Experience Counts

"How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live."

(Henry David Thoreau)

A writer, that's what I'd be! A high school graduate majoring in English, what else was there to do? True I'd only just scraped through with a low pass mark, but I've heard of guys who had a lousy school career, like Einstein and Winston Churchill who did all right eventually.

So I settled myself in front of the computer.

What should I write; A romance, a historical novel, a detective story?

Two hours later I was still mulling this over, and then I decided I'd better start with something a bit easier; something erotic that hopefully would be popular. I would go for incest/taboo; that always goes down well with the public.

Inspiration at last! My fingers were ready to fly over the keys.

"Tall handsome David gazed down at his mother's lovely naked body..."

Five hours later and all I'd got was, "Tall handsome David, gazed down at his mother's lovely naked body..."

3 a.m. eleven words and I'd already got writer's block. A great start for a writer of genius. Never mind; tomorrow would bring fresh inspiration. It was time to get to bed, especially as mother, on her way to the toilet, had just stuck her head round the door and said, "You still at it? Now turn that thing off and get to bed or I'll turn it off for you."

* * * * * * * *

The morning brought fresh inspiration indeed. At 11 a.m. I settled once more before the computer, fingers itching to type. It was a bit of a late start because I hadn't woken up until 10 a.m.

My digits flew across the keys and by 5 p.m. I had written, "Tall handsome David, gazed down at his mother's lovely naked body, his huge penis hardening."

Just as well I was using a computer because if I'd been using paper the floor would have been smothered with rejects.

It was all there, I knew it was; all lurking inside my head, but it just wouldn't come out. A break was called for. I was going out with Joe my best mate that evening so I had to call a halt anyway.

Joe is quite a character; like me he's an up and coming genius, although his intended forte was designing labels for sauce bottles.

Without going into details about the plot of my story I laid my problem before him.

"Aha, writers block," he said solemnly. "Now Paul my old buddy," he went on, slapping on the back, "let us consider the situation. As a first time writer you need to write out of your own experience. Now tell me, have you actually experienced what you're writing about?"

"Well...I...er..."

With his usual ebullience he didn't wait for me to finish.

"Now take me," he continued, "I have experienced my intended field of activity. I have studied sauce bottle labels in great depth; I have steamed them off and felt them; I have even chewed and swallowed them. In short, I have sacrificed my self to my genius. I know my subject. Experience my boy, experience, that's what's needed."

"You mean that whatever subject I choose to write about I've got to..."

"Exactly old boy," he interrupted again. "But I should add that if direct experience is out of the question, then research. Read up on the topic, find out what you can. Now I'm sorry to depart from you so early, but mum has just bought a new brand of sauce, and I really must go home and make a study of its label."

He turned to leave me and then turning back again he asked, "Do you happen to know if they have a degree course in sauce bottle labels at the university?"

"I shouldn't think so, not in Australian universities. One of those places they call "Colleges" in the USA might have a course. They study all sorts of weird things there."

He looked slightly offended that I'd suggested that his field of study might be weird, but he went off muttering, "I might try the technical institutes."

* * * * * * * *

Experience...research; he was quite right; but could I experience...no that was out of the question. Then I remembered that I'd actually done some research.

Now if I tell you it happened inadvertently I know you're going to sneer and say, "Oh yeah, and donkeys might take to submarining." Nevertheless, I swear it's the truth.

I once saw mother waxing herself to remove her pubic hair. I'd come home when she wasn't expecting me, and she was sitting in the kitchen humming to herself and waxing enthusiastically. I suppose it was for Stanley's benefit – he was her current lover. Come to think of it, he'd been current for a couple of years, but he hadn't come calling lately as far as I knew.

Mother was so engrossed in her task she didn't notice me arriving, and so I removed myself from the kitchen but stayed watching through a crack in the door that I hadn't quite closed; prurient no doubt, but fascinating.

I had a lovely view of her plump quim and I thought it looked good enough to eat. It actually got me horny. When she finished waxing she started to stroke herself, and then a couple of finger disappeared into her vagina, to reappear and then disappear at regular intervals.

