Election Day was coming, and Mom was busy getting ready for it. We lived in a small rural community, and Mom was always in charge of the elections, so a couple of days beforehand we would go to the small community house and get set up. The community house was nestled in a grove of trees across the street from the elementary school and when we pulled into the parking lot, Meghan's car was already there.
Meghan was Mom's best friend, her assistant voting officer, and the mother of my best friend, John, or M, as I called him. Meghan opened her car door as we drove up and I was so glued to the sight of her legs swinging out of the door to notice John was standing at my door. He knocked on the glass.
"What are you doing, M? Go to sleep or something?" I called him, "M," and he called me the same thing. It was kind of a secret between us, and even though our parents asked where that came from, we'd never tell.
Of course I hadn't gone to sleep. He had to have seen my eyes on his Mother's legs, and we knew each other well enough that I was sure he knew what I was thinking. Seniors in high school, John and I spent a lot of our time together talking about the one thing that is most common in teen-aged boys conversations — pussy. We had a kind of game, where one of us would name a girl or teacher at school, and the other would describe what she would look like naked, and what she would do when one of us fucked her. Of course, the two of us were still virgins, which is why we talked about sex and didn't do anything about it.
I got out of the car and punched him on his arm. "Yeah, I nodded off a little."
Mom and Meghan were at the door of the building, unlocking it, and Mom yelled back at us. "Bring the boxes from the back, boys, and then we'll set up."
John shouted back at her, "We've got it, Linda. Be right in."
Then he whispered to me so our Moms couldn't hear. "God, she looks good in those pants. How do you stand it?"
Yep. We talked about our own Mothers, just as we talked about the girls at school. For a long time we had avoided that, acting as if our Moms were not even female and, even if they were, remained off-limits for our fantasies. That had changed one night a couple of months earlier when John was spending the night at our house. We were in my room playing a video game and Mom had come in to tell us good night. She had on a pair of yoga pants and tee shirt, and was obviously not wearing a bra.
"Good night, boys. Don't stay up too late, and turn the volume down on that thing. You know how the noise bothers your Father when he's trying to sleep."
We mumbled our understanding and she turned to go out of the room. Standing sideways to us in the doorway, she blew a kiss and then closed the door.
John whistled lowly. "Good God, man. Did you see her nipples? I've never seen nipples so hard and standing out like that." Then he paused and looked at me out of the side of his eye. He had just crossed a line, you see, and didn't know how I was going to react. I saw his body tense, preparing for the hell that was to come if he had pissed me off.
"I know, brother. Sometimes she comes in to tell me goodnight with just a tee shirt and panties. I wear myself out every night. Sometimes you can even see her bush through the panties. She has no clue."
That broke the dam. From that point on, our Mothers became the primary characters in about all our mutual fantasies and conversations. We even starting calling each other, "Motherfucker," which would always get a laugh. Of course, you can't call your buddy Motherfucker in every situation, so we finally shorted in to "M." We knew what it meant, and nobody else needed to know.
Like most young men, we wondered if fucking your own Mother was even possible, or if it was just the fevered musings of frustrated guys on message boards. We were experts at every porn site that had mother-son sex, and talked about the actors as if they were Academy Award winners.
But the true stars were always our own Moms. We held nothing back. I knew that Meghan was a true blonde, and John knew that Mom was a legitimate redhead. For my part, I knew that because I had caught Mom getting out the shower once, years ago, and the image was burned into my memory. John knew about Meghan because she was a little more open around him and didn't mind when he barged into her bedroom when she was getting dressed. I guess she never wondered why he seemed to have a burning question every time she was dressing. I had tried that once with Mom, and she flipped out. "What the hell are you doing," she whispered through gritted teeth. "Don't you knock?" I didn't try that again.
But back to the present. I looked where John was looking — Mom's ass as she walked in the door — and sighed. "Yeah. That is a sweet ass, for sure, but Meghan's is just as good, and you know it."
We laughed together, then went to the trunk to unload the ballot boxes and carry them in. When we walked into the large room that was the polling place, Meghan whistled. "Look at the muscles on our boys, Linda. It took two of us to lift those boxes."
Mom was busy setting up the tables, and barely looked up. "That's because they're not boys anymore, Meg. They've grown up." She looked first to John, then to me. "They've become fine men, and we're not going to have them much longer. I don't know who will help us when they go away to college."
"Maybe you can get Bill Packer to do it," Meghan said, and then laughed.
Mom threw a pencil at her, and then laughed herself. "No chance of that, my young friend." Bill Packer was the school football coach, and his lust for my Mom was pretty obvious. Hell, his lust for about all the team moms was obvious. He was a known horndog, and we wondered just how much pussy he got. The way he stared at the cheerleaders made us all wonder just when he would get fired, but so far he had not. Lecher or not, he was a good football coach, and we just hoped he didn't get fired before he took us to the state championship.
After the tables were set up, Mom and Meghan hung the skirt around the tables. John and I had asked, once, what the skirt was for and Meghan had said, "So that people will concentrate on voting and not on your Mom's legs." That made sense, because the individual voting booths were facing the tables. The process was that each voter would enter the room, go to the registration table where Mom and Meghan would check their name against the large book that included all registered voters. The voter would receive a ballot, go to an empty booth to vote, then deposit the ballot in a slotted and locked ballot box at either end of the registration table. Smooth and seamless, it was a process that had been the same for years.
When we were kids, John and I would play with our trucks in the corner. Those were some of my favorite memories, as each resident would file in, talk with our Moms, and then do their civic duty. John and I would see many of the parents of our friends, and we'd feel important because our Mothers were in charge. But as election security became more strict, the rules changed and absolutely no one was allowed into the polling place except the staff - our Moms - and the voters. No one was allowed to just hang around inside, and that included John and me. Mom was always a stickler for rules. I'm sure she could have worked around it — we were their kids, after all — but she wouldn't even consider it.
Until John and I got old enough to be on our own, Mom and Meghan would hire a babysitter for us for the time when we got out of school until they got home. Depending on the importance of the election and the number of people who voted, that could be late. After the polls closed at 7:00 PM, Mom and Meghan would carry the loaded boxes to Mom's car, drive them to the county seat, and wait until the boxes were officially opened and the votes tallied. Sometimes it would be one or two in the morning before they got home.
