t seems that the most noticeable changes happen when you`re not paying attention. Relationships can dissolve during periods that seem so very static. Stability is what most people seek, as insane as it may seem, aspects of instability is what makes life interesting to me; the out of control moments make me feel more alive. I need to feel that action, a depraved need to be on the other side of what is normal, on the other side of what is expected. When things are too idyllic or too status quo, I feel trapped, trapped in a comfortable velvet cage, but trapped nevertheless. I have the aching desire to be the one you least suspect, to be deplorable to better sensibilities. There's nothing that I want and nothing that I desire, because whenever I get it I just want something else.
I've always known that I was never wired quite right. Dark fantasies have permeated in my mind from the day I can first remember, and have often percolated into my actions. I can't tell if some trauma led to my histrionics, or if the histrionics led to traumas, or if it really matters. It seems that if I know a right action I will think about the opposite as a possibility. I always saw this as a sphere closed to my own realm of thought, never one that I would share with anyone close to me, and definitely not one I would pass on to my children.
Starting from the beginning would be impossible, so I will just start from a non-arbitrary point in time, a point in time pertinent to the beginning of this recollection. It was a Saturday morning on a cool sort of summer day, the sort of day that would have blended unnoticeably into a pile of typical Saturdays. The kids weren't home, giving me a sense of peace while I was starting the weekend chores.
Housework isn't something I enjoy, but under the right conditions it can be therapeutic. That morning I dove into it with the feeling that everything would be clean when I was done. Before long I was outside myself and completely into the tasks; taking the multi-disciplined approach to the process. I was washing while organizing, starting machines while considering places where dust may have been hiding.
I cleaned all the laundry in the house by the early afternoon, while organizing my dresser I noticed that something just didn't add up. There was little doubt, I was missing underwear, the thoroughness of my process left little chance that there were any waiting to be washed. I had the feeling that I had been missing underwear for a while but no firm suspicion had formed. I first noticed weeks previously, but I figured that I just misplaced a pair, perhaps dropped behind the machine, maybe somehow left them at the gym or whatever else. But now I was convinced this was something else, I was missing at least five pairs, two of which were fancy and expensive. I laid out all my panties on my bed and counted, re-counted, grouped and then regrouped; I was missing panties.
I started searching my husband's side to see if they got mixed into his; nothing came up. Next I checked my daughter's room, she was only twelve, but I figured that just maybe she thought they were pretty and took them. It was a long shot, she liked pretty things so it wouldn't have shocked me if she took them, but it would have shocked me if she didn't tell me she took them. After exhausting that search, I swallowed hard and realized that I had to search my 19 year old son's room.
In my mind, I was telling myself that there was no way and at the same time thinking that there was no other way. I searched in the normal places, under the bed, in his closet, some loose boxes, behind his desk, under his mattress and even in his hockey bag. Feeling ever more perplexed I searched a number of other places I would have considered clever, before giving up and sitting on the bed. While sitting on the bed I was trying to think of what else could have happened to them. My eyes went unfocused for a second or two, when they refocused I was looking at a piece of fabric poking out of the bed frame. The bed had gone together in pieces and came apart rather easily. The blue pipes fit into each other for simple assembly and, of course, the opposite as well. I took the pipe that connected the bedpost to the headboard apart and there they were; it was fabric stuffed into the hollow post, obviously women's underwear more particularly my underwear.
My heart felt like it was in my feet as I peeled the first pair out of the hollow pipe. My thoughts were paced at breakneck speed; thousands flooded my mind in a wave of fear and anxiety. I thought that maybe he was wearing them. I'm not proud of it, but the notion he might be scared me. My sense of liberalism was being tested in my own house, in that split second I was failing the test. Soon it became pretty obvious that any of my instinctual, and shameful fears, were misplaced, and that I was dealing with something completely different. It looked almost like globs of dried glue that were flaking on the edges and cracked in the middle. The stains were unmistakable and they were distributed all over the panties, this was cum. My son was masturbating and ejaculating on my panties. I felt dizzy and knelt next the bed using the edge to support my head as I struggled to take in air. My stomach was throbbing with butterflies, I felt the need to pee, but my legs wouldn't respond to my requests to move.
I sat, kneeled by the bed, for a long time, horrified and waiting for my senses to return. I finally gained the strength to go to the bathroom and not a moment too soon. Returning to his room, the scene of the crime, everything seemed so quiet, as if the slightest movement would upset all balance. In most every way his room looked normal, it was my perception of it which had changed. My senses were more acute to the mess that surrounded the floor, a mess that I had given up fighting about years ago. The closets and dressers were built into the walls and painted white, with the walls painted a light blue. The idea was to brighten up the room, but now they were covered with posters featuring stuff I didn't, and likely wasn't supposed to, understand. Hockey gear was prominent in the corner, as were the trophies and medals on his shelf it helped him earn. His room looked a little juvenile for a 19 year old, but perhaps that doesn't change until they move out.
I made my way slowly to the partially disassembled bed frame. For some reason I was being careful not to disturb anything else in the room, in light of the fact that I knew I had to recover the panties, the precaution was trivial at best. With the help of a wire clothes hanger, soon they were all out and laying on the floor. I poked at them with the hanger, flipping them over, inspecting them and doing my best to hold back my tears. The implications of what I found hadn't quite hit me yet. Each pair was covered in sperm and clearly these were panties taken from the dirty laundry and not my drawer. One pair in particular seemed to have gotten a lot of use; a baby blue pair that I had liked, a pair that I would have worn if I planned on having sex. They were so heavily laced with sperm that they were discoloured into a darker blue, deepest in the middle and progressively returning to the normal, lighter, colour at the edges. They were all beyond cleaning. I got a plastic bag and dropped each pair, one by one, into the bag and sealed it closed. I reassembled the bed and left looking back at least three times before closing the door.
I put the bag in one of my shoe boxes in my closet and tried to not think about it. My mind was exhausted; I sat on the sofa in the living room looking aimlessly into the space on the ceiling. My brain was truly overloaded, passively rejecting further reflection. After some time in an almost catatonic state the thoughts were starting to creep back and the reality of the situation began to confront me. I had not even formulated what I was going to say to him. The uncomfortable reality of that hit me like a pulse of straining and uncomfortable anxiety. Soon I was back in my room looking for the plastic bag of panties, all the while engaging myself in an argument about why I had to put them back. This was an argument I wasn't going to win. I couldn't just let him keep taking my underwear, not only because they were expensive, but also because he could be under a great deal of stress from confusion. I was going to have to talk to him and for that I was going to have the think about the best way to approach that.
I had never really talked to him about sex, and perhaps that was my fault. I mean I covered the safe bases and got about as granular as an uncomfortable middle school teacher. This, on the other hand, would be like jumping right into the deep end of personal sexuality before even testing the water. The other problem was that, in truth, I didn't know why he was even doing it. The thought hadn't really occurred to me that he could, possibly, be thinking about me. There could have been any number of reasons behind this, some of them even less savoury than I wanted to think about. The one that stood out most, for me, was the notion that he was angry with me and was doing it to debase me; this thought really scared me so I did my best not to settle on any conclusion. Whatever it was sure of was that this was going to be embarrassing and uncomfortable; for both of us.
My resolve started to become more gathered when I started to think about just how to raise the subject. Some approaches were out of the question. I wasn't going to dump the bag at his feet and demand an explanation. This was not going to be a confrontation where feelings could get hurt or one that gave birth to an even greater misunderstanding. Most of all, I wanted to understand where he was coming from and try to help deal with any of the feelings he may have been having. I didn't want to go into this blind, I felt that I had to know something more than nothing about this whole panty thing before going any further.
