I did, I admit, feel like hot shit.

When I was sixteen I'd been seized by a compulsion to go out and buy some brushes and paints, and I'd never stopped since. I never really understood where any of it came from, though Mom made some mention of a likewise talented great-grandfather of hers. "You certainly didn't get it from me. To be frank, a bath and a salary, that's about all I can draw."

I'd grown up with a few of that old man's canvases on the walls. Awful stuff. Seascapes where the crashing waves looked like whipped frosting on a fancy cake. Still-lifes of flowers in vases that more resembled bowls of oddly-colored long-stemmed fruit. That was, I decided, not really my heritage.

I'd always been a good student, and the addition of some art classes the last half of my high school career only buoyed up an already fine GPA. Maybe I could have gone to some famous university, but Central College-- in a small town an hour's drive from home--offered me a splendid financial aid package.

Of course, being a freshman, the only art class available was the equivalent of Drawing 101. There was no testing out of it. The day I was told to render a drawing horse in two-point perspective I called Mom in tears, begging her to extricate me from this bad decision. Mom, being pragmatically Mom, refused, comforting me with the advice to give it more time.

Soon after, my collegiate fortunes shifted. I caught a flier, an invitation for a non-juried exhibit on the walls of the student coffeehouse. I hung two paintings, and next thing I knew, Jack McAffee, the head of the art department, had me transferred into the senior painting seminar. He became, I suppose, my mentor. I had to work hard at my appreciation; Jack's work, really, reminded me of not but a notch above my great-great-grandfather's stuff. Maybe a little more informed by modernism.

My chest was wide as a highway and deep as a well when I called Mom with the news that the official college gallery was being given over to a display of my paintings. A one-man-show, with an opening! Such honors were unheard of in my lineage. There would be a table bearing nourishment for the guests. Plates of crackers that weren't saltines. Cheeses that weren't packaged by Velveeta. Wine that wasn't, perhaps, Gallo.

The greatest surprise of the conversation was when Mom announced that she'd arrive the evening before to ensure she got a hotel room. Mom was going to be there? Well of course she was. Why should that come as a surprise?

Because I hadn't thought of it, so busy was I with peripheral plans. I was of course banking on the fact of my fame garnering girls galore falling at my feet. Wasn't that how things worked when you went away to college? I'd had a sort of girlfriend in high school, briefly. Already I was cashing in on the possibilities of finding out what it must be like to do more than exchange chaste kisses with a girl. The odd fumbling feel of another's flesh. The stolen glances down the front of a half-unfastened blouse. Surely the college held adoring artsy girls who would want to do whatever. Just because I'd never glimpsed a single one didn't necessarily mean that a bevy of them didn't exist.

It wasn't that I didn't want Mom to be there. It was just that... Mom might wind up saying something to someone which would ruin my plans. I could see her accidentally shredding some poor girl standing beside me who might've otherwise followed me to my room.

That was Mom. Honest to a fault. Perfectly frank. Prefacing every other remark with a form of frank. So much so that in the past several years I'd taken to calling her by the nickname Frank.

When the weekend arrived, I knew well enough that the bad would be skipped, that things would go from good to worst. It was no surprise when Mom knocked on my dorm door and I answered to find her standing there still holding her suitcase.

There was not a room to be had in all the town. I'd only discovered earlier in the afternoon that the very hour of my opening coincided exactly with the kick-off of the Homecoming game. Mi casa es su casa, I supposed. Mi cama es su cama was more like it. There wasn't really anything else to do but offer up my hospitality. I could hardly send her packing -- drive back home and I'll see you in the morning. The sun was hovering at the horizon; Mom was notoriously nightblind.

Not that it would have likely been any different any other way, but there went at least the potential for losing my virginity.

To my immense relief, come dinnertime, Mom didn't even mention the Commons. I was afraid she'd want to share the experience of my thrice- daily experience. It was an apt name, though I didn't understand the plural. Very, very common. It wasn't that I didn't want to be seen associated with her; I didn't want her to associate me with it.

"So, what's the best restaurant in town."

That was an easy pick. There was only one place in town that even remotely qualified as a restaurant.

"Randy's," I answered.

