Chapter 1

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Incest, Mother, Son, Brother, Sister, .

Desc: True Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I'm a clinical psychologist whose quixotic goal is to become a screenwriter. Not that I'd give up my day job. I'd like to use my private consultation experience to create a Netflix-type of series. The seven case studies I describe here comprise an interesting subset of incest. Each one involves a mother who actively enables her son's sex life. IDs are disguised, but all the sexual activity did occur. I am required to report things such as child abuse. I alone define abuse.

As a clinical psychologist, I develop interventions that change real people in real ways. Current thinking, as indicated by one recent analysis of over 200 studies, is that therapy can change personality traits such as neuroticism. And that’s a trait with higher levels of anxiety and fear that many of my patients exhibit.

I’m just a person, so of course I’m flawed. Both personally and professionally. I’d like to cure every patient, it simply is not possible.

Let’s begin with a failure, one that continues to haunt me. A former patient of mine, a wife and mother, committed suicide. She staged it so that her teenage son would discover her nude body. She wanted to punish him as well as herself.

The police found the medications I had prescribed for her, through a psychiatrist, in unopened vials.

The suicide followed a pattern of increasingly sexual interactions with her son. For the last three months of her life she was fucking him. Of course her son will need therapy for years, maybe for the rest of his life.

I try to keep a loss such as that one in perspective. And it is some consolation to remember the patients I have talked off the ledge.

Moving on.

Certain men, often fathers, have been getting boys laid for decades. Centuries. It is more recently that mothers have become aggressive sexual enablers for their own sons. This literary treatment is a composite story of seven such mothers.

Many observers tend to agree that the Internet was one of the precursors.

At one time pornography was hidden, difficult for kids to get their hands on. Dad’s “Playboy” magazines were a major score. Nudist magazines showed actual pussies.

Then, seemingly overnight, every imaginable type of fucking and sucking was just ... there. Right out in the open. Available to every horny boy with a device.

Digitally clumsy parents were no match for their tech-savvy children. Older brothers and sisters schooled younger siblings. Friends taught friends.

Sexting soon became a thing.

Porn morphed from boys watching adult strangers doing it to kids seeing their pals -- boys and girls -- naked. Nudity, of course, was merely a first step toward actually having sex.

Parents, mothers in particular, had variable reactions. This piece is about those rare mothers who became sexual abettors for their own sons.

As a therapist, one of my specialties is treating both incest victims and incest predators. My intent in this story site is to create a nontechnical but entertaining narrative based on female patients I have treated. And ones my colleague has as well. Between us, ten mothers have been transformed into seven case studies.

It is more common for a boy to have sexual fantasies about his mother than for her to imagine having sex with her son. However the latter does occur.

“Case Studies” is based on real people and events. Yet, to ensure privacy I’ve altered the names, descriptions, and activities of these patients and their sons so much that it could be considered fiction. Fiction, but based on reality.

The following “Case Study” mothers range from mousy to vibrant. Sexual enablers can be aggressive or shy. Attractive or homely. Wealthy or indigent. They share a common trait -- there is either no husband living in the home or he’s mostly an absentee figure.

While my colleague and I do treat incest survivors and current participants, none of these “Case Study” patients is actually fucking her son. Yet.

The seven “Case Study” mothers are

1. Monica S. > A promiscuous 44 year old woman in sexual thrall to her 14 year old son.

2. Alicia M. > A San Francisco socialite who isn’t looking to modify her sexy behavior toward her son.

3. Katie T. > An aging Berkeley hippie who actively watches her son fucking his aunt. Her younger sister.

4. Maggie W. > A single mother with an ill-conceived plan to have her young daughter and son become sexually involved with each other.

5. Cassie P. > A gorgeous corporate wife who is slowly escalating the sexual interaction with her son.

6. Juanita M. > A 37 year old Latina whose son is a chronic masturbator. In front of her.

7. Annie G. > An aspiring actress who is willing to use her body and her young son to further both of their careers.

One thing to remember -- each of these women is doing something illegal. Incest of course. But I’m more concerned about child abuse. I tell my patients I will report them if I believe their behavior escalates from what they perceive as fun and games to abuse. It’s a judgement call on my part and often not an easy one to make.


Case Study # 1: Monica S.

Monica was born and raised in Dayton Ohio. Graduated from Ohio State with a major in economics. Worked for a bank in downtown Columbus. In analysis, she told me, “I was following my father. He studied accounting. Became a CPA.”

