Chapter 5: Happy Birthday to Me

Mark

The next morning I sat in the living room watching the Bundesliga summary of last weekend. I doubted mom would show up any time before noon. She had been more than well tipsy when we had returned from the restaurant and once John had taken his leave, mom had gotten rid of her clothes in a drunk striptease. It spoke for her looks that she could make stumbling around and fighting with intransigent clothing look sexy. After we had finished yet another bottle, I had made sure that the majority of it went down my gullet, she had been properly pissed out of her skull.

Then she had crawled up the stairs to do something about her arousal. Keeping my promise, I did not watch it, but if the sound was anything to go by, she had gone properly wild. By the time the ruckus had died down, she had passed out with two dildos still lying on the bed that left little to guess what had happened and I had to stage an emergency procedure for myself in the bathroom. It were only nineteen more days until my eighteenth birthday, but seemed like eternity to me in that moment.

She came down sometime around fifteen hundred, wearing a bathrobe and she was definitely walking a bit funny. Thankfully, since mom didn’t need much to get drunk, even with her ‘training’, she was not too heavily hungover the next day. But that particular day she looked quite a bit worse for wear.

“Honey, did we do something ... stupid?” she asked slightly concerned, rubbing her sore backside.

I chuckled and explained that she had taken care of herself alone the night before and that apparently had included using one of her older, smaller dildos in her petite rear-end. At least that was what I had gathered from the Vaseline that was smeared all over it before I had washed her toys.

“God I haven’t done that in months. Don’t get your hopes up though, sweetheart, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let you in through the backdoor. You’re probably but too big for me,” she grumbled as she gingerly lowered her battered rear-end onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter.

I served her a piping hot coffee and a glass of water with an Aspirin noisily dissolving in it. Well, noisy for mom.

“You’re the best, honey,” she groaned and downed the water when the Aspirin was gone. “It was an absolutely amazing evening, at least the parts I remember.”

“How much do you remember?” I asked curiously.

“I performed the clumsiest striptease in the history of mankind, and nagged you to open another bottle. After that my mind went blank.”

I filled her in that the wild fun she had had with herself was the only bit missing from her memory. Mom took my oath that I would keep her at least a mile away from anything alcoholic until after the Olympics. I gave her my promise.

When the Aspirin had started to defog her mind and the coffee had restarted most of her vital functions, I handed her this morning’s paper as it had a lengthy feature article about Meredith Daxter, a young long-jump talent who had made it onto the Olympic team, and I knew she was a good friend of mom as she was working out of Pasadena as well.

She had basically done what mom had done almost three years earlier and posed for the Playboy. But unlike back then when the powers that be had rolled out the red carpet for mom for her promoting a fringe discipline, they came down on the poor girl like a ton of bricks. With people like Carl Lewis and Jackie Joyner-Kersee around, the long jump didn’t need no promotion and the ‘conservatives’ had had a field day droning on how inappropriate it was for a young female athlete to engage in such indecent exposure.

Mind you, that were the same fuddy-duddies, who had licked mom’s boots for daring to show her tits to promote an underappreciated discipline and almost tripling the government grant money after marathon broadcasts started racking up more than decent viewer numbers on TV.

Did I mention you better not cross my mom?

She spent the next three hours on the telephone with various athlete representatives, among them aforementioned Carl Lewis and as far as I could make out, mom was to stage some sort of protest and would have the backing of her colleagues. I didn’t know what she had planned, but it would happen five days before my birthday on March 4th in Utrecht, Netherlands – mom’s next marathon appearance.

Unfortunately they didn’t show the race live. It was a morning race in Europe, which meant it was in the middle of the night in Pasadena, so I had to wait for the tape delayed broadcast on ESPN the next morning.

I knew something was up when the broadcast started with a black screen with text rolling up, and my eyes went wide when I read that this broadcast would feature full or partial nudity of adult females and parental guidance was advised. Well, there was no guide available for me, as my parental unit was most likely one of the nude ones. I heard a tire squeal in our drive-way and just a minute later John and Rhonda barged in.

“Do you have ESPN on?” he asked, before he noticed my shit-eating grin.

“No points for guessing who it is,” I said as Bill Rodgers, the co-commentator, waxed lyrically about how much guts it took to stage a protest like that and how the viewers would be witnessing the true beauty of the sport. There in the first row stood mom, stark naked except for running shoes. She had “Stop Bigotry” painted over her boobs and her starting number painted on her midriff.

With the Africans absent, mom was the runaway favorite with Russian champion Fedorova as her only real opponent. The two stood next to each other and suddenly the Russian yanked off her top and someone handed mom a marker to scribble the Russian’s number on her bare torso.

Rodgers explained how the start had to be delayed as about fifteen other women, mostly Europeans, took their tops off and wrote their numbers on each other’s bare midriffs as news got round what mom was on about. None of them dared to follow mom’s example of dropping the pants too but the point was clearly and truly made.

And so I came to watch mom on TV running a marathon completely naked. About thirty minutes into the race I couldn’t take it anymore and excused myself from John and Rhonda, my face flushed a dark shade of crimson. They laughed and Rhonda called after me to close the door to my room. I spent the next two hours cooped up in our bedroom, watching mom run naked through the Dutch countryside, masturbating until my testicles imploded. She won the race over two minutes ahead of Fedorova.

