Sons Part 1.
(This is a fictionalization. All of those involved were older than 18 at the time of the events recounted here.)
“Oh, my God; did he just slap my ass? Did my 20 year-old son just slap his mother’s ass? I can hardly believe it, but he did! The little devil!
I know I’m supposed to be indignant, take him to task for touching a woman without her permission( never mind his mother), but I’m too amused by the audacity of his gesture, maybe a little flattered by his attention; okay—I’m a lot flattered—and, I’m afraid to admit it, more than just a little bit excited.
Were we flirting? Was I flirting with my own son? Was he flirting back? Who started it? I don’t remember now, but I’m not going to forget the mild sting of his palm against my backside. Is he attracted to me? Is that normal for boys his age? Maybe he likes my ass? It’s always been my greatest asset, no pun intended. Like father, like son, I guess.
The best I can muster is a flirtatious “mock indignation”, coupled with a coquettish giggle. Is that an invitation to do it again? Or to continue the flirtation? I think it is!
Dear lord, what am I doing?
And where is that supposed to lead? Nowhere , of course-I certainly don’t want to encourage him, or any fantasies…do I? Oh come on, it’s harmless fun, a sweet show of affection, nothing more. Where’s the harm?”
What is it they say about the flapping of butterfly’s wings? Their movement here becomes a cyclone half-way around the globe? That the same could be said of a playful slap on the ass would have seemed absurd to me we’re I not to become an enthusiastic participant in the resulting tsunami.
We had been cleaning out the basement in preparation for an upcoming renovation. Thick plastic garbage bags filled with the detritus of ten years accumulation of whatever gadget had fallen out of favor, lost a part or simply stopped working. Brooms kicking up more dust than we couple possibly collect; all to the soundtrack of top-forty AM radio, circa 1974. Amidst the hustle and bustle there were good spirits and lots of joking; my son, home from college for summer break, was surprisingly willing to help with the project, even though it meant working around the house for a few days, rather than hanging out with his buddies. The work was not too strenuous, the company pleasant, and we were having a good time joking around and catching up on the recent events of each others’ lives.
We’d always been close; he was my only child, and among the most surprising developments of motherhood was that as my son had matured he became a person with whom I found it easy to talk with; a confidant, an advisor, a friend—my best friend. He knew about the periodic difficulties his father and I had had in our relationship; my frustration with my husband’s emotional distance; he shared my passion for art and music; we spent hours talking about our favorite musicians and many afternoons playing our favorite records for one another. I cherished our special relationship and the time we spent together, as did he. Despite our emotional closeness, we did not have an overly physical relationship; there weren’t a lot of hugs or kisses, at least -not at the time of the basement renovation. That I did not hug or hold him a great deal as he was growing up is a mystery to which I have no answer-but I certainly made up for it later on.
I was wearing a tight pair of navy blue polyester knit pants and a black short sleeve top, white sneakers and a red kerchief holding back my thick, shoulder length auburn-hair, Jackie-O style. I was dressed for light work and comfort; I had no inkling what my attire might arouse in Greg.
I was well aware I had a good figure, and to put it bluntly, a nice ass; but that wasn’t a consideration when I got dressed that day, and as I was bending over to pick up one thing or another off the floor, Greg just behind me, I didn’t imagine my son was staring at his mother’s ass.
Or did I? It’s a question I have asked myself over and over and never come to a satisfactory answer. I knew men looked at me, and despite some nagging insecurities, I knew I was attractive. Over the years I’d caught many a wayward glance from my husband’s friends and colleagues, enough so I was well attuned to when I’d caught someone’s eye. And while I would never admit it to myself, I had sometimes seen that look in my son’s eye as he focused his attentions on me, followed by that furtive expression of embarrassment when a young man is caught looking and quickly turns away.
We had been been joking; I’d taken to calling him “Mr. Muscles” as he hauled heavy bags of garbage out of the basement, praising his strong arms and threatening to put him to work on a myriad of jobs around the house. He responded with something about worker exploitation and we had a playful back-and-forth. Were we flirting? bahis firmaları If it had been any other man I would have said so with certainty; but my son? Had there been someone in the room with us, I’m sure they would have confirmed it, but at the time, I never would have admitted it.