"You found what!!????" I heard panicked frustration in his cracking voice.
"Just calm down", I told pleaded with my husband, "and please lower your voice at me."
"I'm not lowing anything!" He was fuming in the worst possible way; pacing and swearing.
"Where is he?!"
"Stop this right now!" I was dead serious and starting to get very upset.
"I'm not stopping anything! No, this isn't normal Michelle and you're not coddling him on this one! What he needs is a kick in the ass!" The door slammed to the bedroom, then to the bathroom and then another slam.
"What's wrong with you?!!" I had lost my temper at his tantrum, I was yelling as much as he was.
My voice had become shrill in what had devolved into an all-out shouting match. All I wanted was some advice from a male perspective, what I got was the kicking and screaming of a two year old. I was pleading with him to slow down, take a breath, to be an adult. Nothing was happening; he was treating this as an affront to his chauvinistic valour. Like his domain had been unsettled and it was time to put this house in order, puffing and fuming in an attempt to be more alpha. Being relegated to an object of control wasn't lost on me; I was disgusted. I didn't understand why he was so mad.
"Yeah Michelle, he wants to fuck you in case you're too dumb to figure it out!" He opened the bedroom door just long enough to belittle me before slamming it again.
"Please just stop this and talk to me!" I screeched back in a tone to show just how unhappy I was with him.
I had made a very bad mistake coming to him with this. So what if he was right? Did he really feel that threatened? His tirade made him look foolish and insecure. His every action was working is opposition to his intention. If he was trying to invoke some power, through rage and violence, he was failing miserably. Instead he was setting our son up as his rival, something I had never considered to this point. If he could have calmly discussed the problem with me, we could have come to a solution or at the very least an understanding. If our son had a problem we could work together to help him. That would have cemented his position as my partner and leader of the household. His rage, and his insults toward me, showed a thin resolve and a lack of confidence. I was so disappointed; I lost the will to continue the fight and sat down on the floor of our bedroom.
He stormed out of the house, leaving me more or less, alone with my thoughts. I looked at the body mirror on the wall of our bedroom. I looked pathetic sitting on the floor. I stood up looking the mirror to give myself a better look, I went up on my tippy toes while turning around. "Wants to fuck me huh?" I thought to myself with a light chuckle while checking myself out. From the drama of the day my mind needed a break, so I entertained the notion. What would he see in me anyways? Our son, Justin, was 19 years old, in pretty good shape and handsome, and I was an old woman of 43 years.
"It is so absurd." I thought while holding my breasts up and pressing them together in front of the mirror. "But, that doesn't mean it isn't true." I finished my thought while letting my breasts fall.
I didn't have too much sag, they aren't that big to begin with, at 34b, but that comes to be a blessing when you're 43. I gave myself a few times over, looking at my legs and hips. I work pretty hard to stay in shape, and while an evenly continuing effort does see some diminished results with time, my time hadn't quite come yet.
"I still look pretty darn good!" I thought throwing modesty to the wind with a sly smile.
I lifted my shirt to examine my stretch marks, I really hate them, they're the price I paid from being skinny when I had the kids. Justin left the most noticeable and enduring marks, because I had him when I was young and even thinner. My athletic body type I still carried at 43, even if some of my gracile characteristics had become more rounded. My long legs still looked good in heels and I didn't feel shy wearing tights outside of the house. I got looks in tight clothes at the gym, I noticed them, and I liked them.
Once done securitizing my body, my gaze met my face. It was harder to convince myself of youth in this regard. My wrinkles were to the point where I had given up on the miracle skin cream that would save the day. It's not that I was haggard or anything of the sorts, I just had a few clearly defined wrinkles; around my eyes mostly. A few too many days by the pool, in the sun, had its price. I felt blessed that I could still grow my hair long with enough volume to look attractive. I've had a love-hate relationship with my hair my entire life, but in my 40s it seemed to be trying to make up for any missteps in the past. My grey eyes, that can be mistaken or brown in some light and blue in others, are my one feature I never argued with. They give me a unique look. Some people think they change colour with my mood; although this is almost certainly a perception and not reality.
Justin on the other hand wasn't holding on to anything, he was in the prime of his life and entering his peak physical years. I had to be mistaken to think he was thinking about his old mom like that. I know there was some degree of evidence to back up my husband's rather forceful assertion, but it didn't make it seem any less ridiculous. I tried to think objectively about it.
I was actually pretty much convinced that he hated me, well maybe that's a strong word, but that he at least had a healthy resentment toward me. Our relationship had always been somewhat of a struggle. Born three weeks premature, he was such a little baby, the doctors weren't sure I was ready to give birth. His fragile state made me hold him ever closer, as he grew to normal size our bond remained an intense one. I may have over-mothered him, like my husband said, but I didn't care he was my baby. He was my only baby for many years; we took a long break before having another since the first pregnancy was difficult on me.
Justin was the sort that always found his way to our bed; much to my husband's annoyance. He was a nighttime wanderer, usually ending up in my side of the bed, for a cuddle, before being returned to his. I enjoyed those times; we were very close for his childhood. Things may have changed when his sister entered the world and my attention became divided. I never made an effort to give him less attention, there was just less to go around. By the time puberty hit his mood was in full rebellion. Any attempt to give him attention was met with resistance. He would belittle my attempts to share any of his interests and generally make me feel unwanted. This, my husband thought, were the normal actions of a teenager but that didn't make it hurt any less.
We weren't 100% adversaries. When he had hockey practice, at some ungodly hour, mom was always driving the car. In some such moments, he would even let his guard down, and talk to me like person. I really enjoyed those times, he would let me know little things about his life and forgive my ignorance of the newest trends. Of all the topics we did talk about, girls were the one he would steer clear of, that one was off limits, despite even my best placed prods. He had inherited my teenage skin, not really as bad, but otherwise was a good looking kid, he was lanky but not in an abnormal way, 190cm tall and attractive features. I couldn't understand why he didn't have girlfriends, but I knew not to push the issue.
By his 19th birthday his skin had cleared up and the years of playing hockey had done him some good. He wasn't brawny or muscular, but he was lean. His height made his muscles long and less prominent, but he was strong. He was great to have around the house sometimes, because he could always reach or carry whatever I needed moved. His hair is the same as mine, chestnut brown and it would have had some curls if he had ever grown it long. A few curls would always show at the back when he neglected getting a haircut. Like his father, his eyes are deep brown and show a flair of intensity when he's passionate about something. His eyes could look very fierce when he was angry about something, a trait he carried his entire life.
I'd spent many evenings on the wrong side of his intense stare. My other jobs that I took, which I never applied for, were that of police officer and warden of our household. I hated both hats, but felt that someone had to do them. The first serious trouble he got in was getting suspended from school for marijuana. From the day that in which I had to pick him up from school for his suspension onwards, my war against pot was on. If I caught him with it, I flushed it, if I smelt it on him I interrogated, all done in poor temper. All of the infractions led to some sort of sentence, a sentence that usually included sitting at the dining room table and doing homework until I, the warden, was satisfied with his effort. On the occasions where he upset me more than others, my standard became impossibly high, fuelling a lot of tension between us.
