Suggested by the Short Story:
MOM'S AMOROUS SON
by Roderigo LaBloke
I rubbed my forehead and thought: Oh, God. What has he done now?
"No, Mr. Correlli," I said. "I'm sure you're mistaken about that. My son would never--"
"You're son's a goddamned menace!" Mr. Correlli yelled into my ear. "And a seducer. I ought to call the goddamned police on his sorry little ass, the little bastard."
My son is not a bastard, I thought distractedly, and he's certainly not little. But he is more than capable of getting himself into trouble with your goddamned slut wife, Mr. Correlli.
"I ever find that goddamned little prick in my house again, you'll be getting a call from the police--or the fucking coroner!" he hollered at me.
I almost got out "But--" before he slammed the phone down in my ear. "Oh, Brad," I sighed. "When are you going to learn?"
My son is 18 and the horniest young man I have ever known, worse even than his father. And Maria Correlli, with her lush red hair, sensuous looks and--let's face it--voluptuous body, was not a woman my son would not be attracted to. Given the chance, Brad would go after her like a piranha after a bleeding cow. And someone had given him the chance, obviously.
The back door opened and banged shut again.
"Brad? Is that you?"
"It's me," he called out.
"Would you come in here, please?"
The refrigerator door rattled open and I heard something dragged across the shelf, probably the gallon of milk because Brad was a growing boy, in need of his calcium. "What's the matter?" he wanted to know.
"Mr. Correlli just called."
Not a pause. "Oh yeah? What'd he want?"
As stiffly as I could, I answered: "An explanation of why you tried to rape his wife."
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with a milk mustache and a huge grin on his face. "He said that?" he asked.
"He said that," I confirmed.
"Wow. He was more pissed off than I thought. He'll get over it."
"I'm sure he will," I said. "And so will you. You're grounded. For life." I pointed at the ceiling and the second floor above it, where our bedrooms were. "You may start your sentence immediately," I said.
He laughed and used the back of his forearm to wipe his upper lip. He was hot and sweaty, the blonde hair covering his head matted in places, spiked in others, and generally an adorable mess. His blue eyes sparkled and so did his perfectly white, orthodontically-perfect teeth.
"I'm serious, Brad. You're grounded."
"I'm eighteen in three days," he reminded me. "You can't ground me."
"As long as you live under my roof, you're--"
"--subject to my rules," he finished for me. "Yeah, yeah, sure."
I crossed my arms and tapped my foot impatiently.
"Aw, come on," he said, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I raped the bitch."
"Bradley Collins!" I exploded. "She is not a bitch! And even if she were, you have no right messing with a neighbor's wife! It's ... it's idiotic!" I exclaimed, unable to come up with anything stronger.
His grin turned lopsided. "You didn't see her," he said.
"In her shorts and this tight tube top."
"I don't want to hear it," I said, shaking my head.
"No, I mean, it was really tight," he said, creating the shape of her bosom with his hands. "And stretched so tight across her breasts that the nipples were showing through."
"Bradley!" I gasped, almost strangling on laughter. "You stop that! Right now."
He laughed again and told me: "I was cutting her grass. I always cut her grass on Wednesdays; you know that. I went inside for a drink of lemonade when she called me in, and we were standing there in the kitchen talking about the weather. Maybe a little too close, but that was all. I didn't know her husband would come home."
"And catch you trying to seduce his wife," I finished for him.
He tilted his head, the way he always does trying to decide if he wants to confide in me or not. I kept my expression neutral and finally he said. "I seduced her a long time ago, Mom. Back when I was--"
I held up my hand. "No more. I don't want to know any more." Of course, I did, but it would only have offended me, hearing his confession. And made me jealous. I always get jealous, dammit.
I sighed and started tapping my foot again. "You know he could make trouble for me, Bradley. You know that, and you still go on, carrying on like this."
John Correlli was a deacon at my church and president of both the Neighborhood Watch group, and the homeowners association. He was a boor at the best of times, and spiteful and vindictive at the worst. A few deftly placed words and he'd have little trouble turning the congregation against us, and make living in this development a nightmare. He had done it before. And with his ties to the University of Maryland alumni association, he could possibly even cause problems with Brad's athletic scholarship. I didn't need that headache.