"Randy's?" she ventured.

"Hey, I didn't name it."

"Then Randy's it is."

"Though I should warn you," I added, "that the title best-restaurant- in- town is a very relative term."

"How relative?" Mom got a squeamish look.

"Well... if this was back home, you wouldn't know anyone who'd ever set foot in the place. At least to admit of it."

"Is it that bad?"

"Oh no. It's the best restaurant in town. Just bear in mind town," I grinned. "Not much in the way of quiet-tables-for-two. It's the land of huge round-tops. Think of a big trough. And a whole lot of pigs."

"So I take it we can expect to be greeted at the door by the titular personage, dressed in a tux?"

"Huh?" I was confused. "Oh. Naw. You're joking, right? Listen, Frank, I think the place was named after the physiological condition of its patrons."

Mom's turn to battle confusion.

"You'll see," I nodded.

Then she understood. I don't think she was terribly shocked, but it did take a few minutes for her eyebrows to sink back down.

"Put it this way: my work-study, I go to the library a few evenings a week, sit at a desk and shelve books and daydream about pretty girls. The poor jocks, they have to spend all day every day at Randy's; they sit at their tables and shovel food--all their dreams come true."

When we walked in, the little bell above the door seemed to have turned into a gigantic gong. In unison, every face in the place turned in our direction. Mouths opened mid-chew and tongues played with their food. The guys anyway.

"Friends of yours?" Mom whispered slyly.

"No, but it looks like they want to be friends of yours!"

I got a quick elbow in the ribs. I jutted mine out to fend off any further attacks. But instead, Mom's arm quickly threaded its way through mine. Jaws dropped, tongues lolled, and clumps of food plopped back on plates.

While there weren't any small tables, there were booths for the taking. We took one, sitting on opposite sides of the table. I fetched us menus from the clip on the condiment carrier. Mom gifted me with a smile as I stretched and handed hers over. The booths were built for big bellies. I looked at her in a fresh way from across this great gulf.

I could understand the reactions. Mom looked different from everyone in the restaurant. Even I looked bland in comparison. The odd drops of blood had coagulated in her appearance. Some Mexican mestizo, some Cherokee, some lateral ancestor from Sicily: it'd all come together in her dark exotic features. Against the nearly universal blonde wide- browed piggy-eyed standard of local beauty, she was an orchid set out in a field of dandelions. But I hadn't ever really given her that consideration.

Mom was Mom. Mom had always been Mom. That Mom was beautiful was a given; all Moms are beautiful. From infancy--there's the beautiful Mom- face smiling down at you, the beautiful Mom-hands stroking and holding you, not to mention the bounty of the Mom-breasts.

As well, I'd never thought of Mom in terms of being a woman. Women were... well, they weren't your Mom. It was a major shock for me. Sitting there across from me was not only my beautiful Mom, but a beautiful woman. Smiling at me. Smiling at me alone. A woman who had the attention of every guy in this big room. And she was focusing all her attention on me. A woman who had every guy in the place yearning for a glance, whereas her eyes were mine alone.

Every guy in the place had the hots for her! They'd hop aboard for a ride first chance they got. Even though she was old enough to be any of their Moms. They were all my age. She was my Mom. And she was smiling at me! She was talking to me.

"Davey? Hello!"

"Huh? Oh yea. What?"

"I was asking if you had any particular recommendation."

To press Rewind for a few years and decide to become an electrical engineer instead. I tried to be suave, "Your choice. Whatever catches your eye. It's bound to be good. If not great, at least satisfying."

Eventually I was saved from my own mouth by the arrival of the waitress. Out of uniform, she would have been lost to sight in the sea of sameness surrounding us. The regulation straw-thatch roof for hair. The forehead broad enough to be a roof joist. And nearly centered in that expanse the pair of eyes set about a penny apart. She gave us a greedy look while she took our orders, flashing back and forth between me and Mom.

Mom chirped like a bird as the waitress walked away. As the waitress sashayed away.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

There was a twinkle in her eye. "You didn't see? It was so obvious. She wanted to order you à la carte, of course."

I sat bolt upright. "No way!"

