Time for another tale submitted by one of you, yes YOU, the fine readers of this here blog. I don’t really have a name for it, so if the author wants to suggest something he can feel free.

This is just the first part. The whole story covers a lot of ground between this gentleman and his mom. This is just the appetizer, explaining the situation, whetting your appetite for more.

Enjoy!

–

I apologize for the length of this. But I do think some exposition adds to the telling.

My parents were very young when I was born. Mom was 20, Dad was 21. They were in college. They were young. They had one night together and she got pregnant. They were going to a college on the east coast, in a small college town. The transition from dorm life to moving back home for my mother really wasn’t a big deal since her parents lived about 10 minutes from campus. My father’s family lived in the Midwest. Their split wasn’t a big deal. It was a one night thing. They weren’t in love. There was no rancorous break up. No screaming parents. Only an acknowledgement that these things happen and that forward is the only direction one can really go. So for a time we lived with her parents, she graduated, got a job, and we moved on.

Anyway, my attraction to my mother wasn’t instant. It evolved.

You’ll want to know what she looks like:

5’10”, maybe 175lbs (some things you don’t ask), hair that falls to about the middle of her back, dark grey eyes-not black, but definitely grey. We come from Italian and Cuban stock for the most part, so her skin is somewhat olive in complexion. Her maternal grand-father was Irish which is where she gets her height. Her hair is the same color as dark chocolate. As for her build, I’m finding it a bit of a struggle to describe it. Voluptuous, certainly; wide hips, full thighs and a waist that pulls in some of her girth and, well, a very prodigious bust. 46 DDD; she has to specially order her bras. All of the women on her mother’s side who have had children are similarly proportioned. She’s a curvy, built woman. Not fat-but plump in a healthy way; though her height gives her something of an Amazonian aspect her body is…lush. That’s the best way to say it. There isn’t a part of her that isn’t soft and warm. The flesh of her always seems to fill my hand before I’m even really touching her. That’s what it seems like, anyway.

I always knew she was pretty. To me, even before I knew I was attracted to her, her beauty was just a matter of objective fact. Grandma was in the habit of comparing family members to movie stars; one sister looked like Monica Belluci, this nephew looked like Michael Imperioli, this second cousin looked like Dean Martin, you get the picture. I remember her saying that mom looked like Sophia Lauren which, I can kind of see. The cheekbones are right, but the lips are a little fuller, the nose is different, the tilt of the eyes is sort of the same and her face is generally rounder. I hope that serves as a good description.

The first hint I had of my own attraction to her happened pretty innocently. It was a completely innocuous moment. My mom’s a very gregarious, social person. I’m not. I’m an introvert, shy, not very talkative. Her career requires an abundance of social graces. At the time she had a job that required her attendance at several formal functions a month. Not ritzy affairs but events requiring something a little more than just professional attire.

By then we were living on the west coast, she called me up to her room. I remember she was wearing a dark red dress with straps. I don’t remember it enough to describe it in real detail but everything else is clear. She was hunting for a shoe under the bed.

“Hun, can you reach underneath the bed and find this shoe,” I remember she held up something black with a long heel.

I reached under the bed and dug around for a while until I found her shoe’s twin. She pulled on one shoe quickly and tried to pull the other one on right after, except it didn’t happen. I was still kneeling by the bed while she was hopping on one foot trying to get the other heel on. I was about to stand up when she put her hand on my shoulder.

“Just a minute, hun,”she was using me for balance. I had no idea what the hold-up was. She wasn’t looking at me her head was turned to the side, concentrating on getting her shoe on. She was wobbling a bit, trying to jerk her foot into this shoe; the first thing I was aware of was a smell. She had on rose oil. She always wore it, still does, but I hadn’t smelled it this potently and it was also mixed with her smell. My head turned naturally to the source of the smell and I saw that the top of her dress was hanging down; well, it was being forced down by her hanging breasts.

She was wearing a strapless bra. I remember seeing the black cups of it holding her breasts up. I remember the slightly frilled edge of the bra. Mostly, I remember the pendulous motion of her large breasts. Back and forth, back and forth, each sway just filling my nose with the way she smelled. I almost passed out. The idea that she could be this sexy and that I knew her was really powerful; it nearly floored me. Obviously, I’m able to describe this moment from the vantage point of hindsight. At the time, the whole experience was too powerful to process. If anything I remembered how “not-Mom” she looked while at the same time being Mom.

Anyway, I don’t remember if she lost her balance because the shoe was winning the battle or because I swooned but she slid forward while pulling me in by the shoulder to hold her balance. Her breasts crushed into my face and I remember never feeling anything so soft before. It was over quick. She laughed and said “Sorry, hun.” The foot found the shoe. In all, probably less than 3 minutes for the whole episode.

I was wobbly getting up. She thought it was because she put too much weight on me.

“You okay, sweetie?” From there on the details are blurry. She hugged me. I made sure to keep my waist as far away from any point of contact from her as possible. She left and I went to bed wondering what to make of what had happened.

So, as I was saying, that was the first hint of my attraction to her. And like I said, I didn’t know how to process the whole event. I was pretty thrown by the whole thing.

So, time moves forward, there were other incidents of the same sort but they didn’t hold the same power. It was never an obsession, if anything, I took it in stride. Really, at the time self-introspection wasn’t a priority. I approached the whole matter as if it were just some weird anomaly; nothing to really ponder.

Sometime later we were getting ready to sell the house we were living in and move again. We moved a lot. We were living in an older neighborhood. It was a nice place. Lots of brownstones, small tidy strips for front lawns, you get the picture. We’d been painting, varnishing the trim, sanding the scratches out of the floors, that kind of thing when her phone rang.