Monica decided to change her self-described boring life. She was 27 and single when she loaded her belongings into a rental truck and headed west for Berkeley. She entered grad school with a major in Theater & Performance Studies. About as far from numbers as she could get.

California wasn’t Ohio and Berkeley wasn’t Columbus. Monica had found her milieu.

The Bay Area was everything Monica had dreamed it would be. Attitudes were liberal, dope was plentiful, sex was open. Freedom was in the air.

Monica had had sex with two boys and two men in Ohio. Her first year in Berkeley, she fucked seven college students and one 14 year old boy. The boy lived in the downstairs unit of the duplex where she rented her apartment from his mother.

Monica was Midwestern pretty. A round, open, often smiling face ringed with curly brown hair. She was constantly fighting to lose five to ten pounds which she said settled in her hips and thighs.

At 5’ 5” Monica was full-figured and worried that her left breast was slightly larger than her right one. She never quite became the California girl of her dreams, but she was conventionally attractive. With a bright, bubbly personality.

Her wildest sexual escapade in her early Berkeley days was when a classmate talked her into a threesome with his roommate. She loved the hunger in the two 22-year old boys and threw herself enthusiastically into the ménage. This was more like it!

Monica told me, “I was determined to become my idea of an independent California girl. I had anal with them for my first time. I did everything they wanted in bed. After a couple of months they liked to keep me naked when their friends dropped by. And I let them. From then on I was constantly getting felt up. Girls as well as boys. I loved the attention, simply loved it. We smoked dope all the time. Laughed a lot. And it wasn’t just the grass, I was high on life, my life. I loved the new me.”

She served her friends drinks and snacks in the nude. Wore only an apron as she cooked for the two roommates and their guests. At the boys’ behest she got her first ever full Brazilian and was thrilled whenever a guest’s hand strayed between her thighs. “I giggled a lot, but some of them knew how to get my motor purring. A couple of girls in particular.”

Monica’s growing dependency on those two boys emerged long before she entered therapy with me. Her distant father had never provided much direction, nor emotional support. Her mother had been a quiet housewife who rarely voiced an original opinion. Over time those two 22 year old Berkeley students sensed Monica’s subservience and exploited it. My guess would be probably just because they could. That and they didn’t care for her as much as she did for them. Once they realized she would do anything sexually to please them, they began losing any respect they might have had earlier in the relationship.

Monica was then 28 years old and more or less in love with the two boys. “I wanted to keep them happy and that meant mostly in bed. I gave them whatever they asked for and I loved doing it.” To be fair to the boys, Monica herself enjoyed the almost daily sex the three of them had.

“Then it happened so gradually. A neighbor, Dave, had been dumped by his girlfriend. He’s a good guy. We were all high that morning, I remember how sunny it was. Springtime. It just made sense to me when Jimmy said to give Dave a blowjob. Smitty smiled at me and nodded.”

Within months, Monica had become what she called a ‘very popular girl.’ Her two boyfriends passed her around and the circle of acquaintances who fucked her grew larger. “I never told anyone no. It wouldn’t have been cool, wouldn’t have been me. The Ohio girl would have said no to some of them. Not the new California girl. I felt like a party girl and I liked that feeling. We were all friends, all high. It just happened. Besides I liked sex, liked the feeling of freedom. It was nothing like back home.”

Monica dropped out of school and took a job as a barista. Then a second job as a bookkeeper. Throughout this sexually active period in her life she never lost her Midwestern sensibility. She didn’t run up debt, didn’t fall behind on her rent. Smoked dope, but didn’t become hooked on anything. Made sure all those guys used condoms. Including the 14 year old boy.

“Yeah, looking back I guess I was pussy. Anybody’s fuck. But it didn’t feel slutty to me. Or I didn’t think it did. I guess I probably didn’t even think about it, I don’t know. I like sex. I wasn’t going to become my mother. Oh, some of them had me eat their girlfriends too. Why not? I was a carefree California girl.”

Monica had never been with another girl until she moved to California.

Looking back on her early, sexually indiscriminate days, she said, “I felt more popular than I ever had in my life. It was sex, of course, I realized that even back then. But it was more than just that, I’m pretty sure. Boys liked to hang out with me. Girls too.”

Did a day go by without sex? “Oh, maybe if I had the flu real bad. But there were several guys who fucked me when I had my period. And that didn’t matter to the girls I was eating.”

