No, I said to myself. It is not possible. Why not? I asked myself. What’s wrong with me that a man with hormones spilling out of his loins wouldn’t find me a sexual being? Is it possible that he had sexual fantasies about me? What if he did? My legs weekend and I squirmed in my bed in despair trying to shut my brain from thinking. It wasn’t doing me any good.
But the seed grew. I had to accept the fact that I was sexually aroused by my son—thanks to that bitch Samantha. What I wanted to know was if he found me sexually arousing as well. It would only be fair if he did, not to mention that it would be a big boost to my ego, which I probably needed as badly as Sam did.
Only problem with that question was that I didn’t know of a way to find out the answer. I mean, yes, I could ask him directly, but imagine his reaction if his own mother were to approach him to find out if he was sexually excited by her. I had to get real. Instead, I had to see if he showed the slightest interest in me by getting him to give me the smallest possible hint of interest. I didn’t know at that time what such a hint would be, but I knew that if he gave any—a glance, a stare, a touch, or even a gleam in his eyes—I would know. I had to know. I wanted to know. I wanted it to be there. Oh, how I hoped it was there!
I first tried to just look into his eyes and see if he would betray some interest. I found none. I only spotted the look a son gives his mother. I then started to wear some revealing clothes, to put some makeup on, to splash some provocative perfume on, and even ask him how I looked in each new dress or hairdo. His response was always, “You look great, mom.”
In the end I just gave up. I could only go so far without alarming him that his mother was behaving like a loon. I was so desperate to get some validation of my womanhood that I had put aside all shame and guilt, only to fail in the end and be left empty handed.
I shed quite a few tears for myself; collected my broken ego; repented my deed; and decided to move on with my empty life. By then I was able to control my emotions towards him and somehow, unintentionally, he had put an end to my sorry state of being by rejecting me without even knowing that it was happening. I actually hated myself for being the way I was and I hated Samantha for getting me there.
Then came that momentous evening.
I was getting ready to go out to a movie with Sam, when I realized that I had left the stove on. I rushed down to the kitchen to turn it off before the food I had prepared for my son and his father [yes, there is a father, don’t ask] got burnt. Thankfully, everything was okay, so I took the pot off the stove and went back to my room to finish getting ready.
As I was climbing the stairs I heard my son yell, “Mom, there are men present in the house.”
“Sorry, son,” I replied and rushed into my bedroom. Only after I was standing in front of the mirror did I realize what had just happened. I had rushed down to the kitchen in my bra and panties. When I realized that my state of undress had actually solicited a response from my son, the kind of response that I had ached to get before, I felt this immense joy. It was an incredible feeling to know that I had succeeded in getting that hint, meagre as it may be. One huge smile spread across my face as I looked at my figure in the mirror, as I observed my breasts oozing out of my bra, as I saw my pubic hair coming through the lace of my panties and as I discovered that my lips were quite visible underneath the see-through material. I gave a muffled scream—a scream of joy.