Unless you live in Beverly Hills, or only kept company with rich friends when in school, there was always one friend who's house you'd visit that was on a lower socio-economic level from the rest. Sometimes this establishment would be grouped together with other homes like it; not necessarily in the "bad part of town" or on the "other side of the tracks" as the cliché goes, but rather a certain street where the housing wasn't up to par with the rest of town.
In my town, these houses were often older buildings, and were grouped together. Yet, they were still in a nice part of town. Let me say that the whole town was nice--just not every home.
Mark lived in one of them. A medium sized ranch, the color of mud, but highlighted with white shutters. Mark had four other siblings, and I often wondered why some parents would opt for so many kids, when they clearly could not afford that kind of lifestyle. Mark had two younger sisters, and two older brothers. He was right smack dab in the middle of the family circus.
And boy what a circus it was.
Sleeping over Mark's house as a teenager was always a learning experience. Baby screaming dog barking, brothers arguing, and every room was often a disaster; the floor littered with toys, backpacks, and sometimes just plain trash.
But the worst was when the father would arrive late at night in a drunken state. I almost never saw him when I was there, as he was a trucker and was away from home so frequently. But the few times he did come home, I'll never forget.
He was violent. The kind of guy you could tell was dangerous just by looking at him. Dark, hallowed circles under his eyes, scruffy cleft chin, unkempt hair, and he smelled of booze and cigarettes.
He would get in heated arguments with Mark's mother, and I once saw him strike one of the kids. To him, I didn't exist. He could of cared less about what other people thought of him. I was just a piece of furniture; a fly on the wall.
And as suddenly as Mark's father would arrive, he'd be gone. His home, his family, merely a truck stop on his drunken ride through life.
I pitied Mark and his siblings, but pitied his mother most of all. And it wasn't just because of the father. Mark's mother was a kind woman, who was doing the best she could to raise her children in such a difficult situation. To her, I was a guest in her home, as un-glamorous as it may have been.
Her name was Carol, and she wasn't the most beautiful of women, for she had the same beak as the rest of her family; the kind of nose you'd see on the statues of Roman emperors, but in a way, this made her look distinguished. Her eyes were large and cat-like, but looked tired, her hair, brown and straight, never seeing the inside of a salon. But she had prettiest mouth I had ever seen; full, pouting lips that needed no lipstick to accentuate.
And her body.
Her body was in a word: voluptuous. Clearly, Carol needed hips to give birth to five children, and breasts that could feed them. And she did. She had breathtaking curves, and years later, as the "ideal woman" became a stick figure, I would think back to the likes of Marilyn Monroe and Mark's mother. They had the bodies of Greek goddesses.
To say I lusted after Carol was an understatement, but this feeling had to develop over the years as I grew through adolescence. I think it is safe to say that the first women boys tend to fantasize are older women: teachers, maids, the mom's of best friends. Years later, when I was almost out of college, a very close friend of mine admitted to me that he had had a crush on my own mother! This, he would not of told me if it were not for the alcohol stupor he was in, and I forgave him. But I had never had those thoughts for my own mother. It was always Mark's mom that filled my thoughts.
As I slept on Mark's couch, and could hear Carol drawing her bath, as she was accustomed to doing, I would allow myself to paint these thoughts. Carol must have taken long hot baths to relieve her stress, after everyone had gone to bed, and it was this image that obsessed me; the image that was right down the hall and through the bathroom door.
So close, yet so far.
I would fantasize about bathing with her. Seducing Mark's mother, or being seduced by her. I did not much care which way, only that it would happen. Just to be with her in that bathtub sent my heart racing, and my cock hard. To see those large naked breasts, glistening in the hot water…
Staying over Mark's house was torture. But I was sadomasochistic in my torture. To add to this pain, one of Mark's older brother was a collector of nudie magazines, but not the innocent pages of Playboy with an article here, a breast there. Mark's brother Dan had stacks of Penthouse and Hustler, and these were my first introductions to porn. In the days before the internet, these magazines stuffed the pants of millions of boys who were either too young or too embarrassed to pay for them.
But Dan had such a collection, I assumed he had subscriptions. Some of the publications were smaller than Penthouse and Hustler; magazines that could fit right in your back pocket, and covers so explicit, that a store would never shelve them. These were my first images of women with long eyelashes, sucking on huge cocks; guzzling down their cum with giddy satisfaction. To be honest, the images both repulsed me and excited me at the same time.
As I grew older, I became more confident with myself. This didn't mean I was ready to get in the way of Carol and her husband. I would only have done that if I wanted a quick death. What it meant was this: Now that I was eighteen, I was determined to take a bath with Mark's mother. But wait. Wouldn't that also be a quick death at the hands of Mark's father if he found out? It was a chance I was willing to take.
This would clearly have to be a night when I knew for certain her husband would be gone for weeks. I also chose a night when I knew that where would be less people in the house all together. When the night I chose to act upon my fantasies came, only Mark and his little sister were home. His other sister and both brothers were at other friend's homes.
Mark often fell asleep early and was such a heavy sleeper, you needed an alarm to wake him. This was also in my favor.
As Mark began to snore around quarter past ten, I began to hear the bath water. I waited patiently at the end of the hall, wearing only my boxers, my heart sprinting in my chest, and my body trembling with excitement and anxiety.
When I heard Carol leave the bathroom and enter her bedroom again, I walked quickly down the hall, my feet creaking the old floorboards. Hopefully the sound of the bathwater would drown out my movements. As quietly as I could, I opened the bathroom door, stripped off my boxers and lowered myself into the tub. It was one of those old porcelain tubs that you see in classic movies; the kind of tub that looked like some kind of white creature on tiny white feet.
But the creature was me. I was one horny little monster for doing this, but I fought off any hesitation to turn back.
I waited in the tub as the hot water submerged my trembling legs, and then suddenly the bathroom door opened. Mark's mother looked startled when she saw me, bringing her right hand up to her chest to close the silk robe she wore. It draped over her body like cream, showing off every curve.