It was a battle of wills, one that I didn't want to lose. He would buck and I would reel him in. We went back and forth with each other at irregular intervals over the course of his teens. My husband would almost always stay out of it, leaving the burden to me. Even with the trouble at school, he wasn't a bad student or even the worst of misbehavers. It sometimes felt like he would act out if things had been going too smoothly for any stretch of time, just to start something. The severity of the fights can also be credited to my neuroticism and inability to compromise. The worst of them would leave no doubt as to the intensity of our invested emotions.
didn't do it all for some ideal of justice or just to have control. It was all because I love him and wanted him to be the best man that he could. If he got in trouble, acted rude to me or some other, what some may consider, more trivial offence it made me think he wasn't being his best self. I internalized some of his shortcoming and figured if only I had acted different, or harsher, when he was a child, then he wouldn't have this or that problem. This brought out a person I had never been. I had turned from the meekest of people into a domineering mother, the reality of it made me sad quite often. He drained me and changed who I was, but despite this I never stopped loving him for even a heartbeat and never regretted that he was my son.
Justin was semi-popular at school; at least with the guys. He had a few girls that he talked to as well, but nobody that you would mistake for a girlfriend. The way I would hear him talk with his friends in the basement made me think, perhaps, that his standards were too high. The unreal expectations that they filled each other's heads with were depressing, at times, to listen to. I wondered how many nice girls he didn't give the chance to because they didn't meet the movie star standard. I wanted badly to encourage him and build up his confidence, but even in his best moods he brushed me off.
After checking myself out that Saturday afternoon, I was, once again, sitting on the hardwood floor of my bedroom, too deep in reflection to think about comfort. I felt my bones labour as I tried to stand, reminding me once and for all of my age. A few cracks, and deep breaths, later I was on my feet. My knees were starting to pay me back for my years of activity; I could make them pop virtually at will. Justin was at work; he worked at a parking garage on the weekends and wasn't expected home until much later. Lisa, my daughter, was at her friend's house for a sleepover, as she so often did on the weekends. I didn't have to pick her up until later in the afternoon. The house was empty and I had nothing to do, so I went back to finishing the laundry that started this mess.
My family is such a stereotype in so many ways that it can make me cringe. I never really set out to be this way, it more happened when I wasn't paying attention. I met a man that I love, we had a baby and the rest just happened. We bought more stuff, moved into a bigger house with a pool, bought a second car and I even joined the PTA. This was never the vision I had for myself growing up, but it suited me well. I love my family and the fact that they are my life. It scares me to think what any of them would do without me; probably miss a lot of appointments.
Being needed, perhaps the most human feeling, one that can drive the most insane actions from the most sane people. People want relationships, but it's not the feeling of want that keeps them, it's the feeling of being needed, representing a piece of someone else's existence, the fixture that defines a part someone else. In a close family, like ours, each member becomes a part of the other's definition. The words "love" and "family" are used in a similar proximity as "love" and "sex", yet the meaning when interchanged is supposed to represent different concepts. It's not surprising that sometimes the signals get crossed.
My husband had been gone for hours. I hoped that leaving the house would have given him time to calm down and act as an adult about the situation. I had certainly calmed down and rationalized it into something that really wasn't a big deal. I don't know why I even told him. I wasn't looking forward to talking to him, but I was at least resigned to the fact that I couldn't know everything going in. If our talk was going to do any good I couldn't know everything going in, having no preconceived notions would be better. Justin would either talk to me or he wouldn't, that`s all there was to it.
As the time passed, I became more acutely aware that there was a chance that he would confront Justin before I had a chance to talk to him. My husband, for the most part, is a calm and reasonable person, but he can be prone to rages. He isn't violent, but can say things that are hurtful and doesn't really mean. Over the years, I had become used to it, this is the only reason I wasn't still fuming over being called, "dumb", earlier in the day. Sensitivity really isn't his strong suit and this was an issue I wanted handled with the upmost sensitivity.
Justin is very sensitive. His outwardly tough demeanour had been reduced to tears many times in my presence. I didn't want to think about what a humiliation on this level might do to him. There was little doubt that he would be embarrassed, the damage could be mitigated with some soft words. If he were to be belittled him or got overly harsh treatment it could have destroyed the confidence I so badly wanted him to build up. I was quite anxious for my husband to come home so I could clearly verbalize this before Justin got home from work.
As fate would have it, this was not to be. Nothing is every easy when it involves moving parts outside of your control. I had to pick up my daughter from her friend's house, this wouldn't take long and I had no reason to expect Justin home until much later. I even welcomed the chance to get out of the house upon receiving the phone call. At the worst there would be some small talk with Emma's mom and we would be on our way, maybe half an hour give or take a few minutes. For that half hour I was able to put the events of the day out of my head, somehow the scenery outside of the house made the drama inside of it feel very far away. The small respite was about to change in a major and life changing way.
Arriving home it was clear that not everything was ok. I could feel that a major confrontation has taken place. In the front hallway I saw Justin`s work clothes. Further I saw a picture, previously on the wall, broken on the floor. The house was silent. I could see Justin's door closed from the bottom of the stairs. It didn't look like a scuffle had taken place, but there were no doubt items were thrown about. I felt a very deep rage boiling in the pit of my stomach. He clearly confronted him in some attempt to assert dominance.
"Lisa, baby, can you go to the backyard for a few minutes?" My tone was measured but gave no doubt that this was not a point to argue with; I was enraged.
I had to keep my voice down because I didn't want him to hear us fighting over this. I tried to do some breathing exercises to capture my composure. When I found my husband, in the basement, my eyes were burning looks that would kill if they could.
"What...did...you...say...to...him?" I had to space out each word to make sure I said each clearly and emphasized every syllable without yelling.
"What the fuck Michelle?" He dismissed me in a rhetorical manner while fiddling nervously with the remote control.
I stood my ground and continued to stare to show him that I wasn't going away.
"Look if he wants to be a little pervert then fuck it!" He continued his profane and terribly insensitive defence.
As he defended his actions with more insults and belittling comments I stopped listening and realized that he was terribly threatened. It was as if he was pleading with me to take his side, have no sympathy and take part is debasing his newly propped up rival. The façade was transparent and the jealously obvious. At that point, I knew that carrying on an argument about something that struck him so deep in his insecurities was bound to be a fruitless exercise.
In a voice that lacked any thrill I told him that, "Lisa is outside, I want you to take her out, get something to eat and take your time, I don't want to be in the same house at this very moment. I am going to go and talk to our son. You are not going to cause a scene."
I waited, "Are we clear?"
"Yeah Michelle, whatever, yeah."
He fumbled with the remote turning the TV off. Despite his flippant words, he knew I was dead serious.
I found him in his room...
Justin had been crying, and I could tell the tears were not of the crocodile variety or simply for my benefit. His eyes were very red and he looked so ashamed. My maternal instincts, at the sight of this, became overwhelming, I wanted to do whatever I could to protect him, show him that I was there for him. He was sitting at the top end of his bed looking at the wall, trying hard not to acknowledge my presence. He looked embarrassed, disappointed in himself and confused. These were all emotions that I could readily identify with; life has left me in the same state before.
I closed the door behind myself and stood still near the entrance. I didn't want to present myself as imposing on or as upsetting the balance of the room. I had to approach the situation with the upmost care, I had no idea what was actually said between them and I didn't want to assume anything. I stood in my place and waited for him to acknowledge me, this way I would not be the aggressor.
"Why did you tell him?" There was more than a hint of anger in his sobbing voice.
"Honey, I didn't know what to do."
"I didn't even do it anyway." He lied in a voice that said, let's pretend I didn't and just leave it at that.
