“Yeah?”
She nodded, smiling as if awaiting my approval.
“Thanks, Mom. Cool find.”
She popped on her tippy-toes and kissed my lips. “Why, thank you, baby! I just knew you’d find it helpful.”
I nodded.
Growing serious, she said, “I assume you’ll know what to do.”
‘Yeah,” I muttered.
“Then, I’ll leave you a fresh bit of gauze, and you can put it on when–well, before you go to bed, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And first thing in the morning, I want to know if it worked. So, may I come check on you?”
“Yeah.”
***
A few hours later, I climbed into bed with my night light on. The scrunchy tape and the gauze were beside me on my nightstand. The old bandage was wadded up beside them. My boxers were around my thighs, and I stared down at my cock.
I got hard instantly. I didn’t even touch my dick. I didn’t look at porn; I stared at my dick, and I remembered. I remembered Mom’s touches–how her supple thumb dragged back and forth along the shaft. I remembered Mom’s kisses–the way she planted five in a row on it after she heard about my painful erection. And the way she’d latched to it–ever so briefly–when she kissed it earlier that evening.
It was easy to put the new bandage on it, and I shut off the light. A part of me felt thrilled by everything that had happened since the barbed-wire fence accident. Another part remained disturbed by those same events, and especially how the remembrance of them brought about the thrumming erection tenting my sheets.
Without any petitions to the contrary, I knew my mom would provide daily care for our injuries from the moment she learned about them until the day they finally healed. However, as I grew older, I was often able to convince her that, at a certain point where she knew I was healing properly, she could let me take care of myself.
I didn’t want her to stop this time.
Maybe it was the types of people who lived out in the country where we lived, maybe it was the attitudes of the girls in my class or the grim disgust of our school’s sex ed teacher. Whatever the case, I grew up feeling like that part of me–my dick–was basically gross. It was nothing my parents instilled in me; I think it was more of a cultural thing.
So, to see my mom give my cock such tender, affectionate care was a revelation. I liked seeing her examine it. I liked how gently she touched it. I liked how she kissed it, sometimes with heartfelt sympathy and other times with motherly adoration. I wanted her to continue treating my dick.
Yet, my recovery had reached that point where, normally, I could tell her, “Hey, I’ve got it from here.” There was no infection. The puncture wound had scabbed over, and while there remained a small bruise, as long as I kept it clean, it would completely heal. Pissing was no longer a discomfort, and she had solved the bandage-erection problem.
To not ask her to let me take over the remaining rehab was to risk her discovering how much I appreciated and looked forward to how she ministered to my injured cock. But to ask her was to give up those comforting touches for good.
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