I thought mother would be disgusted that her son looked at such things; that she thought the pictures beautiful was a surprise despite the fact that her opinion coincided with mine regarding the beauty of the scene.
“You…you really think they’re beautiful?” I asked
She turned back to the screen saying, “Yes…yes I do; I can understand why you’ve got them as one of your favourites. She’s…she’s…I don’t know…not beautiful, not even obviously sexy, but somehow appealing. And the boy…well…he’s…he’s really quite a hunk isn’t he?”
I must admit I’d never been particularly interested in the boy apart from feeling envious.
Mother gazed at the pictures for a bit longer then said very quietly, “He looks a little like you, don’t you think?”
I had never expected mother to find my little fantasy world, but she had and I was somewhat relieved that she hadn’t been shocked. The trouble was, she was now taking things in a direction I didn’t want them to go.
“Yes…yes, I suppose he does resemble me just a bit,” I said, hoping that mother wouldn’t take the next step.
She did take it. “Darling, the woman…don’t you think she…she looks a bit like me?”
That was it and I’d better tell all. You see, the fantasy I had about those pictures was only a substitute for another fantasy I had about a flesh and blood woman. The fantasy I had for the real woman was almost unbearable because it could never become reality and so fantasising over the pictures was safe. They served as a sort of safety valve for my — well, to put it in Freudian terms – the raging passions of my Id.
“Don’t let her ask…please don’t let her ask,” I silently implored a deity that I rarely communicated with.
Perhaps it was this lack of communication with the deity that brought the punishment down on me.
“Terence,” mother asked gravely — she always called me Terence when she had something serious to say to me — “do you look at these pictures because the boy and woman resemble you and me?”
I tried to evade a direct answer.
“Oh, I don’t think they really look like you and me.”
There was no escape.
“Yes, they do, and I think you know they do.”
“Well, perhaps a little, but that isn’t why I…”
“Don’t Terry,” (“Terry,” that was better), “don’t tell me that isn’t why you look at them, because I won’t believe you; I think that’s exactly why you look at them. I’ve wanted to get this out in front of us for some time but I’ve never known how; these pictures have given me the opportunity.”
“Have they…I don’t unders…”
“Yes you do Terence; you understand very well and so do I, so do you tell me, or do I tell you?”
I stood silent as she sat looking up at me intently.
Mother let it hang for a minute or so and then said, “All right Terry, you won’t say it so I will. For a long time now you’ve had a thing for me, haven’t you?”
Prevaricating I stuttered, “A…a thing?”
Mother was looking at me keenly, those all seeing emerald eyes boring into me.
“Don’t play dumb with me Terence, you know what I mean; if I must spell it out, you fancy me sexually.”