I certainly could have just left it there. That may have been the easiest way to deal with it; just pretend it didn't happen. Everyone involved could just hope it would go away, the uncomfortable feelings, the yelling and the confusion all around. To me, this was not a reasonable solution to the events of the day. If I left that moment, he would have still been ashamed, confused and completely embarrassed. He would have directed those feelings inwards until he was convinced something was wrong with himself, his confidence shattered. Almost worse of all, he would have withdrawn from me completely.
The door was at the bottom left of his room, if looking from above, and his bed was along the top wall pushed all the way to the right corner. I made my way toward the end of the bed and sat down softly. His attempt to get rid of me had clearly failed, and now he seemed to be bracing himself for the worst. The entire bed was between us, it was as if we both had our little corners. For his part, he was trying to make himself as small as possible in his. My gaze was soft and non-threatening. By sitting on the bed, I was trying to show him that I was not disgusted or angry. Instead of talking from above his level, I could present myself on equal terms at eye level, each to a corner.
This time I knew I would have to engage the conversation, "Honey, we need to talk a bit about what happened." He didn't respond, but his lack of objection was a sign that he accepted that this was going to happen.
"We don't need to talk about anything more than you can talk about, but we need to talk, ok?" I was repeating myself but I wanted him to acknowledge his presence in the discussion.
He started to wipe some of the tears from around his eyes and said, "yeah, ok mom."
It didn't seem like much, but I had established that I wasn't really his enemy, that I was there for him and not myself. This goes a long way in getting him to let his guard down a bit. If I had come into his space and demanded answers or tried to establish some boundary, I likely would have been dealing with a complete and total shut down. I felt like I needed to be careful, the last thing I wanted was this to devolve into one of our fights.
"I never meant for him to say anything to you, and I am very upset that it came to that, I will deal with that later, but it's not important here, ok?" This was not just some tactic to make him think I was on his side, this was the absolute truth. I was past upset with his father, upset doesn't come close to doing justice to my emotions on that front. I also felt guilty about telling him, and in this I was on his side.
I got another, "yeah mom", for extension of this olive branch.
"I can't take it back, but I feel completely awful about it," I continued in my most conciliatory tone, "and sweetie, I apologize for it and hope you accept my apology."
As with most apologies, you can't really fake sincerity effectively. In this case, I had no need to fake, the honest truth being that I was nearly heartbroken by my actions that led to their confrontation. In response, his eyes left his wall for the first time and glanced in my direction, before settling on his feet. He was no longer looking in the opposite direction from me, now he could now see me through his peripheral vision. His body language also relaxed so he was now taking up more space on his corner of the bed; the corner had almost become a his third.
His eyes were dry, but still red from crying before. It was clear that I wasn't going anywhere, and that I had settled in to take as much time as we were going to need. I put my feet up and sat at the foot of his bed, with a display of patience I waited for him to tell me what he was thinking as opposed to interrogating him.
"I never even meant to do it, it just happened." We both knew what, "it", he was referring to without calling attention to what it actually was.
I listened intently, without pressing for further explanations. I wanted explanations, but not excuses. For that to happen, I had to let him speak about how he felt without being forced to justify each statement. He didn't say all that much, it was clear that he understood a lot more about his motives than he was letting on. For obvious reasons, he was embarrassed.
"Why did you have to say anything?"
This was a re-occurring theme as I let him talk. I knew that, whether he knew it or not, it was a device to shift blame away from himself. He knew that I felt guilty, as a natural defence, he was trying to exploit this weakness. For the time being, I was going to allow him to do so. I did not put myself on the defensive; instead I continued to accept the blame for that with no caveat. Being yelled at over such a thing must have been traumatic for him to say the least.
When he was done, his mood seemed to have calmed quite a bit. He hadn't really said all that much about anything really. Stopping short of denying the action, he denied his intent every time without providing an alternate scenario. His face was still sad and resigned. I looked at him and smiled, daring him to look at me and stay solemn. When his eyes, finally, met mine he let go a laugh against his best attempt to restrain it. I hadn't said anything funny, but my cue to lighten the mood had worked. We both began to laugh as if something very funny indeed had been said.
When silence returned, I motioned with my arms for him to come and sit next to me. With much of the mood lifted he slowly made his way to the middle of the bed. I took him with both arms and gave him the biggest hug I could give; he pulled away at first, but then completely gave in sobbing with his head buried in my shoulder. Curled up beside me, he seemed altogether smaller than he actually was. He easily dwarfed my size at over 6 feet tall, but in this position he had assumed a very submissive posture. I wrapped the blanket over his legs and feet so he would be more comfortable; this only amplified the effect.
I let him have another cry before starting with my round of questioning. His feelings were important, but I wasn't blind to the fact that he did not address any of the issues. After waiting for things to calm down a bit I started with some of the things I wanted to say.
"Sweetie, you know we can talk about stuff, even personal stuff that's hard to talk about and can even seem impossible to talk about with your mom. I know I'm your mom, but I'm also a person, I've had confusing times and have done things too. I'm not here to make you feel bad or make you feel ashamed. Have you been feeling a bit confused lately?" I was hoping the mood was right for him to open up.
"Mom, it's not that, I'm not really confused or anything." Justin left it at that without getting deeper into the details; there was going to be an element of pulling teeth here.
"Do you feel bad or ashamed about it?"
"Yeah, I do, I just don't know what else to do." His voice sounded resigned to seeing himself as some sort of freak.
"Baby, don't be ashamed, it's not the end of the world or anything."
"Yeah, but you think I'm disgusting now." He said this while choking back his tears.
"I could never think that! And I never have!" I said truthfully and emphatically.
"Sexuality is complex and rarely straightforward and almost never what people project."
"You saw your underwear mom." This statement was almost a rhetorical question implying that I must think he's disgusting after that. It was also the first time either one of us acknowledged what we were actually talking about.
"Honey, yes, I saw the underwear." I said softly, "I saw the stains too." I added so there was no confusion on what I had seen.
I felt the mood and took the chance with a bold question, "Honey, have you been masturbating on them?" It wasn't one that I didn't know the answer to, but one that would show how honest he was willing to be.
"Not really on them, I like wrap them around while doing it." He said this with an air of relief, like he was glad to just tell someone. His open admission to such a private act was not something I really expected and I wasn't sure how to handle it.
My curiosity was very much triggered and now I really wanted to know more. With this out in plain open sight the mood in the room, and on the bed, became lighter. We were no adversaries in this. He was actually enjoying my company.
"Is it the fabric? Like it feels good?"
"Mo-om, it's not just that."
"Is it when you're angry at me?" This notion had occurred to me that it could be an act of frustration with me.
"No, mom, I'm not angry with you." It felt like he wanted to say it but just couldn't get it off his tongue.
"Honey, it's ok, I'm not going to be upset over whatever you tell me."
He seemed to be cuddling up ever closer to me. I was sitting up on a pillow against the wall, he had both his arms around me and was holding me quite tightly, and his head was on my upper shoulder close to my breast. He squirmed from time to time and adjusted to hold on to me in different ways. My left arm was around his shoulders and my free hand would periodically hold his left hand as we spoke. The intimacy can't be understated.
As if breaking with that line of questioning he changed gears a bit, "Mom, I'm a virgin."
I could feel his body and his pulse as he told me this; I could tell this wasn't easy for him to say. I really didn't see what the big deal was or why it was something difficult for him to say. It also wasn't new information for me. I almost wanted to laugh and tell him how little it mattered that he was a virgin at 19, but doing this would have trivialized his feelings.
"Is that a big problem for you?" I asked sincerely.
"Everyone else has done it by now."
He failed to identify just who this, "everybody", was and it is fair to say he was making a grossly exaggerated generalization. I wasn't sure what this had to do with the panties, but he was treating it as a secret of similar proportions. While I was attempting to gather my thoughts with something sympathetic to say, he continued.