She rolled her shoulders. "Whatever you say; it's definitely your call. Not to deny you your desires, but it would make me proud to think you had inherited a sense of taste."

Mom looked around, then giggled. "I guess that completes it. We've filled the place."

I didn't understand.

"We're even kitchen gossip, now," she explained.

Before she could explain that, the waitress was back bearing a full tray. The attraction of Randy's was, I suppose, that nothing on the menu couldn't be pre-prepped to within a minute of the plate. The fast- food franchises would never make it in this town.

The waitress basically dropped Mom's plate in front of her. The piece of fish and new potatoes jumped and landed in a jumble. She was a bit more gentle with the bowl of soup, but made up for that by positively slamming down her glass of iced tea. Mom just smiled.

Then it was my turn. This stranger bent unnecessarily low to serve me, locking her eyes on mine. Her eyes kept glancing down, indicating, I finally realized, that I was supposed to be doing the same with mine, the better to enjoy the view down the front of her blouse. The way she slid my plate into place made me think she was sliding down her pants. My club sandwich was perfectly quartered and landed before my face without a quiver. She gave a tug to the paper wrapping on the straw, and there was no mistaking the gesture that unsheathed the straw. Then she stuck it in my soda, angling it towards me. I was afraid she was going to hold the straw and wait for me to take a sip. Mom, I could see, though still silent, had given up trying to keep a straight face.

The stupid woman finally went away. Mom was darting glances all around. Apparently, I was labeled a stud.

"Don't you see? Honestly? Come on, Davey, I didn't raise you to be this dense. I'll be frank with you. It's never occurred to any of them that I'm your mother." Mom leaned in close across the table, enveloped one of my hands in hers, then with that lavish smile of hers informed me with a heightened whisper, "David, they all assume I'm your lover."

Girlfriend, I could have reacted sensibly to that. But lover? It was like the secret of life, a magic word loaded with mystery. You held hands with a girlfriend. Maybe, if you were exceptionally lucky, you even got to have sex with your girlfriend. But a lover? I couldn't even imagine! Just the thought of the word had the heat rising in my head. And a turgid stirring in my pants.

"How cute! You're blushing. Frankly, you're blushing so bright everyone can see it. They watch me whispering to you, and you blush. I bet they wonder what I'm saying."

The flow of blood redoubled. In both places.

"I tell you what," Mom gleamed. "Let's really give them something to talk about." Her fingers began lightly stroking the back of my hand. "Let me have a taste of your club."

I nearly whimpered, then understanding, nudged my plate towards Mom.

"No no no--the quarter in your hand, hold it out to me."

She bent forward and took a dainty nibble. And then, I never would have guessed that chewing a morsel of food could be turned into such an erotic display.

"Now," she sat back, announcing brightly, "would you like to try my soup? It's deliciously bland."

I was beginning to catch on. Nodding, I grinned then leaned, letting her slip the spoon into my mouth. "Exquisitely bland," I agreed with great enthusiasm, letting my tongue circle my lips.

"That took me back," Mom laughed. She took my hand back in hers. "I always did like spoon-feeding you. Frankly, it was such a... such an unusual pleasure." Letting go of my hand, she returned to her food. "Nothing like the breast, of course, but a sharing of sensual pleasure nonetheless."

I looked down at my plate. Food? Food was the furthest from my thoughts. Mom's voice penetrated this dangerous recess. "I think we should up the ante, add to your cachet."

I heard the soft rustle of legs being crossed, then a shoe dropped. I waited for the proverbial other.

"David?"

I glanced up.

Mom's eyes were dancing all over me. "My goodness! To be frank, I didn't know the human face could get that red." A nyloned foot brushed against my ankle, then lingered, sliding up under my pants leg, teasing my calf. "We're putting on quite a show, don't you think? We're driving them wild."

I gulped.

"Two minutes," Mom declared, "I guarantee it."

Two minutes? She was guaranteeing what? No doubt what I was afraid of happening in about that amount of time.

"See? Right on schedule."

I glanced to my side to see a girl walking up to our table. I was confused. At first I thought she was our waitress. She looked just like our waitress. But she wasn't wearing the uniform. She had the same sort of sway as our waitress. Maybe our waitress was off-duty now.