She did start fucking the 14-year old boy before she became promiscuous. Monica was proud of that. “Craig was so hungry for me. And shy. His mother worked nights at the Chronicle. I just seduced him. Easy.”

That affair continued for three years, well into her licentious period. “Even Craig figured out he could share me with his little buddies. I never turned anyone down. You should see how much I spent on rubbers for those boys. They’d clomp upstairs after school, six or seven of them. Do me two or three times each. His mother knew about me by then. Rosie.”

The mother’s awareness, and seeming acceptance, was important to Monica.

“She didn’t mind, Rosie, she was still friendly. We drank coffee, smoked pot some weekends. Rosie didn’t look down on me. Never said a word about me fucking her son. Even when he and a couple of buddies spent the night upstairs. Not on school nights though.”

Monica referred to Craig’s mother, her acceptance of Monica, several times. She was using Rosie’s acquiescence to try to convince herself that her promiscuity was normal. Or at least within shouting distance of normal.

By Monica’s account she and Rosie did have sort of a loose friendship. Monica always paid her rent on time, kept up the apartment. After school Craig and his buddies would fuck Monica as much as they wanted. Then they would go downstairs and Rosie would feed them snacks.

Monica said, “I always made the boys shower, I didn’t want them smelling like pussy at Rosie’s.”

Monica giggled a lot. “Just imagine six horny little boys scoring their first pussy. All hard, all erect, all impatient for another turn. No finesse of course, no technique. Little jackrabbits. But so hungry for me. Every time I opened my eyes there were two or three of them, hard as a rock. So eager to have another go.”

Did Rosie ever discuss her son’s sex life? Monica said, “She never said a word. But I had the impression she was sort of proud that he was scoring grownup pussy.”

By her own account, six or seven teenagers fucked her after school, usually taking a second turn. Some of them did her three times. She was a little defensive, “It sounds like more sex than it was. I mean a lot of the boys didn’t last even a minute. They usually did better the second time around.”

A little defensive, but a little proud too. “It was a turn-on for me, looking at six or seven naked boys stroking themselves, so eager to get at me.”

So Monica, when she wasn’t working, was fucking her college friends in the morning and again after dinner. Her after school hours were reserved for Craig and his friends, aged 13 or 14 up to 17 or 18. “Sometimes Craig let some younger boys fuck me too. Because they were virgins. I felt like I was doing a good deed or something. Like those boys earned a Merit Badge.”

Monica didn’t keep a diary of her early years in California, but estimated the number of men and boys who had fucked her. “Over 50, definitely. But probably under 100. Maybe.”

She went through a period where two college sophomores, both lesbians, brought Monica to their apartment to live. “For three or four months. Maybe a little little longer. They had me come straight home from work every day. Their friends all knew my schedule.”

Monica had some pride in her voice. “I never fooled around with another girl in Ohio, not once. Now I’m licking pussy, one girl after another. They weren’t all lesbians either. Some girls brought their boyfriends over to watch. A couple of them brought husbands.”

“Did you have sex with any of the men there?”

“Oh no. The lesbians wouldn’t have allowed that. Only pussy. Sometimes they let me go home for those after school boys.”

From Monica’s description the two lesbians had picked up on her subservience just as Jimmy and Smitty had. She was licking girl after girl without demur. She remembered one high school girl who was merely curious to see what oral sex was like. And that girl later brought her younger sister and her sister’s best friend. Two middle school girls.

“Hey, it was Berkeley. Back then I didn’t care how young they were. Anyway they liked it. Loved it.”

“Were they the youngest ones you had sex with?”

Monica blushed and didn’t answer. I’ll circle back to the subject in a later session, but my impression was that she was involved with even younger kids.

Monica met her future husband, Will, at a Hockney exhibit at the de Young in Golden Gate Park on a Sunday. “It was rainy, a good day to be inside. The lesbians had gone up to Tahoe so I was free to go wherever I wanted.”

When Will invited her to coffee, some instinct told Monica to play it slowly. Will was older, 36, nice enough looking. A great smile. Tall. The type of man she would have gladly taken to bed.

“He was different from all those college boys. More relaxed about getting me in bed. Not so hungry. And nothing at all like the high school and middle school boys.”

Will lived in San Francisco, owned a two-bedroom apartment in the Marina. Upstairs just like Monica. Because he lived in the City, he seemed even more special to her. Special and comparatively mature. She was able to hold off until their fourth date before going to bed with him.

