When you stop seeing your child as a child, or your child for that matter, then you begin to treat them as you would any person. For most parents this comes from frustration. Your teenager is acting out? Fuck her or him. They can go to hell. Who are they to put you through that abuse? The answer, of course, is your child. For me, it was not aggression toward my son that created the dissonance. It was lust.
Before, I told you about the one time I broke my one rule. This is the story about how I retired it altogether.
In the weeks following my fling with Howard and my self-love session in Max's room, I began to feel less and less guilt. Rather, it would be more accurate to say that my need for the taboo began to drown out my guilty conscience. I spent most evenings with wine in my glass and my fingers inside me. The act of masturbating in my son's bed was enough to keep me with fuel for my fantasies for a little while, but over time the memory became less and less powerful.
So it happened one day that I found myself back in my son's room while he was at school, trying desperately to recreate the moment. It was hot and I came, but it wasn't the same. I lay there in my son's bed spent, sweaty and confused. I began to wonder if the act was no longer enough, no longer truly taboo, because I had already crossed the line and in doing so moved it further along. Perhaps I needed the shame. I must admit that the reason that I enjoy a man treating me like a real slut is because a tiny part of me is ashamed. Either way, I came and was not satisfied.
Splayed open on his bed, a very disturbing thought entered my head. I was at a cross roads, and I could either allow my perversion to turn to boredom—maybe finger myself a few more times under my son's Japanese cartoon poster and be normal for the rest of my life—or I could push the line. I knew what that meant; I would probably stop seeing the lines altogether. I closed my eyes and felt the heat on my skin. I almost shuddered at the thought of giving myself to my son. I opened my eyes. Perhaps there was another way to satiate my perversities. I dressed and bounded downstairs to the kitchen, where my phone sat on the charger. I snatched it up and began to scroll through my contact list.
And so we come to the second date I brought home: Richard. I chose his name at random and called him. He was delighted to hear from me for the first time in seven months, and was absolutely interested in taking me to dinner the following evening. Short notice? Yes. However, I had fucked his brains out on our last date, so he was willing to reschedule somethings. After I hung up, I felt the pang of guilt again. It was weak, though. Too weak to struggle against my budding incestuous thoughts.
The following morning, I told Max that I would be going on a date and that he and his sister should call and order a pizza or something.
"Becca is going to a movie with her friends. She won't be in until late." He replied.
"Then you will just have to eat the pizza yourself, hon." I told him. "I'll leave the Visa card on the counter. Just don't stay up late playing video games."
"I won't."
I believed him. He would be too busy listening to me being rammed by some guys cock.
With the ground work lain, I made a show of my getting ready for the evening. I made sure to wash a load of his laundry and sit it on his bed for him to put up after school. I also made sure to leave a particularly scandalous pair of panties, a lacy thong that was practically see-through, at the bottom of the basket. When he got home I knocked on his door wearing just my towel, my hair wet, and asked if he had seen them. When he shook his head, I walked in and fished through his folded t-shirts, making sure to bend over just a bit. I pulled out the thong.
"Here they are," I said.
I walked back across the hall and heard his door lock behind me as I entered my room. I had a pretty good idea what he was up to. I knew that after that night we would both have plenty of images to drive our fantasies. "Just save something for tonight," I said to myself as I sat down to blow-dry my hair. When I emerged for my date, I was wearing my best red party dress. Downstairs, Becca was getting ready to go to the movies.
"Wow, Mom!" she beamed, "Looking good." She gave me a serious and stern expression, a reflection of one of my own, and added, "Make good decisions." Then she laughed. It was my own words of wisdom, so often visited on her during her early dating years, thrown back at me. Of course, I didn't plan on following our advice. She grabbed her keys from the hook by the door and bolted to her VW bug, apparently trying to make her show time.
I called upstairs for Max. He poked his head innocently out of his door.
"Come downstairs for a minute!" I shouted to him when it became clear he planned to talk to me from his doorway.
"Okay! Just a sec!" He said after an awkward pause.
He came down after a period of time typical for a boy to shrug on his pants. Man, I thought. Does he ever take a break? How much "enthusiasm" does he have? Once again, thoughts of him jerking off in his room hijacked my mind, with a brief image of him on top of me, my legs over his shoulders, thrown in for good measure. I began to feel as red as my dress.
"What?" he asked, descending to ground level.
"Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I could be out a little late with Richard, and that I want you in bed at a sensible hour."
As I spoke, I noticed his eyes darting from my face to my chest and down to where he must have imagined the thong was hugging me.
"I will-I mean-I won't, mom." He stuttered.
"Okay."
The doorbell rang and I answered it. A much younger man than Howard greeted me at the door. Richard was only twenty-seven and I had not planned on dating him again due to the age difference, but he was only 9 years older than Max and I thought that if Max saw me with him he might better picture himself in Richard's place. I met him with a peck on the cheek and as we walked down the driveway he put his hand on the small of my back. A glance back ensured me that the door was just closing. I wondered what Max would be thinking.
Richard opened the passenger door for me and I sat down, my skirt riding up just a little. I did not adjust it. When he had sat down and closed his door, he made for the ignition, but I stopped him. He gave me a quizzical look, which disappeared as my fingers ran from the inside of his thigh to the growing bulge in his pants. I unzipped him.
"Here?" he asked, looking around as though the neighborhood watch might be waiting in the low evening light, ready to dial the police.
