Based Upon the Real Life Experiences of my Online Friend Paul

Previously Published Under the Pen Name Marcia R. Hooper

What's the difference between wrong and right? Who makes the distinction, and who gives them the authority? Most people would consider what we did to be wrong. A few would say it was okay, but mostly out of prurient interest. A few others, those who have been through the experience themselves and understand the emotional impact, would claim that it's both. My son and I are certainly in that last category.

This story rightfully starts in 1987, when I was thirty-seven and Paul thirteen. I knew even before Paul did, that he had a problem. One morning I came downstairs dressed in only my bathrobe to make Paul breakfast. After a minute or two of wandering back and forth between refrigerator and cupboard, cabinet and sink, chatting with him aimlessly as mothers do with their children, I realized that Paul's eyes were following me everywhere I went. I was bent over at the time with the front of my robe hanging open loosely, and although the angle was wrong, I could feel the intensity of his desire to see my bare breasts. It shocked me, to say the least. I reacted as any mother would: I jerked upright and covered myself quickly, blushing madly as I did so. It was the last time I let myself be around Paul in nothing but my bathrobe.

Two years passed. Paul's preoccupation with me increased. He was very popular at school and something of a jock; the girl's of course, simply loved him. But no sooner would he start a relationship with a girl than things would turn sour. Two or three weeks would pass, a month, maybe two months, during which I'd feel his interest as strongly as I would any suitor. It was embarrassing, and sometimes a bit on the frightening side. Because, no matter how much I told myself it was just teenage infatuation--Puppy Love, in other words--another, more deeply-rooted part of my psyche insisted that I was ignoring, possibly even engendering, a dangerous situation. I know this because, I had dangerous feelings for Paul in return.

"Soccer Mom!" he greeted me coming in the front door one evening a few days before his sixteenth birthday. Actually, this was his favorite greeting to me. I routinely shuttled his teammates to soccer and basketball games, to football and baseball games, also to his tennis matches depending upon the season. "Mom's Taxi" we called the Town and Country van.

Normally I hated that big ugly vehicle. But a dinosaur was what it took to transport half-a-dozen testosterone-pumped 16-year-old's around. Although it was big, they certainly wouldn't all fit into Melvin's Buick LeSabre, and of course, not into Paul's broken down old Chevy pickup truck.

Ever had half-a-dozen or more testosterone-pumped 16-year-old's checking out your breasts? Just one of the tribulations (and joys) of being a Soccer Mom.

Dropping his backpack just inside the door, and his parka on the back of his father's chair, Paul crossed to where I sat and planted a kiss on my forehead.

"Gonna be at the game Friday night?" he inquired.

"Are you going to be at the game Friday night?" I corrected.

He grinned at me, and I looked back at him over the rims of my reading glasses, suppressing a grin.

"Like I said," he joked. "Gonna be there?"

"Of course, I'll be there." I sighed, shaking my head.

He sat down next to me on the couch.

"Whatcha reading, doll?"

I showed him the cover and waited for his sarcastic denouement.

"The Deep End of the Ocean, by Jacquelyn Mitchard." His nose pinched in disapproval. "Chick shit," he added.

"Don't curse," I admonished him.

"Whatever. You driving us?" he queried.

"Don't I always?" I answered.

"The game's at Walter Johnson," he said, eying my chest.

That day I had worn a brown angora sweater over a white turtleneck and black leggings to work; I still had them on. Glancing down, I noticed the swell of my breasts were perfectly delineated by the clingy sweater. I shifted uncomfortably and he looked away.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Pork chops. Green beans, mashed potatoes and corn."

His stomach rumbled noisily. "Sounds great. When are you going to make it?"

"Your sister's in there making it right now," I said, again suppressing a grin.

His expression soured immediately. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, where Joan, from the sound of her furious soft cursing, was industriously ruining dinner.

"Do not make fun of your sister's cooking," I warned him.

"But, Mom--"

"She's 18 years old and badly needs the experience." Home from school for Spring Break, Joan had graciously offered to prepare tonight's meal. Though filled with a trepidation not much different than that of her brother, I had graciously accepted. "She'll do just fine," I assured him.

