I think Hermes was not terribly sure of himself when he said, "Dad will surely deal with it after I fuck you."
"Herman Sandwater, that is the most ridiculous, and rude thing I've ever heard you say!" I scolded my son. I was lying, but it was the first time he'd openly confronted me with his sick desire. I knew at the end of his pronouncement, it was the beginning of the shame I would feel. Before then, I had only felt threatened, threat that for the longest time had been easy to laugh off.
My husband, Alan, and I had conceived Hermes under a full sea of stars sharing an oversized sleeping bag. When we learned I was pregnant with a boy, we had already saved the names Hermes and Dionysus, but to save their schooling the record would show, "Herman" and "Diona".
Hermes had all the comforts of a lower middle-class income and two parents who took the time to learn how to raise children well. Our son's staunch optimism and confidence was a surprising and welcome result, at first. Alan and I easily loved our one child. We needed no more. Our family felt complete the day I returned with our son from the hospital.
I reminisce, wondering if my marriage's sex life hadn't begun to wane in those first years of parenting. Hermes was a fussy child in certain situations: going to bed, getting dressed and undressed, bathing, and feeding. At play, or exploring, and even learning he had the patience of a cat. But if I tried to buy a new pair of pajamas, he'd squirm and squeal, and tear them off. He wasn't strong enough to actually tear them, but he did pop a button once in his rush to disrobe. Then he would glare at us until we returned his favorite pair, until he'd grown so much he couldn't get his arms and legs into them. Then he peacefully accepted new ones that were similar in ever respect except size.
I can't say he was more or less fussy when feeding, but I should have been more careful about varying how and when I gave him my breasts. He came to demand a strict regimen of me holding him while sitting on Daddy's lounge chair. First he would suck on my left breast. Then he would suck on my right. If I tried to feed him in the kitchen or on the sofa, it was no good. He wouldn't feed. He'd pout. Even at six months, he had learned a daunting pout.
It's not like he controlled us. We'd often let him pout and I would close my nursing bra and button my blouse. Sometimes, in warm seasons, we'd let him stand naked and let him find his old, ratty (but always washed) PJs by himself. Rarely, Alan or I would bring up the topic of spanking, and the other would reason that idiot practice out of the conversation. We were actually very proud of our boy. Like we said, he was in the most important ways well adjusted and handled a child's many frustrations with aplomb.
Maybe I should have taken some stricter measures when, one day, Hermes was 11 at the time, he threw his last pair of pajamas into the trash and went to bed naked. Alan and I discussed his refusal to sleep clothed thereafter. We decided that it was fine as long as he kept himself warm and didn't go long out of his room naked. A trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night was no big deal. Lounging in front of the television, playing Nintendo was verboten. Alan and I had frequent guests, and our extended families preferred extended visits. At least, we used to. These days, only our parents visit, rarely and briefly.
After deciding to ignore a naked boy who kept to himself, we launched into a year-long discussion of how to go about explaining sexuality to him. We had actually introduced the concepts of sex and where babies came from years ago in the form of picture books and opportunistic question and answer sessions. He hadn't many questions, compared to my childhood. I wanted to know everything about every part and activity. It drove my conservative parents mad, and I even felt my father's belt when I used the wrong word. That may have stopped me from saying, "Fuck" and "Prick" and "Pussy" in front of my parents, but I would say it twice as often around my friends. And the belt didn't stop my questions, it made me want to know the answers even more.
Alan and I can count on one hand the number of 'naughty' words Hermes uttered in his preteen years. We refused to be moved by them, and we said them rarely ourselves.
"Mom, I read that mothers who nurse their children as long as you did, have sagging, flat tits a decade before moms who didn't nurse."
I responded with silent disbelief at Hermes' surprising outburst when he was thirteen.
"Gosh, mom, your tits are as full as ever." He seemed happy about that, simply happy. I couldn't help but feel the warmth of plain vanity. I returned to typing on my laptop, sitting there on the couch while my son watched a decade old sit-com that lazy afternoon. A few weeks later I felt that other emotion, shame.
