Catalyst

It was my friend Samantha who planted the seed in my head.

She was visiting me one Saturday morning and as usual we were sitting on my balcony, drinking coffee and gossiping, when my son called from the backyard. I looked down to see what he wanted and Samantha got up from her chair and went to the edge of the balcony to look at him with me. He was about to mow the lawn and wanted to know if it would be okay with us if he started the lawnmower or would the noise disturb us. I told him to carry on and turned my attention towards Samantha.

She was still looking at him. I waited for her to come back to her chair before we could resume our conversation. She didn’t budge. She continued standing there looking down at my son as I heard the lawnmower start and come to a steady level of noise. I became curious—and a bit startled at the same time. I didn’t like the way she was so engrossed and I definitely didn’t like the simper on her lips. Knowing that her attention was on my son, I became a bit protective. My voice must have betrayed that protectiveness when I said, “Come, Samantha. Sit down, enough already.”

She looked at me rather coyly and said, “Come here, I want to ask you something.”

Reluctantly I got up and stood next to her. My son was pushing the lawnmower effortlessly from one end to the other. He had taken his T-shirt off and there were streaks of perspiration running down his back and his stomach. His hair were wet at the base and combed back, probably with his hands, as drops ran down onto his neck.

“What?” I asked.

“That,” She pointed at my son. “Don’t you just want to maul that body?”

I slapped her on the side of her arm, “Watch it, now. He is my son.”

“Yes, I know, but don’t you ever get tempted to teach him a thing or two that he normally wouldn’t learn in college.”

“You have no shame,” I laughed, “no shame at all.”

She turned towards me, grabbed my hands and said, “No, I am serious. I mean, don’t you ever just want to sneak into his bed at night and have your way with him.” She looked very serious indeed and that worried me.

“No, I don’t.” I pulled my hands out of hers and pushed her towards her chair. “Now, stop that nonsense.”

“Well, if you don’t, then can I?” She laughed. “Just let me in one night and point his room out to me. I’ll take it from there.”

I laughed with her, relieved that it probably was just a joke. “I don’t think he can handle you.”

She broke down, “I am so frustrated. I am sorry about what I said.”

“It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.” I comforted her, knowing full well what she meant.

When she left, I got up with her and walked her out to her car. Her words were still ringing in my ears when I came back to the balcony to clear up. As I gathered the dishes, I unconsciously looked down onto the backyard again. He had finished mowing the lawn and was now busy weeding. I watched for a split second as his shoulder blades showed pushing and pulling movement as the little hand shovel dug into the soft soil. I then jerked my head to clear her words out and quickly took the dishes down to the kitchen.

As I stood at the sink washing them, I looked up and found myself looking at my son again through the window. He had finished weeding and was now watering the flower beds. It looked like he had intentionally splashed some water onto his body. There were streaks of water on his arms, stomach and chest. There were drops of mist on his face and hair. Normally I would have just smiled at his playfulness, but today I felt somewhat uncomfortable, even guilty. I couldn’t help but remember Sam’s engrossed look as I saw a drop or two hanging on his lips. Two things came to mind quickly: One, why was he using the hose when we had sprinklers, and two, why was I washing dishes by hand when we had a dishwasher. I quickly left the kitchen and went to my bedroom, cursing Samantha under my breath for putting her thoughts into my head.

Around four or so in the evening, as I was trying to get through a ton of laundry, he came to the garage and said, “I am going out, mom.”

As I saw him standing in the doorway, dressed in slacks and shirt, wearing dress shoes, hair combed with a part on one side, and a tuft of hair hanging on his forehead nuzzling his right eyebrow, I understood for the first time what Samantha was talking about.

“Have fun, honey.” I tried to be as nonchalant as possible as I turned my attention immediately to the washing machine. I was unable to look him in the eyes for some reason.