She scowled at Mom, then turned sweetly to me.

"Hi, David!" Different voice: it wasn't our waitress.

"Um, hi."

"I heard that you were having a picture show tomorrow! I'm so sorry I won't be able to be there, what with the game and all! But maybe you could show them to me personally sometime! I'd like that!"

"Uh, sure. Whatever."

"Okay! Thanks! Here!" she slipped a piece of paper on the table beside me. "Gimme a call! See ya later!"

Mom grinned like the cat that'd eaten the whole goddamn aviary. "Classmate of yours?"

"I guess."

"Friend?"

"Hardly."

"More than a friend?"

"Stop it, Frank."

"Had her phone number already written out for you," Mom nodded. "That definitely qualifies as premeditated."

"Were things that different went you were in school? I would've thought that a girl who carries around copies of her phone number, who walks around and dispenses them would have always been known as a... as a... "

"A slut?" Mom inquired. She snorted. "I never meant to imply that she wasn't a slut! What's her name?"

"How should I know?" I held the paper up. "The saddest sight in all the world: a phone number written down without an identifier. Tiffany, Brittany, Bethany, one of those names. It hardly matters: I don't do people who speak in exclamations."

"She'll be doing you, if you give her half a chance."

"Mom!"

"It's a sort of rule-of-mating among the lesser hominoids. Desirability increases inversely to availability. Perversely, to be frank. Invite her up to your room to see your etchings and see what happens. A stupid line for a stupid girl for some stupid fun. And frankly, Davey, I think you could use some stupid fun in your life."

Mom's hand disappeared from the table, went fiddling to her side, then dived all the way under, rubbing on my knee. "Here," she hissed, "slip this on the table and let's get out of here."

I reached under for her hand and she slipped me a piece of paper. Like a note in class. Or a scribbled phone number at a party. It was a twenty dollar bill. What was it doing in my hand?

"Man pays," Mom nodded. "Let's go."

"But we need the check, don't we? And what about the change? This place is cheap... we couldn't have ordered more than ten or twelve bucks."

She stood up and practically pulled me out of the booth. "Hey, big spender, keep your options open." Then Mom bent to my ear, "Look! She's dragging him out of here--wonder why she's in such a hurry!"

"Frank, you're insane!" I whispered as we approached the door.

"Don't be so serious, David. You're always too serious. I'm just setting you up for some fun."

Once we were outside and down the sidewalk, Mom pulled up short. "I want you to have some fun. I want the best for my boy. But listen here. I'm going to be frank with you. Have fun. Fuck yourself silly with these girls... "

My eyes went big and round.

"Come on, Davey," she snorted. "Fuck is in my vocabulary too. As I was saying: have fun, but don't you dare take it seriously. Don't you dare make it serious. Don't be bringing one of those creatures home to meet your Mom. Mom doesn't want them in the house. Of course, I can't tell you what to do. But I can tell you what I'll do. Hitch up with one of them critters and start having spawn, don't come crying to me. Don't think you'll turn me into the grandma/babysitter for anything like that. Little bovine babies--I'd eat them for breakfast."

We stood there facing each other, a few paces apart, in the silence of minutes.

Finally, I gathered my nerve. "Frank, you may be my Mom, but right now I really feel like slapping you in the face. For having the audacity to suggest that such a possibility even exists."

Her hand darted towards me and I flinched. But Mom just patted my head. "Good boy."

We made our way back to my room. Once inside, the evening took on the sleepy sort of feeling that comes of full bellies and nothing better to do. Mom sat on the edge of the bed sort of wagging her head.

"Davey," she hesitated, "I'm in a bit of a quandary. Do you have, say, an old flannel shirt I could sleep in?"

I must have given her some sort of screwball look because that's exactly what she threw back at me, with an exasperated sort of sigh.

"Honey, I came prepared to sleep by myself in a hotel suite, not bunk it with my son in his dorm room."

A hotel suite? In this town?

"You, uh, didn't bring pajamas?" I asked the obvious.

"If I'd brought pajamas, I wouldn't be asking for a night shirt, now would I?"

"No nightgown or anything?"

"No nightgown or anything."