"I do it because I like you mom."
I was dumbfounded and shocked at his admission, all I could manage to say was, "Sweetie, you like me?"
"Yeah, I've been masturbating about you mom."
Once the flood gates had opened, he was resolved to tell me everything. Each time he revealed something it was like he was relieved of a bit of weight; weight we carried more easily together. I was shocked, but I did not pull away or recoil in any manner. I kept the same, secure presence that I had become in his bed. His head slipped down to rest on my breast. I kissed the top of his head so he knew he was welcome to stay there. A lot of heat had built between us during the course of our cuddling embrace. I was temporarily at a loss for words, instead I let me body language display my acceptance of him.
You're not upset with me?"
"Sweetie, sweetie," both my arms were wrapped around him, "I'm not upset."
"I don't know what you see in me really." I added an involuntary conceited chuckle as if inviting him to tell me.
"It's everything mom, how you look and a lot more," he continued to tell me about his attraction, "I like how your hips move, how you look in the morning, or after you exercise, by the pool and when you have your nightie on."
I must have been visibly blushing if he was looking at my face. One thing he couldn't have missed with his head on my breast was the pace of my heart; it was racing. He was seriously flattering me.
He didn't slow down, "Your eyes are so pretty, and how you laugh, and how you smile when you're happy...I like looking at your ass too." The last part was said in a grinning tone.
"Oh my, you like my ass?"
"Yeah, I think about it when I doing it." Justin said a steady tone of a comfortable admission.
My heart must have been beating out of my chest. Other parts of my body were feeling the effect too. My heart was beating with purpose. It was pumping blood, rapidly, to all my endogenous zones. Something that would have normally been embarrassing felt quite normalized. When I'm horny my nipples tend to stiffen in response, this was happening with my 19 year old son resting his head face to face with one of them.
"More than that, it's how you talk to me and go places with me."
This is something I would have thought was a point of contention. We did in fact fight quite a bit. I was amazed that, through any of that, he saw that it was all out of love. Everything we went through together was out of love. It was a warm feeling to know that he felt that for me too. With feelings so intense, it shouldn't have been surprising that sexual feelings came about. His attitude and mood toward me were born out of a need to hide his feelings and not in order to represent them. There were tears escaping my eyes, but not out of sadness, but rather because I was overcome with emotion.
"Honey, I love you." I was squeezing very tightly.
"I love you mom." That wasn't something he was in the habit of saying; I loved hearing it.
There was a long pause until, "Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"ummm, mom, are you horny?"
With all his honesty, much more than I expected I didn't want to lie, "Yes, honey, I'm pretty worked up."
"I made you horny?"
"Yes, sweetie"
With that, I felt his mouth trying to suck on my breasts. I let out a sigh and open my shirt for him and closed my eyes. Justin attached his lips to my right nipples, I cradled him in my arms and he began to light suck. When I opened my eyes, he was softly looking up at me. The feeling was incredible and the most erotic thing I had ever had done to me. Our eyes gazed into each others in this very intimate embrace. The bliss couldn't last forever and eventually I disengaged him for my nipple.
I was feeling pretty successful. Regardless about the attack on sensibilities his revelations may have been, that didn't bother me. The fact that he opened up to me, that he trusted me with very personal thoughts and fears was deeply affecting to me. He seemed so relieved to tell me, and grateful that I wasn't angry with him. On another level, I was feeling pretty sexy about myself. I never considered that I was the object of his lust. In his mind I was sexy and desirable, more than words I had seen the semen on my panties, these emotions seemed all the more raw in light of that. He was a good looking young man, and he had lust for me. Regardless of the twisted nature of my arousal at the thought, the state was undeniable.
We had become rather tangled up on the bed. I started working my way out from under his weight. It had been a very emotional talk, but it had to come to an end. His grip would become tighter before relenting, then tighten and relent again. I wasn't ripping myself away, but the direction was clear. During this twisting of positions his hips and mid-section came into contact with my thighs, at that moment I could feel it. Justin had an erection and he was shamelessly pressing it against my body. I didn't call attention to it as I made my way from his bed. I was standing over the bed; his head was almost covered in the comforter that he was now intertwined with.
"Mom, what are you going to say to dad?"
"Sweetie, don't even worry about that, it doesn't matter and he's never going to mention this again." I was reasonably sure of that, because I was far from through with the rage I felt about his actions.
For some reason I had to add, "Seems like you have something you need to take care of anyways..." I said this in a sly sort of voice that indicated I was approving.
There was a lot of tension in the room, tension of the unmistakably sexual variety. I was anticipating for some undefined moment, he must have been debating his next move. I turned to go, and leave the moment undefined.
"Mom!"
"Yes honey?" I had stopped in my tracks right next to his door.
"Mom...can I just look at you?" As he said this he pulled back the comforter to display his completely erect penis.
"Honey! Oh my..."
I didn't know how to react. I knew this was not supposed to be happening, but at the same time it didn't feel unnatural. I knew what he was doing about me and told him it was ok to do it; albeit I meant when I left the room. At that moment I wasn't weighing pros and cons or long term implications. I had one thought dominating all other instincts; the thought that I wanted him to look at me, and that I wanted him to do it.
"Go ahead." I said in an audible whisper while lowering my gaze and standing in one spot.
He positioned himself sideways on the bed with his head propped up against the wall where we were cuddling. His hand was going up and down on his cock. He was looking right at me with complete lust in his intense piercing eyes. There was something so sincere about every motion. I was frozen in my spot, unable to fully process what was happening. I was overcome with a sense of excitement and danger. He was engaging in one of the world's oldest and most famous taboos and I was enabling him.
I was dressed in a pair of high waisted jeans, nothing fancy but the type worn on the weekend. I had a blue floral blouse on that had become untucked and open in the front from our embrace. My hair was tied back to avoid styling it or having it flopping in my face. My feet where bare as were my fingers and wrists. I was looking pretty plain, but from the way he was looking at me it was making me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.
I'm not really sure how long this went on for; my perception of time seemed to have left me. The only sounds I was sensitive were the sounds coming from his bed. Little grunts escaped his lips without rhythm, the bed creaked slightly with each jerking motion and his saliva made squishy sounds as he moved up and down on his shaft. My every sense was heightened in the narrow view between us.
"Mooomm...please...can...I...s...s...see...?"
His very laboured request almost shocked me back to a state of reality happening in real time. With completely sober thoughts, I unbuttoned my jeans and started to take them down. I was wearing navy panties underneath in a bikini cut. With my jeans around my knees, I raised one hip higher than the other to give him a sexy pose. I looked him right in the eyes and didn't break contact.
"MOM!...ahhhhhh...mom..mom...mom...ohhhhh...mommm" His entire body tensed with these frantic utterances.
"Mommm...I...Love...You..."
He was cumming. His entire body seemed to contort, tense and strain. His groans were low and deep with emotion. I felt myself shake each time he said, "mom", in succession. I had never seen so much cum in my life. It shot out of his penis in long white ropes and spurts. Even when I thought it was over, more, still powerful, spurts ejaculated from his body. He was a mess, his bed was a mess; there was sperm everywhere. With my pants around my ankles I looked at him wide mouth amazement.
"Oh honey..." Was all I could manager to say.
