Chapter 4

Needless-to-say, me and Mom’s relationship changed a great deal.

We were now lumped in together with our government, Santa Clause and even Jack the Ripper ... We had to be careful ... we had a lot to hide.

Our new relationship started the very next morning. Dad, as he did almost every Sunday, had gone to the golf course.

I got up, showered and got dresses. I felt different today. Less like a kid I suppose. I put on a nice pair of jeans and a dark blue Polo shirt. I wanted to look trendy, older, more mature I guess. I didn’t want my Mom to see a kid when I came downstairs this morning. I put on my watch, made sure all tree buttons on my shirt were open and I left my feet bare. I wanted to look cool not like I’d just been voted the President of the Chess Club.

When I went down to the kitchen I found Mom sitting at the table, coffee cup in front of her, nibbling on the arm of her glasses, staring off into space as her finger made slow circles over the rim of her cup.

She had a pair of faded jeans on, a hole in the left knee. She had a sky-blue blouse on, short sleeves, tucked into her jeans, no belt. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders and down her back. Though brushed, it hung limply, with no real texture. She had no make-up on. She hadn’t taken a shower yet. This wasn’t the norm for Mom. Regardless the mood, good/bad/or indifferent, Mom took a shower every morning.

Still, she looked beautiful. But she looked troubled. I approached with extreme caution.

I quietly walked up beside her and kissed her softly on her cheek. I didn’t linger. Stick and move ... Stick and move.

“Good morning.” I tested the water. I stepped back and waited to see. With my Mom ... there was no telling, calm seas, or batten down the hatches, it could go either way. I stood nervously by the lifeboats and filled myself a cup of coffee.

She looked up at me, through the turmoil I could still see the loveliness of her eyes. “Good morning Sweetie.” She say quietly. There’s a sadness in her voice.

I sat down at the table feeling a bit bummed out ... but still optimistic.

“You OK?” I asked softly. In hind-site, I realized that was kinda like asking a victim of a plane crash if they were OK as they staggered out of a gaping hole in the fuselage shaking debits off their shoes.

Mom took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I’m sorry Bobby.” She tells me.

I have to admit, Her apology made my head jerk back.

My first thought was that she was sorry for what had happened yesterday ... and the day before. It seemed like the logical progression of things. I suppose lust could be like that, full of excitement and impulse with a side order of remorse. Throw a little dash of consequence on there and you got a full meal.

I asked ... Still cautious, “For what?” And then before I could shut myself up— “Cuz I’m not Mom. I know it was wrong. I realize that, I do, but I thought that was great, amazing. I thought that you...”

I was ready to go on and on. I had adjectives lined up like paratroopers ready to leave the plain, but Mom raised her hand and cut me off.

“I’m sorry I’m always a bitch.” She tells me.

The silence grew long and awkward. I was hoping she would follow-up because I was empty, speechless. I found myself looking around like I’d walked into the wrong kitchen. I finally broke the silence but all I had to say was, “OK.” Not much of an acceptance speech.

“It’s just that...” Mom was having a hard time here. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought there were tears in her eyes. “Allergies” she would no doubt tell me. She was a tuff cookie and I once again wondered why that was. I waited patiently with hopes I might find out.

“It’s just that, when I was a little girl...” Once Mom cracked ... Everything came spilling out.

Mom went on to explain that she’d been like this {Moody. For lack of a better word}since she was just a kid. She’d been all wound-up inside, tight, and when she couldn’t hold it anymore, it came out. She used words like manifested, deep-seeded, and suppressed feelings ... but what it boiled down to was that her father had molested her when she was twelve, intimidated her to secrecy and she’d had a hard time dealing with it.

“Did he hurt you, I mean, beat you and stuff?”

“No. Not at first. He was pleasant and uncharacteristically kind in the beginning. He made me believe it wasn’t wrong; that it was just another way to show my love for him. And it ... it...”

I noticed her voice had started to crack a tiny bit.

“It what?”

“I liked it ... It felt good.” She told me with a great deal of shame.

She went on to tell how he’d become demanding, intimidating, and just plain wicked. He convinced her it was all her fault and threatened to tell everyone what she did if she didn’t submit to his demands.

She had to stop her story every few minutes to wipe her eyes.

She told me how she’d lived with this for years until her mother had come home unexpectedly to find her father and her in the bedroom.”

“Did you tell her what was going on, how he made you do that stuff?”

She smiled a weak smile, “I was sitting on top of him...” she says solemnly. “Fucking him ... when my mother saw us ... I hardly looked like someone being forced to do anything. I was almost seventeen. At that point...” She trailed off. I sat quiet and waited until she could go on. “At that point, I’m ashamed to say, I ... liked ... it.” She told me.

