Even though it was early afternoon it was already dark outside with a grey overcast sky and a light drizzle falling, it was an absolutely perfect day for a funeral. When the preachers' last words had been uttered and the casket finally lowered mother and I were the last ones to turn away from the dark hole in the ground and start back down the slippery grass towards the limousine. The mist of the light rain that was on our faces and running down our cheeks effectively covered the remnants of our tears as mother and I stepped inside the black Mercedes Benz and sped off towards our home, my father and my mother's husband was dead and buried at 55. The ghosts of his 80 plus hour work weeks at the law firm that bore his name was now behind us all and yet mother and I were left alone, alone in a 6 bedroom, 4500 square foot home in the most prestigious country club community in the city.
The limousine finally stopped at the top of our circular driveway and I helped mother from the car and we slowly walked up the front steps and into the cold and lonely house. Even before we entered we could hear the buzz of the myriad of guests that had shown up for father's funeral and had now come to our house to pay their final respects. Throughout our home were perhaps a hundred guests, milling around and talking in low whispers perhaps remembering special things about my father. There were the pompous partners from his law firm, the judges and clerks from the judicial system, and of course friends and neighbors from the community and, the many relatives from both sides of our family. The wake went on until well after ten that evening, until I finally ushered out the last of the guests, closed and locked up the house and went looking for mother. I searched the entire downstairs to no avail then I walked up the spiral staircase and there was the first sign of mother, her black high-heeled pumps lying askew at the top of the landing. Further down the long dark hallway and just at the entrance of her bedroom, lying crumpled up on the floor was her long black funeral dress and inside the room sitting at her vanity was my 47 year old mother wearing nothing but her black silk panties and bra. She was staring into the mirror on her vanity and idly trying on a variety of necklaces she had apparently taken out from her safe.
"Mom? Mom, are you OK?" She looked around at the sound of my voice although I'm not sure if she realized whose voice it actually was.
"Mom it's me, Jerry."
"Oh yes, Jeremy. Are you alright son?"
"I'm fine mother but you look as if you could use a stiff drink."
She seemed to think about that for a minute or two. "That would be nice son; yes I think a drink would be in order."
I helped her up from the vanity and into her housecoat and we walked arm in arm, back down the staircase and into the den. I got mother situated on the couch and then I walked over to the bar and made her favorite drink, a gin martini, straight up, shaken, not stirred. Two olives on a toothpick finished it off and I walked back over to the couch and handed mother her drink. "Here you go mom, it's your favorite." She took a sip and eased back onto the couch and seemed to relax just a bit. I walked back to the bar and poured two fingers of single malt scotch in a hand blown, leaded, cut crystal glass, my father's favorite I might add, and looked across the room at mother.
My mother, Mrs. Delores Wilcox III, known to everyone in the country club set simply as 'Dee" was a very striking woman. In my formative years (from 13 to about 16) I had masturbated many times thinking about mother; her worn and stained panties draped over my nose as I inhaled her aroma and jacked off to thoughts of her naked body. Now, years later, sitting there in her underclothes and housecoat she still turned me on even though I had just turned 24 and had already been married and divorced. Dee was a stunning woman who stood almost 5' 10" and at 124 pounds she was still as lithe as when she was in college. She had sparkly deep sea green eyes that were surrounded by her auburn hair that flowed well down past her shoulders. She had freckles everywhere on her body and she had once confided in me, when she was just a bit tipsy of course, that every time you had an orgasm one freckle disappeared — and she still had tons of freckles. Mom's long legs terminated at a wonderfully heart-shaped butt that still seemed to be just as firm as her breasts.
As you might suspect I am not only a hopeless voyeur but a piece of shit for having sexual thoughts about my own mother just after laying my father in the cold hard ground and you might just be right. The one thing I knew for sure about my father was his complete lack of sexuality, at least where mother was concerned. They hadn't made love in years and I knew that because on those rare occasions when my mother had a little too much to drink, sex became her favorite topic of conversation, whether or not I was in hearing range. My father would take her deriding his manhood for just so long then he would retreat into his study and lock the doors and mother would go up stairs and cry herself to sleep. A year ago after securing my divorce I moved back into my parents' home, my failed marriage due mostly to the fact that that although my ex-wife wanted my families money and prestige — she also wanted a woman in her bed, not me.
After mom finished her martini I helped her back upstairs and into her bedroom. I pulled down the covers and helped her off with her housecoat then got her settled in the bed. I kissed her cheek, checked out her bra and panties one last time, sighed deeply and pulled the covers up and went into my room to contemplate life's little complications.
The next thing I remember is hearing a crash coming from somewhere downstairs. Thinking that perhaps someone had broken into our home I rolled over and when I looked at the bedside clock and saw that it was past ten the next morning and I was stunned. Still confused with the ruckus downstairs, I got up, put on a robe and descended the staircase. Dad's study doors were wide open and I could hear mother inside and as I approached I could see things flying around the room.
"God damn you William, God damn you, God damn you." Crash went something else.
I peeked around the door and mother was standing about six feet from the open office safe pulling trophies and any other memento of my father's that she could reach off the library shelves and tossing them willy nilly around the room and damning my father after each and every throw. "Mom? Mom what's wrong?"
"Wrong! WRONG! It's your fucking father, that's what's fucking wrong! Fucking whoremonger! Slut in a pinstriped suit! God damned fucking pimp! I'm glad he's dead Jeremy, I'm glad!"
In all my 24 years I had never heard my mother raise her voice much less use vulgarities. Usually, when she was really mad she used damn and on special occasion, God damn, but I had never heard this type of foul language coming out of her mouth. I eased over and took her into my arms and hugged her. "Mom, it's alright, calm down and tell me what has you so upset." She was still crying and shivering when she handed me a manila envelope which was fairly thick, maybe a half inch or so and about 14"x17" in size. I took it and walked over to my father leather high back chair, sat down and opened it. A large number of 8"x10" photographs slid out and onto the desk, photographs of a variety of women, none of which was my mother.
I looked at the pictures that had spilled out onto the desk and saw that there had to be 15 to 20 different women represented in them, all in various stages of undress, you've seen similar ones I'm sure, women in their panties and bras, topless, and some totally nude. And then there were the sexual photographs - pictures of my father with a variety of women, sometimes just one woman and sometimes with two or three women and sometimes with other men and women. I guess at that point it dawned on me, the men and women in the pictures were all people who lived in the country club, wives and husbands of members as well as some colleagues of my fathers. From the number of pictures it looked like he was fucking half the country club that is everyone except my mother! I looked over to the leather side chair and mother was sitting there, clutching her robe tightly, her legs and feet tucked up underneath her, quietly sobbing.
Taking in a deep breath, I rose and walked over to the chair and helped mother up. "Come on mom, let's go back upstairs." Again, as I had the night before, I helped her upstairs and into her bedroom. The covers were askew from the night before so I opened her robe, thinking that she would still have on her panties and bra, but when the robe slid off her shoulders I realized that she was totally nude. I should have known as much because mother always showered as soon as she got out of bed but I just didn't think and she certainly didn't seem the least bit concerned that her son was seeing her like this. I helped her get comfortable in bed and pulled up the covers and kissed her forehead. I did note that, much as I had thought, her breasts didn't sag very much, at least not until she lay down, then they lay flat onto her chest. Still when I turned and left the room my face was crimson with embarrassment, not because I had seen my mother naked but because I had an obvious erection.
.... There is more of this story ...