Tension released its hold on his body and he sunk into the mattress. Complete satisfaction, without a hint of shame or modesty, was the look on his face. My eyes were fixed on him, on the mess he made, the bed we had just shared. The room was completely silent. I slowly started to bring my jeans back to my waist and buttoned the front and zipped the front. I must have been visibly shaken. The emotion, the tension and the culmination of his explosion combined for the most intense sexual experience that I had ever been a part of. The thought that I couldn't stand there forever flashed in my head.
"I will get a towel."
"Mom...NO!"
"What is it honey?" I said softly, "I'm just going to get a towel, I'll be right back.
"Don't leave the room...please..."
There was such a pleading in his voice I knew that if I left he expected a different me to come back. Perhaps one devoid of all the influences within that room that led us to that point. He wasn't at all hurt or sick, but I felt an uncontrollable need to console him. It felt like a deep maternal instinct, one that I can't do justice to try to explain.
I took a towel that was hanging on a hook by the door and went to sit next to him by the foot of the bed. I began cleaning him up. He didn't flinch. I ran the towel over his stomach and chest, where most of the sperm came to a rest. I could feel the definition of his lean muscles through the thin layer of cloth. Next I found where the cum had landed on his shoulders and neck area, taking my time to rub firmly and deep while removing the seed. I saw where the excess had landed on the pillows and wall behind him, but I ignored that and focused on his body. Cleaning him off was very sensual to me. He made no effort to hide his naked body. There was one more place to clean.
No part of this felt dirty or wrong, I felt none of the emotions about it that I "should" have felt. It all felt very loving and natural. In that frame of mind I moved the towel toward his penis and started to wipe it off. Within moments he was standing to attention again. I felt an undeniable urge to give him pleasure. I put the towel aside and spit into my hand. His body showed every sign of approval and satisfaction. I massaged his fully hard penis slowly and lovingly. Squeezing along his shaft and adding a bit of pressure around the head before pushing my hand back down deliberately. His cock was straining each time I slowly repeated this motion.
"It's big..." I said laughing nervously.
I felt him strain even harder when I complimented him in that way. I was more referring to his hardness, he has a very nice penis but it's by no means gigantic. If I had to guess, I would say he is between 10-15cm and beautifully shaped. His erection is straight with a natural upward point toward his stomach. There is a prominent vein that runs over the top, which gives the impression of strength and virility. His circumcised head is purple and fits nicely in line with his very straight shaft. His penis is one that is nice to look at for his very symmetrical features.
I was getting even more turned on handling it. I loved how his body tensed and relaxed in connection with my intimate caresses. The feelings of taboo emotions and excitement were creating a synergy between us that was making this much more than a handjob. The feeling was sensual, caring and peaceful. I squeezed very firmly, making sure to pay extra attention to the head. I wanted him to enjoy it, but I had reservations about going any further.
I wanted to suck his dick, I thought about just leaning down and putting it in my mouth. In the end I felt this was just too submissive. I hadn't stopped being his mother. I was helping him out, but not in a way that I thought changed the balance of power in our relationship. I was walking a very fine line, one that many wouldn't see a dividing line between the two actions, but the line existed in my head. Leaning over him and firmly stroking his cock, I felt a degree of power, I was pleasuring him but his body language took the submissive role. This was a subtlety involved in this new and uncharted water. He could have his day, but I wasn't about to get naked on his bed and, more importantly, he wasn't about to penetrate me.
I turned to look at his face, I saw the look of complete bliss, but also the understanding that anything else that happened that evening would be on my terms.
"You like it sweetie?"
"Yeah mom...I love it...I love you..."
"Honey, I love you too."
"You're sooo hard and doing such a good job." I encouraged him with soft words.
"Mommm...I'm...going...to...cummm..."
The effort to delay this eventuality was obvious in his voice, but once he let go he began having another heavy orgasm. I pulled and tugged at a faster rate and he shot more semen all over his stomach and chest.
"Sweetie...do you have a factory or something in there...there`s so much of it" I said with an incredulous laugh that showed my sincere surprise in the amount of sperm he had produced in such a short time.
"You could be a in a movie or something..." I continued the same line of thought in disbelief.
Justin took the compliments in stride and sat up on his bed. He looked completely satisfied. His eyes were all over me, they had the combined look of surprise and love. I handed him the towel, this time he wiped himself off. He looked so sexy.
"Honey, I got to go ok?" It felt strange to be asking his permission; it seemed there was a slight shift in the balance of power despite my efforts.
"I know mom...," he seemed to trail off before adding, "...and thanks"
"Are you going to kiss me before I go?"
His eyes flared and his eagerness betrayed any calmness he was trying to project in his demeanour. He crawled over toward the edge of the bed where I was sitting and we engaged in a kiss. It was short, on the lips and sensual. There was a good chance that his was his first real kiss, if so, he was good for a beginner. He kissed me softly, caught a bit of my lower lip when retreating, he didn't try to hold on too long or get intrusive. It was just a nicely place kiss on the lips.
With him ready to let me leave, I got up and slowly walked to the door. I knew, what he realized, that a different world was waiting outside this one on the other side. In a hazy state of consciousness, I made the decision to stay a little longer in the one we had just created. I unbuttoned my jeans for the second time, lowered my pants and stepped out of them. Justin was watching in silent and appreciative amazement, his mouth was wide open. I stood for a moment, in just my panties, made eye contact before hooking my thumbs between the fabric and my skin and removed the very wet navy cotton and polyester fabric from my body. I stood in the middle of his room, naked from the waist down, and allowed him to get a good look. The panties were in my right hand until I went over to my son`s bed and transferred their ownership. He took the wet panties greedily into his possession while he breathed noisily and excitedly.
"Thanks mom." He said softly and sincerely.
I put my jeans back on over my naked body, and finally, I left the room. I had seen this hallway 1000s of times but somehow it looked completely foreign to me. I stopped a second to collect me thoughts. I noticed the noise of the ceiling fan, it seemed to be beating in an uneven rhythm, as if it was about to fall from its screws. I watched it for, what seemed like a minute, before deciding that it was the same fan I'd seen a 1000 times and in no danger of collapse.
On my way downstairs, it occurred to me, that I had been in his room a very long time. I checked the front of the house and both cars were, in fact, in the driveway. I felt so removed in his room that I didn't stop to think about them coming back. I had no idea how long I had really been in his room, or how long they had been back for. Luckily they were in the basement, where we have a TV room; nevertheless, it was with a sense of trepidation that I returned to the rest of the family.
I only checked in for a moment to test the waters of the mood. It was clear that no suspicion was falling on my shoulders. I didn't feel bad for a second about what happened, but I wasn't far gone enough not to realize the potential for disaster had anyone realized. Lisa was rolling around on the carpet watching some show, at least acting her best that she didn't sense the tension in the room. I was still extremely angry about the stunt my husband has pulled early with his, guns blazing, approach to the incident. I gave him an eye rolling glare, one that clearly indicated my displeasure and further instructed him not to bother me for the rest of the night.
I went up to my study, where I have a reading sofa. When I sat down, I was so physically and emotionally exhausted that I feel into a very deep sleep.
had woken so many times throughout the night, so many times that I lost track of being asleep and being awake. A giant earthquake was shaking the foundations of our house. I ran down the stairs, only the house was no longer my own. The house was familiar; it was the house I grew up in. I could see the framed childhood pictures shake as they fell from the walls, the glass shattering on the ground. The house was dark and I was alone. I felt the need to get outside, the entire house was about to fall. Upon reaching the door my mind leaves my body, traveling far into the sky. Looking down at great swaths of destruction, craters, it looks like the whole world is sinking. Only one thought remains, "I need to save my babies."