"I know this may sound strange, but I'm going to feel your tits."
"You've had your years of feeling them." I replied with finality, but I silently chided myself for saying it. Reminding him of how he used to suck at my nipples with precocious precision and procedure was not the best retort a mother tells her son!
At dinner, the following weekend, Hermes asked his father, "Do mom's tits feel the same as they did when you married her?"
"Son that's a private matter." My husband answered. "Are you favoring any sports at school?" He changed the subject, and it stayed changed.
Although the reader might think I found my husband's words reassuring, but I caught myself glancing at my chest. When I looked back at Hermes, his lips carried a faint upwards curl. My husband was looking at his finger, "It's okay if you don't favor any sport, but physical health is important for happiness. That's why your mom and I take a brisk walk most evenings."
About every month, Hermes spoke to me about my "tits". Less often he mentioned them to his father. There can be no doubt, our son was masturbating frequently at this age. Every time I found that he hadn't emptied the wastebasket in his room, I wondered if those clumps of stained tissues were an expression of Hermes imagining how my breasts would feel. He did grow out of talking about my tits after months of bald questions and reactions no more rewarding than a blush.
"Mom is your clitoris abnormally long when erect?" That was the day I knew he had breached the porn filters on the family computer. Our attempt to substitute porn with websites that held sex to a higher standard of equality and factuality was a good attempt. He may be surfing through sleaze today, but he should certainly understand the difference.
I snapped, "Are you going to bother me with questions about my genitals for as long as you kept asking about my tits?"
He smiled for a second, and I felt a little fear. "I-I just wanted to know." He stuttered. I'm still not sure that he wasn't faking it.
"I meant breasts."
"I know, mom." He left me then. The next day I found his wastebasket full of wadded, stinking tissues. He had emptied it just two days prior.
"Dad, how often do you and mom have sex?"
"Son that's a private matter. Are you researching something for health class?"
I couldn't believe that Alan would give a horny young man such an opening.
"Nah, I'm just wondering."
"Hey, mom, how often do you masturbate? I bet I do it more."
He did it more often than a gambler asks for cards. "I don't know. I don't count." Was not what I should have said.
"I'd be happy to count for you. How many times have you done it today?"
"Are you finished with your homework?" I tried changing the subject.
He snickered, "Yeah, what you mean, and the work I like doing at home instead." He actually pumped his fist once in front of me.
"You're disgusting." I knew better than to say that. Not that I was worried one disapproving outburst would give him a complex about masturbating. I worried that I was letting my fears get to me.
He didn't' pursue the topic further. Hermes simply wandered off, patience wafting where he had stood.
"Masturbation should be allowed in school." Our son piped up ad dinner that night.
"I agree." Alan remarked.
No more was said, but I couldn't eat my slice of Boston cream pie for dessert later. I cried myself to sleep.
"Do you like the taste of cum, mom?" He asked asked the next day, after his father had left for work.
"Do you like the taste of soap?" I threatened. We had never put soap in his mouth.
"It doesn't taste like soap to me."
"Your mother has better taste than you." I tried a bit of snark. It definitely bit into my growing apprehensions when alone with my son.
"You haven't tasted mine, yet."
"Oh, for PETE'S SAKE!" I yelled.
And then it was forgotten, but not for long.
In the afternoon, after school, a few day's later, he was waiting for me when I next found his wastebasket full of tissues. He appeared in his room's doorway, blocking me in. "Have you ever though about smelling them?"
"Out of my way!" I hissed. He cleared out. "And empty that."
Every time I got mad, I felt more and more helpless. I confessed our son's sins to Alan. He laughed. "Sorry, hon, it is a serious matter. Let's talk with him." We knocked on our son's door, united.
"Come in. I'm just finishing this."
We opened the door and saw Hermes wiping his erect cock with a handful of tissues. "We need bigger tissues." He complained.
Alan and I were at a loss for words. I finally sputtered, "When you've cleaned up, come to the living room. Your father and I have something important to talk with you about."
Ten minutes later, we three sat in silence.
.... There is more of this story ...