Disclaimer:
The fictional characters herein are both over the age of 18 and free to engage in whatever dubious and highly illegal acts they may.
1.
I followed a conversation in a group chat a couple of weeks ago that disappointed me deeply. The gist of it was that men who put their mothers before their girlfriends were neglectful. For the most part, and I might add that most of the commenters were women, everybody took it lightly and made fun of the subject, either in agreement or in dismissal.
Honestly if anything I was struck by the absurdity and naivety of the presumption. My automatic feelings on the matter were frustration and, dare I say, offence. What kind of person neglects their mother for fear of envy?
What kind of person expects another to forget the sacrifice and loyalty their own devoted mother showed them? The kind who'd throw them in a nursing home and visit them on birthdays and Christmases?
Like; "Thanks for the childhood, mum, but we're done here. Get in the bin!"
It probably goes without saying that that's not somebody I'd trust with my life.
On the thread in question I'd waited for someone to say what I was thinking, and was quite surprised that nobody did, considering that at least half of the audience disagreed. I guess most were just dismissive in avoidance of conflict, which is fair enough on the dullest of days.
I could have just stayed out of it and spectated on this girl being called stupid all day long, but even that seemed unfair. Eventually I just came out and said it as the chat finally began to stall:
"Women used to praise men based on how they loved and honoured their mothers and told each other to avoid men like the plague if they treated their mothers poorly. I don't know when that changed, or why, but it shouldn't have."
Who else but my ex thumbed up my comment and responded, "yep, always treat your mum right," adding a cheeky wink emoji on the end. Not that I virtue signal by habit or try to be a role model to anyone but our daughter. That moment my ex and I shared went down like codeine after so many aches and pains.
At 45 I live the bachelor lifestyle. After the crushing effects of executing the mutual decision of divorce with one of the most important people in my life, and then facing unforeseen redundancy in the process, I took on a mountain of depression. Now I live the simplest life I can, but there's always hope that an opportunity will change things for the better again.
My mother, who is now practically the centre of that simple life (since my daughter Tracy grew up and went in search of herself), is now 62.
She had me too young in a time when single mothers were judged and criticised so unnecessarily, and sometimes to the point of cruelty. Ironic how superiority complexes fluctuate with society's ideals over time.
No matter what any critics might say about that, and about my living situation, etc., nobody can hold a candle to my mother when it comes to love, loyalty, and honour.
Sure, it's not the best thing to try to be your own child's best friend, but we had so little because our own extended family acted like we didn't exist - all because of me, or so I felt growing up.
Mum was definitely not like anyone else's parents, which I started to realise all the more as my teenage years became less confusing and adulthood started to rear its ugly head.
She certainly was never overbearing, and was neither a pushover, She just never had the behavioural filters that everyone with a stick up their arse seemed to possess. Sometimes she was like a law unto herself.
The ex has often said the same of me. I am indeed my mother's son.
2.
I'd just had dinner with mum and taken our trays back to the kitchen. We were sitting idly, digesting a while, watching the evening news, the bay windows of the living room open to allow the summer breeze through. She was wearing a flowery skirt and a strappy white cotton halter, which she always wore really well over her trim but motherly figure.
Honestly, from my exploits, that kind of body on a woman is my favourite. I've secretly fantasised about my mother on and off since I was a teen. I even bedded a couple of motherly figures when I was younger and marriage was still but a "what if?"
I used the opportunity to fuel those fantasies further, which led to the most intense orgasms as they inevitably coaxed me into going sans condom, wanting to feel me unload inside them.
Don't tell me you've never done something similar at least once in your life. You know exactly what I mean. You closed your eyes as you initiated the vinegar strokes, clenched your teeth, imagined her face, and as that woman in your bed wrapped herself around you and clung on for climax, she said what she said and your imagination became as brilliant and as clear as diamond, and you saw in your mind the ultimate taboo come to life.
Anyway, back to the story: My mum's name is Kathleen. She's a cuddly elfish woman with a bubbly personality, probably no less wild or filtered than she was twenty years ago, and as you're probably guessing she's no less unpredictable.
Mum loves her movies - classics, thrillers, comedies, and the more raunchy stuff of late - providing she can sit still long enough. She's well read in spite of her boundless energy and can hold a conversation with anybody. People in her neighbourhood literally only stop to talk to me because they know she's my mum.
Physically mum has aged better than gracefully, I'd say, and what was once golden blonde hair has embraced the prevailing grey. In my eyes she has since gone platinum.
She's always got a tan from working in the garden. She's always active in other ways, which is why I take care to see her as often as I can. I don't want her overdoing it and hurting herself. That worries me sometimes because, not that she's hyperactive, she doesn't know when to stop. I care a lot for her and conscientiously avoid making her feel taken for granted.