I have no body for action, despite my thoughts, I am simply an observer. I see entire streets sink into the earth, with high cliffs taking their place. Everything is being torn down, and left to chaos to re-order. I am an outside observer, physically immune to the upheaval, but that condition doesn't seem to hold true for my loved ones. My view falls 1000s feet, emptying the weight in my stomach. I'm back in the house, this time it is my house; it seems empty. My view goes from room to room with only the hallway in between. I still feel no physical connection to the view. The door to my study flings open and I see myself, only I am not alone. I'm bent over the sofa. I'm getting fucked, very hard. I'm getting fucked very hard by my son. He has a firm hold of my hips. He has an extreme look on his face. It's either extreme lust or extreme anger. I watch until he looks up and seems to notice me in the doorway. All at once I'm sucked out of that world.
I'm back in my study, where I had fallen asleep on the sofa. I check the floor to make sure it's secure and stopped shaking. In a moment I realize it never was shaking and that I have awoken from a dream. There is something about reality that I stopped trusting on this night, so I sit up and take an inventory. I had woken so many times only to find myself transported back to a dark recess of my mind. My hair was cold and wet with night terror sweat. Between my legs is a different kind of wet. I catch my breath and think back to the night before and back to the reason I'm sleeping on the sofa inside my study.
Emotionally exhausted, I had fallen asleep without a blanket. My teeth now chattered in the fidget air of the night. Sitting upright on the sofa I made myself as small as possible in an attempt to seal in as much heat as possible. I had to remember everything. I knew it wasn't a dream, I knew that it had happened. I knew that my son knew as much as well. It hadn't even been 24 hours since I found my underwear, covered with semen, stuffed into his bed post. The chain of events, which it ignited, made me feel as if I made the discovery ages ago. These events tested my limits and redefined what they were. In my dark and cold room I had to sort out what those limits actually were.
Our relationship has always been intense, from the moment of his birth right through to young adulthood, but it had never been sexual. Why did my heart and sense melt when he told me he lusted for me? What was wrong with me for encouraging him to elaborate? I had to talk to him about the panties, but that doesn't justify my behaviour, or explain what led me to inviting him to get cozy on his bed with me. Perhaps his actions had uncovered a place deep in my subconscious mind; a place that didn't define love by the mores of society; a place where physical love and emotional love showed no distinction.
If you're picking this up here, my 19 year old son had been using my personal effects to masturbate with. Missing panties led me to investigate, an investigation that ended in my son's room. It seemed so long ago that I wanted to put a stop to it, but that was my first reaction. More so, I wanted to know if he was confused or if he was ashamed of himself. That, and the rising cost of delicate garments, meant I had to find out what was going on. His father was no help. He became uncontrollably defensive and agitated. I should have never told him. I was looking for insight and showed me a side to him I never wanted to see. His anger didn't hide his jealousy; it only served to amplify it. In some way, the entire display, made me see a rivalry where I had never imagined one. The dark side of my being, if being honest, liked the idea of both men under our roof getting hard about me. It provided food for the vanity of my ego and, as anyone with vanity issues knows, such a meal is nearly impossible to pass up.
I felt as though I was in control of the wheels that had been set in motion; upon reflection I was not so sure. I told myself that I could control the conversation with my son. I told myself that I'm his mother and that I had the final say. That was the previous balance of power as I had always understood it. I learnt that comfort in the complacency of the status quo blinds you to new realities.
Justin, my son, wasn't a kid anymore, he was a young adult; a young adult full of complexities and even lust. As well as I knew him, he may have, in certain ways, known me even better. After all, he has known me for his entire life. I had been the most critically important figure in his life, a presence, in his point of view, which represented control and authority. His wants and needs had always flowed through me. I managed the household. It never had to be stated that I had the final say about the kids. This fact was a given, the kids knew it. If he had wants he had to learn my weaknesses, he had to learn how to manipulate my emotions. Those were conditions of his young life. As a clever, and often insightful, boy he had learned some tricks of the trade.
I, in no way, believe that he planned the entire thing, or that he was in complete control either. He had played on my sympathy and guilt. Once he saw the weakness there he knew how to exploit it. I had no doubts about that, but at the same time he had expressed his love in a way that left no doubt about his sincerity. He had seen me naked; I had let him see me naked. I had seen him naked as well; naked and fully hard. There was an unspoken honesty that passed between us as a result. He had sucked on my breast to give me pleasure; it had felt erotic. He looked at me with an unmistakable look of love and comfort. We were once again united as one. The look was soon transformed into unbridled lust.
He put himself on full display without a hint of modesty. He wanted to show me. His penis was so hard that the head was straining and shiny. He masturbated to the sight of my naked body. His needy cries of, "mom", sounded hardly different from when he called for me in other times of need. They sounded so focused and tuned to my ears, in such a way that only I could hear them. When it was over, there was sperm everywhere. He had ejaculated twice; the second time by my hand. We kissed like tentative lovers showing care and sincerity. I sealed the night with my approval, not with words, but by dropping my wet panties into his waiting hands.
I had given him permission to continue to lust after me. I still had to figure out what this meant. The boundaries, had clearly, been redrawn, but, "I'm still his mom", I thought to myself. He was in the prime of his life, his thin lanky body was giving way to a more manly and muscular frame. He didn't need to be chasing his mom around, that couldn't possibly be good for him. I do believe that life is a lifelong experience of getting to know yourself, often surprising yourself along the way. I would never say that I completely know myself, or what I am capable of, but I knew enough to know that I was in a dangerous spot. Sexual mores have only ever applied to me by happenstance; I never had a good understanding of why certain ones exist and why others don't. In many ways, I didn't see why my son shouldn't have been attracted to me and vice versa.
I still, at the ripe age of 43, have my looks. My ballerina body, of years gone by, is never going to return, but I keep a healthy weight, and I work hard at keeping my appearance. If anything, the weight I have put on has been put on in the right spots. I notice men of all ages looking at my hips with wandering eyes and I like to show them off in high waist jeans. At 5'7" and 155 pounds, I am pretty much ideal for my age, and I suppose my hips can still make men think about babies. I still keep my hair long, something I'm not willing to give up until my hair stops cooperating. My hair curls at the tips naturally, although sometimes I do straighten it. The view I gave my son was a clean one, I don't shave down there completely, but I do make sure it's neat and free of unsightly hair from the main attraction. He got a really good view of where he came from.
I gripped for the blanket, hanging over the back of my sofa, and pulled it over my body. In search of extra warmth I tried to get all my extremities under my loose fitting sweater. In a fetal like position, after reaching no conclusions, I tried not to think any more about the fuzzy boundaries of the future. Instead, I gave into guilty pleasure and thought about the look in his eyes, the need he expressed and his extremely hard cock. "He was hard for me...hard for his mommy", I thought pleasantly as I once again left the real world for the dreamy abyss.
"Michelle...Michelle...Michelle wake up!" My husband was shaking my elbow and trying to rouse me from my slumber.
"It's almost noon." He continued to speak to the blanketed head of the recently disturbed.
"You slept here all night, you're going to be sore, that old sofa can't be comfortable."
Once you've been married for 20 years, you have had your fair share of fights. It gets to the point where time is the only necessity to their resolution. My husband called no attention as to why I was sleeping in my study. Clearly there was no reason to re-set yesterday's battle ground. This behaviour is meant to say, "well, we were both wrong, let's neither own up to it and go on like things always were." I have to admit that the seductive simplicity in the solution suits me just fine. This avoids the need to confront the uncomfortable details of the erratic behaviour that led to the fight in the first place. On the downside, it leaves the issue unresolved and creates more distance between the combatants.