“Now Will is a good guy. Great guy. But in bed? About average. Average size, average ability. I mean he got me off. But no skyrockets were going off. So I went back to Berkeley when he was at work.”

Fast forward six months. Monica was 30 and pregnant. Pregnant on purpose. Living full time with Will, she’d stopped using birth control and fucked him whenever he was in the mood. He was a CPA but, “Will wasn’t anything like Daddy. Will had a playful way. He was a dreamer.”

Monica is about 90% sure that Will is the father of her son. “Almost of the Berkeley guys wore rubbers. Even the little virgins.”

Will and Monica married at City Hall. His younger brother Andy was the witness. Monica’s parents were pleased, they’d given up on grandchildren. Although they would have preferred to have met her husband ahead of the ceremony.

Fast forward again. Monica’s son, Carter, was 10. Monica, 40, was a stay at home Marina housewife.

Monica said, “I still loved Will. But, I don’t know. Boredom. Berkeley memories.”

When Carter was old enough for a baby seat, Monica began crossing the Bay Bridge to meet her former friends. She didn’t rationalize it, “I like sex. I like the attention.”

She juggled her Berkeley sex life with diapers, formula, nap times, bathing Carter. She wasn’t as active as she had been in her 20s, but, “I was fucking two or three boys a day. Then I ran into one of the lesbians, so she had me doing girls again.”

None of the girls reciprocated, “But I didn’t mind, not really. She let me play with myself so I was getting off. Usually.”

Monica also began fondling Carter. This is more prevalent than many people realize. It can be a temporary curiosity. Can I get him erect? Yes, I can, how cute. It could be for the fun of it. It could be a rare treat, or perhaps a soothing mechanism. An experiment. A walk on the naughty side. A giggle with a girlfriend. Or, like with Monica, a constant. A need.

Once her son was out of diapers she liked to keep him naked. Will was amused but didn’t see any harm in it.

At first Monica limited her penis play to bath times. Then added bedtimes after Will had said his goodnight to his son. Again, she didn’t rationalize, didn’t claim her son slept better, that it was for his own good. “His little cock was so perfect. I loved kissing it.”

Monica maintained her lifestyle pattern, still going to the East Bay for sex. When Carter wasn’t in school, she took him with her. “Somebody in Berkeley watched over him while I was having sex. I don’t think he saw me in action. Or not very many times.”

Fast forward a third time.

Monica is now 44, her son 14. This was the year she entered therapy with me.

Monica was eager to make a point at her first session with me, “I don’t fuck Carter. Never have, never will.”

But she had an ongoing mother-son symbiosis with him. Monica was now divorced, although still living in her former husband’s Marina apartment.

She had oral sex, fellated her son almost every morning before school. And after school. And at bedtime. Monica had resumed her East Bay day trips. Although by now she didn’t perceive herself as that desirable.

“Most of my old friends had moved on. I go after teenagers now. They’ll fuck anyone with a pussy, a lot of them. I encourage them to introduce me to their friends. I’m still pretty popular. Real popular, I’d say with the youngest boys.”

She still isn’t comfortable talking about it, but she was doing middle school boys as well. Perhaps even younger. I’m letting her open up at her own pace on that subject. Eventually everything will come out.

Monica was more and more socially isolated. Her husband’s friends had sided with him. She wasn’t estranged from her parents, they just lived more than 2,000 miles away. Her former university friends were now busy with careers and families.

She began focusing more and more of her attention and energy on her son. “I was so hungry to suck him off, I’d do it several times a day. Once he was able to cum, he couldn’t stay hard as much. So I sucked him when he was asleep.”

“Did that wake him?”

“Oh, sort of halfway. When he spurted off he was kinda groggy, sort of aware. But he went right back to sleep.”

Eventually even Carter was taking her blowjobs for granted.

Recognizing that Carter now had a so-what attitude toward her, and increasingly eager, almost desperate, for his approval, Monica began providing her son with prostitutes. She started with massage parlors in the seedier sections of Oakland. Because of Carter’s age, she had to pay more than market rates for pussy.

Monica drove to Oakland, paid a girl, drove her back to the Marina, watched while Carter fucked her, then drove her back to Oakland. She had been doing this ever since Carter could cum.

“I made sure he wore a rubber, every single time. That’s one thing I did right.”