Of course the airborne excrement collided with the rotating air-conditioning device in the aftermath of mom’s stunt. First the USATF officials wanted to have mom arrested on grounds of indecent exposure, until they were filled in on the fact that being naked in public was legal in the Netherlands if it was an artistic expression, and they had all had suspiciously number-shaped drawings on their bodies. That’s why the whole thing technically qualified as an outdoor body painting exhibition. That actually planted an idea in my head.

The next thing was trying to throw mom out of the Olympic team, mostly fueled by massive lobbying from Melinda Kennuck’s camp. She had finished second to mom in the Olympic trials over 10.000 meters and she was a right ol’ bitch. Well, not old, she was only twenty-two, ten years younger than mom, but she was a bitch, okay?

But that attempt didn’t hold water either as several high-profile athletes threw their weight behind mom and threatened to boycott the Olympic team. With several almost guaranteed medals and millions of government grants at stake the USATF caved in and also rescinded all sanctions against Meredith Daxter. She called that night and tearfully asked me to tell mom how eternally grateful she was for the help and support.

Lydia

God, had I known they would show that one on TV I might have thought about it twice, or at least kept the pants on. Not so much because of the running naked part. I probably have a bit of an exhibitionist in me and I was proud of the fact that at thirty-two I could still turn lots of male heads away from their much younger girl friends if I tried. No, I couldn’t get it out of my head what it must have done to my poor Mark. My darling son was probably already counting back the hours until his birthday and then he got to see the subject of his fantasies stark naked for two and half hours. I really hoped he had left anything in those well shaped dangling bits to fill me up with.

Of course there was also the option that John and Rhonda may have been with him. I hadn’t told John what I was planning, so knowing about us, he would have told Mark about it once the broadcast was on. I could almost see my poor Mark sitting on the couch cross-eyed.

But there were more pressing matters to deal with. The USATF had of course not taken too kindly to being called out for their bigotry in such a public fashion. What did they expect? I have started over from scratch in my life twice to be afforded basic rights like free speech. Did they really expect I wouldn’t make use of that right when it was badly needed. They had devastated Meri over her Playboy shooting. What should have been a moment of pride for the girl was turned into a nightmare by a bunch of guys who played the moral instance while half of them probably secretly fucked their secretaries, because the old lady back home didn’t cut it anymore.

Thankfully I wasn’t alone and some really big names spoke up in our favor. Nobody was going to ignore potential gold medal winners when they threatened to leave the team if USATF wasn’t getting off mine and Meri’s backs. In the end Travis Carrington, the highest-ranking official with our delegation, had sat me down in a restaurant in Utrecht and grudgingly accepted to let off Meri and me without consequences in exchange for my promise never to engage in naked running again.

I had no problem giving that promise. My Mark will still get to see me naked on the treadmill whenever it takes his fancy. He loves watching his naked mom, and I would never deny him that pleasure. But I can do without televised events. Knowing that he was somewhere at home whacking that large organ of his furiously while watching me had made me so unbelievably horny I had had to run straight for the facilities after returning to the hotel and it wasn’t to take a pee.

You can probably tell that Mark wasn’t the only one who couldn’t wait for that special day to arrive.

Mark

And thus the day of days loomed – my eighteenth birthday, the day I would finally be able to make love to the woman I desired with every fiber of my body and every waking second of my mind.

After the Utrecht marathon mom had hopped over to Germany to meet with Aunt Bea, so she wouldn’t be back until late at night the day before my birthday.

When I woke up in the morning, a moment of panic gripped me as I found the other half of the bed empty, fearing that mom would be late for hat all-important day, but then I found an envelope on the pillow. I opened it. Inside was a Birthday card and as I opened it, a photograph fell out, and it left me breathless. I immediately recognized the park near auntie Bea’s house, our old home, and in the background the sun was just rising, so it had been taken recently and in the early morning. Mom was wearing a long trench coat with absolutely nothing underneath. I could tell because she held it open revealing her naked body. By the way her nipples were standing up, I could guess it was well chilly – March isn’t exactly a summer month in Germany.

My naked goddess had her body painted just as she had during the Utrecht marathon, but this time she hadn’t a slogan written across her boobs, but “My Sweetheart” instead and the ‘starting number’ on her tummy was a huge honking 18. I would bet my bottom dollar that this had been auntie Bea’s idea. There were several arrows painted on her lower abdomen, all pointing towards her bald pussy with an ‘Insert Here’ scribbled in an arc around them. I couldn’t decide whether to be moved to tears or to laugh hysterically, so I just cackled and sobbed at the same time. I took the card and read it.

I practically darted out of bed and into the bathroom. I was tempted to take shortcuts with my morning hygiene, but you don’t go to the love of your life to make love for the first time without being squeaky clean and well-scented. So I forced myself to go through all the steps. Shower, check, extra care taken for gentleman area, check, teeth brushed, check, applied mom’s favorite scent, check. Oh, hair and beard combed, check, check. Clip finger nails as far back as possible, check, file down any sharp edges, check.

I don’t think any man-virgin has ever come to his first time this well groomed. Already rock-hard in anticipation, I walked down the stairs into the living room where I was met with the sight of the most amazing breakfast ever served.