In counterpoint, there came the clatter of a dropping pan and Joan's outraged exclamation of anger.

"Maybe I should go help her," I said, rising quickly.

He rose, as I arose. "Have my present all picked out?" he asked.

I smoothed the sweater over my tummy, glad to have it no longer delineating my large breasts. "All picked out, bought and wrapped up," I acknowledged.

He looked toward the kitchen, wincing at the sound of a dropped lid. "You're OK with my list of friends?" he pressed.

"Invite a few more," I offered. "I'm sure we can find room in the laundry room." Between friends and family members, it looked like a record-smashing sixteenth birthday party.

He winked at me and headed upstairs while I headed for the kitchen to see what catastrophe awaited.

Three days later, we held what I came to remember as the Birthday Party from Hell. Not only did the crowd of invited friends swell all out of proportion to the square-footage of our house, but alcohol and some very potent-smelling marijuana found its way into the basement. I can't tell you how many times I yelled at Paul to turn down the music, nor how many inappropriately locked-together couples I separated in my wanderings. Although no proof ever surfaced, I'm told that two youngsters copulated with their gentlemen in the downstairs bathroom. When finally I herded the last of them out the front door after midnight, I was a complete wreck.

"You are never having another birthday," I growled at Paul.

He locked the front door and glanced at me in surprise. "I thought it went good," he said defensively.

I really was fuming. "The Roman's thought it was going well as they fed Christian's to the lions," I said hotly.

"Mom!" he protested, snickering.

"Oh, go to bed," I said disgustedly. "We'll clean this up in the morning."

We did not clean up in the morning, but spent the next hour and a half picking up the mess, working both individually and together. We spoke very little, but with the passing minutes my mood lightened so that finally, when we turned off the downstairs lights and I accompanied him upstairs, I had my arm around his waist.

"Thanks, Mom," he whispered outside his door.

I didn't want to awaken either Melvin or Joan, so I eased Paul into his bedroom and closed the door softly behind me. Even so, I gave my response in a whisper.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier, Paul."

"You didn't yell at me," he said dismissively. "Besides, things really did get out of hand there for awhile. I admit that." He rolled his eyes, laughing softly, telling me about one of the trysts in the downstairs bathroom.

"Oh, please," I said, rubbing the middle of my forehead. "Tell me that didn't really happen."

"Sorry," he said, still laughing softly.

"It isn't funny, Paul. What if that girl gets pregnant?"

"Girl's get pregnant all the time," he reminded me.

"Not in my downstairs bathroom, they don't," I grumbled. I sighed, giving up on being upset. "Did you like your present?"

He instantly brightened. "Shit, yeah! It was the greatest."

Carefully, he pulled the Sony Color Watchman out of his back pocket and sat it on the top of his dresser. He'd showed it off all night, as though it were a bar of gold. Then he darted forward and grabbed me in a hug, and planted a kiss on my right cheek.

"You're the greatest too," he said.

Now, I've been hugged and kissed on the cheek any number of times by Paul. This time was no different, should have been no different anyway, but having his arms suddenly around me, having my breasts mashed up against his chest, smelling his strong aroma of aftershave, deodorant, sweat and testosterone, my breath caught in my throat and suddenly my blood pressure shot into the stratosphere. Embarrassed, I looked numbly at the Watchman and mumbled something instantly forgettable.

There was an embarrassed silence. Then Paul said in an oddly constrained voice: "Mom? Can I kiss you?"

I blinked at him. "You just did," I said stupidly.

"No," he said, leaning forward. "Like this."

Suddenly his lips were on mine, and try as I might to stop it, there was no stopping the instinctual movement of my lips in response.

"Paul," I said, stepping back. My hand rose and I touched my lips with my trembling fingertips. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he said, innocently.

"That!" I said feverishly. In truth, I was in a fever from being kissed. Kissing had sent blood rushing to my face and every other part of my dermis. I was suddenly itchy all over and scratched both my forearms, and my right underarm. There was a totally unwelcome tingling between my legs that made me want to go screaming from the room. I felt horrified.

"Paul," I said. "You can't kiss your mother like that."

"I don't want to kiss anybody else," he came back.

I shook my head, exasperated. "You could have so many girlfriends."