Monica’s divorce settlement had been fair, California state laws saw to that. But she didn’t have an unlimited budget. So she started working at the best massage parlor that would hire her, given her age. She was giving six or eight hand jobs and blowjobs a day. Then bringing home a girl to meet Carter after school.

“Why didn’t you get a regular job? Keeping books?”

“I lost all interest in that shit. Plus I needed to be flexible, Carter expects me to be there when he gets home from school.”

At first Carter was so delighted with the pussy that he let Monica watch as he fucked whore after whore. Then he wanted his privacy. Monica had to content herself with sitting on the floor outside his door, listening. Listening and masturbating.

By the time she came to see me, Monica S. was in a sad downward spiral. Sucking cock five or six days a week to pay for whores for her son to fuck. The week before she called for an appointment with me, Monica had blurted out to Carter that she was working in a massage parlor while he was in school.

“He didn’t have that much respect for me anyway. Why should he? I’m just his little cocksucker. Some mother.”

My role is primarily that of a listener. A professional listener. In my discipline we are trained to be nonjudgmental. I certainly wasn’t shocked by Monica’s recitations. I was already seeing a number of incest related patients. And Monica wasn’t as outrageous as she believed. Something inside her had kept her from fucking her son.

She needed to talk, wanted to talk. With some patients I have to take my time, draw them out, let them discover their own voice at their own pace. Monica gushed. Almost 20 years of guilt came pouring out. Her early, slutty, Berkeley years. Seducing a 14-year old. Being passed around from buddy to buddy. Licking all those girls.

Then serially cheating on Will. Sexually fondling Carter. Blowing him. Working in a massage parlor to pay for prostitutes for him. A lot of emotional baggage.

Monica, like so many patients, asked, “What is wrong with me?”

Psychologists don’t like questions where we don’t know the answer. Or know only part of it. I once had an emergency referral for a woman who took all the sleeping pills she had, She survived, her son found her nude, in a pool of vodka-induced vomit.

We professionals don’t like to give speculative answers. But sometimes intuition, guided by experience, is the best that we have to offer. Intuition is memory -- people, places, things, events, behavior. And with some analysts that mix of intuition and experience can be valuable. Certainly more useful than no intuition and no practical experience.

The sleeping pill woman had been sexually molested when she was a child. She didn’t tell me that, but I ‘knew’ it beyond any reasonable doubt. She exhibited, even in the hospital, the classic signs. Dependency, low self-esteem. And promiscuity. Which she was eager to talk about. Anything other than her suicide attempt which she claimed was an accidental overdose.

Monica self-identified her own turning point, “I never should have sucked Dave off that sunny morning. Sure Mitzi had dumped him. But if I’d just kept fucking Jimmy and Smitty, I would have been okay. We might still be together. Oh, probably not.”

Monica’s body had thickened some over the years, but she was still attractive in a former cheerleader type of way. She was understandably despondent, but there was still a spark of life in her.

She had worked up the courage to see me because her son was pressuring her to suck off his buddy, currently his best friend. “Carter swears he hasn’t said anything to him, but Johnny looks at me in a different way.”

“What is your physical relationship with Carter now?”

“He wants his early morning blowjob every day. Can’t blame him, he got used to it over the years. Sometimes he has me suck him off before he goes to bed.”

The phrase ‘he has me’ spoke to the dominant role the 14 year old had assumed over his mother.

I probably could help her, but it would take time. Monica was a pro bono case from the start. She couldn’t begin to afford the $190 per 50 minutes that I charge. Even if she stopped paying for prostitutes.

Monica would be an interesting challenge. I agreed to treat her for free and she agreed to try to do as I suggested. The very first thing: “Do not become involved with your son’s friend. That is the single most important thing you can do starting today.”

This was a relatively easy task since the advice paralleled her own misgivings.

I would attempt to wean her of orally servicing her son, but she wasn’t strong enough yet to go cold turkey. Didn’t have the confidence to face up to her son. Monica believed she could get away with maybe just one blowjob a day. Maybe. The early morning one. So she’s going to try that, if Carter will go along.

It would be a start.

Perhaps surprisingly I was less concerned about the prostitutes she hired. It was wrong. And illegal, especially because of Carter’s age. But at least Monica wasn’t fucking her son. Eventually, I’d have her cut back on the prostitution. Certainly to the point where she didn’t need to work in massage parlors.

Many of my colleagues would disagree, probably most of them, but I would consider letting her give Carter an occasional whore as a treat. A reward for leaving his mother alone. A bargaining chip. However, considering the idea isn’t acting on it. I would need to know her better, get a clearer sense of Carter, of their relationship.

