My mother had always been my ideal woman, matronly, with auburn hair and big brown eyes, a bit on the stout side but curvy. As women liked to say, she carried her weight well. As she aged she only became sexier as she put on more weight in all the right places. I don't know what she saw in my father except that he had a decent job and could provide for her. But what drew me most to her was her smell, that unmistakable heady mixture of lavender, sweat and a deep mustiness that came from her loins. To see her in a tight pair of jeans with heels, pearls and a form fitting sweater was to die for. I doubt she knew she was creating the prototype of my ideal woman, one that all other women would fail to meet. In a way, unwittingly or not, she ruined me for other women. I would never meet anyone like her.
She was a throwback to a 1950s housewife. She liked to cook, bake, clean and take care of the house. She always looked her best, not a hair out of place, even when she was vacuuming. She always had dinner ready for Dad when he came home along with his paper and a glass of Scotch. One night when I was 19 I walked past her bedroom. She was getting ready to go out to an evening with Dad. She was walking around her bedroom in heels, garters, pantyhose, bra and panties. I'll never forget that image. It was the sexiest thing I had ever seen, her black lace panties through which I could barely make out her mound and her black lace bra which strained under the heft of her breasts, the quarter-sized light brown aureolas and thick nipples visible through the fabric. After Mom and Dad left for the evening, I walked into their bedroom. My head went dizzy with the lingering smell of my mother. Everything about her bedroom was sexual, from the soft ample bedding to the bottle of perfume that stood on her nightstand. I opened one of her drawers and plunged my hand into the soft silky folds of her lingerie and underwear. I wasn't bold enough to steal anything. I knew she would notice something like that, but she couldn't deprive me of her scent. I waited up until Mom and Dad came home, giddy with alcohol, laughing and stomping up the stairs to their room where they slammed the door shut. I pulled the sheets up to my chin and pretend to sleep but could only listen.
I wasn't interested in girls my age. They paled in comparison next to my mom. Perhaps the only woman who came close was my ninth grade English teacher Ms. Stacy who, curvy, matronly and solicitous, reminded me of mom but was a poor substitute. Other than her the only woman I thought and fantasized about was Mom.
I thought I would grew out of it, that it was only a passing phase a lot of boys went through, but as I got older my desire for her only intensified. If she knew about my attraction, she never let on. If anything she encouraged it by what she wore and by frequently hugging me and pecking me on the lips. Every time she did I was afraid she would become aware of the bulge in my jeans which I did everything in vain to hide
Not surprisingly, the only porn I was interested in featured younger men and women old enough to be their moms. But I wasn't into the plastic silicone enhanced milfs. Rather, I preferred amateur videos which featured real looking women which I found so much sexier. I tried dating older women. I even met a woman who liked mother/son roleplay. We dated a while but something was lacking from the relationship, a closeness and intimacy that I only enjoyed with Mom.
After college I did what any unemployed young man did. I moved back home. Dad had a new job that required a lot of travel and gone most of the time. That left me and mom. It was like old times again. Mom looked forward to making dinner and she always dressed up for it. For that reason, I never missed dinner at home with her. One night mom asked me what I was going to do with my life.
I said I didn't know.
"You need direction," she said.
"I need the love of a good woman," I smiled.
"That helps too," she said.
Being the fifties housewife she was, she refused to let men do any of the cooking and cleaning in the house and always cleared away the dinner plates. I sat in my chair after a full meal. I heard mom humming in the kitchen. I stood in the doorway and watched her wash dishes at the sink, her behind jiggling as she scrubbed. I don't know if she knew I was staring. She was wearing yellow rubber gloves and standing in high heels. She wore them even at home. I wanted nothing more than to come up behind her and kiss her and declare my undying love to her, but I was frozen by a paralyzing fear, the kind of fear I assume prevents most men from trying to sleep with their mothers.
That night, as I walked past her bedroom, I noticed the light was on in her room. I had already gotten ready for bed and was only wearing boxers. I tapped lightly on the door.
"Come in," she said.
I stepped into her room and the smell inside almost gave me an instant boner, bringing back all those childhood memories. Mom was lying in bed, with her reading glasses on, a book in her lap.
"Hi honey," she said. "I thought you'd be asleep by now."
I shook my head and took another step inside her room.
"Can't sleep," I said.
She patted the edge of the bed.
"Why don't you sit down and tell mom what's on your mind."
I sat down and stared at her. She smiled her maternal smile at me.
"What's wrong, honey?"
"Nothing," I said. "You're just so beautiful."
"You're ridiculous," she said and went back to her book.
I lied down and wrapped my arms around her. She hugged me back
"Oh honey, what's gotten into you?" she said, not upset, only surprised. "What's the matter?"
"I guess I'm afraid I'll never find true love," I said.
"Oh, you will, probably when you least expect it."
"What if I told you I think I already found it."
"You should go after her then instead of spending your nights here at home."
"What is she doesn't know I love her."
"Well, that's a pickle. Do you know her?"
I nodded.
"How well?"
"Very well. She's my best friend."
"Ah, that can be tricky. She probably only sees you as a friend."
"I think you're right," I said.
"Have you tried flowers. Every girl loves flowers."
"That's a good idea, Mom," I said.
"Anytime, dear," she said and pecked my cheek.