"What do you normally sleep in?" the question slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Mom started to blush but then she lifted her chin. Like hitting a switch, her blush turned off. "If you must know, I generally sleep in nothing at all."

Oh. "Oh." I didn't know that about her. I didn't need to know that about her. I flushed, my mind flaring with thoughts of women in bed, women going to bed naked. My Mom as a woman who slept completely naked. And once again I was confronted with the bizarre reality that this person I'd always known as Mom was in fact a woman. That underneath her Mom-clothes, Mom was a naked woman.

"So for modesty's sake, if you please--I'd really rather not have to ruin this silk blouse. And I doubt you want to see your old Mom with her boobs hanging out."

I was at the closet! No, I was not ready to see that.

The problem was that I had the clothes I was wearing, and a set of good things for tomorrow, but otherwise everything else I owned was the dirty laundry I'd been delaying doing for several weeks. I was wondering if I'd be able to sneak a shirt out of the basket that didn't smell too bad, or if I should just let her have my good shirt for the night. I slid the closet door open a crack... providence! There in the jangly graveyard of empty hangers was the ghost of a flannel shirt. I'd forgotten all about it! Then I remembered exactly why. It wasn't in the wash because I hadn't worn it. I hadn't worn it because it'd been washed too many times.

Not until I had it out of the closet and held out in my hands to give to Mom did I remember the whole story. The damn thing had seen the inside of a hot dryer too many times. The only reason I hadn't thrown in away was that it had once been my favorite flannel shirt. It still was, in a technical sense. However faded, the charcoal greys and pinks of the print made my eyes so happy. But the cuffs had gotten so frayed, and the sleeves so short, I'd cut them off above the elbows. The shirt had shrunk in every direction. Barely the tips of the tails could be tucked in. And though I hardly had a manly chest, it was a tight fit across the front. Then I remembered the missing buttons. The second one down from the collar was still there, barely hanging by a thread, giving a false sense of security regarding the two missing directly below it. If the button was about twice the size, then maybe its ragged hole would've held it tight. I'd finally quit wearing the shirt because every time I turned around the damn thing would be open to nearly my navel. Like I should be standing around, hips cocked, gold chains nestled in a thick mat of chest hair, Hey hey, bay-bee, check it out!

Mom held the shirt up in front of her, sort of looking at it as though she didn't quite recognize it as a shirt. "Perhaps I should take you shopping tomorrow afternoon." While she was occupied I slowly turned, surreptitiously slipping my good shirt, hanger and all, from the dresser knob back into the closet.

"Oh, wait a minute. Why don't you try this one instead?" I turned around, too late.

Her blouse lay on the bed beside her. Mom had somehow put on the shirt, buttoning it as best it would, having gotten only one arm through the sleeves. Her hidden hand fumbled around under the fabric for the longest time. She looked up, "Heavens no, that's your good shirt. This one will," she gave a grunt, the other arm finally snaking out its sleeve, "suffice. Could use a few more buttons, though, couldn't it?"

I winced, watching the top button straining its hole.

Then I witnessed one of the most amazing sights I'd ever seen in all my life. Mom took her newly freed hand, slipped it up the other sleeve, grappled around for a moment, and then she pulled her brassiere out through the sleeve!

I gaped at her. Mom smiled back. "Neat trick, huh?"

I nearly blurted out that I wanted her to show me the secret.

"As I'm sure you're already starting to discover, us gals have a lot of interesting tricks."

No doubt. Not that I really knew of any. Though I was very eager to learn.

The shirt really did not fit. While I didn't have a manly chest, my shoulders were significantly wider than Mom's. She filled out the slack with a decidedly womanly chest.

Mom glanced down to see what I was staring at, then looked back up. "You're right, it is a rather tight fit."

"I'm sorry, Mom. I don't have anything else clean. I was planning on doing my laundry on Sunday."

"And how many Sundays ago would that have been?" she grinned.

I recognized a rhetorical question when slapped in the face with it.

"Do you have any padded hangers?" she asked with a frown. I stuck my head back into the closet. What the hell was a padded hanger?

"And maybe one with clips?" One with clips?