So as he stood behind me holding a broom, and I bent over in front of him to pick something up off the floor, displaying my shapely bottom for his penetrating gaze; was I asking for what followed? Or was I as innocent as I’ve allowed myself to think all these years?
I may never have an answer; but as I was bent prostrate in front of him, I suddenly felt the swat of his hand on my tush, and then the light poke of the broom-stick tapping my cheeks! Surprised, I sprung upright and turned to look at him with astonishment, and giggling called out his name like I did when he was a child and in trouble for one thing or another; “Gregory! What do you think you’re doing?”
My laughter revealed the pretense of my apparent indignation, and he took it as an invitation to follow through on what he had started; adopting the pose of a lecherous monster he stalked me, and like Marilyn Monroe running around a desk chased by her lecherous boss I heard myself squeal as I began to skirt around the basement, vainly trying to evade the swat of his broom. I was not entirely successful, and after a lap around the basement and one or two more light swats on my bottom, we stopped running and broke up laughing like two naughty kids. We went back to work and didn’t speak of it, but the rest of the afternoon passed quickly, buoyed by our shared excitement.
It was an enthralling moment, and while I tried to push off it’s implications, the thought of it afterwards took my breath away, and kept me awake late into the night. I was too Catholic, and too innocent(or at least I thought I was), to envision what was too come, but the racing of my heart confirmed the sexual implications of that afternoon’s small gesture, and despite my conscious denial, I felt moisture between my legs.
The next day passed without incident or comment on our flirtation( if that’s what it was), as did the next and the next. Our relationship appeared unchanged, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Weeks went by and as the basement renovation began and things around the house became hectic, our little joke( if that’s what it was) seemed to be forgotten. But what seems to be is not necessarily what is, and periodically I found myself reflecting upon those few seconds in the basement; and as I recalled my exhilaration in being chased and the pleasant sting of his hand upon my ass, I could not help but smile. I wondered if he thought about it too; of course, some time later I learned the memory fueled his imagination on many a lonely evening.
While at that point in our relationship I had no conscious imaginings of the kind fueling Gregory’s nights, I was still curious about the motivation that drove his hand to my butt. Was it simply a playful sign of affection( as I tried to convince myself), or was there something more to it? I was desperate to find out. I didn’t have to wait too long for an answer.
One warm July afternoon we had been to lunch and gone shopping; something we were wont to do once a week or so when he had a day away from his summer job. In every way our periodic afternoon excursions were date-like; time set aside to simply delight in one another’s company; affording us time to converse without interruption about things large and small. I was never aware of thinking of these afternoons as “dates”, but looking back on it, I realize I would spend an inordinate amount of time beforehand, searching for just the right outfit, fixing my hair and putting my face on, ensuring I would look good for him and he would be proud to be with me. I felt the thrill of victory whenever he complimented me on my appearance.
This particular day, we had had a few drinks with lunch, and when a waitress mistook us for a couple, we had quite a laugh about Gregory being my young boyfriend. But the joke stirred some longing in me, and I was just tipsy enough to say something as we left the restaurant; “…well, in a way, you are my boyfriend, aren’t you?”
As he took my arm in his, he replied ” you bet, Mom. Always…”
It all seemed innocent enough.
Among the things we’d bought that afternoon was a hummingbird feeder. The drinks had worn off by the time we got home, and Gregory hung it up on the back porch. I beckoned him back inside to see if we might successfully attract any of those miraculous birds. We stood at the window just above the kitchen sink, waiting. It was a confined space, with room for only one person to be at the sink at a time, so Greg stood behind me, and not being tall,
had to step up on his tippy-toes to see the feeder clearly over my shoulder. After a few seconds, a bird arrived at the feeder, and we both eagerly craned kaçak iddaa our necks to get a better view.