"The only girlfriend I want," he said, taking half a step toward me, "is you."

I took a half-step back. "This is so unhealthy, Paul. We shouldn't even talk like this."

And I didn't talk about it. I just turned around and left the room.

For two years, things remained status-quot. Paul watched me like a calculating, long-suffering suitor. I made sure he didn't get close enough to set off another critical chain-reaction. However, things will always reach a boil when the fire's on, no matter how closely you watch the pot. Eventually it did with us.

It was Christmas Eve of 1992. Melvin had a mid-morning flight out of Port Columbus into O'Hare Airport in Chicago. I was extremely upset and justifiably rancorous.

"I can't believe they're sending you out on Christmas Eve," I said angrily. Neither of us suspected yet that Chicago would get snowed in, and I'd not see Melvin again for three days.

"Take it easy, dear," he said soothingly.

I didn't want to be soothed.

As is our tradition, the three of us had decorated the house two days before (Joan had flown to Cincinnati the day before that, to spend Christmas at her boyfriend's parent's house), and Paul had hung a spray of real live mistletoe in the living room over the fireplace. Ostensibly for his father and I, Mom had a sneaking suspicion that Paul intended to use the mistletoe himself, and not with any girlfriend.

Melvin took me in his arms and rocked me gently back and forth. He was 6'1", weighed 220 pounds and at 48, was still blessed with an impressively athletic build. Granted, he was slowly going to fat in the middle, but what 48 year old man isn't? And despite his seriously eroding hairline, Melvin was still the sexiest man I knew. A real man's man, like Robert Mitchum.

Kissing me on the nose, he said, "We made it 22 years without a break. That's a seriously impressive record, sweetie."

"Twenty-three would be better," I said grumpily.

He kissed me on the nose again. Then I accompanied him to the front door where he gathered his flight bag and his two pieces of luggage.

"Drink an eggnog for me tonight," he said.

I nodded.

"You OK?"

"I guess I am," I said, clutching myself across the chest. I had a very bad feeling about tonight--a premonition--and I didn't want him leaving.

He did leave, however, just as he had to, and after watching him drive down the street and turn the corner, I slowly closed the front door and locked it. I knew, even without a crystal ball, that things would get out of hand that night with Paul. And of course, they did.

It was eleven o'clock. The last of the company had left and Paul and I cleaned up the mess in silence. In the kitchen, he came up behind me and said: "I guess it's just you and me now, partner."

Forcing a smile and a cheery tone of voice, I replied: "I think we'll make the best of it. Don't you?"

"I opened the flue in the chimney," he said, jokingly. "Santa should slide right down. Whoosh!" he added, making a scooping motion with his hand.

I was on the verge of saying something totally inane when he encircled my waist with his arms and pressed up against me. I went rigid.

"Paul--"

"What?" he said, releasing me and stepping back. "Can't a guy hug his mother?"

I chose to ignore it. "You'll like what I got you."

"You'll like what I got you as well," he said, a grin--and a blush--stretching across his face.

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

"Oh, you'll find out."

I guessed, not un-foolishly, that Paul had bought me either sleepwear or lingerie.

"We need to talk, Paul."

"About what?" he said, his demeanor sobering.

"You know what," I said.

"I don't know what you mean," he countered.

"Well, we could start with my underwear," I said meaningfully.

He blushed red as an apple.

For ages now I had been aware that Paul borrowed my underwear to fantasize over. Half a dozen times I'd found a pair of my panties or one of my bras--sometimes both--under his mattress or in a drawer. More than once I'd found them stiff with dried semen. I didn't mind as long as he didn't plant them somewhere out of reach. The problem was, he always took my lacy things, which I missed.

"You don't wear them, do you?" I teased.

His blush grew even stronger. "Of course not. I only--"

"Masturbate with them?" I asked.

He grew doubly red. "Can we talk about something else? Please?"

"Like what?" I asked. "The weather?"

Feeling a sudden pity, I opened the refrigerator and withdrew two Seagram's wine coolers from the six-pack on the shelf. "Here," I said, laughing at him. "On me."

