The realisation hit me one morning like a physical blow. I stared at the tiny triangle at the apex of the cleft at the top of her buttocks, my mother’s femininity confronting me while the toast turned to glue in my mouth.
Up until then, my mother’s nudity hadn’t been much of an issue, but the tan lines woke my libido. And the beast came up snarling.
One beer goes down easy, so I go for another. I drink and try to push my mother, her nakedness, and thoughts of what she does with her lover out of my head.
I try watching Saturday evening TV, which doesn’t work so I try a reading a book.
Forty minutes after my mother left the house I’m up in my room with porn on the laptop.
I stroke my cock and think about taking my time. I’m going to tease myself with some lesbian stuff first. Watching hot women kiss is one of my faves at the moment — and porn lesbians take some beating when it comes to kissing and tongues.
Nina Hartley is seducing a much younger woman when I hear the front door slam shut.
The sound of it makes me go cold and there’s ice in my veins as I lie on the bed, pre-cum sliding out of my cock.
There’s no real danger my mother will barge in on me, but I still get a fright, and after an appalled pause I snap the laptop shut and roll off the bed.
Then I wipe off my dick and reach for my clothes to investigate my mother’s untimely return.
Something’s not right, and two minutes later I find her in the kitchen with a bottle of red wine on the table, a long-stemmed glass almost full standing next to it.
One look at her face is all I need. She’s standing, arms folded, vibrating with whatever emotion she’s feeling.
My mother’s tortured visage swivels towards me when I walk in. She says, “You don’t have any cigarettes, do you?”
I raise my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Since when do I smoke?” I reply.
My mother’s tongue clicks off her palette. She rolls her eyes with apparent frustration. “I don’t know,” she sighs in response. “You might have taken it up at uni.”
I watch her lean in to pick up the glass. She glugs half the contents and then tops it off it off.
“What’s up?” I ask, concerned, the fact she asked for a smoke a clue of just how upset she is. My mother took up the habit during the crisis with dad, but gave it up when her fitness jag started.
The epithet confirms her anger when my mother spits her reply: “That fucking wanker, that’s what.”
I’m at a loss for what to say next. I don’t like emotional scenes; I feel uncomfortable and embarrassed and usually avoid any awkwardness, opting for a sweep-it-under-the-carpet attitude. But she’s my mother, and there’s nobody else to help.
“Uhm…” I begin, going to the fridge for a beer. Hoping she’ll say no, I tentatively ask, “Want to talk?”
“It’s over,” she says, face stricken, her tone tugging at me. My mother looks at me and blurts a brittle little laugh. “The wanker’s been two-timing me,” she adds, shaking her head like she can’t believe his cheek. “He knows how much I hate lying and cheating.” Her arms wave and wine spills when she gesticulates wildly. “The one fucking thing … And he does it!”