One practical change I made was to have Monica move to a San Francisco massage parlor. Less travel time, less wear and tear on her seven year old car. She was paid a little more for her blowjobs, but had to pay more for each whore.

It will be difficult for the boy to gain back any respect for his mother. Over time, when he’s living on his own, their relationship might improve. For that to happen, I need to build back some self esteem in Monica.

She often describes herself as ‘anybody’s fuck.’ And giving blowjobs while Carter’s at school reinforces some degree of self loathing.

But her primary focus is sucking off her son. Monica has convinced herself that she’d feel better about it if Carter would show the same enthusiasm that he did when he was younger. “He doesn’t even tell me to undress any more.”

‘Tell me.’

Monica doesn’t yet see that Carter’s taking her for granted isn’t the problem. But we’ll address everything over time. She’s had only four sessions with me. She is showing up on time, every time.

It obvious from our conversations that Monica is tiptoeing around her son. She has an almost desperate need to keep Carter happy. She worries continually about his being upset with her, even over the most minor of things. She is deferential to the boy, putting his needs, his wants, above her own.

“What if he decides he wants to fuck you, Monica?”

Silence.

One last detail. Monica waits until she is sure that Carter is asleep for the night. Then she walks to local bars in the Marina to let men pick her up. “Even as old as I am, I’m still pretty popular.”

There was still a hint of pride mixed in with embarrassment, “I’m always back in time to suck Carter off before school. And it’s not just that he’d be pissed at me if I weren’t there. I won’t let him down. He may not have a very high opinion of me these days, but he is my son. It’s the least I can do.”


Case Study # 2: Alicia M.

My San Francisco office is a little more formal than the one in Los Angeles. Down there I have more of a laid-back vibe. In both offices I have plenty of natural light. Although for some patients, I close the drapes. The quality of light can be just as important in therapy as it is in architecture. Naturally, some patients are more sensitive to the office environment than others.

Professionally I’m somewhat unconventional, but a lot of psychologists believe that about themselves. And most therapists try different treatment methodologies, experimenting to find what works best for them. And it varies from patient to patient.

While I alter my therapy systems depending on the case, I try to stay personally consistent. Polite, but firm. Strong. Unshockable. At least on the surface. Some of us work to remain nonjudgemental. But when I sense my patient will benefit from criticism, is in effect asking for it, I’ll provide quiet but resolute disapproval.

I’ve been treating Alicia for over two years. We’ve made very little progress. In fact, none. As I got to know her, I came to realize that she didn’t want to change. She simply likes talking about her sex life. Especially her role in her son’s sex life.

Alicia has porcelain white skin, is upper middle class. In fact, from her financials she and her husband aren’t that far from the top 1%. Educated, refined, confident. She invariably wears tailored outfits. Her black hairdo looks so casual that I’m sure an expensive hair stylist is involved.

She is slender, moves gracefully. Her boobs were enhanced she tells me, “But only a little.”

Alicia is 36, married to an orthopedic surgeon for 16 years. His specialty is probably the most politically conservative field in medicine. Which makes the liberties she takes with her son sort of ironic.

They have two children, one boy, a younger sister. Alicia is fond of her daughter, dotes on her son.

She spent most of our first session showing me photos and short videos of Ralston. “Gorgeous!” “Look at those shoulders!”

Our second session included nude photos of a sleeping Ralston taken over the years. “He is so delicious!” He was erect in the more recent shots.

Ralston is a good looking boy. About to turn 16. Unlike Monica, Alicia wasn’t sexually active with her son. Not directly anyway. She continues to deny that she arouses him when she takes nude photos of him as he sleeps. Perhaps she’s telling the truth.

Alicia runs with a group of contemporaries, most of whom live in Presidio Heights or Pacific Heights. Rarified air. Only a couple of her girlfriends work, both in residential real estate.

Alicia attended Vassar and did her graduate work at Bryn Mawr. Her family is from Boston. She moved to San Francisco after marrying her California husband. She is more confident than arrogant, but there is an undercurrent of entitlement.

Alicia’s best friend is named Courtney. Alicia seduced Courtney’s 14-year old son, Sammy. With Courtney’s full approval. Alicia breezily told me, “Courtney’d been fucking Ralston for years.”

That liaison had been Alicia’s idea in the first place.