He twisted off both caps, handed me back a bottle and took a sip. I had embarrassed him awfully about my underwear and was feeling slightly guilty. The way he felt about me, I was surprised he hadn't simply moved my dresser into his own bedroom.

"Let's go out to the fire," I said. "I'm a little chilly in here. Especially with this," I said, holding up the cold bottle. Anything cold in my hands tended to send shivers down my spine, as it did now.

Putting his arm around me to warm me up, he guided me out to the living room and to the divan on the long wall. We sat down side by side. Pillows were stacked before us on the floor, and kicking off my flats, I stretched out and placed my crossed feet atop the closest stack.

"This is nice," I said, appreciating the crackling fire.

It occurred to me that for the past week I had been a rudderless vessel being swept down the Niagara River toward the falls. Suddenly, here I was in control of the damned boat and steering not away from the thundering flume, but towards it. Was I insane?

"You don't tell anybody about this," I said, tapping the mouth of my bottle against his. "I'm too old to get locked up for contributing."

He snorted. "You're not old. Dad's old," he said, making me giggle girlishly.

Gathering myself, I said, "Your farther is not old," meaning to add something like: "He'd get really upset hearing you say that, Paul."

But Paul jumped on my mispronunciation and teased, "My farther?"

"Stop that!" I said, pushing on his shoulder. "Don't mock your mother."

"Knock my mother?"

"Stop it!" I repeated.

Laughing, he kicked off his own shoes and stretched out beside me, placing his crossed ankles next to mine on the pillows. I felt comfy sitting beside him like that. I said: "Do you know how old I am?"

"I know your bra size," he replied unexpectedly. "Does that count?"

Blushing, I went to answer smartly but he got in ahead of me. "Forty-two," he said smugly. "Your age, not your bra size. That's a 36C."

He looked pointedly at my chest. I wore another angora sweater, this one light blue, just as clingy, with black leggings. My heart quickened and blood overloaded my capillaries, making me hot and itchy at the same time. It took every bit of willpower not to go digging at my underarms.

"Embarrassing your mother on Christmas Eve," I scolded, taking a sip of wine to mask my embarrassment. "You should be ashamed of yourself.'

He laughed softly and took a sip of his own. "What good are you if not to be embarrassed?" he said. "But seriously, Mom. You are not old."

"I'm no spring chicken, either," I said, taking another sip.

"Tell that to my friends," he countered, making me wonder where this strange conversation was leading.

"If it's bad, I don't want to hear about it," I warned.

"Define bad," he inquired.

"Anything out of a young boy's mouth," I said.

He laughed, and I laughed with him.

"You ever hear the abbreviation, MILF?" he asked.

I scowled. I knew what a MILF was, and I wasn't flattered.

"You better never let me hear anybody call me that," I threatened, "or they'll be picking flakes of fingernail out of their throats."

He smiled at me wryly.

"And you better never call me that," I further warned.

"If it's true, though?" he asked softly.

What I should have done, was what I had done two years ago: get up and leave. But I sat there and gave the question its rightful consideration. Maybe it was the wine.

"I'd probably be insulted," I said slowly. "Sons aren't supposed to want to fuck their mothers, Paul."

I had said it. For better or worse, it was out there now.

He was quiet a time. We both took sips from our bottles. Most of the relaxation had gone from my body and I felt like a mouse trap ready to snap closed.

Finally, he said: "I'd settle for a kiss."

I looked up at the mistletoe, hanging there innocently from the ceiling fan. The red berries, deadly poisonous if eaten, glowed softly with reflected firelight. And then I thought, Why not? Let him get it out of his system.

"One kiss," I assented. "No tongue, and no touching, either, Paul."

This stipulation caused more embarrassment to me than it did Paul, who just nodded eagerly.

"Anything," he agreed breathlessly. I hadn't even seen him put down his wine bottle on the end table. He stood up and reached for my hand. Trembling inside, I gave it to him and allowed him to pull me to my feet.

What happened next is not quite clear in my mind. I know we kissed, quite chastely, lips pushed out like some old Saturday Evening Post cover. Then we kissed again, and his hand was on my left bicep, and I had my head tilted back and to the side and I was raised up on my tiptoes. Then my mouth was open and I touched my tongue to his and suddenly I was in his arms and he was holding me tightly and this kiss just kept going on and on and--

"Paul!" I gasped, staggering backwards. "What are you doing?" My chest labored and blood pounded in my ears. Had I just French kissed my son?