“My mother left three days later. Left us both. Left me with HIM. I left two months later. Three months before my 18th birthday.” And she began to cry.

I’d never seen my mother like that; so distraught. I felt such a hatred for my grandfather and such a profound feeling of sorry and love for my Mom that I got up and threw my arms around her. She hugged me back and we stayed like that until our coffee got cold again.

Now I knew what she’d been talking about when she’d told me she knew what incest could do to a family. I couldn’t bring myself to ask what happened after her mother left.

“That’s over now Mom.” I whispered to her. “You don’t have to think about it anymore.” I kissed her on the cheek again. I felt her push her cheek harder to my lips.

In spite of the mood and topic of conversation, her smell, her fragrance filled my senses. It’s hard to explain how it made me feel. Somewhere between going to the bakery on an early Sunday morning and slipping between cool clean sheets after a nice hot shower and pushing your face in a soft, cold pillow. I inhaled again, long and slow so the feeling wouldn’t go away.

I barely heard her,

“But it’s NOT over.” She sighed.

“Sure it is Mom.”

“No ... It’s NOT.”

I’m sure I looked confused.

“I’m doing it now. I’m doing it to YOU.” she cries. She got up and ran out of the kitchen.

“Holy shit!” I thought. Boy did this boat get turned around. I couldn’t just let her go like that. Me and her were nothing like her and her father. Not even close. I ran after her to tell her so.

I found her in her room; on her bed crying. “Mom...” I started. I sat next to her and rubbed her back as she laid there, her head on her pillow, her face turned away from me, trying hard not to cry.

“I’m not a twelve-year-old kid. And you’re certainly not a demented, selfish old man...” I tried to tell her. “Look at me.” I told her as I tugged on her shoulder to try and roll her over to face me.

“What we did ... WE ... US ... Not just you, not just me ... US; what we did was consensual. Regardless of all the bullshit and the pretence, I wanted what we did. I wanted you.” I tried to explain but felt I was falling helplessly short of the mark.

I didn’t feel like I was making my point. I didn’t think she was understanding what it was that I was trying to say. Then Mom touched my face with her hand, slowly, affectionately, she brought it across my cheek to the back of my head and pulled me down to her.

“I liked what we did.” She tells me when her lips are just a few inches from my face. “I liked catching you in the living room.” She whispered. “I liked what we did in the garage and then in your room.” She quietly tells me, her lips nearly on mine.

I was having a really hard time listening to her words ... breathing in her scent.

“But I couldn’t say that Bobby. I couldn’t just come right out and say that.” She sounds so sorry, so apologetic, and maybe even a tiny bit ashamed. Not for what we’d done but for the pretences, the mockery ... the bullshit.

She closed the few inches between us and touched her lips to mine. This certainly wasn’t a motherly kiss. In a few short seconds, it wasn’t even a kiss lovers might share. There was an urgency ... a need ... in this kiss. A burning, insistent need that had taken my mother away ... and now ... this woman on the bed with me, was about to share this need with me.

Like a rock hitting a pond, Mom pulled me onto her and wrapped her legs around me as she sucked my bottom lip into her hot mouth; the ripples of passion spreading out around us.

I admit, I didn’t have a great deal of experience sexually. I had fucked quite a few times, I would like to think I was good at it, but who wouldn’t. I certainly knew what I liked ... and I liked THIS. It scared me a little at first, but I liked it. It’s always better when you’re scared with someone else.

This was new to me, this kind of feeling ... this level of passion. I call it passion now, at the time I had no words for it. What happened between us the day before in my room was hot sex, an erotic, forbidden lust. This was something else. There was a heat in this ... a fire ... that threatened to burn me alive ... us alive ... if we didn’t do something about it.

I’m not sure if she took me or I took her, but we rolled together on the bed, our arms and legs tangled around each other, two mouths looking for a way to become one; moaning and gasping each time there was a space between them.

Mom grabbed the front of my shirt with both hands and pulled hard. It ripped down the open “V-Neck” and straight down along the front until my bare chest was exposed. She rolled me over onto my back and stuck four fingers in my pants behind the snap, closed her hand, and yanked with more power than I would have thought possible. My jeans tore open, the zippers actually ripped from the material.

Satisfied that she’d made it clear to me what she wanted, she took her pretty blouse in both hands and tore the front open. Buttons ricocheted off the headboard and the night table. I heard her glasses bounce of the headboard and fall somewhere between the wall and the bed.