She was still humming, but it took on another rhythm as she pleasured herself; a sort of "Mmmm....mmmm....ah...ah...mmmm...oh...mmmm...oh Jesus...eeeow..."

I suppose that might constitute research, but I wondered how I might incorporate it into the story.

* * * * * * * *

After Joe left me to carry out his research I made my way home thoughtfully. Perhaps dimensions were the thing to start with. Readers of erotica usually like to have some idea of the breast size and that sort of stuff, so I started there.

When I got home mother was sitting in the lounge watching television. I crept quietly into the laundry and started to search through the waiting soiled objects.

Towards the bottom of the pile I found what I was looking for, and sure enough, there was the little label – not a sauce bottle label - attached to a pair of mum's bras. 36C it proclaimed, "Wash in lukewarm water only." That was a good start. There was also a pair of mother's panties, very skimpy and sexy – I suppose she'd bought those for Stanley's benefit as well."

Mother's voice behind me asked, "What are you looking for?"

"I...I...er...shirt...pocket, put a five dollar note in and..."

I was still holding the bras so I hastily dropped them back with the other items.

"You haven't put a shirt in the wash."

"Oh...yes...no...bedroom...must be in bedroom; idiot aren't I."

"So what's new?" mother said, as I removed myself hastily from the laundry and headed for the computer.

I'd got it; the whole story was now spread out before me. I hurled myself upon the keyboard and started to type.

Four hours later I sat back to survey my achievement; "Tall handsome David, gazed down at his mother's lovely naked body, his huge penis hardening as his dark brown eyes took in her 36C breasts..."

What the hell came next?

Joe's advice came to mind. "Research" he had said, so further research it had to be.

* * * * * * * *

Now until the occasion of mother's waxing I'd never really taken stock of her physical assets, and after all, that had only been a limited, although pleasant, view of her anatomy.

Like a lot of kids for me she had just been mother, the provider of food and money, the cleaner of the house and the washer of washing, etc. I would really have to take a more all-embracing look at her.

In general I supposed she must be okay, depending on your taste. Since dad got chucked out for screwing the woman next door there had been three lovers. I can't remember the name of the first one, but what I do remember was that he privately asked me to call him "Uncle." When I asked mum later if I should call him that she said firmly, "You call him that and there'll be no television for a fortnight."

After that he only lasted a couple more weeks. He was followed by Bernard. I liked Bernard; he always brought me chocolate and gave me ten dollars to go out and play. Yes, Bernard was very profitable. He lasted about four years.

Most recently there had been Stanley and by his time I'd grown up sufficiently to conjecture why these changes in sex partners. None of them actually ever lived with us, they just came calling and sometimes remained overnight, but that was all. I think the real trouble was, these men wanted to move in, and perhaps even marry mother.

Now I've learned recently that mother was too wary to take on another man since she'd been so hurt by dad's behaviour, and as she has told me, she didn't want me to have a stepfather; "Too many conflicts with that sort of thing," she said.

* * * * * * * *

Having decided in a general sort of way that mum must look okay I went on to closer research.

This involved looking at her in minute detail. That can be difficult if the subject for investigation often wears jeans and a shirt and never appears in a bikini or panties and bras like they do in a lot of erotic stories. I mean, clothes can cover many flaws that lie beneath them.

It can also be difficult in this situation if the subject under investigation catches you looking at them too intently. This happened several times when mother snapped, "What are you staring at?"

I'd noticed she'd got increasingly irritable since Stanley had dropped out of her life.

I had to make up something quickly to account for my staring; something like, "Oh, I was just fascinated by the intricate pattern of your shirt."

Invariably mother came back with, "It hasn't got an intricate pattern."

She was quite right of course, but I had to say something.

However, after several days of mother watching I concluded as follows: she is buxom but not flabby fat; has sturdy but well shaped legs with slender ankles; her face is not exactly pretty, but pleasantly round with rather nice lips, the bottom one protrudes very slightly and always looks slightly moist. Her hair is somewhere between red and gold and is shoulder length, and she obviously takes some pride in it because it always looks very shiny and neat.

