And what kept this fantasy from a further reality? Nothing more than my door! It was as if the door was the thin fabric covering her, separating me from entering her, from her seeing me in my sexual moment and me seeing her in her response.
So I pulled away the door just as surely as I might pull up her nightgown. This I first did as I was blinded by the excitement of masturbating. In that moment I would go over with one hand still rubbing my cock and pull the door ajar. I would then turn to the side, so that I could not see if she was coming by, and so she would realize I could not see her. I would pretend she was watching. But maybe it was not just my imagination, maybe she really was. It was exciting, and my sessions reached a new level, and my schedule for this activity changed – I masturbated only during the day, and only when she was at home.
And then came the time that I knew she was watching, because I could hear her. The sound of her footsteps coming toward the front door and then stopping. There would only be one reason she would stop there. I worked by cock harder, wanting to finish before she might turn away. And I did. Because it was only after I was finished that I heard the footsteps continue.
The corner had been turned. I had started to see her and fantasize about her as a woman, and she was now seeing me as a man – or at least as someone with a penis that could perform.
Looking back now, and indeed even as I thought about what was happening then, the progression to her having a fascination of whatever sort with my sexual acts was not totally surprised. A little bit about my mother:
My mother – who has passed away, otherwise I would not do this even anonymously, and who passed away a few years ago, otherwise I could not recount these events – was a very attractive women, petite with bleached blond hair and blue eyes. But even as I write about her, and even as I masturbate to these memories, I don’t really think of her in physical detail. It is an image rather than a photographic reality.
She wanted to be Marilyn Monroe. She needed every man to pine after her, and it was more than being flirtatious. She needed to have men take her to bed. It was her way of proving that she was a sex goddess. (One of my sisters, who later became a therapist oriented toward psychoanalysis, told me that our mother was clinically narcissistic.) This she did even while she and my father were married. He knew about it but could not control her extramarital flings.
Thus they got divorced, but only because her activities were becoming common knowledge. My father had to act as if he did not know, and thus he became an object of pity or derision. He moved to a new community after the divorce for that reason. So, if this is what she needed from men, then why not from her son as he matured. And why not from her son as she began to see him in his raw sexuality.
But there is more. I was the only son, with older sisters. My mother would often tell me the story of how she would check my penis to revel in the fact that she finally had a boy. And when I was very young I would get into bed with her, my father sleeping in a twin bed, and we would look at my penis to see if it was asleep or awake. I didn’t know what an erection was about at that age, but of course she did. The point is that she saw me in a sexual way even before all of this occurred, and between that and her insatiable interest in sexual conquest and confirmation of her self worth, there is a reason she would continue to watch my time and again.