Notably we have shared almost everything in life without shame. I know not everybody does with their parents but we were old fashioned and had a very enlightening birds and bees talk.
Eye-opening too actually. Mum ordered me nude magazines by mail as a reward, on the condition that I took to heart her principles on what constituted a strong and healthy relationship - none of which involved treating women like objects and having sex with anyone who paid me the slightest bit of attention.
That birds and bees talk never really ended. Or rather it was rekindled at times over the years, and more recently when I became free and single all over again. Mutual frustrations I guess. Mum obviously missed sex but was happy to share that she enjoyed a lot of modern substitutes.
Still, would any man in his forties count on the day his mother ordered him a fleshlight and a bottle of lube from Amazon so that he could blow off some steam?
Of course I used it. And of course we discussed it. Mum wanted to know how realistic they felt to a man since they were clearly so popular. Through that conversation she came to understand that, obviously, nothing compares to the real thing with a woman who knows what she's got and how to use it.
What I didn't explain to her was the fantasy material I projected onto the back of my eyelids the first time I used the fleshlight she bought me. It was just too temptingly taboo that my own mother bought me a toy to take sexual pleasure from, and came with some dizzying connotations.
3.
Quickly growing bored with the BBC's ever plunging depths of political bias, I reached for the remote and hit the Netflix button. We were sat practically side by side in mum's lush leather recliners facing the TV mounted on the opposite wall. I was looking for something to fill in the void when I became aware of her smoothing her hand over her inner thighs and quietly oohing and aahing.
I could guess she was in some kind of pain, but for a moment it didn't sound that way. I felt a twitch, a very specific kind, located in my pelvic region. It's that twitch a man feels as his libido signals his reproductive equipment that the amygdala recognises the likelihood of sex.
I had to admit to myself that, again, I was frustrated and uncharacteristically responding very easily to what was obviously a false signal, but for crying out loud, this was my mother. I had surprised myself and my instinct thus far was to remain fixated on the TV, but something made me turn my head out of curiosity.
What came next surprised me. "You dog," I thought to myself. "Even for you this is another level of perverted."
My mother had lifted her skirt and was massaging the inside of her own thighs when she told me that she thought she had pulled some muscles doing the gardening. I was hearing her, but I wasn't really paying attention. Did she know or even care that she was giving me a full-frontal of her very pronounced camel toe?
She was wearing thin white cotton knickers. I swear almost every detail of what lay beneath became clearly silhouetted the longer I looked, and for as long as I continued to casually ogle, mum didn't seem to notice.
"I could use a good deep rub later before you go. Doesn't have to be now," she said. Still rubbing her thighs up and down, I was then left dumbfounded as she absent-mindedly ran a hand over her crotch and gave her fat pussy a tentative little rub too.
"Mum, are you aware of what you're doing?" I asked, now staring directly into her eyes. Nothing seemed to register, at least in the following moments, until she started to lower her skirt again, her eyes questioning me with an innocence I couldn't ascertain as either genuine or feigned.
"You really are desperate, you know that?!" I silently admonished myself. "Yep," I agreed, and my immediate instinct was to investigate this further. I was curious as to how unaware she was about her own sudden change in body language, and what else might transpire if...
"I'll give you a good rub now if you like," I offered, rising up to the edge of my seat. "Sooner the better, right?"
With panties still on show, legs spread wide, mum didn't seem to hesitate in the slightest when she assured me almost bashfully that I didn't have to.
"Don't be silly," I replied, "you asked and so I will."
"You're such a good son," she cooed as I got onto my knees and took in the sight of her sat back spread-eagled before me. Unreal.
"Do you want talc or do you have some oil I could use? Your choice."
"Actually there's some painkiller gel in the bathroom cabinet. That'd be helpful," mum suggested and got up to go get it for me. There's never any stopping her, but since I was about to do this for her - aaaaaand for myself, I couldn't lie - I let her go.
Twenty seconds later she was back down the stairs and planting herself back in her seat, but not before hitching up her skirt completely, showing off her curvaceous pins and with a mile-wide grin on her face.
4.
A brief word, if you'll allow me, on a fixation I've always had with my mum. Crows feet and laughter lines, and all that, my mum has the loveliest smile. Unconditional love has always been a two-way street for us, before and after dad died. Even her steely grey eyes contain no coldness, just a depth of untold love that seemed to need no words.
No matter how tired or stressed she ever was, mum always had a smile for me, and it's always made me feel like the centre of her world. It's been a central fixation of my long-enduring fantasies, the thought of that face looking up at me as we take pleasure in each other. Shameful I know, but I'm past justifying what's been on my mind from time to time.