When I heard the front door shut close, I ran to the garage door. There was a stepladder next to the tools counter. I quickly grabbed it and used it to look through one of the glass panes on top of the door. His car was parked across the road to keep it safe from the lawnmower. He took long and confident steps as he walked towards it. I saw him press the remote to unlock the car. I saw him open the door and swing his head from left to right to look around before getting into the car. That tuft of hair swung in the opposite direction. The movement of his head was so sensuous that something snapped inside of me, or maybe something came right, I don’t know, but I almost slapped myself for the thoughts that were now echoing Samantha’s words.

He was big and strong and looked like a man. I felt warm around my neck and my heart skipped a beat or two as I realized that my reaction was so foreign, yet so vaguely familiar. I felt ashamed at the sweet pain that had suddenly started to emanated from my heart. My legs felt weak at the realization that a certain part of my being hadn’t died those many years ago; instead it was alive and well and able to kick-start at the slightest nostalgic provocation.

It was my son—for God’s sake—that was the catalyst to bring those feelings out that I had buried deep within my frozen self, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Sam, although her contribution was minute compared to the outcome. As I stepped down, I was feeling guilty, again, and very ashamed. I took a few deep breaths to calm down and quickly came back to the machine to get my mind off the subject.

My heart skipped another beat when the first thing I took out of the basket turned out to be my son’s briefs. I had touched his underwear many times in the past, but this time I felt warm all over as I felt the fabric in my hand. I felt weird at the realization that I was holding something that had been so intimate with my son, well, actually with that man that had caused such a sweet reaction in me. This time I cursed myself, and I cursed aloud. Why the hell was I reacting like a school girl and why was my reaction so strong, so quickly? I had no answer.

I struggled to force my hand to put that garment in the machine. Instead my hand brought it closer to my face. The shame became unbearable as I stretched my hand on the inside and felt the place where his penis must have rested and took a strong, deep inhalation of the hormones still present in the fabric. It felt nice and arousing and erotic and overwhelming and hugely shameful. I quickly threw the briefs towards the washing machine and ran inside the house.

The shame, the guilt, and yes, the excitement stayed with me throughout the evening and throughout the weekend. I stayed out of his way as I tried to get Samantha’s voice out of my head. I had cursed her repeatedly throughout the weekend for the great injustice she had done me. She had changed my son into a man. She had changed me into a woman, instead of a mom. She had taken away the shield that had kept him an innocent little boy in my eyes. She had replaced my son with an attractive, young college boy, whose mere thought made my legs weak and my vagina moist.

That last thought was the scariest. I hadn’t felt like that since I was a teenager. In such a brief moment, I was reliving one of my fondest memories, and it was a lot more painful to admit that my son had the qualities that only a man of my dreams possessed. That fucking bitch! I wanted to choke her.

It took me a week to come to terms with my reaction. I failed to completely shake things out of my system though, but at least I gained control over my emotions. I was able to be in my son’s presence without feeling flustered. He noticed my situation, but he didn’t know what the real problem was. He asked me a few times if I was okay and I had left it by saying only that I wasn’t feeling well.

Next Saturday morning, as I lay in my bedroom, listening to the steady roar of the lawnmower and daring not to go outside, a question came to my mind. It was involuntary, as I was trying very hard to keep myself occupied with other things, but it was a question that I felt I wanted to have answered. Somehow, something brought the following question to mind: Is it possible that my son feels the same way about me? My psyche was in such turmoil that while it was busy trying to dislodge Samantha’s thoughts from my head, it was at the same time exploring possibilities of actually carrying her suggestion out.

I gasped as I realized the possibility. I mean, there I was, excited over my son. Was it possible that a healthy, strong, virile young man like him would reciprocate my feelings and find me exciting as well? I couldn’t contain myself thinking what if it was possible. I mean, the implications of my thoughts were immense. If possible, it would mean that I was still able to excite a man like him. My self-esteem prayed for that to be true while my loins sent currents to my breasts and my brain. There was a tiny voice that suggested that may be it wasn’t possible but my wet vagina somehow drowned that voice out very quickly. My erect nipples prodded my imagination to explore such a possibility even further and made it to consider the actions that would take place given that he felt the same way as I did and we connected, we copulated, we joined as one. Oh, the shivers that ran up my spine with those thoughts! I couldn’t stop my legs from spreading as I imagined the copulation taking place, what with my knees against my breasts, my feet resting on his back, and he firmly pressed inside…whoa, I had to stop myself from going any further and forced my hand away from my pussy.