I had already determined her breast size but of course, you can't be sure what the flesh and blood reality looks like. Observation of this proved to be tricky since I never actually saw them completely exposed.

I did however have the benefit of breakfast time. I suppose that doesn't make much sense to you so I'd better briefly explain. Mother had a habit of coming in for breakfast still wearing her nightdress. Her nightdresses tended to be of fragile construction and through the cobweb-like material I was able to see that her bosom was quite firm and shapely. I got to quite like seeing her breasts rise and fall as she breathed.

I think this nightdress wearing at breakfast had to do with her lovers. I had only vague memories of breakfast time when father had been around, so I couldn't recall whether she wore such seductive nighties at that time, but I think not.

I imagine that the general idea was that when one of the lovers stayed overnight she was hoping that by appearing in her seductive nightdress he might find time to haul her back to bed and give a happy start to her day. That of course did not account for why she wore this flimsy garb when no lover was around; habit I supposed.

Joe had proved to be right, research was the thing. By the end of a month I'd advanced considerably with the story.

"Tall handsome David gazed down at his mother's lovely naked body, his huge penis hardening as his dark brown eyes took in her 36C breasts. He bent over her to kiss her warm moist lips, and her buxom but shapely body was quivering with anticipation as she parted her legs to receive him..."

You don't think that's much? Well it was fifty three words which was a considerable advance on the eleven I started with. But you're no doubt right; I was only making slow headway.

What to do? I didn't think it was any use resorting to Joe again, he'd only tell me what he'd said before. I did ask Annie my latest girl friend, but I suppose I chose an inopportune moment. I'd just come in her and she was climbing down from her orgasm when I asked, "What do you think it would be like for a guy to have sex with his mother?"

Her eyes widened, her post climax tremors came to a sudden halt, and she screamed, "You filthy beast," and pushing me off her and hastily pulling up her knickers, she fled. As far as she's concerned I've been persona non grata with her ever since.

* * * * * * * *

Let's face it, as a writer of erotic fiction I was a flop. I suspected I was destined to be a flop with any literature. It was very depressing.

Sometimes Fortuna, the goddess of luck, throws something your way. In the midst of my despair and sitting despondently in front of the computer one evening, I had just decided to give up my career as a writer when the goddess came across.

A voice behind me said, "You've been sitting in front of that computer all day, every day, for weeks, what the hell are you doing?"

Mother! There was no time to turn off the screen which had my story – if such it could be called – on it.

Mother leaned across me to take a look, her breast brushing against my cheek. That felt very nice, and there was a tingling sensation in my groin.

It took her only a matter of seconds to read what I had written, and having done so she let out a groan of disgust and said, "Is that all you've written?"

"Yes...I..."

"All this time and you haven't even finished one paragraph, what's the matter with you?"

I'd expected her to castigate me for the subject I had chosen to write about, but instead she only seemed concerned about the amount I had written, or more accurately, what I hadn't written.

"I've done all the research I can," I protested weakly, "but I don't seem to be able to get it down."

"That, my dear Paul, is patently obvious...hey, where have you been doing your research?

She stood staring at me intently.

"Well...I...er...I've been..."

"Me! You've been doing your research with me," she said a bit more enthusiastically than I'd have anticipated.

"Yes, I mean, you're the only mother I've got and you've seen the story so..."

"Yes, I've got the gist of it, what there is. So you've done your research, what's the hold up, illiteracy?"

"No," I replied somewhat offended at her suggestion that I was analphabetic, couldn't she remember that I'd got a pass in English as high school?"

"What then?" she asked, as if daring me to give the answer that she already knew I must give if I answered at all.

I ducked round her question and said, "I suppose I'd better give up on the story, I just don't have the experience to write something like that. Joe said that you need..."

"Joe, what does he know about it?"

"Well he is going to major in sauce bottle labels," I replied, "and he told me that I shouldn't write about things I've never experienced."

"Well for once he's right," mother said somewhat patronisingly. "You'd better give up that story; write about someone sitting in front of a computer all day for weeks who can't write a story, you've had plenty of experience of that."

