Son only has eyes for mom, incest stories, Camilla is the most beautiful woman I know. Most people wouldn’t go that far. That’s what love does. I don’t know if love or the sexual desire came first, and it probably doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about the usual love a son has for his mother. Very early on I knew that what I felt was different, and I never thought that I was wrong to feel it. Right from puberty I was very well adjusted to my maladjustment.
Camilla and I lived in New England without family and a smattering of friendly neighbors. Roy came and lived with us when I was seven, and left when I was sixteen. Roy filled in for my biological father who died when I was three. I wouldn’t say we were close, but we stayed out of each other’s way enough to make it a better relationship than some of my friends had with their ‘Real’ fathers. He usually came through when I needed him.
The thing I had for Camilla started as soon as I could feel what the word ‘Sexy’ meant. I think that concept starts in the eyes. Mom has sleepy eyes that seem to be an invitation; I guess that’s why they call them bedroom eyes. It’s more than fine when a woman has nice tits, great legs and all that. But that’s not what makes someone sexy. It’s how they carry themselves, and how they make you feel when they look at you.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized she had a killer body. Again, most people wouldn’t go that far. It wasn’t showy. In her clothes she looked more average than not. When I saw her in the bathroom getting dressed to go out one evening, I thought I had glimpsed perfection. To me she was a dime. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but she was wearing panties, stockings, and heels. Oh my God.
Her breasts were a nice handful, long rather than round. Her nipples were large and capped the ends fully. Her legs were perfect, her ass was perfect, her skin was perfect. What can I say? I loved her by then, and then I loved her more.
I thought about her too much, if you consider all the time too much. Getting meshed with my mother filled my fantasies. I can’t remember fantasizing about anyone else once I started on her. Watching her cooking, watching her walking, watching her watching TV, all fed the insatiable and inexhaustible scenarios I made up for us to engage in. No matter how bad a day I had, or how lonely I was, she would be waiting in my fantasy, dressed for sex, and saying something like, “It’s okay baby, you’ll feel better after you come in mommy’s mouth.” And I did feel better, even if it wasn’t real.
It got so bad I started believing it myself. And when I would look at her I would think, ‘How could she not know, how could she not feel what I feel, how could she not want what I want?’ I was amazed at how normal our concerns and conversations were. And when we fought about the things mothers and sons fight over, and I was yelling at her, I knew that I was angry because I wasn’t getting what I really wanted.
Mom was a bit of a neat freak and I’d heard the phrase, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ one too many times, but it didn’t really matter how many times she said that or, ‘Matt, I need you to do this or that, Matt put this stuff away, Matt don’t go out during the week, Matt be nice.’ None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Matt wanted his mother.