Gregory had to lean in against me as he stretched up on his toes; and as he did so his crotch gently pushed up against my ass. To balance himself he put one hand on the sink counter, and his left hand on my hip. My pulse quickened and my heart raced as I felt his touch. Despite myself, I was so excited I couldn’t breathe. We stood there like statues for what seemed an eternity, and truthfully, I didn’t want to move.
As the bird left, it was quickly followed by another, and leaving his left hand on my hip, he placed his right on my shoulder. His weight shifted to rest on me and as I felt his hot breath on my neck, I felt as though I was going to melt on the floor. His crotch pressed against me with more insistence, and while he was careful that it seem only the natural result of our positions against the sink and our mutual desire to see the hummingbirds, I could feel the warm bulge of his hardening cock against my ass. Overcome with fear and desire, I could hear my heart pumping like a jackhammer in my head.
As the birds left and we stepped back from the sink, I felt his hand slide off my hip, and gently, ever so gently, his palm slowly gliding down the curve of my ass; his touch so light as to be almost imperceptible, tracing the entirety of the slope and curve of my cheek until finally coming to rest at the bottom where he cupped his palm ever so slightly against the plumpest part of my derrière.
He was driving me crazy. It was just enough that I was sure he could feel the flesh but not forceful enough to be considered a grab. If it had happened on the subway I’d have barely noticed.
Stepping back from the window, we both pretended to be unaware of what had just passed between us. There was no longer any question about it, his touch was overtly sexual; and I hadn’t objected. The message was clear, our mutual desire hung heavy in the room like the smoke of a smoldering fire.
But we weren’t ready to admit it to one another or, more importantly, to ourselves. We made small talk about the birds, and as others arrived at the feeder, we pointed them out to one another, sure to view from different vantage points. I don’t remember much of the remainder of that day; by the time his father arrived home from work the electro-static charge of the moment had dissipated and we sat at the dinner table as a family, just as we usually did. I remember my husband commenting on the bird-feeder.
By any normal measure of sexual encounters, that moment watching the birds would not even register on the scale. Yet it felt earth-shattering; a monumental crack in the facade of my denial. If I’d been successful at keeping erotic thoughts about my son at bay since that first incident, they rushed through that fissure like flood waters through a crack in a dam now.
The memory of his hard, warm cock against me both plagued and delighted me. Despite myself, I began to wonder what it looked like, the shape of it, how big it was. Naturally, I hadn’t seen it since he’d entered adolescence years before. Unlike his father, Gregory was circumcised; and while I’d been faithful to his father, I never really cared for his cock; I much preferred the look and feel of a circumcised penis. I’d had limited sexual experience before we’d married( it was the 1950’s after all-and there’s no under-estimating the power of Catholic guilt) and I was still a virgin on our wedding night. So while I’d held the shaft of one in my hand, I still wondered what a circumcised cock felt would feel like in my mouth, and inside me. Devoid of its hood, both beauty and elegance are revealed in it’s shape, and I imagined my tongue exploring every curve of the smooth head; a head that seemed as though it would slide so sweetly and effortlessly inside of me.
As days passed, I became obsessed imagining my son’s manhood. I was determined to catch a glimpse of it before the summer ended and he returned to school. Naturally, I hadn’t seen it for a number of years—and I keenly recalled the loss I’d felt when he was nine or ten and the body I’d given birth to, cradled, bathed and diapered, suddenly became inaccessible to me, that time when your child is self-aware enough to demand autonomy and develops a sense of modesty. But that loss was tempered by pride in my child’s growing sense of self; and as a parent I gradually learned to respect those boundaries. This new curiosity, however, was a development of a different order and notions of morality and propriety were helpless before my insatiable curiosity.
Now, imagining his hard, sleek, circumcised penis sent shivers down my spine.
Running his daily routine over and over through my mind, I came to the conclusion the only opportune moment to catch him undressed and unaware would be during or after his shower. My plan was simple; remove the towels from the upstairs bathroom and count kaçak bahis on him to step into the shower without noticing( which would be typical, judging by how often I found puddles between the bath and the linen closet in the hallway outside).