Ralston and Sammy knew each other, but weren’t close friends. Probably because Alicia told both boys about the simultaneous affairs.

Courtney was the first girlfriend Alicia aimed at her son. She didn’t hire prostitutes for him, “Too many diseases.” But she did encourage her friends to have a fling with Ralston. Counting Courtney, three of them have fucked the boy. Are fucking him.

Alicia claims to believe in ‘courtly love.’ Sheer nonsense, but the concept enjoys intermittent popularity in certain circles. True love is possible only without the coercion of marriage. In other words, spouses are free to fuck around. Unbound by the pedestrian restraints of the stodgy middle class.

Courtly love adherents often cite Provençal poetry as the cornerstone of their libertine philosophy. Psychologists run across all kinds of flapdoodle in our work.

Because I’m personally interested in interior design, I enjoyed Alicia’s photos as she redid one room of her house after another. A friend of hers, gay she assures me, offers advice and gets her trade discounts. But she has a good eye of her own.

Like me, Alicia has more art in storage than she has wall space to accommodate it. It was a life highlight for her when a national design magazine featured her lovely home.

To say Alicia wasn’t physically involved with Ralston isn’t quite accurate. “I’ve never given him any privacy. He’s my son, I brought him into the world.” When Alicia’s husband isn’t home, she waits outside his shower. Dries him off. Wink, “Everywhere. Always have.”

She talks with Ralston as he dresses and undresses. She’s had him sleep in the nude ever since he was a toddler. When her husband is at a convention, Alicia will spend several minutes talking with her naked son after his shower and before she tucks him in. Yes, she still tucks him in, gives him a goodnight kiss.

“Just a teeny, tiny bit of tongue. Just a hint.”

Disturbing behavior, but in an innocent kind of way. Innocent compared to what many of my patients have done. Or are doing.

“Tell me about French Kissing him.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just a few seconds, more friendly than sexy.”

“He kisses back?”

Alicia was startled, “Of course. I mean, why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t have a girlfriend. And I certainly don’t want him practicing on his sister.”

Alicia went on for a while longer, proclaiming how innocent everything was. An indication to me that she knew how wrong it was. She wasn’t that eager to discuss it, but I subsequently learned that kissing her son wasn’t limited to one goodnight kiss. When they were alone at home, she openly necked with the boy. Out in the garden, in the kitchen, wherever the mood struck her.

I have other patients like Alicia. They store up things to tell me during the week. Often events that have nothing to do with the reasons they’re seeing me. The 50 minutes is a different kind of therapy to them. They enjoy talking openly about taboo subjects. Some try to shock me.

Courtney knows about Ralston’s lack of privacy with his mother. And the French Kissing. But her other friends don’t. So I’ve become a second outlet to listen to Alicia’s little adventures.

Alicia is a pacer. Back and forth, back and forth. She times her conversation so she’s facing me, looking me in the eye, when she talks about her son. Then when it involves something sexy, she stands completely still. Sex and Ralston together are important enough to her to command her full conversational attention.

Alicia’s sessions with me are clearly enjoyable to her. But not, so far as I can tell, in a masturbatory way. She wants to talk about the naughty side of her life. Likes to share the latest details. She’s come to think of me as a friend. I’m not of course. But I’m pleased to listen to her rave reviews of Ralston. She also enjoys hearing my reactions, listening to a male perspective.

Many mothers I see have an exaggerated sense of their sons’ appearance, talent, prowess. Value. Alicia certainly does, and it’s not only understandable, but charming in its own way. She is right about one aspect, Ralston is a handsome boy.

Alicia doesn’t want to change, has no intention of changing. She has a sense of privilege, not quite rising to the level of smugness. But I listen. And I may learn something that will be of value with other patients.

Once she had admitted to making out with her son, saw that I wasn’t shocked, wasn’t going to reprimand her, she began to enjoy sharing the same intimate details with me that she does with Courtney.

“Ralston is so easy to get erect. Of course boys are at that age. But Courtney agrees with me, I’m something special in his eyes. Something special and sexy.”

That’s part of what she’s looking for from me. Verification that she’s ‘special and sexy.’

By now neither Alicia nor I try to pretend it’s therapy any more. I’m a paid companion and I don’t see that it’s doing her any harm. If she decides to escalate her sexual relationship with Ralston, I’ll be there, ready to try to slow her down.

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Story tagged with:
Incest / Mother / Son / Brother / Sister /