Based Upon the Real Life Experiences of my Online Friend Paul
Previously Published Under the Pen Name Marcia R. Hooper
What's the difference between wrong and right? Who makes the distinction, and who gives them the authority? Most people would consider what we did to be wrong. A few would say it was okay, but mostly out of prurient interest. A few others, those who have been through the experience themselves and understand the emotional impact, would claim that it's both. My son and I are certainly in that last category.
This story rightfully starts in 1987, when I was thirty-seven and Paul thirteen. I knew even before Paul did, that he had a problem. One morning I came downstairs dressed in only my bathrobe to make Paul breakfast. After a minute or two of wandering back and forth between refrigerator and cupboard, cabinet and sink, chatting with him aimlessly as mothers do with their children, I realized that Paul's eyes were following me everywhere I went. I was bent over at the time with the front of my robe hanging open loosely, and although the angle was wrong, I could feel the intensity of his desire to see my bare breasts. It shocked me, to say the least. I reacted as any mother would: I jerked upright and covered myself quickly, blushing madly as I did so. It was the last time I let myself be around Paul in nothing but my bathrobe.
Two years passed. Paul's preoccupation with me increased. He was very popular at school and something of a jock; the girl's of course, simply loved him. But no sooner would he start a relationship with a girl than things would turn sour. Two or three weeks would pass, a month, maybe two months, during which I'd feel his interest as strongly as I would any suitor. It was embarrassing, and sometimes a bit on the frightening side. Because, no matter how much I told myself it was just teenage infatuation--Puppy Love, in other words--another, more deeply-rooted part of my psyche insisted that I was ignoring, possibly even engendering, a dangerous situation. I know this because, I had dangerous feelings for Paul in return.
"Soccer Mom!" he greeted me coming in the front door one evening a few days before his sixteenth birthday. Actually, this was his favorite greeting to me. I routinely shuttled his teammates to soccer and basketball games, to football and baseball games, also to his tennis matches depending upon the season. "Mom's Taxi" we called the Town and Country van.
Normally I hated that big ugly vehicle. But a dinosaur was what it took to transport half-a-dozen testosterone-pumped 16-year-old's around. Although it was big, they certainly wouldn't all fit into Melvin's Buick LeSabre, and of course, not into Paul's broken down old Chevy pickup truck.
Ever had half-a-dozen or more testosterone-pumped 16-year-old's checking out your breasts? Just one of the tribulations (and joys) of being a Soccer Mom.
Dropping his backpack just inside the door, and his parka on the back of his father's chair, Paul crossed to where I sat and planted a kiss on my forehead.
"Gonna be at the game Friday night?" he inquired.
"Are you going to be at the game Friday night?" I corrected.
He grinned at me, and I looked back at him over the rims of my reading glasses, suppressing a grin.
"Like I said," he joked. "Gonna be there?"
"Of course, I'll be there." I sighed, shaking my head.
He sat down next to me on the couch.
"Whatcha reading, doll?"
I showed him the cover and waited for his sarcastic denouement.
"The Deep End of the Ocean, by Jacquelyn Mitchard." His nose pinched in disapproval. "Chick shit," he added.
"Don't curse," I admonished him.
"Whatever. You driving us?" he queried.
"Don't I always?" I answered.
"The game's at Walter Johnson," he said, eying my chest.
That day I had worn a brown angora sweater over a white turtleneck and black leggings to work; I still had them on. Glancing down, I noticed the swell of my breasts were perfectly delineated by the clingy sweater. I shifted uncomfortably and he looked away.
"What's for dinner?" he asked.
"Pork chops. Green beans, mashed potatoes and corn."
His stomach rumbled noisily. "Sounds great. When are you going to make it?"
"Your sister's in there making it right now," I said, again suppressing a grin.
His expression soured immediately. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, where Joan, from the sound of her furious soft cursing, was industriously ruining dinner.
"Do not make fun of your sister's cooking," I warned him.
"She's 18 years old and badly needs the experience." Home from school for Spring Break, Joan had graciously offered to prepare tonight's meal. Though filled with a trepidation not much different than that of her brother, I had graciously accepted. "She'll do just fine," I assured him.