So early one August morning, while Gregory was still sleeping, I gathered up the all the upstairs bathroom towels, placed them in the laundry room and conveniently forgot to replace them.
I then placed clean towels in a laundry basket and carried it up to the kitchen, where the sound of water running in the upstairs bathroom was usually audible. I made my morning coffee, read the paper and waited. My strategy was to meet him on the landing with the basket of towels just at the moment he came out of the bathroom in search of one from the linen closet. He’d be embarrassed and say there were no towels and I’d say I had done laundry late and forgot to replace them until I heard the water running for his shower. And if all went accordingly, his manhood would be on full display.
It sounds silly now, but its success depended upon precision timing and his adherence to his usual routine. Any deviation and it was a no-go. There were mornings wherein he’d skip his shower entirely and come directly downstairs for his coffee. If that were the case, I’d have to quickly hide the laundry basket and wait for another opportunity.
Some time after nine, I heard him stirring in his bedroom just above the kitchen. I heard his footsteps through the ceiling as he crossed his bedroom floor and walk towards the bathroom. The sound of the bathroom door closing followed. His pattern was to relieve himself, brush his teeth and hop in the shower, in that order. Minutes passed. I held my breath and waited. Would he or won’t he? I heard the muffled sound of the toilet flush. And then, the pipes opening, water rushing—yes! He was in the shower.
He was not one to dawdle under the water, but this morning it seemed like he was taking an extra long time; “What could he be doing in there?” I wondered, growing more impatient with every passing second. Suddenly I found myself imagining him in the shower, soaping up and stroking his stiffening cock as the water cascaded over his youthful body.
Intoxicated by the vision of my son stroking his rock-hard penis, I almost didn’t hear it when the rush of water through the pipes ended abruptly. Catching my breath, I counted to five, picked up the laundry basket and with great restraint, I calmly climbed the stairs. A second off one way or the other, and I’d miss his foray from the safety of the bathroom into the unguarded, wide-open space of the landing. I counted the steps as I walked them; one, two, three—and hoped that for once I’d be in the right place at the right time.
As I approached the landing, I heard the sound of the bathroom door creak open. Just as I reached the top of the stairs, I looked up just in time to see my wet, naked son bound out of the bathroom like a frightened deer escaping the forest, his mildly engorged manhood swinging freely between his legs like the trunk of a pachyderm ( to mix my metaphors). I stared, fixated at the sight of his glorious cock; swinging to and fro like a bell on a chain; swollen, sleek and beautifully proportioned, it took all of my strength to turn my eyes up to his shocked face.
Deeply embarrassed, he mumbled something about searching for towels; and handing him one,I replied I’d just washed them. And then, to lighten the moment, I said
” don’t worry, honey, it’s not like I’d never seen it before…” and we laughed, an uncomfortable laugh, as he took the towel and closed the bathroom door behind him; offering me the additional prize of glimpsing his naked tush as he walked away.
I was so pleased with myself, as much for the flawless execution of my elaborate plan as for realizing my goal. Looking back, it was akin to starring in my own bank-heist movie, it was that much fun.
I’d satisfied my curiosity, but once I’d seen it, of course, I wanted to see it again. I wanted to hold it, feel it in my hand, stroke it and make it hard and put it in my mouth and wrap my tongue around the beautiful head of it, explore every delicious curve and then swallow it whole.
My thoughts were racing faster than I could keep up, and before I’d even returned to the kitchen I’d already envisioned sitting astride it, riding it, swallowing it deep within me. Suddenly self-conscious, I stopped my mind in its tracks; “I’d only wanted to catch a glimpse of it, nothing more” I told myself.
I was not prepared for the rush of conflicting thoughts. A deep sense of morality and cultural propriety collided with lust and desire amidst a sense of motherly pride. I remember being pleased thinking that girls would find my son’s cock attractive, and as soon as I’d thought it a well of involuntary jealousy rose within me. I wanted it for myself.
Of course, I knew that was an impossibility, and the realization filled me with sadness, followed by a determined possessiveness and then shame. The simple sight of it, how could the simple sight of his maturity send me into so much turmoil?