Aftermath 32

Based on a true story.

The whirling maelstrom of ecstasy calmed, rapidly rapidly, down down, until all that was left were the tingles at the tips of my fingers. My mind was blank. I took a deep breath into the sucking emptiness of my stomach. Something was off; there was a break in the chain; my memories felt unreal.

I opened my eyes and looked at the mass of flesh below me, focusing intently on the small wrinkles that surrounded her tight-shut eyes and the patches of blotchy, blood-flushed skin on her cheeks. With every passing moment these features seemed to become more visceral, more jarring, more grotesque.

I felt myself descending into a pit, into a deep sense of impending catastrophe, a mix of fear and adrenaline pulsing through my veins and a cold tingling patch of

something

just below my gut.

This brooding sense of danger had been there all evening, I realized. It had been screaming at me from the back of my mind to

slow down

, to

stop

, to

think

. But I could only barely sense it before, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears and the recurrent, frenzied adrenal bursts. Now, far from pounding in my ears, the blood was sucked from my extremities into my stomach, where it bubbled and swished and left me seasick - and then all that was left was an intense, inescapable revulsion.

She let out a small sigh, bringing me back to the present. Driven by some inscrutable urge - morbid curiosity? penitent masochism? self-loathing? - I lifted myself up and looked at the space between our bodies. Her bare breasts lay flattened and deflated below me, hanging slightly to the side. The skin on her stomach appeared loose and creased, the smallest hint of stretch marks visible. And below this all, I saw where our pubic hair intertwined, and...

I slowly pulled away, wincing as my overstimulated penis slid uncomfortably past her labia and into the cool air. I leaned back against my calves. Her opening stared back at me, moist and pink like the hairy cross-section of some hideous pitted peach. I met her half-open eyes. She grinned with an exhausted, lazy, vacant satisfaction, as though she were still recovering her senses.

She slowly pulled herself up against the backboard and sat with her legs crossed under her. Every sign of her age became acute, cast into sharper relief by the dim light of the bedside lamp; the imperfections of her skin and small folds of her stomach; her sagging breasts, with nipples that pointed directly forward like a second set of eyes; her crevice, still open and glistening, surrounded by a tangled mess of black pubic hair.

Look at that,

my brain mocked.

Look at her.

A small glob of semen dribbled out of her vagina, running down her puffy lips, through her pubic hair.

"Shut up," I replied internally.

You disgusting fucking freak.

"Shut up." I mouthing the words quietly to myself.

What's wrong with you?

"Stop."

You had sex with your mom.

I began shaking.

Your own fucking mom.

I shook my head almost imperceptibly as I tried to get a grip, pressure building behind my eyes. I pinched the bridge of my nose, accidentally wafting the smell of her vaginal exocrine that had dried on my fingers.

And you wanted it.

I felt I might puke.

"Come here, honey," mom exhaled, inviting me with her outstretched arms to join her at the backboard. I reluctantly accepted her invitation and sat next to her as she immediately pulled me into a loose, gentle embrace, kissing me softly on the cheek and neck.

"Kiss me," she whispered, and I kissed her, mechanically, without passion. She kissed me back with soft, loose lips, the taste of stale red wine on her breath. Lips smacking, tongue probing,

kiss... kiss... kiss...

One arm dropped to between her legs. I watched as she began to draw small circular motions with two fingers. A gentle moan escaped her lips.

She sat up straighter, bringing my face to her breasts, my mouth to her nipple. I fondled and sucked, again without pleasure, as her breathing grew increasingly rapid.

I tried to think about something else as the time passed, though I struggled to escape the moment. After some time - I would not have known whether it was hours or minutes - I felt her body tense against me, and suddenly she was shaking, face scrunched like a prune, as a solitary ecstasy ripped through her body.

I pulled away from her breast and watched, totally numb, as she came. As her breath slowed and her arms relaxed and she slunk back to a lying down position, a deep humiliation began to wash over me. She pulled me down with her, and we cuddled.

We lay there for what felt like an eternity, her breath against my neck, while I stared the ceiling fan spinning above. Finally, she rose from the bed and limped off, exhausted, to the master bath, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I compulsively lifted my hand to my nose, sniffing her dried juices. An intense image returned to me, and I could see her clearly in my mind, laying in my arms on the couch in the living room, her pants down to her ankles, biting her lip as my finger found home.

