It was fall. I was about to go off to university. My suitcase was all packed. “Before you go there’s something you should know,” Mother said.

I was about to say that I knew all about sex (though I didn’t, really), and that I’d be careful (I wouldn’t, really), when she said, “You need to know how to make a proper cup of tea.”

I didn’t even like tea. Back then I didn’t like coffee either. Root beer float was my idea of the perfect beverage. But my mom took me by the wrist and led me to the kitchen. “It’s just about ready,” she said, taking Grandmother’s teapot and setting it on her lap as she sat. I stood next to her, confused about the instruction. Something about a watched pot never boiling occurred to me.

“Now you hold the spout, dear,” Mother said, and she guided my hand. “Not too tight, not too loose. Can you feel the warmth?” I nodded.

“Move your hand up and down, a firm but gentle stroking motion,” she said.

I did as she asked.

“Perfect,” she said after perhaps a minute. “I think it’s done now.”

“Aren’t we going to...” I started to say. Pour it? Drink it? I wasn’t sure.

“I think your cab is here,” Mother said. “Better go check.”

About a month later I was holding a boy’s bare penis for the first time, and I remembered my mom’s lesson about making a proper cup of tea. I held it gently. I moved my hand up and down. The penis was warm and felt surprisingly like the spout of the teapot.

The comparison struck me as funny, and I couldn’t help laughing, which the boy found dismaying. He shrank. Turned away. Yanked up his pants and left. I was a little disappointed. I’d planned on being brave and giving him a blowjob. It occurred to me to wonder if cum tasted any better than tea.

For a couple of years I was unable to handle a boy’s cock without remembering my mom’s tea-making lesson. I managed to avoid laughing, and I discovered that cum did taste somewhat better than tea.

Home at the end of junior year, I happened to be in the kitchen making a grilled cheese sandwich, and I noticed that Grandmother’s teapot was not in its usual spot. I asked my mom about it. She acted as if I didn’t know what she was talking about. “You know, that teapot from Grandmother,” I tried to explain. “Before I went off to college you showed me how to make a proper cup of tea.”

Mom looked genuinely confused. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

Now I was confused. Was my mom at the age of 47 suffering from some kind of dementia? Or had she broken the teapot and was embarrassed to admit it? I was thinking of pursuing the matter, but Mom turned away and left the kitchen, and I almost burnt the grilled cheese sandwich.

That night, sleeping in my childhood bed, I had the weirdest dream. It was basically the same as the time I’d left for college when Mom showed me how to make tea, except that in the dream we were both naked. I had my hand around the teapot spout. “Stroke it slow and smooth,” my mom said. “Pretend you’re holding your lover’s weewee. Doesn’t it feel nice?”

It did feel nice. It felt nicer and nicer. Mom’s knee pressed against my middle. Her legs moved, just the slightest bit, in and out, and I began to feel all dreamy. “Yes, dear, you’re almost there,” Mom said, and abruptly the teapot erupted, warm cream spurting from the spout, jolt after jolt, and I was coming, my first ever orgasm. I woke up, my cunt drenched. I remembered the dream. It was so real. The orgasm was definitely real. I fell back to sleep.

In the morning I took the sheets to the wash and then I went on-line. I found a teapot much like Grandmother’s and ordered it for my mom.