"Stay away from Mrs. Correlli," I told him.
His head remained tilted. "What about her grass?"
"Fuck her grass. Let her cut her own grass. Or let that wimp of a husband cut it for her," I replied, angrily. "If he knows how."
Brad's grin spread to full intensity again. No doubt he wondered how a miserable prick like John Correlli landed a woman like Maria in the first place. Short, scrawny, balding, nearsighted: it didn't make any sense. Unless, of course, it was a money thing. The creep had money.
"Just for the record," he said, turning back to the kitchen. "We haven't done it in over a year. The creep got all boiled up about nothing."
As he disappeared around the corner and into the kitchen, I kept my features neutral and my breathing steady, even as I wanted to jump in the air and shout, Yes! Thank God for that into the air.
You already have this figured out, right? Wrong. I have not had sex with my son. At least not yet. I have these impossible to control fantasies and desires; urges and frustrations and he knows as much, just as I know he has designs on his mother. He eyes me constantly, no longer only when he doesn't think I'm looking. Until three weeks ago, neither of us had acted on these impulses. I often wondered, What would I do if he did? What would he do?
I am 36 years old. I had Brad when I was 18 and just out of high school. His father was 20 at the time, in the Marines, stationed overseas, and we didn't marry until he returned home in 1993 when Brad was almost a year old.
Brad's younger sister, Geena came along two days after his fourth birthday. I was 22 at the time and working for my father at his plumbing supply store in Bethesda. Dad co-owns one of the area's largest plumbing, heating and air-conditioning companies, but I can't tell you the name of the company without telling you who I am.
Next out of my personal baby-factory was Bradley's sister, Lettie, born two days before his 8th birthday. Last was the baby of the family, Tisha, the final peapod ever to be fertilized by the man of this particular household, because the man of the household is now gone, four years split. Tisha was born one day after Brad's 14th birthday.
I don't know what it is about me and mid-October.
Brad has seen me nude. He has seen me in just my panties, and in my bra and panties, and in various other states of undress. I don't think it's an unconscious compulsion as much as pure bad luck on my part. I always seem to be running into him half-naked in the morning, dashing from my bedroom into the bedroom across the hall, where my clothes are kept. Or I'll leave the bedroom door cracked only to find it has swung inward at the most inopportune moment, to reveal me braless or worse, panty-less, just as Brad trundles by down the hall. And it's always Brad that trundles by, never his sisters, as though some built-in radar guides him there. Maybe he's clairvoyant. Maybe he's, what do you call it, Telekinetic, like that woman in the X-Men movies?
I'm always startled and red-faced and tongue-tied when it happens; Brad thinks it's just the funniest thing in the world. He teases me about it shamelessly for days afterwards, sometimes even getting his sisters into the act for an extra laugh. Innocent fun, right?
Not always. One morning this past winter, while in my bathroom getting ready for work, I turned away from the mirror, completely nude after my shower except for the towel wrapped around my hair, to find Brad standing in my bedroom doorway, just staring at me.
"Oh, Jesus, Brad!" I cried, grabbing for my bathrobe. My cry startled him out of his trance and he spun around and stood looking out into the hallway.
"How long have you been standing there?" I demanded, bundling myself safely into the robe.
"Just a moment or two," he lied.
"Did you get enough to see?" I demanded, furious with embarrassment.
This stung him, and he turned his face away, expression pinched, looking almost like he was going to cry. That's when I knew. That's when I knew for sure.
He had broken the rules, standing there staring at me like that. But I had broken them as well, coming down on him. Our relationship had strayed beyond the, Oh, look! Seen you nude in the mirror and got to embarrass you mercilessly about it phase. It embarrassed me further.
"Brad," I had said. "I think you better leave."
He stood motionless for a time, continuing to look back over his shoulder, not at me, but at my presence in the room, deciding upon a proper response.
.... There is more of this story ...