No, I said to myself. It is not possible. Why not? I asked myself. What’s wrong with me that a man with hormones spilling out of his loins wouldn’t find me a sexual being? Is it possible that he had sexual fantasies about me? What if he did? My legs weekend and I squirmed in my bed in despair trying to shut my brain from thinking. It wasn’t doing me any good.

But the seed grew. I had to accept the fact that I was sexually aroused by my son—thanks to that bitch Samantha. What I wanted to know was if he found me sexually arousing as well. It would only be fair if he did, not to mention that it would be a big boost to my ego, which I probably needed as badly as Sam did.

Only problem with that question was that I didn’t know of a way to find out the answer. I mean, yes, I could ask him directly, but imagine his reaction if his own mother were to approach him to find out if he was sexually excited by her. I had to get real. Instead, I had to see if he showed the slightest interest in me by getting him to give me the smallest possible hint of interest. I didn’t know at that time what such a hint would be, but I knew that if he gave any—a glance, a stare, a touch, or even a gleam in his eyes—I would know. I had to know. I wanted to know. I wanted it to be there. Oh, how I hoped it was there!

I first tried to just look into his eyes and see if he would betray some interest. I found none. I only spotted the look a son gives his mother. I then started to wear some revealing clothes, to put some makeup on, to splash some provocative perfume on, and even ask him how I looked in each new dress or hairdo. His response was always, “You look great, mom.”

In the end I just gave up. I could only go so far without alarming him that his mother was behaving like a loon. I was so desperate to get some validation of my womanhood that I had put aside all shame and guilt, only to fail in the end and be left empty handed.

I shed quite a few tears for myself; collected my broken ego; repented my deed; and decided to move on with my empty life. By then I was able to control my emotions towards him and somehow, unintentionally, he had put an end to my sorry state of being by rejecting me without even knowing that it was happening. I actually hated myself for being the way I was and I hated Samantha for getting me there.

Then came that momentous evening.

I was getting ready to go out to a movie with Sam, when I realized that I had left the stove on. I rushed down to the kitchen to turn it off before the food I had prepared for my son and his father [yes, there is a father, don’t ask] got burnt. Thankfully, everything was okay, so I took the pot off the stove and went back to my room to finish getting ready.

As I was climbing the stairs I heard my son yell, “Mom, there are men present in the house.”

“Sorry, son,” I replied and rushed into my bedroom. Only after I was standing in front of the mirror did I realize what had just happened. I had rushed down to the kitchen in my bra and panties. When I realized that my state of undress had actually solicited a response from my son, the kind of response that I had ached to get before, I felt this immense joy. It was an incredible feeling to know that I had succeeded in getting that hint, meagre as it may be. One huge smile spread across my face as I looked at my figure in the mirror, as I observed my breasts oozing out of my bra, as I saw my pubic hair coming through the lace of my panties and as I discovered that my lips were quite visible underneath the see-through material. I gave a muffled scream—a scream of joy.

“So, this is how far I had to go to get that elusive validation,” I exclaimed to myself.

Actually I didn’t know if his response really meant anything, because he could simply be offended by my look; although, I found it very difficult that I could offend him so easily. I believed what I wanted to believe; and I wanted to believe that my son didn’t want to see me so naked because it was having an abnormal effect on him, the kind he is not supposed to have.

Well, well, well! May be he did find me sexually…something. I felt my chest fill with pride as I felt all gloom lift from my spirit. It took so little to invigorate me so much. I was happy to know that I was able to attract a man as exciting as my son, a man who could be classified as a man of my dreams.

I came down wearing my black skirt, red blouse, and matching red high heels. I stood in front of him, grinning from ear to ear, excitement turning me all red, posing like a beauty pageant contestant, and asked him, “Is this better?”

“Much better.”

I left, giddy as a school girl. Samantha was shocked to see me so cheerful but I couldn’t tell her the reason behind my being so happy. So I told her I was happy to be out of the house and with her, which she understood because she could identify with it.