Mom’s jeans were ripped and hanging off one leg when I finally entered her. What was left of her pretty blouse looked more like a scarf now, twisted around her neck. Her heaving breasts pushed up into my chest as my hands slid behind her ... As if I could hold her any closer to me, her arms and legs wrapped so tightly around me that I could barely move my hips.

The irony. We wanted this so badly but held each other almost too tight to let it happen. We squirmed and rolled and bucked and kissed in the place my mother and father slept, coming close to finding ourselves on the floor each time we flirted with the boundaries of the bed. My dick buried inside her coochie, her coochie swallowing my dick as we held each other trying to find that place that would let us breathe again; trying to make something so wrong ... into something perfect.

The room was filled with moans and grunts, tangled words and broken sentences. Neither of us could stand to pull our mouths away from the others long enough to say what we wanted, what we had to have. We just knew.

Mom closed her hands around my face and pulled her mouth away from mine just long enough to cry out, “Fuck me Baby! Oh god Yes! Fuck me!”

I found the room to increase my stroke and did it with a blinding fury. We were cheek to cheek now, our passion and urgency too violent to allow us to dare put our mouths together.

“Oh God! Oh Fucking God!” I heard myself howl into my mother’s neck.

“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” Mom grunted each time I slammed into her.

“Harder Baby! Harder!” She begged but I thought I was already giving all I had.

I didn’t think I could do it any harder but her words spurred me on. She was now in danger of hitting her head against the headboard each time our bodies slammed together.

“I’m gunna!’ Mom yells out. “I’m gunna! I’m gunna cum.” She screamed.

I was right there with her. Feeling her pussy squeeze me like a strong angry hand was too much for me and I followed her right over the edge.

We both became rigid, almost painfully so, two bodies trying to occupy the same place. Low, growling sounds escaped from someplace deep inside us both as the entire world disappeared. There was nothing ... only us ... only the space we took up and the pure pleasure we now forced upon each other.

We were one taut heap in a mess of rags and sweat, un-moving, except for the heaving of our chests as they struggled desperately to capture the oxygen we needed so badly. We lay there, holding on, a low ominous growling like the roar of a great machine, being pushed out of someplace deep inside us.

Little by little, a fraction at a time ... we eased. Slowly, steadily, we came back. Sweating, breathing hard through our mouths, we wiped the hair from each other’s faces. There were the beginnings of words spilling out, grunts and sighs, but nothing that could be considered dialogue; nothing that made any sense. We laid there long after the fire was extinguished, both of us drifting in and out of a blissful sleep.

It was a while before we ended up down stairs in the kitchen again. Breakfast had long gone. We would have to hurry if we were to get brunch.

I was redressed and Mom was fresh out of the shower, her hair still wet and smelling of Lilac. She had on a simple house dress, reminiscent of the late fifties television shows, -Father Knows Best—Leave It to Beaver—The Donna Reed Show. It was “Everyday Simple” but on her ... Well ... I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a pumpkin on wheels outside waiting to take her to the Ball.

It was loose but still managed to show her great figure. Her make-up was light but sexy, like the night I “Made her do it” in the garage, only her lips were a little darker. She was stunning, to put it mildly. I find it a little hard to breath now, as I recall image

“Ya wanna try that coffee thing again?” I asked.

“I believe I do. I think I really need it.”

“Some brunch?”

“Maybe a bagel if you’re toasting.”

We sat, drinking coffee and eating bagels, looking at each other, smiling, sometimes even giggling like we were in the second grade or something.

I watched my Mom, her body language, her mannerisms. She was happy. There was no sign of the woman that beat my ass red when I was twelve for spilling Cool-Aid on the living room carpet. The woman that had pulled off in a huff and left me at John Hastings field after baseball practice when I was thirteen, because I didn’t get to the Van fast enough to suit her, was gone as well. The bitch that had first caught me jerking off in the living room had also disappeared.

She looked happy, almost care-free. The worry lines at the corners of her beautiful eyes were all but gone. I felt a kind of pride that she was my Mom and that I might have played a small part in ... in ... Saving her ... For a lack of better words.

“You made me rip my blouse.”

“You broke my zipper.”

Mom sipped her coffee. I chewed my bagel.

“You tore the leg right off my jeans.”

“There was already a hole in the knee.”

Mom bit into her bagel. I took a sip of my coffee.

“They were my favorite jeans.”

“Well now you can turn them into your favorite shorts.” I told her with my head cocked matter-of-factly. “What-da-ya-think about that?” I added, defiantly.

“Well, I think ... I think...”