When I was 8 she had bought our little house up on the Oregon coast after taking a job in a small hospital. It wasn’t anything amazing to look at, a little 2 bedroom cottage that had clearly been added on to over time, but the land was why she had pulled the trigger. A full acre, including a giant patch of dirt perfect for a garden, and fruit growing galore, including two apple trees, currant and loganberry vines, and blackberry vines always encroaching on our back fence. The place was odd and a bit ramshackle, but mom loved to turn the earth, growing volumes of veggies, tending to the vines and trees, and even erecting a greenhouse for tomatoes and peppers.
Growing up with just the two of us, we were obviously close. Mom being a nurse, she tended to be more…aggressive and frank, I guess, when it came to sex talk. Whereas some of my friends’ parents were ridiculous in their avoidance, mine was blunt and straightforward. When I was 13, she found porn I’d left open on my computer. I was expecting to get a talking to, but she instead gave me a very sweet lecture about how it was totally normal, along with a discussion about my porn choices and what to expect from the real thing. In addition to the safety lectures on condoms and birth control you’d expect when your mom’s a nurse, she was extremely sex positive, and she bought me books on how to have good sex and how to please a woman, including a rather thick treatise on oral that included pictures and diagrams. When I finally lost my virginity, I told her about it, and we discussed the entire experience in detail—she wanted to know if I had made sure my girlfriend had enjoyed it as much as I did. This talk continued with every girl I was with, and she also told me a fair bit about her boyfriends with a bit of graphic detail, so I knew, for example, that she had dumped Richard mainly because he was a quick draw, but had kept up with Joe for a while because he was both a great guy and totally enjoyed giving oral, even though he had a somewhat small dick that didn’t do much for her.
I suppose what I’m getting at is that my perception of my mom, growing up, included obvious realization that she had and enjoyed sex a lot, and didn’t consider it a shameful or terribly serious act. We tended to discuss our sex lives as openly and frankly as any other topic. Mom—Brenda—stood about 5’4″, with a body she kept sculpted with constant running of long distances and lifting weights, and she seemed carved out of stone, even at 42, though just below the line of overly muscular. She had long, thick, wavy, ashy blonde hair, a heart shaped face with gigantic green eyes, high cheekbones, and due to a combo of great self care and awesome genes, looked about 28-30 on even her worst days. About 10 years ago she had decided to give herself a birthday gift and got a fantastic set of D-cup breasts, which filled out the tank tops and sundresses she favored nicely. On top of that, she was a woman that positively radiated sex appeal. From her walk, which incorporated a great swing of the hips, to her deep, breathy voice, her naturally charming and flirtatious manner of locking her eyes on you and peppering light touches, I had seen countless men and boys alike key in on her, obviously infatuated within minutes. But to her, it was just her manner, part of who she was. With me, she would routinely cuddle on the couch, kiss me on the mouth, hug me tight, and I never thought much of it, because that’s just who she was. It was never intended to be sexual and I never took it as such.