I came home late. The whole house was dark as everyone was sleeping. I wasn’t sleepy, though. I actually wanted to see him before going to bed, but I didn’t want to go to his room in case he was still awake. I had no reason for being there. I didn’t want to go to my room either. I just wanted to revel in the knowledge that I had—finally—gotten a response from my potent, handsome young man just from the way I looked, the way my body looked. A thought in the back of my mind said that may be I was reading too much into things, but that thought was quickly and easily crushed.

I took my shoes off and kicked them under the stairs. I didn’t even notice the noise my action made because my mind was somewhere else. I removed my blouse and skirt and hung them on the banister. I then moved to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. After turning the lights on, I stood in front of the fridge reliving in my mind the moment he saw me dressed so scantily. I wished I had seen his face, only if to verify what was going through his mind. I was feeling good about myself. I was feeling good about my thoughts of him. I didn’t feel guilt or shame about my sexual arousal, and yes, I was aroused, very much so.

I moved from the fridge to the coffee maker. I poured some water into the coffee maker and leaned against the counter as I waited for it to finish making coffee. I was so lost in my own world that I didn’t even realize when all the water had dripped through. I was busy wondering how my son would react if he saw me again undressed the way I was at that very moment. I even contemplated taking the last two pieces off to experience total lack of inhibition.

I didn’t have to wonder for long. He actually showed up.

I heard his door creak a little, followed by his soft footsteps. I straightened myself up a little and braced myself for his entry. My legs were feeling very weak but my butt was being supported by the edge of the counter, so I was able to keep myself from collapsing. I had my hands folded just below my breasts. I quickly dropped them to my sides. I didn’t want any part of the view to be obstructed.

He covered his eyes as he saw me standing there almost nude. “Mom,” he protested. “You shouldn’t be standing around dressed like that.”

“Why not?” I was belligerent, “This is my house.” I was also stirred.

“Yes, but I am your son. I shouldn’t see you like this.”

“Like what? There is nothing here you haven’t seen before.”

He moved his hand away from his eyes and gave me a full look. A solid, piercing look, where I knew he took in the full view. My heart jumped with joy. I felt my pussy liquefying. I had goose bumps all over and they were so strong they were visible from a distance.

“I guess you are right, mom. I am sorry.” He backed off but not before giving me another good and hearty look.

“You want some coffee?” I asked.

“Yeah, may be a cup.”

He went to the TV room and I heard the noise start from one of the channels. I made two cups and took them to where he was. I sat next to him on the sofa and we both drank our coffees in silence.

I sat there for a while longer. He didn’t say anything. He simply kept flipping through the channels. I finally decided to go up. I had my fill of the day and I wanted to get into bed and may be dream about things a little.

I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away from him. I turned to look at him when I was at the base of the stairs. He had diverted his attention to the TV again. I put my right foot on the second step and rested my right hand, palm down, on my thigh. I held that pose for a while and waited for him to look. He didn’t and soon I realized that he was actually trying very hard to avoid looking at me. I knew why, and once again I felt flattered beyond belief. I was very wet by then.

I finally had to call his name to draw his attention to me.

“Yes, mom.”

He looked at me and tried to seem casual. I knew he wasn’t because I could see his eyes moving from my face to my breasts to my stomach, pause at my pubic area, down my legs, onto my feet and beyond, until finally he focused them on the floor just in front of me. He was trying not to check me out; but had done just that in that one glance.

I held my breath as my heart pounded my chest from within and asked in a very shaky voice, “Does this excite you?”

He looked up at me and held his gaze on my breasts. “No,” he replied.

“Well, if it doesn’t excite you then what is the problem?” I tried to control my erratic breathing by taking a few quick gasps. I couldn’t believe how hot my body was. I couldn’t believe how horny I was.

“I think it is just wrong.”

My heart was beating so fast that I could practically hear it. I stumbled through my next sentences, “In that case…I’ll make…you a deal…I won’t…come in front…of you like…this…if…you don’t…come…in…front of me…shirtless.”