She winced as I touched her clitoris. Her voice rang quietly in my head.

Gentle.

My hand was on her chest, kneading. All was intensely quiet, save the pounding of my heart and her light breathy moans.

I shook with a deep, cringing embarrassment. It was no longer some dumb late-night internet porn jerk-off fantasy, some stupid thought to indulge for the thrill of the taboo. It was no longer the mild flirtation I had worked up to in recent weeks when the porn got boring. It was

real

. It had actually happened. And it was not something we could ever take back.

I sat up on the edge of the bed, hands trembling. Mom emerged from the bathroom with the same slow, careful movements that she had entered. I looked at the floor as she approached with light footsteps. Within a few moments I could see her legs and feel the underside of her breasts brush against the top of my head.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, lightly rubbing my shoulders.

"Yeah," I lied.

She placed two fingers under my chin and lifted gently. I could see her soft, empathetic smile just over her breasts, which were only millimeters from my face.

"Are you sure?" she prodded. She smiled lightheartedly, as if her lack of concern could assuage my own.

"Yeah," I repeated with forced confidence. "I'm good."

She bent forward and kissed my forehead with a calm sigh.

"Did it feel good?" she added, and then studied my expression a few moments, as if deciding whether to continue talking.

I nodded. She stood there a few more moments, gently caressing the back of my head, before reaching over to turn off the light and pulling me back into bed with her, where she trapped me in embrace.

---------

It was a cheap comedy show, a mix of amateur acts, only a few minutes away from my childhood home. We had arrived early and sat at one of the many round tables in the front row. Drinking a bit. Making small talk.

The acts were funny enough. I found myself paying more attention to my mother's reactions than the jokes themselves. It started with a few flittering glances as we laughed, glances that tied a knot in my stomach. It was that same thrill I had been chasing whenever we were together lately. Except this time, it seemed so... easy.

As the night wore on, I found I was turning to her at every punch line, meeting her eye as we laughed, or giggled, or chuckled, or made faces at jokes that didn't land, turning the comedian's joke into a shared private joke. Indeed, we seemed to

only

be smiling and laughing together, like the jokes themselves were a perfunctory excuse. The world around us darkened, dimmed, disappeared, fell further and further away until it was just she and I and the unexamined thrill I felt every time she smiled. I barely noticed when the third and final act began.

"So I'm dating this guy right now who's younger than me. Like a lot younger." The crowd clapped, and I found myself suddenly paying attention. The comedian was a fairly attractive middle-aged woman with red hair and glasses. "I feel like I get a lot of undeserved judgment about that. All my friends think he's too immature." She paused, rolling her eyes. "All

his

friends think he's only dating me to get a ride to the mall."

We laughed (and our eyes met again).

"I just had somebody tell me that guys who like older women actually want to date their moms," she continued.

My stomach dropped like I missed a step on the stairs, and I glanced over at mom - she made an exaggerated, smiling face of disgust, nose crinkled. Did our eye contact last a little too long?

"And let me tell you, that's absolutely

not

true." She paused. "For one thing, my boyfriend's mom would

never

let him play videogames right after school."

The crowd laughed again, and I forced myself through increasing nerves to look to my right. I was relieved to see mom's smiling, laughing face.

"Look at these two, we've got a pair right here." The comedian looked down at us from the brightly lit stage, shielding her eyes from the stage lights. "You're a couple, right? What's your name?" she asked.

I considered correcting her, but stopped myself.

"Jason."

"And you?"

"Amy."

"How old are you?" she asked, addressing me again.

"Twenty-five." I sounded miniscule compared to her amplified voice.

"Twenty-five," she repeated for the audience. "And you?"

"Forty," mom lied. She had shaved off half a decade. I glanced at her, surprised, but she didn't return my glance, instead placing her hand on mine on top of the table, squeezing it, as if to say

our little secret

.

"Twenty-five and forty. Okay, let me ask you something," the comedian continued. "And be honest... did you have to teach him, you know..." She gestured humorously with her hand. "... where to find it?"

