Yes, sometimes we still made love. When I came home, she was there for me, for a while. And when she talked about Mr. Crick, whom she called Karl, and I called Mr. Prick, she kept telling me how kind and generous he was. He bought her this, and he bought her that, and finally, he bought her. He asked her to marry him and she said, “Yes.”
I guess a part of me understood. She was tired of having nothing but a small rental apartment, a wreck of a car, and enough bills to make her dread picking up the mail and answering the phone. And despite my head reverberating with, ‘Daniela don’t do this,’ I guess I respected her unwavering decision to stop sleeping with me because she was getting married. But I hated it. I hated every fucking minute of it, for a long time.
But, as I said, this is about now. So after eight years, I thought it was completely over, until a month ago when I heard those words, “I miss the way we used to be.” She’d had a few too many drinks, and the next day she tried to back-track. She called to say that, “It came out wrong.” I wasn’t convinced, and even though we were both married by then, it didn’t stop the re-kindling of my desire. I guess even one word is enough to change the flow of events; in this case, it was that sentence.
Carol and I had seen a lot of mom and Karl over the years since I had finished school, and we all got along. I stopped thinking of Karl as ‘Mr. Prick’ because he gave mom all the material things that made her life easy, and he wasn’t a bad sort.
Was it inevitable that I would sleep with my mother again? No. No. That’s a cop-out. We knew what we were doing, and we both wanted each other. Yes, we wanted each other so much we were willing to get into a swamp of immorality and guilt. Did we have reason to feel guilty when we first slept together as mother and son? Was it wrong? The question doesn’t even make sense to me. Having incest with my mother was nobody’s business but ours, and it was the sweetest love I’d ever known. No, it was just that for us, life, and love became a lot messier the second time around.
It didn’t take long for the re-ignition. The day after mom said that she missed me, I called her. Here’s the whole conversation with full orchestration.
“Mom, I’m coming over.”
“Okay.”
Nobody was under any illusions. When I got there she was in an expensive camisole of sheer black. I could see her bra and panties through it. I could see the wonderful full cleavage that formed as the bra pushed her tits together. “She said, “Jess, I missed you so much…it hurts me baby…I can’t…I can’t…” I could see she was getting teary and I wasn’t sure if she was about to tell me that she couldn’t go through with it, until she beckoned me with her arms. We kissed and I undid the two buttons that opened the nightgown. I pulled the top of her bra down to free her tits and took one of the big globes in my hand.
She remembered something I had told her a long time ago and said, “Does it still make you hard every time you see my breasts?” I put her hand on the unmistakably stiff answer and the word ‘Yes’ smiled out of her mouth.