In counterpoint, there came the clatter of a dropping pan and Joan's outraged exclamation of anger.
"Maybe I should go help her," I said, rising quickly.
He rose, as I arose. "Have my present all picked out?" he asked.
I smoothed the sweater over my tummy, glad to have it no longer delineating my large breasts. "All picked out, bought and wrapped up," I acknowledged.
He looked toward the kitchen, wincing at the sound of a dropped lid. "You're OK with my list of friends?" he pressed.
"Invite a few more," I offered. "I'm sure we can find room in the laundry room." Between friends and family members, it looked like a record-smashing sixteenth birthday party.
He winked at me and headed upstairs while I headed for the kitchen to see what catastrophe awaited.
Three days later, we held what I came to remember as the Birthday Party from Hell. Not only did the crowd of invited friends swell all out of proportion to the square-footage of our house, but alcohol and some very potent-smelling marijuana found its way into the basement. I can't tell you how many times I yelled at Paul to turn down the music, nor how many inappropriately locked-together couples I separated in my wanderings. Although no proof ever surfaced, I'm told that two youngsters copulated with their gentlemen in the downstairs bathroom. When finally I herded the last of them out the front door after midnight, I was a complete wreck.
"You are never having another birthday," I growled at Paul.
He locked the front door and glanced at me in surprise. "I thought it went good," he said defensively.
I really was fuming. "The Roman's thought it was going well as they fed Christian's to the lions," I said hotly.
"Mom!" he protested, snickering.
"Oh, go to bed," I said disgustedly. "We'll clean this up in the morning."
We did not clean up in the morning, but spent the next hour and a half picking up the mess, working both individually and together. We spoke very little, but with the passing minutes my mood lightened so that finally, when we turned off the downstairs lights and I accompanied him upstairs, I had my arm around his waist.
"Thanks, Mom," he whispered outside his door.
I didn't want to awaken either Melvin or Joan, so I eased Paul into his bedroom and closed the door softly behind me. Even so, I gave my response in a whisper.
"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier, Paul."
"You didn't yell at me," he said dismissively. "Besides, things really did get out of hand there for awhile. I admit that." He rolled his eyes, laughing softly, telling me about one of the trysts in the downstairs bathroom.
"Oh, please," I said, rubbing the middle of my forehead. "Tell me that didn't really happen."
"Sorry," he said, still laughing softly.
"It isn't funny, Paul. What if that girl gets pregnant?"
"Girl's get pregnant all the time," he reminded me.
"Not in my downstairs bathroom, they don't," I grumbled. I sighed, giving up on being upset. "Did you like your present?"
He instantly brightened. "Shit, yeah! It was the greatest."
Carefully, he pulled the Sony Color Watchman out of his back pocket and sat it on the top of his dresser. He'd showed it off all night, as though it were a bar of gold. Then he darted forward and grabbed me in a hug, and planted a kiss on my right cheek.
"You're the greatest too," he said.
Now, I've been hugged and kissed on the cheek any number of times by Paul. This time was no different, should have been no different anyway, but having his arms suddenly around me, having my breasts mashed up against his chest, smelling his strong aroma of aftershave, deodorant, sweat and testosterone, my breath caught in my throat and suddenly my blood pressure shot into the stratosphere. Embarrassed, I looked numbly at the Watchman and mumbled something instantly forgettable.
There was an embarrassed silence. Then Paul said in an oddly constrained voice: "Mom? Can I kiss you?"
I blinked at him. "You just did," I said stupidly.
"No," he said, leaning forward. "Like this."
Suddenly his lips were on mine, and try as I might to stop it, there was no stopping the instinctual movement of my lips in response.
"Paul," I said, stepping back. My hand rose and I touched my lips with my trembling fingertips. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" he said, innocently.
"That!" I said feverishly. In truth, I was in a fever from being kissed. Kissing had sent blood rushing to my face and every other part of my dermis. I was suddenly itchy all over and scratched both my forearms, and my right underarm. There was a totally unwelcome tingling between my legs that made me want to go screaming from the room. I felt horrified.
"Paul," I said. "You can't kiss your mother like that."
.... There is more of this story ...