By the time I turned around Mom just grabbed what she could from my feeble grip. A regular wire hanger for the blouse, one for her skirt, and another to suspend her pantyhose. She started arranging the trio on dresser knobs. The hose slipped off their hanger; Mom bent without a thought, plucking them from the floor and redraping them.

Fantasy and reality had actually overlapped in my lifetime! There was a woman wearing only panties and a short shirt-- my shirt! --prancing around my room. But... it was Mom. That didn't do me any good. It just made my thoughts sort of foggy. I busied myself by fetching the spare blanket from the top shelf in the closet.

While I was turned, Mom disappeared into the bathroom. She fiddled around in there forever, giving me ample time to hunt up an old pair of gym trunks. That, with the t-shirt I was wearing, was the closest I had to pajamas. I, too, generally went bare to bed.

I took my turn in the bathroom. After that, I was pretty much at a loss. How to entertain my guest? I knew nothing of slumber party protocol. No popcorn within miles. I didn't even have a deck of cards. I needed some sort of distraction. Sure, it was just Mom. But I was having some difficulty keeping that straight.

There didn't seem to be anything else to do at that point but turn on the t.v. We had our choice of two broadcast channels, one better than the other though both gone fuzzy with distance. My brain went quickly to mush. It was hard to pay attention because every five minutes the show went away so people could try to sell you things.

In the extra long slot between two shows, Mom broke into a series of yawns that filled the entire commercial break. When her mouth finally closed, she gave a little laugh.

"Big exciting Friday night for you, huh? Stuck in your room hanging out with your Mom. Who's quite the life of the party." She yawned again, then gave a great feline stretch. That was it for the button. Mom's hands flew down to grip the collar as she chortled, "I mean, stuck in your room with your Mom who's hanging out!" She shoved the errant button back through its slot. "Quite the life of the party!"

There came a crowd's roar from over by the primary Women's dorm. Mom stopped in her tracks. "What in the world is going on out there."

I cringed with my knowledge. It was a near-nightly occurrence. The chanting grew louder. Mom cocked an ear and then crawled over the bed to get closer to the window. I hurried to pull the spare blanket loosely up to my chest. I didn't want to just, say, stare over at the closet. But to share her interest meant looking in the direction of her interest, but foremost in that line of vision was a rather wonderful looking ass in nothing but panties that I was increasingly having trouble keeping connected to my Mom.

"Do you think we should call someone?" she turned to ask.

I couldn't imagine who.

"They're shouting something about panting aids, like maybe they've been out running too hard and one of them needs a bronchial inhaler."

So to speak! "Mom," I started cautiously. I stopped to gain courage. "They're a bunch of guys over at the girls' dorm. What you hear is, they're, um, announcing a panty raid."

With that, Mom sat up on her haunches, hiding her own. "Oh, really? And what do they do for an encore? Go back to the Quad and swallow goldfish?"

"Well," I nodded my head like a sage, "I have noticed a bit of a time- lag around this place."

She shook her head and yawned. The sight made me yawn. Mom, of course, yawned again. "Aren't we a pair?" she laughed.

"Too much excitement for me."

"Same here... I think I'm about ready to hit the sack."

Naturally, I gave Mom the bed. I had the spare blanket I'd gotten down for me. That and the floor, with the wadding of my pants and shirt for a pillow.

We both slept fairly late into the morning. My sleep was actually more like that of a gemstone tumbling around in a stone-polisher. There were moments when I came to rest. Snuggling in the blanket against the blank stone hardness of the linoleum floor. The early morning was miserable for me, but I kept drifting away and forgetting about it, hour by hour.

Then Mom stepped on my toes. I gave a squeak, but already she was off in the shower. I thought about how I wanted to get clean, too, but the linen service provided me with just the one towel, a small towel, what would be a very damp towel to dry off with, but then I fell back asleep.

"How did you get so lucky anyway?"

I groaned and rubbed my eyes in answer.

Mom was back in the room, exuding the scent of a dew-dappled flower. Definitely not my shampoo. She wore nothing but the small towel, the knot of it tucked down in her cleavage. Then the flare of her hips as she squatted down, presenting me with a terry-draped hind view while she picked through her bag for the day's outfit.