I Love You, Mom

What was most repulsive about the debt crisis was that it did not level the country. If it had, then I could have at least been reassured in the thought that everyone was equally worse off, and that no one could say 'well, it could have been worse', because there would not have been a 'worse' to which one could compare their situation. Equality would come about not from some proletariat fidgeting but from banks draining the metaphorical nut sack of the middle class. And yet, as I closed the door to my bedroom, I heard the yelling coming from downstairs, and that was enough to remind me that the crisis had been uneven in its calamity.

"This is your fault," my mother was saying. "You did this. You ruined our lives." "No," my father responded, and explained that she was behaving like a bitch, and it was that which had bankrupted us. And so on.

The truth was that we were all to blame: my father for investing in the market when stocks were overpriced, and then subsequently selling his investments when the market crashed; my mother for leaving her accounting job two years ago to pursue a career in writing; and me, because it seemed unfair that only they should be blamed.

The yelling subsided, and I heard one of them—my father, I think, because the staircase whined beneath his weight—climb the stairs. Moments later, another pair of feet followed. I peeked out my bedroom door. All the lights were off, save for one light which escaped through the gaps between my parent's door and their door frame.

I moved slowly until I was in front of my parent's bedroom door. I pressed my ear against it. Silence. Then, the tell-tale creak of bed springs being tested. My parents had an unconventional approach to conflict resolution: they would fuck each other until they could no longer remember what it was that had made them so upset in the first place. An unhealthy approach, to be sure, but it was, in my mind, far superior to the alternative.

I listened to the bed springs' whine until my father groaned louder than any of us had expected. The creaking stopped, and I heard my mother say, "Go check on Jack," because she would not want to continue if I was awake. I did not know how my father responded, but I heard the bed creak several more times until my mother shouted, "David!"

By the time my father visited my bedroom, I had already pulled the sheets over my head. I felt him hover at my bedroom door. Then, my door clicked closed. I considered returning to my vantage point but stayed in bed for the rest of the night instead.

My days were long, but everyone had long days. I went to university every day except for Friday, and I tutored high school students in mathematics Mondays to Fridays from four to eight. As it was the case that only the wealthy bothered sending their children for tutoring anyway, the financial crisis did not hurt my tutoring services. Indeed, my clients did not blink when I raised my fees. They thought that I was worth the expense.

By the time I returned home, my mom would already be taking dinner out of the oven. We decided as a family to never order out, and so we were used to having late dinners. My mom and I would have eaten by the time my dad came home—he didn't mind. We would all talk until my dad finished his dinner, and then I would excuse myself from the table so that my parents could talk in private.

When they were finished talking, I would listen to them ascend the stairs and enter their bedroom. Then, I would leave my room, stand in front of theirs, and press my ear against their locked bedroom door.

I learned that they reserved sex for conflict resolutions. On the nights when they did have sex, I would listen until they finished. From these missions, I gleamed that my mom liked to act hesitant, and to have my dad soothe her into compliance. She said, "No, don't," and my father whispered, "Shhh, everything is okay," and I would listen to him moan into his orgasm. Then I would not hear anything, but I assumed that my dad was doing something pleasurable because minutes later I would hear a moan catch in my mom's throat, and I assumed that she had orgasmed, as well.

It never occurred to me that my spying would be inappropriate. I felt that my concern for their marriage was admirable, and while I could be overzealous, I was nonetheless committed to assuring that they stayed together. If I judged that they hadn't had sex in a long time, then I would know that they had either fought over something serious—finances, say—or hadn't fought in a long time. If the former, then I would explain to them how lonely I was feeling, and they would put aside their pettiness because their only son needed them.

If it was the case that they had not argued in a long time, then I would say an off-hand remark that would get them shouting at each other. Dad, do you like mom's new purse? Mom, is dad usually home this late? And so on. This would get them bickering at each other, and they would have sex that same night.

On some nights when I eavesdropped, I could feel my penis pressing against my underwear. Most times, I would rub it absentmindedly, and allow it to deflate when I returned to my bed. Sometimes, however—usually if my father was taking a particularly long time to climax—I would rub my penis for more than ten minutes, and, frustrated, I would stuff my hand into my underwear and wrap my fingers around my shaft. Then I would jerk myself with more chutzpah. The sounds from my parent's bedroom would seem more distinct, as if they knew what I was doing, and were fucking for my benefit.

I would cum into my underwear and return to bed.