"Where is Justin?" I said as if to test the waters on just how deep the hatchet had been buried.
"I dunno, I think he had work or something." He didn't seem to have any noticeable resentment in his voice.
"Work? What are you talking about?" He was talking to someone who knew her son's work schedule better than her son knew it.
"I said or something Michelle, don't start with me because you're cranky." He wasn't being aggressive or anything, but the message was as clear as day: Today would be a good day to leave each other alone.
I had other things on my mind in any case. I had to find out where he went, find out whether or not he was upset, ashamed or worse.
"Why didn't he say good morning to me?" I thought as my worries started picking up steam.
I got my phone and went to the washroom in the basement and turned on the fan to muffle any noise. I held my breath and pressed his number. I sat on the small sink and listened to ring after ring holding the small phone in my sweaty hands. He didn't answer. I sent a text, "Honey, where are you today?"...no wait, I wanted the text back! Was it too desperate? Too short? Too long? Too familiar?...what would he think? It was driving me crazy; didn't he want me? I sat in the washroom for 30 minutes staring at my phone waiting for a response. The sound of the fan was all I heard, the phone never shook.
I released my head back bumping the back of my head slightly on the mirror. The knock may have restored some sense. I was acting like a teenager with a crush. I didn't have to ask him where he was, I could just demand that he tell me. Since when did I care what he thought about my texts?
Bringing back my convictions, which motherhood had bestowed on me, I sent him an altogether more demanding and direct text. "Justin, when I call you, you answer your phone or you will lose the phone. Where are you and when should we expect you home? I need to plan dinner."
I was cold, threatening and reminded him of my domestic role; it also got results.
"Sorry mom was driving at friend place be home round 7." The text was received within the minute.
"Pull over next time." I retorted to put an exclamation mark on my demand. "And use full sentences when you write to me, you know I hate broken English. You were taught better than that." I followed to correct him.
"You are home right at 7." I gave as the final word of the exchange.
"Who did he think he was trying to manipulate me anyways? Driving for half an hour, yeah right." I said under my breath while laughing at the absurdity.
All in all, I couldn't help but be a little bit impressed with his game. I never knew he had that in him. I expected him to be all needy and obvious. Instead he turned the tables on me. He had my nerves shaking to call him, he had me doing double takes at my messages, and he had me second guessing if he wanted me. He must have known exactly what he was doing when he left that morning. He was playing with my emotions to keep me on edge and from the way I was still sitting in the small washroom with the fan on tightly gripping my phone it was working.
That was one explanation for his behaviour. The other, and perhaps the more obvious, was that he was ashamed of himself for what happened and couldn't face me. Whether it was calculated or not, the effect it was having on me was the same. I sat there trying to think of a way to divorce my emotions from the situation. He responded quickly to my, "stern mom", message. I thought that he must be looking for a way to restore the balance of power in our relationship. I knew he was getting older and that I needed to make a conscious effort not to be so domineering, but at the same time I couldn't be treating him like a schoolyard crush. However, to myself, I could not deny that he had my heart racing. I turned off the fan and went to try to engage in my normal Sunday routine by going to the gym.
When he, eventually made it home, I had reverted back to being mom and he called no attention to the night before. He was home at 7:00pm sharp, a sign that he was ready to obey commands. We all had dinner together. Our younger daughter, Lisa, talked our ears off while I tried to make small talk with everyone; at least this was typical of our family gatherings. Only this time, I was watching the men closely. Their fight was clearly unresolved, it was obvious that both had built a wall around the issue and neither was willing to fire the first verbal arrow. Instead the lines were being drawn through less direct tactics.
Over Lisa's chatter I paid special attention to body language. I find the unspoken language of gestures, posturing and eye movement tells more than any oratory display. Words can be carefully chosen and intentionally deceitful, with body language, most just react, leaving themselves with little time to set a stage. Justin was quiet, but he refused to slump his shoulders to his father's gaze. He spoke only to me, just to praise my cooking or thank me for this or that. His tones were relaxed and direct. The situation was tense and we all felt it. He was asserting his rights to me, not necessarily sexual rights, but the rights of being my number 1 man. He was also, very loudly, stating that he wasn't going to be intimidated. I tried my best not to take sides or justify the conflict, but that dark seductive feeling was telling me to feel good about being the disputed territory the battle line had been drawn on. My body language must have been showing my highly inflated ego if there was an eye there keen enough to notice.
"Mommy, why you look so pretty today?" It was only one in a torrid succession of questions, but she caught me.
My ego and that place in the dark corner of my mind were working in concert, attempting to frame the prize in her best possible light. My eyes had become dilated and seductive, my skin more glowing and my gazes shifty.
"Honey, I don't look any different from any other day." My eyes involuntarily widened as if I was trying to tell her to keep a secret.
"K,K", Lisa dropped the subject as quickly as she dropped it for any of her other resolved innocent questions, but the fact remained that I'd been caught.
I spent the rest of the night sequestered back in my study. In our house, my husband has his office on the main floor and, as a consolation, I have my study or reading room upstairs. The room could have been a fourth bedroom if we had another kid. I liked it better as my study. It gives me a place to go in a hectic household. I spend a lot of time there, usually with the door open to make myself available. My computer is on a wooden desk facing the window. I use it to research, read scientific articles, mess around, and for my own brand of pornography: erotica and erotic chatting. I know my husband uses his office computer for hardcore porn so in that we are sort of even. The windows are covered by, rather cheap, Venetian blinds that I think about changing every time I look at them. The sofa, which I had slept on, runs along the wall to the left side if facing the window. The other wall is home to my bookshelves, which are full of books that I read on the sofa or take to bed. Having a room that is just mine has, probably, saved my sanity over the years.
I closed the door, in a clear statement, indicating that I didn't want to be bothered. I thought about the changing family dynamic and what it meant moving forward. Perhaps it meant it was time for Justin to move out? I knew he wasn't really ready to do so, but in the past people moved out at his age all the time. I had moved away for school at 18 and was living pretty much on my own. I thought about all sorts of different solutions to mitigate what had boiled over in the past two days.
Nothing seemed right except I knew I had to force myself to act like mom again. I also knew that I didn't want him to move out; the thought made me sad.
Sleeping on my sofa two nights in a row would have been unprecedented in our marital fight history and I was not about to break new ground on that regard. At almost 11:00pm, I made my way to bed and tried to get to sleep before my husband decided to turn in. I wanted to avoid the inevitable; I wanted to avoid what I knew was coming.
"Michelle, are you awake?" My husband whispered while nudging my hip crease.
"Mhhmpph" I was too obviously not sleeping to even fake it.
"Let's have sex." He continued in a quick tone to indicate right now.
"I have work tomorrow." I grunted in a particularly whiny single breath.
"So do I, I can be quick." He continued to plead his case.
"No, I'm tired."
"You can just lay there, just tonight, I need it tonight." Romance was clearly not on his mind.
He started to peel back the covers, but I grabbed them firmly with my top hand, "I said NO!"
He gave up and exhaled in loud annoyance while sitting up against the headboard. I kept the covers over my face making it clear that I wasn't going to discuss this any further. I am all for make-up sex, but not while I'm still angry. I still hadn't forgotten our fight from the day before. Sure, the nuclear battle was over, but the cold war was just getting started. He had embarrassed and attempted to sexually intimidate our son. I could forgive this over time, but until that happened this bed was going to be a cold place. I also didn't want him grunting and groaning over me in an attempt to claim me for the entire house to hear. Nobody, I don't care who, makes my son cry and then gets to rub it in his face.