I mentioned that my mom is a very social person. She’s always had a large circle of friends. Everybody wants to know her. Anyway, a friend of hers needed some help picking up a small piece of furniture; an ottoman or something. We lived in the city and having a larger vehicle wasn’t always ideal, but it came in handy from time to time.

Mom told me that she was going to take a shower before leaving and that I could knock off for the day if I wanted. She went straight to the bathroom but since we were nearly finished with the last of our small renovations, I decided to stay the course. I popped my earbuds back in and kept spackling. Now, our house was an old brownstone. The bedrooms didn’t connect to the full bathroom. From the bathroom window you could see our “garage” in the small back yard. We called it the garage; it was more like a toolshed.

Mom sometimes forgot to bring a bath towel into the bathroom with her when she showered. Many times she’d crack open the bathroom door and yell, “Bring me a towel, hun,” with her arm poking out of the narrowest crack of the door. Or, when I was downstairs, sometimes I’d hear the mad dash as she streaked into her bedroom after yelling at me stay downstairs for a minute. The linen closest where we kept all the towels and the like was adjacent to the door of my bedroom which is where we were finishing up the work; painting, spackling, that kind of stuff. Since we were painting in there the door was kept wide open to air the room out as much as possible.

This is what happened: Mom finished with her shower and realizing that she forgot her towel looks out of the bathroom window to see our “garage” with its door wide open.  She had told me that I could quit for the day and assumes that I’m putting the paint cans, the brushes, and all related materials away. Actually, I’m in my bedroom putting on the last touches of paint.

She walks out of the bathroom, completely naked, thinking I’m outside gets a towel out of the linen closet and turns around to go back into her bedroom just as I turn around to take out the paint cans that she thinks have already left the house.

We saw each other at the same time, eye to eye.

Yeah.

It was the first time I saw her naked. I went still; completely incapable of thought or movement. My body was locked. The same happened to her, for a moment I think. The bathroom fan was still on, sucking all of the moisture in the air from the shower. It was loud enough to cover any sound I was making. I had my earbuds in, listening to whatever. Perfect storm, I guess.

She had a towel underneath her arm. Her hair was up. I saw everything. I already described her body to you, but I don’t think you’ll mind more of the same. She was soaking wet making her curves really stand out; shining with reflected light and all. She was plump and lovely. Like I said, you couldn’t call her fat. She looks like a lady who isn’t afraid to eat a cheeseburger, let’s leave it at that.

Her hips flared out before her waist drew them in again. The effect was more dramatic with her skin being as wet as it was. Her pubic mound was covered in black hair. It was matted to her pubis and I distinctly remember how her hair curved downward and into the place where her legs joined. I don’t remember how it was trimmed but knowing her grooming habits now I’m sure it was. Her breasts were heavier and larger than I remembered them being but this time I was seeing them without any covering at all. The best way of description would be comparison in this case. I think Nadine Jansen’s breasts are a close enough description; though not as big and with very different nipples. Mom’s nipples are very large (a bit larger than the size of the tip of your thumb), well defined and very dark with massive areolas about the size of a tea saucer. Since she had come out of the shower they were also erect. They jutted up and out by a good inch and her areola visible constricted and dimpled.

She was surprised. So was I. Her towel was still under her arm and her mouth had formed this small “O”. At the same time, as she was looking at me, my eyes did what my Gramps calls “the old once over.” It was an automatic reaction; my eyes drooped down and up, down and up, basically ogling my mom. I had another automatic reaction. You know the kind. She saw both and I had no idea that she had until we talked about what happened later. But, anyway, she pulled the towel in front of her crushing her breasts against it and disappeared into her room. I stood still for a minute longer and then took the paint cans out to the garage; where I stayed until she left. Incredibly, the whole episode wasn’t even a minute in length. I’d be surprised if it was even a 20 second affair.

Nearly all of the women and some of the men in my family are loquacious. Part of it’s cultural, but I think most of it is the family dynamic. Everything is discussed: everything. They’re not tactless, far from it, but most of the people in my family-especially my mom-aren’t shy about bringing up topics that they feel need to be addressed, no matter how taboo. And they do it with a surprising amount of style and finesse.

Mom had always known that I was painfully shy and was always sensitive to it but some conversations are just awkward. I knew that she’d feel compelled to talk about what happened and that’s why I wanted to get out of the house before she called or came back. I didn’t make it. Mom knew my intentions and called from her friend’s place.

The conversation went something like this:

“Hey ya’, hun, what’re ya wanting for dinner tonight?” She calls me “hun” all the time.

“Oh, I was going out. You can have dinner with your friends if you want.” It didn’t even occur to me to let the phone ring. As much as I wanted to avoid the conversation that was coming, I think I was a little interested in what she might say.

“No, no, c’mon, you and me, and….how about Chinese? I’ll get takeout, we can eat at home.” When she said “takeout” I knew that we’d be talking about what happened. Even if I adamantly didn’t want to have the conversation that I knew was coming I still wouldn’t have ducked out. It wouldn’t have been fair to her.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Really? Good, good, listen hun, why don’t you pick up some pop. Get me diet something, okay? I’ll be home in 3, alright?” She sounded cheerful, a little relieved. I took that as a good sign.

“Yeah, okay.” Yes, I’m normally that talkative. I get teased about it by my family and friends sometimes. They never tease hard though.

“Alright, make sure you’re home, okay?” And just like that, I was locked into a conversation that I was partly dreading.

“I will.”

“Okay, love ya’ hun, bye bye.” If it’s not obvious I’m trying to give you a sense of my mom’s accent. She grew up on the east coast, north of the Mason-Dixon. If you heard her speak, you’d be able to make a good guess about where she was from.

So, I got the pop and waited…

–

TO BE CONTINUED