He caught me before I could fall backwards over the pillows.

"You OK?" he asked.

"No, I'm not OK!" I exclaimed.

Shaken, I reached down and snatched a wine bottle off the table--his, as it turned out--and downed the contents in one long gulp. Smacking it back down, I stomped across the living room into the dining room and then out into the kitchen, where I made a beeline for the refrigerator. Paul followed, unsure what to say to me. I didn't want him to say anything.

"Do you want one?" I demanded.

"Yes, please," he said, stepping forward. Snapping off the lid, I stuck the bottle into his hand and twisted the lid off my own bottle. In three long swigs I had the contents down.

"Mom," he said. "Take it easy."

"Take it easy, my ass!" I said, freeing another bottle from its lid. "I just French kissed my son."

This time, instead of swigging the cold wine, I sipped at it. I tried to compose myself. My heart had slowed from full gallop to a spirited trot, and I could no longer hear surf pounding in my ears. As much as I hated to admit it, I had liked kissing Paul.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked. His expression was hangdog.

I didn't answer; not trusting what answer would come out. Instead, I sipped more of the wine.

What I felt, was that I had come within a hairsbreadth of fulfilling his long-time fantasy of seducing his mother. That's what it felt like to me.

"Why me?" I demanded.

"Excuse me?" he said.

"I'm your mother, Paul," I cried in exasperation. "Why would you want to ... kiss me?" I had almost said fuck me instead.

He looked at me with momentarily unfathomable eyes. Then, shrugging, he said: "Because you're the perfect woman for me."

I snorted. "I'm far from perfect."

"You are to me," he countered.

Arms crossed, wine bottle clutched in my right hand, foot tapping incessantly on the floor, I said: "You are crazy."

Sighing, he looked down at the floor.

For a long time, neither of us moved nor spoke. I kept tapping the floor with my bare foot, he kept staring at it. Finally, wondering what words would exit my mouth, I said to him, "No one can ever know about this. No one. Ever, Paul."

He looked up hopefully.

"If your father ever found out, it would kill him. Just kill him, Paul."

"I understand," he said.

"I've never cheated on your father, not even once. Never." Looking past him, I thought: And I'm getting ready to do it with his son?

Quickly drinking the last of my wine, I retrieved another bottle and this time poured it into a wine glass. Then I did the same to the rest of Paul's and handed it back to him. Might as well be civilized about this, I thought. Another part of my mind responded wryly: Or be romantic.

Knowing I'd need it, I removed the last wine cooler from the now-empty carton and carried it along with my wine glass back out to the living room. Ignoring the divan, I separated the stack of pillows with my foot into a more comfortable pile to sit upon while Paul took my unopened bottle of wine and sat it on the end table. Then, extending his hand, he helped his slightly tipsy mom sit herself down on the pillows. He joined me a moment later and we both leaned back against the upholstered front of the divan, something I had done many times with his father. Then he got right back up and crawled over to the fireplace to rebuild the faltering fire. As he squat to load another log, I watched him contemplatively.

He was such a handsome young man. Better looking, in fact than his father. Better looking, in fact, than the handful of young men I'd dated before marrying his father. I couldn't believe my baby was six-foot tall and almost two hundred pounds. He's not a baby anymore, I reminded myself. He's 18 years old and a semester away from college.

Sipping the wine, I wondered, not for the first time, what having Paul out of the nest would do to me. I didn't like the idea. His sister being gone was something of a relief; but Joan and my relationship had, to say the least, been rancorous. Paul being gone, I suspected, would leave a huge jagged hole in my heart.

"I don't understand the attraction," I said to his back.

Still adjusting a log with his right hand, he looked back over his shoulder. "How can you say that? You're beautiful."

I felt myself blush. Maybe at one time I'd been beautiful, but two children and 22 years of marriage had taken its toll on me. I was ten pounds overweight (OK, maybe twenty), my breasts had begun to sag, and I would never looked nineteen again in a bathing suit. I wondered if he knew I colored my hair. Without my contacts I was blind as a bat. Thinking all this depressed me.