My mom found a lottery ticket in my dad's pants pocket. I knew this because she marched into the kitchen with the ticket between her thumb and index finger, as if she had found something truly disgusting and wanted to minimize the surface area upon which it touched her skin. My dad denied her allegations at first, but then relented when her implacability became clear. He told us that he bought lottery tickets every other day and that he usually threw them in the garbage on his way home. I went to my room so that my parents could bicker in private.

At night, I stole to my parent's bedroom, and, as usual, placed my ear against their door. I heard nothing.

I waited.

Still nothing.

Anxious, I was about to return to my room when I saw a light coming from downstairs. It didn't surprise me that I hadn't noticed it earlier because then I had not expected any disruptions to my usual recognizance. I peered over the bannisters and found my mom lying on the couch. The light which I saw earlier came from a standing lamp beside her, which she used to see the book currently opened on her lap.

"Mom?" I whispered when I approached. She looked up at me. Then, embarrassed, she looked away.

"I can't be in the same room as your father right now," she said without smiling. I didn't blame her. I had heard their arguing from my bedroom. There had been more yelling than what I had expected from their past arguments. My mom was pissed that her husband was wasting money on lottery tickets, and then bitching at her for wasting money on clothes. Then they started talking about things which were not directly relevant but seemed nonetheless significant to them both: in-laws (my mom's father was a prick, apparently), politics (my dad supported Obama; my mom did not), religion (my mom was an atheist; my dad was Baptist), and so on.

I shrugged to hide my concern. "You guys will figure it out."

Each night I would peer over the bannisters, and each night I would see my mom lying on the couch, a book opened on her lap. I could tell that she was miserable. I had slept on our couch once before and it seemed to be purposefully crafted for discomfort. Outside was also becoming cold. The winter weather was beginning to undress the trees, denuding them of their brilliant outfits.

On one night I left my bed to check on my mother but stopped when I heard footsteps at my door. Thinking it was my dad, I retreated beneath my sheets. My door opened and then closed.

My bed was narrow and set beside a wall. I had positioned myself facing that wall so that my dad could not see my face. Which was why I didn't immediately recognize my mom when she rested beside me. It was only when she asked if I was awake that I realized it was her. I didn't respond. I felt her tug on the sheet which was currently fastened around me but gave up when it was clear that I wouldn't release the sheet easily. I heard her cough, but she was careful to be quiet about it.

I turned my head. Either she had always been looking in my direction or she had turned her head when she felt me move. I couldn't be sure.

"How long are you and dad going to fight?" I asked.

"Until he apologizes."

"When do you think he will do that?"

"When I apologize," she scoffed. Then, "Is it okay if I sleep here?" I wanted to tell her no, that she should make up with dad instead, but I knew that she would rather sleep on the couch, cold and shivering, than submit to him.

I let her take some of my bed sheet, which she wrapped around herself. She shivered happily, warm for the first night in many nights. Then, her face became serious. "Your dad and I love you. More than each other. More than our arguing. More than anything."

"I know."

Apparently satisfied, she turned on her other side, her back towards me, and soon, she was asleep.

Over the next few weeks, my mom remained in my bed. I thought that my dad was trying to mend their relationship, but he didn't go as far as apologizing, or requesting an apology from her.

By this time, I was noticing features about my mom that I hadn't noticed before. For instance, my mom lay on her side when she slept, and as a result, I noticed the sinuous outline of her profile, which resulted from her wide chest, narrow waist, wide hips, and slender legs. Equally noticeable was her youth. Despite being in her early forties, she could easily pass for early thirties or late twenties. I had always known that she looked young for her age, but this was the first time that I realized how young.

Coupled with the fact that I hadn't masturbated all the time that my mom stayed in my room, I admit that I was feeling inappropriate emotions. I felt I had to rub one out soon, and so, when I came home, I ate my dinner quickly, and told my mom that I would be going to bed early. If she was puzzled why I was going to bed at nine, then she didn't say anything.

I lay on my back and began jerking off, but I couldn't get aroused. I kept trying until I rolled onto my side, defeated. My mom crawled into her side of the bed an hour later. As usual, she wouldn't fall asleep until dad came home. I slid close to her so that our backs touched.

"Can't sleep?" She asked.

"Nope." I said. As quietly as I could, I slid my hand into my pants and began rubbing my dick. It became hard very quickly. The thought that my mom could catch me at any moment excited me.

"Are you worried about dad and me?"

