such. He was just one of the boys, went for drinks after work and then tended to stay out all night, forgetting to call home. He didn't do it every night, but often enough that I remember holding my breath, my stomach in knots, staring at our driveway and waiting to see if he was going to come home on time every evening. If he didn't, and he neglected to call, there was going to be hell to pay.

In most respects he was a good man, a good provider, and dependable. I loved him, and so did my mother. But he could be emotionally distant, removed, pre-occupied. I realize now these were all symptoms of his disease, but it didn't make it any easier for us then, and in time, his neglect broke my mother's heart.

So my mother came to talk with me. I was her oldest child, the most mature, and I've always been a good listener. I don't know that I imparted any great advice, what did I know of marriage or relationships? But I listened, and maybe that was enough. My mother was a stay-at-home housewife in the years when everyone's mom seemed to be at home, and she didn't have many friends in the community—certainly nobody to confide in. So it was up to me. I was the only one.

We talked...a lot. And after she cried a little, I'd hold her hand and she'd look at me and say,

" ...why can't he be more like you? Sensitive and caring? You're going to make someone a wonderful husband someday."

Following those discussions, we often went out, to clear the cobwebs away, I suppose. She and I might go shopping, for something diverting like books or records, or pile my two sisters in the car and grab a bite to eat someplace quick. Those excursions helped us out from under the cloud. They also served to cement our emotional bond, the way a date does for a young couple.

As we grew closer emotionally, we began to be more physically expressive with one another, where we hadn't before. We embraced more frequently, and openly, hugging in the mornings or later when I'd return from my job at the factory. Sometimes we'd even kiss, a peck on the cheek as a welcome home. We held hands; as we read the paper at the kitchen table, she'd reach across to me and touch my hand, encircling it with her fingers. She'd give me a warm smile and we'd go back to our papers, hand still in hand.

The more affectionate we were towards one another, the more we began to flirt. Our flirtation was fun, and at first, very innocent. We weren't aware of its relationship to our deepening feelings for one another, how a growing physical intimacy was revealing something akin to romantic love. But what started as innocuous tickling or swatting one another with bath towels, slowly developed an erotic charge, particularly as it became more verbal.

One night in particular stands out in my mind. We were at home, in the kitchen. She was wearing a particularly tight pair of black knit slacks, white halter top tied behind her neck, revealing her bare back. Her luxurious black hair lay loosely about her shoulders. For all the world, she looked like a beautiful Italian movie star.

I was late from work, and she had saved dinner for me. I was hungry, but as I stared at her shapely ass in those tight slacks, I wasn't thinking of dinner. To this day, I don't know what mad impulse drove me to do it; I was young, I was horny, and maybe working in a gray factory building all day, devoid of women and windows, led to pent up frustrations that had no choice but to boil over.

Whatever it was, as she placed my plate in front of me and turned back towards the stove, my hand involuntarily shot out and slapped her fine, soft, round tush.

Spinning on her heels to face me, she gasped in mock indignation, failing to hide her obvious delight. Barely repressing a smile of self-satisfaction, she assumed a tone of recrimination ;

"Jeremy! What's gotten into you?!?"

Sitting in my seat at the table, I shrugged. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to imagine my next move;

" I dunno..." I sounded like an idiot, but my mischievous smile conveyed the gist of my intent.

"Oh, Don't give me that..." she replied, her "disapproval" undercut by her slightly stifled giggle. 'Say it! I dare you to say it!"

Slightly embarrassed but more than doubly thrilled at her challenge, I still found myself unable to mouth the words " you have a nice ass, mom..." and so my reply was the height of lameness;

"what? I don't know what you mean..."

Moving behind my chair, her arms enveloped me and she began to tickle my torso;

"Oh yes you do and you're going to say it! Say it now!"

Writhing in my chair, making half-hearted attempts to escape the onslaught of her nimble fingers, I exclaimed;

"no, I won't! You can't make me!"

"You've asked for it now, buster! No mercy! "

My resistance was failing, she well knew my weaknesses; she was my mother, after all, and

I had been reduced to a flailing child in her grip.

"Tell me now...tell me what I want to hear or I'll tickle you until you drop! " She was relentless.

" no...no...I won't...I won't!"

'You'd better! Tell me why you did it...come on, tell me...."

Finally, unable to breathe, I grabbed her hands and surrendered whispering;

" ....You have a nice ass, mom...."

'What was that? ' she asked, laughing and threatening to begin her assault anew. " I didn't hear you..."

"You have a nice ass! You have a nice ass!....I couldn't help myself...I just ...had to...."

" There—that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Then, glancing at my crotch, she asked;

"Or is it?"

"Mom!" I exclaimed. Taken aback by her newfound directness, I turned my head in embarrassment.

"Oh, relax..." She admonished.

" I know you look at my ass!" she put her hand on my head and tossed my hair.

"I just wanted to hear you say it! There's nothing to be embarrassed about, You've got a crush on me! So what? Don't worry...it's our little secret. I'm flattered my handsome boy would find me so attractive!"

Gently pushing her away, I deflected the truth of her words by resorting to the game of cat and mouse underlying every great flirtation;

"Somebody sure thinks highly of herself!"