"Every son thinks that about his mother," I mumbled.

Drawing the sides of the screen closed, he brushed his hands together and stood up. The fire had begun to devour the new logs and was crackling merrily. The push of heat against my face felt wonderful. I watched him, idly swirling wine in the glass.

When he turned around, he said: "I've wanted you all my life, Mom."

I snorted at that.

"Well, since I was eleven, anyway," he said, shrugging.

That I couldn't snort about. I remembered that morning when Paul was thirteen, and his eyes relentlessly following me around the kitchen. I said: "Are you a virgin?"

Without sign of embarrassment, he nodded.

"You've been saving it for me?" I asked, butterflies wheeling in my stomach.

He nodded again.

"You really are crazy," I said.

He retrieved his wine glass and sat down beside me again. I reached over for the unopened bottle of wine, twisted off the cap and replenished our glasses. Wine always fortified and emboldened me, fine for some situations, but disastrous in others. I put my hand on his right cheek and stroked it lovingly. Taking this as his cue, he leaned over to kiss me. I turned my face up to meet him, careful with the wine glass, not wanting to spill it all over us. Our lips touched and electricity flowed through my body again. I let him draw me in, holding the nearly-full glass of wine safely aloft. I'm sure, except for the absurdity of a 42 year old woman and her 18 year old lover, we looked liked something out of a movie.

It became something almost magical. My mouth opened under the urging of his tongue and I met and accepted him into my mouth. For someone professing to be a virgin, Paul kissed exceptionally well. He continued to twist me around until I was in danger of flopping down on top of him with a wine glass in my hand.

"Wait!" I gasped. Reaching up, I placed the glass safely out of reach on the end table and then allowed Paul to bring me back to him. Our mouths locked together again and our tongues began to waltz. I was atop him now, my position ungainly, but not wanting to be in any other position. I kissed him with an energy and urgency I hadn't experienced in 25 years.

"Not a word!" I gasped, breaking the kiss. "I want you to promise me, Paul. Not a word to any of your friends." I remembered how oath-sworn secrets, most of them certainly true, spread faster than the speed of light in high school. Paul telling even one of his friends would leave his whole school knowing.

"One of these days, Mom," he said, looking up at me with complete honesty, "I'll tell a nice young woman I meet on the Internet all about it. She'll write up our story and I'll surprise you with it on Christmas Day when you're 58 years old. Until then, I won't say a word to anyone."

What could I say to that?

I kissed him again and slowly, tentatively, his hand slid up the outside of my sweater and encountered my breast. I moaned as he took possession of it, squeezing it gently, his fingertips tracing the outline of my brassiere underneath. I was suddenly glad that I had worn a matching set of lacy blue underwear.

He broke the kiss. "I can't believe I'm actually doing this," he whispered softly. "That we're actually doing this," he corrected.

I was breathing heavily and took a moment to catch my breath.

"We have to be careful, Paul. I'm not on the pill anymore and I certainly don't want to get pregnant."

Just saying the word released an army of red-hot emotions battling inside me. Regardless of which way that battle went, I knew I had sufficient cause to worry. My period was at least a week and a half away, making pregnancy a very distinct possibility for this lady.

Paul grinned up at me and I knew he had prepared for this eventuality. Undoubtedly he had a whole box of condoms stashed away somewhere in his room, just awaiting the opportunity. The problem was, I didn't want him using a condom. Knowing that made my emotions battle just that much harder.

I returned my mouth to his and let him work his hand up under my sweater. He cupped my breast gently, squeezing it almost reverentially, and I wondered if his virginity extended to breasts. The thought, the hope that it was true made me absurdly happy. Then he confirmed it.

"This is the first breast I've ever touched," he said.

"Oh, Paul," I moaned. Warmth spread throughout me like delicious hot cocoa.

"When I see it," he said, rising up to kiss me again, "it will be the first bare breast I've seen, also."

Every nerve ending in my body tingled. I needed more wine. Lots more wine. Stretching out, I grabbed my glass and, after taking a huge gulp, offered the rim to my son's lovely mouth. He rose to accept.

"We have another six-pack in the refrigerator?" he asked.