"A bit, but I know you guys have your reasons."

She didn't say anything to that. She seemed to have become tense. "Jack, what are you doing...?" Her voice became quiet when she reached the word 'doing.' She didn't say anything more as I kept rubbing my manhood. By the time I orgasmed, she pretended to be asleep.

Since then, my mom was being strangely solicitous towards my dad. They started sleeping in the same room again and he started coming home at his usual time.

I also tried to give my parents more privacy, by which I meant that I did not spy on them, but this persisted only for a week. Afterwards, I was in front of their room every night. I found they had sex more frequently now than before my dad's hiatus from our home. Perhaps not uncorrelated was the fact that they argued less, as well. It was as if sex could be used equally as a preventative measure against conflicts as well as a resolution for it.

It was always just me and my mom during the evenings, before my dad came home from work, and I used these moments to absently rest my hand on my crotch whenever she glanced in my direction. If we were watching a movie, then I would touch her knee, or her elbow. If she crouched, then I would have my hand accidently brush the right or left cheek of her ass. She preferred to not comment on my behavior, as if refusing to believe that not all sons groped their crotch when they thought their mom was looking.

The result of her silence was that I became bolder in my approach. On one evening, when my dad had not yet returned home, my mom and I decided to put in a movie. Only ten minutes into the movie, my hand was on her knee. She politely removed it, but I returned it to her knee minutes later. She relented. Midway through the movie, my hand had travelled further up her thigh. She was wearing sweat pants, and so I could not feel her soft skin without squeezing her thigh, which I did not do. Again, she politely removed my hand, but minutes later I returned it. She relented.

As nonchalantly as one can be with such movements, I placed my free hand over my crotch and groped it. I did this until my cock became hard and then returned my hand to my side as if nothing had happened. When my mom noticed, she quickly turned back towards the television, where the movie was about wrapping up. I returned my free hand to my crotch and began jerking off, gently, over my pants. My mom pretended to not see, but I knew that she was glancing at me from her peripheral. I continued rubbing my cock over my pants, feeling something build up within me, and now I didn't think that either of us were watching the movie. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, my mouth slightly ajar as I built myself to a climax. I felt that this orgasm would be a big one and I wanted more than anything for my mom to see it, but I didn't take my cock out. That would be crossing a line that (strangely) I was not prepared to cross.

I was stroking my dick more fiercely now, feeling my orgasm approaching, but then I heard the front door unlock. My dad was at last home. My eyes flew open. Before I could think of how I could hide my boner, my mom swung her legs around and squeezed my boner between her thighs, effectively hiding it from view. She then lay on her back, her hands folded beneath her head. It was the most natural pose one could make when hiding in plain sight.

"Babe?" My dad called.

"Over here." My mom answered.

Dad came over to where we were sitting on the couch and laughed. At first, I thought he was laughing at my mom's legs on top of mine, but of course there was nothing funny, or intrinsically sexual, about that. Instead, my dad was laughing because the ending credits for the movie we had been watching was currently scrolling down the screen.

"Oh I love this part," he joked.

"Me, too." I said.

Because my mom had to use her thighs to conceal my erection, her ass was almost on top of my knee. I imagined how her ass would have felt sitting in my lap and I almost came then and there. If not for my dad standing right in front of us, I certainly would have.

"Dinner is in the oven." My mom said.

"I'm not hungry," said my dad. I thought I saw something pass over my mom's face—sadness, hate, whatever—but it went away as quickly as it had appeared. My dad said that he would meet her in their room and went upstairs.

When we heard the bedroom door close, my mom swung her legs around so that her feet were on the floor. Without giving either of us time to think, I resumed stroking my penis outside my pants. With my other hand, I was squeezing my mom's thigh, and this time she didn't stop me. I was very close to her at this point. Our shoulders touched, and I could see the alluring way her chest rose and fell with each one of her breaths.

I was trying to untie the strings on my sweatpants, but she stopped me. "No, don't do that," she said. I pushed her hand away, but she put it back. She took over stroking my cock. I had a moment to think that she had a good grip before I came. I wrapped my arms around her, shoving my face into the crook between her neck and her shoulder. She kept stroking my penis until the last of my semen drained from my balls.

"I love you, mom," I said.

She didn't respond, but instead rubbed the back of my neck, as if soothing a baby. When she thought that I had had enough, she untangled herself from my arms and went up the stairs. When she disappeared into her bedroom, I got up from the couch and went to bed.