The crowd gasped and laughed. I felt my face redden and my heart begin pounding. I forced a smile, but mom seemed unfazed.

She squeezed my hand again. "No, he already knew."

"Oh, come

on

," - the comedian looked at her in mock disbelief - "Don't lie to me. That one's barely out of diapers." There was another laugh from the audience.

Mom shook her head. "He's very skilled!" There were some hoots from the audience.

The comedian returned to the audience.

"My girlfriends say they wouldn't want a younger guy because they'd have teach them how to... you know." She made a sexual gesture with her fingers. "But, let's be honest, the only difference between a young guy and an old guy is the old guy gets tired faster."

The crowd laughed again.

She addressed mom again. "Am I right?"

Mom began to speak, but broke down in laughter - private laughter, this time, burying her face in her hands. When she regained her composure, she looked over to me and mouthed

sorry

through a smile. I smiled back awkwardly and shrugged with forced nonchalance, trying to hide the rumble in my pelvis that nobody could possibly see.

When I looked back up, the comedian winked at me.

All in good fun.

And, just like that, the raucous shared, private laughter of the night ended, replaced only by some giggles and smiles. Yet she held my hand the rest of the evening, squeezing occasionally.

The show finished not long after. As we toddled through the parking lot, drunker than we thought we would be, our bodies seeming to bump into each other more than you would expect. I felt hyperaware of her every movement. When we arrived at her car, parked only a few spots from mine, there was a calm silence in the air.

"This was fun," I muttered, breaking the spell. She hugged me tightly.

"It was..." she replied quietly.

We stood there quietly, neither of us breaking our embrace.

"You have a long drive home, don't you?" she asked. There was a tired melancholy in her voice.

"Yeah," I replied, and though the evening was warm, I shivered. "Like... forty minutes."

Silence fell again. Her hands began to caress my back.

"It's Friday. Just-" Her voice broke, as if she swallowed the word. "Just come sleep in the guest room."

I began shaking.

"... okay."

The drive back to her house - my childhood home - was short, yet it felt like an eternity. My hands shook on the steering wheel, my leg trembling on the accelerator, as I followed the tail lights of mom's Corolla, trying to read her mental state off her driving like divination from oracle bones.

I pulled up behind her in the driveway, and she waited to walk up the walkway with me. She seemed to struggle with the key. In the foyer, she tripped as she tried to take off her pumps and stumbled; I caught her. Our eyes locked: she smiled and suddenly there was this tension - not like before. Electric. It made my stomach hurt. And I reached down and

I hadn't done what I was supposed to do, I hadn't done my homework. And now Sophie and Professor Jorgenson were staring at me from across the classroom, bewildered, frustrated. It had been a group project. How could I have forgotten until now? Why hadn't I worked on it? Why hadn't I done my share?

But Sophie knew why. Sophie, beautiful Sophie, I had such a crush on her, but she knew why now, she knew why. She knew it was because I was with mom, with mom, with mom

helping her get her pumps off, walking her across the room to the couch and collapsing there with her. And then she was leaning hard against me, mom was leaning against me, caressing me gently, making stilted absent-minded small talk about the show, pauses too long between statement and reply. And I realized my hand was caressing her thigh, and my stomach jumped with excitement as it traveled further and further...

But the excitement was pushed away, away, away. Away by the horror and fear and stress and pain of all the people who knew now, the whole class, as Sophie screamed and everyone understood why, immediately understood why. Why had I done this in front of Sophie? Why? Why did I

begin unbuttoning her jeans as she breathed against my neck, why did I move my finger there, under there, in there, running it against the edge of the fabric beneath the fabric, feeling her heat, feeling the bit of pubic hair that stuck out from the edge, next to the crease in her thigh, hand trapped by her jeans until she pulled them further down, and why did I dig past the edge of the fabric, until with a rush of pure adrenaline I felt the soft slick swollen skin just past, just under it?

And now dad knew too, he knew, dad knew that

I kissed mom, my own mom, and my finger pressed harder, harder, until it penetrated her soft opening, and I was fingering her, fingering my own mom, making her moan in my ear, wanting so badly to be inside of her, craving it, yearning for it, thirsting for it, sick with desire, and when my fingers found her clit and she closed her eyes and moaned and kissed me on the neck and trembled I felt more aroused than I ever had in my entire life.

