The years went by My Son and Me. Peter went to uni, then got a great job with an investment bank, things between John and I deteriorated to the point that we got divorced and a few months after Peter got transferred to Dubai and Sara went to uni. I was alone in a lovely apartment in London.
During his time at university and the first year with the investment bank I saw quite a lot of Peter as he came home fairly frequently from uni, mainly for friends’ parties and for football and cricket club events and lived with us when he first went out to work. Having him ‘on tap’ as it were gave me a range of feelings and emotions. A straightforward mother’s pleasure at seeing a lot of her son; that was natural and pure. But then there was the unnatural and somewhat impure when I imagined what we could do together and when I recalled the thoughts I had about him as I had sex with those younger guys. Most of the time I was able to cope ok, but then something would trigger me off, perhaps when I was ironing his clothes or tidying his room or when I saw an attractive young man when I was shopping or at the gym. Then, my mind recalled the sex with ‘my conquests’ and how when doing it with them I imagined it was Peter. And of course, other events from the past regularly came into my mind.
That time at my fortieth where John had let me down about going to the Ritz and Peter had consoled me to the point that I thought we were going to kiss. When we danced at my anniversary and he held me in a completely, non-son/motherly way squashing my breasts against his chest and I felt the movement of an erection; the afternoon he came home unexpectedly and I was lying topless on my back in the garden. I looked up and our eyes caught. We both smiled. His eyes zeroed in on my breasts. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I half wanted to sit up and flaunt them to him and then I thought for a moment he was going to sit on my sun bed but he said rather croakily.
“Sorry mum,” and went inside.
There were other smaller incidences. Little touches, brushing against each other, lingering smiles, catching him looking down my top, at my legs or breasts, frequent flirtatious remarks and double entendres.
After the divorce was finalised, we got a quickie, Peter phoned and said.
“Come out for a holiday?”
At first I said no but then after chatting with him I agreed. I knew that he shared a flat overlooking the marina and he told me that the flatmate was coming home so his room would be vacant for two weeks. Apparently its quite common out there to have the agreement that when one or the other is away for a period that the other can have a visitor and use the room. So, we agreed a date a few weeks ahead.
“March is lovely weather-wise mum and we have a small pool area at the flats we can use and I have a pass to the One and Only Hotel if you want something special.”
He suggested that I fly on a Thursday as he could finish work at two and was off on Fridays and Saturdays.
“So, I’ll be able to bed you in.”
Bed me in. I thought, does that mean more than it sounds, god I was getting carried away! Nevertheless, that phrase kept coming into my mind as the day for my ‘flight to destiny’ got nearer as did his parting remark on a phone call.
“Bring bikinis mum they suit you better than swimsuits.”
Of course, since agreeing to go and the day I travelled I could think of hardly anything else than what might happen. How the hell I would last living and sleeping in a flat alone with him for a week was beyond me?
However, since my fling with Jack that had gone on for the best part of six months and still reared its head when he came to London, my feelings for Peter had settled down. They were still there but more under control, maybe what I was doing with Jack overcame them I had speculated many times? Now, though they exploded into their full graphic glory again and time and time again I wondered if he felt the same and I speculated whether he was intending this to be more than holiday.
During the period leading up to the divorce he had been a great comfort to me and as that dragged on I felt we came near several times to ‘crossing the bridge’ between mother and son affection and family sex. We cuddled a lot, now and then he held my hand or put his arm round me and we seemed to hold each other’s gazes much longer. There seemed to me to be a closeness, more affection and, even, an intimacy that had not been there before. He became the man of the house and both Sara and I deferred to him. Some evenings, especially when I may have drunk too much, I imagined us tidying up after Sara had gone to bed, walking up the stairs together and both of us turning right at the top of the stairs rather than him taking the left leading to his room. But nothing overt happened and he went off to Dubai with me in tears.