As she stood before me, her lips pursed, she appeared to pout; a very sexy, irresistible pout that had its desired effect upon my resolve. It was all I could do not to pull her down onto my lap, but instead, I gave in to her coquettish manner and apologized;

" I'm sorry, mom...you're right, I guess."

She wasn't satisfied with my weak admission;

"And what, exactly, am I right about?" She demanded.

Defeated, I mumbled:

"I have a crush on you..."

Suddenly she took on the posture of a victorious athlete, and pointing at me, exclaimed;

" Gotcha!"

Realizing I'd been had, I reached for her, but she grabbed my hands and held me at bay.

"You've got a crush on me! I knew it! I knew it!"

She laughed, but as she tried to pull away, I stood up and snared her in my arms. My hands fell upon her bare back, and I shivered at the touch of her flesh. She giggled like a schoolgirl caught in a prank. The moment surely would have led to something more, but just then, my little sister entered the kitchen, looking for something to eat. Disappointed, I released my mother, and sat down at the table to eat my meal. But by then, food was the last thing I wanted.

2.

At that time, my father was still living with us. His behavior wasn't getting any better and one summer evening, like so many evenings before, he didn't come home and he didn't call. We were worried. My mother was simultaneously scared and infuriated. It was about 4 AM. We were sitting together at the kitchen table when the phone rang. It was my father. He asked to speak to my mother. I knew whatever it was, it was bad. My mother took the phone, and initially, she spoke in anger;

"Where are you? Do you have any idea what time it is? We've been worried sick!"

But then, as he spoke and she listened, she became quiet, serious, calm. Hanging up, she looked to me and said;

"Your father's in jail."

I'd imagined many scenarios around my father's late nights, but they usually involved hospitals and ambulances. I'd never imagined something like this.

"He'd been picked up DUI; driving while intoxicated".

I wasn't shocked so much at the charge; we all knew my father sometimes drove under the influence; but that he'd actually landed in jail took me by surprise. I suppose I was relieved he was alright, nobody had been hurt, and he was safe and sound for the night, anyway. My mother told me to go to bed. In the morning we'd have to go post bail and bring him home.

I went to my bed reluctantly. It seemed pointless at that hour, and indeed, I was unable to sleep. After what seemed like an hour or so, I saw a form in the darkness, and felt someone sit at the foot of the bed. My mother's hand reached out to touch my chest. I took her hand in mine, and looked up to see she'd been crying. I pulled her to me in my bed, and giving in to exhaustion, she let her body fall upon mine. She crawled in beside me, and lay her head on my shoulder.

"Hold me..." she whispered. "Just hold me...."

We lay still in the pre-dawn darkness, not making a sound. In time, her hand moved from my chest to my cheek, and turning my face towards hers, she began to kiss me. Softly, tenderly at first, she kissed my cheeks. In moments her lips discovered mine, and her kisses became more insistent, passionate. She kissed my mouth as though she were a woman starved, searching my mouth hungrily for the meeting of my tongue. These were kisses born not of lust but of longing. The longing for connection, for sharing, for mating. We kissed there in the dark, until the dawn, and fell asleep in each other's arms.

That night was not repeated for a long time. We brought my father home and began the process of rehabilitation; my father's... and my parent's relationship. There was no denying my father had a problem now, and my mother earnestly applied herself to helping him come to terms with it and to repairing their marriage. If they were to succeed, my mother didn't need to be distracted with our playful flirtations. We didn't talk about it, there wasn't any formal declaration, just an understanding.

And so I focused on work, and taking undergraduate classes at the nearby Community College, while my mother became my father's chauffeur (he'd lost his license), driving him to work and to AA meetings.

They tried, they worked hard at it, and for a few years it looked like they might succeed. But cracks began to show. My father had never really kicked the habit, and still drank. He didn't spend as much time out with the guys from the office anymore, but when he did go out, for dinner with my mother or a work related event, he still drank to excess. I'd often find him passed out in the kitchen, sleeping it off in his chair.

During this period, I'd tried to get my life going, independent of my parents, and of my mother. I was doing well in school, still working, and I'd dated a few girls here and there, although nothing serious had developed. Looking back, I can see I was biding my time, waiting for something to give. Eventually, something did.

I had met a girl, and fallen hard for her, way too hard too quick. It didn't last long, a summer at the most; but my feelings had gotten carried away. When it ended, I took it hard, over the top hard and after a bad night drinking the wrong stuff alone, I ended up on the floor of the bathroom at three in the morning, wallowing in self-pity and talking suicide. It was not my proudest moment.

I thought I'd been quiet, but then, when you're that inebriated, what do you know? There was a knock on the bathroom door;

"Jeremy, honey, are you alright?" The door opened a crack, and my mother peered in. Seeing my on the floor, she pushed it open wide, and knelt beside me.

"Oh my god, what is it? What's wrong?"

She was clearly upset to see me in the state I was in. I don't remember much of my reply, except to know even in my drunken stupor, I was embarrassed for her to find me as I was. Somehow or other, I conveyed the gist of it. I remember her holding me in her arms, my head on her shoulder and whispering to herself more than to me;

"If something had happened to you, I'd kill her. I'd find her and kill her..."

Finally, she pulled me together, got me up off the floor and to the kitchen for some coffee.

With the caffeine came some semblance of rationality, and any thoughts of harming myself dissipated along with the alcohol. (you should know, I gave up drinking not very long after that night)