Dad knew now, dad who had never gotten over the divorce, who raged with such anger and jealousy all these years. He knew now, knew what we had done, he saw us, he saw the video of it. And now dad was chasing me across the house as mom screamed and cried and apologized and swore it was a mistake and begged him not to stop, to calm down, not to kill me, but dad was going to kill me, he was, and when he caught me and grabbed me by the waist and we were fighting, scratching, clawing, I hit him, over and over, face bloodier and bloodier and bloodier until he fell still, the light leaving his eyes, because I had to kill him, I had to kill him because he knew, dad knew, dad knew

that we stumbled off to her room together, and I helped her remove her shirt, chest heavy as I took in the signs of her age, the sag of her breasts, wrinkles around her eyes, the pubic hair at the edge of her panties. And she smiled with love and happiness and embarrassment as she apologized that she wasn't wearing sexy underwear, she was just wearing the white underwear

with the little stains, hanging in the bathroom, soaking in the sink, getting in the way, so annoying

and then I was on the bed and she was crawling over me, awkwardly, drunken, breasts swinging side to side as she positioned herself just right, just where she needed to be, and she took me into her warm hands as she swung her leg over, pointing me straight up. And then she slowly lowered herself, slowly, slowly, lower, lower, pressing me against her slick warmth, harder, harder, until that paltry barrier, that barrier rendered useless by her arousal, until that barrier was broken, shattered, gone forever, and I lurched inside of her like soaked towel falling on the floor.

Then rising and falling, slowly at first, smiling, biting her lip, smiling, shutting her eyes tight, rising and falling, faster and faster, legs trembling, moaning and face scrunching with pleasure, pumping and pumping and pumping, and I watched, overwhelmed, almost numb. Then she fell over and pulled me on top of her and I took control, pumping, pumping, until I couldn't suppress it anymore, I couldn't hold it in, I couldn't stop myself and I looked down at her and realized who she was and what we were doing, and she looked back up at me and suddenly squeezed her eyes shut as the pleasure overtook her.

And my stomach rumbled with fear and stress at the memory of it,

because there had been no condom, no protection, no birth control, and I came inside, right inside, right up her birth canal. And now mom was giving birth, giving birth in a hospital to a monstrous creature, a hideous thing born with no eyes and grotesque wiry limbs and a big putrid black hole on its stomach that screeched and screeched with horrible malformed cries, its toothless maw wailing, wailing, wailing. And the doctors, the doctors looked at each other and shook their heads, horrified, and now everybody was going to know what we had done together, everybody was going to know, how could we possibly hide him, hide the baby we had together. And then my stomach dropped out because mom was crying, crying,

like that time dad beat her on the front lawn when I was seven or eight years old, that time he swung and smacked and she cried and screamed as I pounded on the neighbor's door, pounded, pounded for help before the police came and arrested him

and then we were back home cradling the baby, and she was stroking it lovingly despite its horrible visage as she breastfed it from her ample, sagging breasts, and she looked at the baby with a mix of love and fear, because she loved the baby despite how disgusting it was, she loved the baby, and I realized I was now trapped forever, she was now trapped forever, trapped with this incest baby drinking from its grandmother's tit.

-------------

My eyes opened in a panic, and I found myself staring back up at a blue-hued, morning-lit ceiling, silent but for the dull hum of the whirling ceiling fan. For a moment I couldn't discern dream from reality. Sophie... dad... mom? No - I'm not in college anymore, at least, I haven't seen Sophie in years. Dad... dad is across the country. And mom...

Fuck

.

The baby, though. Mom has her tubes tied -

And suddenly the boundary between reality and unreality had sharpened to a wire, and I felt the slightest sensation of relief that nobody actually knew what we had done together.

Nobody except her.

But her crying... I knew she would wake up full of fear and self-loathing.

The tangled wire in my gut tightened sharply around my stomach, and I felt the compulsion to rise. I lifted myself up onto my elbow, swallowing, trembling, watching mom as she slept peacefully next to me. Peaceful for now.