With that she left me sitting in front of that infernal machine more despondent than ever.

Then in a sudden fit of pique I snarled at the computer, "I'll show you whose boss," and I selected the text and pressed the delate button.

"Are you sure you want to...."

"Yes, yes, yes, I bloody well am sure."

I went to the desk top and there it was, glowering at me malevolently from the recycle bin. Would I never be rid of this vile object of my shame?

Right click, empty, "are you..." Yes, I am." Click, gone; what a relief; it would no longer rise up to haunt my days and nights.

Not haunt me! Flung into that great cyberspace rubbish tip it haunted me more than ever. My great potential opus gone for all eternity, and the great mass of readers to be forever denied my genius.

This was the Valley of the Shadow, the dark night of the soul. I wept, I wailed, I tried to get it back on the computer, but too late. The darkest of depressions descended upon me.

"What's the matter with you misery guts?" mother asked over breakfast. "You look as if you've lost a million dollars and found ten cents."

I glanced at her breasts as they trembled seductively beneath the gossamer thinness of her nightdress. In my despair not even that could arouse me.

"Nothing," I replied resentfully, as if it had been mother who'd put the kibosh on my creative art, which in a way she had.

"Can't stop to talk now," she said, "I've got to get to work. And by the way, weren't you supposed to be looking for a job to help out with the money?"

"I'll go down to the fast food outlet today," I said sullenly, "and see if they want any part time staff."

"Yes, you and ten thousand other students trying to make a dollar before they start university," she said.

Ha, ha, I foiled her cynicism. I got a job in a back street shop that should have been called, "TFC," "Terrible Fried Chicken." It wasn't called that; it was "CFC," "Cheap Fried Chicken," and that about all it was. The local populace came crowding in, not caring that round the corner was the place that advertised secret spices and herbs.

I had little doubt that the local GPs did a roaring trade in curing digestive problems.

* * * * * * * *

I'd been staggering home each night, my wrists aching from taking the dyspeptic customers money. It was the fifth night after I'd started this job when I reeled in set on having a shower to try and relieve the strain of so much financial dealing.

I finished the shower and dried myself, and was making my way to the blessed haven of my bedroom, when I was summoned.

I was passing mother's bedroom and the door was partially open.

"Paul," she called out imperiously, "come in here."

"What now," I thought, "what new shortcoming was she about to level at me?"

I entered the sanctum in which so many nights of groans and screams had taken place.

Wearing her nightdress mother was seated on one of those upholstered stools in front of the dressing table brushing her hair. It was one of those long two-seater stools and she patted the space beside her and said, "Come and sit down, I want to talk to you."

I sat, and as she continued brushing her hair she said, "That story of yours."

"I've deleted it."

"That's a pity."

"It was hopeless."

"No," she said reflectively, "it wasn't too bad as far as it went, but you started in the wrong place."

"Wrong place?"

"Yes, there was no lead up."

"Lead up?"

"Paul do stop repeating my words."

"Sorry, but what lead up?"

"Well, how did he come to be looking down at her naked body, and why was she laying there naked? There has to be a reason; things had to happen before you get to that bit. Why would a mother be lying there naked in front of her son?"

"I suppose...I don't know. Why would she?"

"There might be a number of reasons."

"Like what?"

"Oh, she might be trying to protect him."

"Protect him! I don't understand."

Mother sighed and said, "She might think it would be better for him to have sex with her instead of other women in case he slipped up and found himself having to marry a girl because he'd made her pregnant, or having to pay a paternity allowance."

I remembered the jolt Hilda had given me when she told me she was pregnant. Fortunately it had proved to be a false alarm.

"Or she might be thinking of all the nasty diseases her son might pick up with those girls," mother continued. "Then again she might just want to keep her son happy and contented; young men often get irascible if they're sexual frustrated, so she'd be making him easier to live with."

She paused for a moment deep in thought, and the went on, "Of course she might not have a man in her life and she's sexually frustrated herself, and all the time she's got her son living with her, a potent young man."