"Damn I'd sure like to fuck Judy Carne." I thought to myself as I took a sip from my can of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. It was eight o'clock on Monday night and I was passing the time watching Laugh-in and drinking beer. My Mom was cooking dinner in the kitchen and Dad was taking a long hot shower to wash off the grime from work.
"Mickey." Mom yelled. "Could you come in here and give me a hand?"
"Sure Mom." I yelled back. "I'll be right there."
I got up off the couch and kind of staggered a bit before heading off unsteadily toward the kitchen. "I must have been drinking that beer too fast." I thought to myself, "Beer hell Mick, you've drunk at least three so far, your half in the bag my boy-o." And I chuckled under my breath.
In the kitchen I encountered a disaster area. My mother was not much of a cook but she was a master at making a mess. There were bowls here and a pan or two there, all of them dirty. It is beyond me how a person could make such a mess while making a meal of meatloaf for three, but my dear Mother managed the feat every time.
"Could you wash a few things up for me sweetie?" She asked as she put the stirred something on the stove that may have been gravy.
"Sure Mom." I replied as I walked past her to the sink.
I started the water running in the sink, gathered up the dishes and pans, and stacked them on the counter. Then I turned to the fridge, opened it and pulled out a can of malt liquor.
"Have you finished your homework?" My mother asked.
Without turning around I answered, "Yes Mother. I finished up the last of the calculus just before Laugh-in came on. Why?"
"Just making sure sweetie." She replied, "I have to make sure that my big man has his work all finished before he has his fun." She paused for a second and then said, "Would you get me a beer out too baby? All this cooking in this hot kitchen has made your old mother thirsty."
I pulled another can of malt liquor from the opened case in the fridge, popped the top on both cans and turned to hand a can to her. She took the can in a hand covered with flour, put it to her lips and took a long appreciative pull on the beverage.
"Thanks," she said, "I needed that." Before she reached out with the other hand, tussled my hair and blew me a kiss.
"Damn it Mom." I sputtered in frustration of having my hair covered in flour.
"Now watch your language Mickey. You might be nineteen but I am still your mother. Show me some respect." She said with a motherly tone of admonition.
"Yes Mom. Anything you want Mom." I replied contritely.
"In that case would you hold the can while I take a drink? I need to stir the gravy so it doesn't scorch." She asked as she continued to cook.
I put the can to her lips and tilted it up while she took a sip. After she had finished I put the can back on the counter and Mom said theatrically, "Thank you my dearest son. You know just how to keep your mommy happy."
"My pleasure," I replied as I lifted my can to my lips for a long drink of my own.
Mom put her beer on the shelf above the stove and went back to stirring the stuff in the pan. I put my beer down on the counter and began to wash the dishes.
As I washed the dishes I occasionally I would glance over appraisingly at my mother. She was a fine figure of a woman who at thirty-eight was anything but old. Sure she was older, but to my eye, she was just reaching her prime. You see I liked older women; I adored older women, after all older women really knew how to take care of their men. They didn't try to jerk you around like some of the young stuff did. What was it that Ben Franklin said, "They don't swell, they don't tell, and they're grateful as hell."
Yeah I loved older gals. In fact right now I was involved with three gals older than myself, hell one was a couple of years older than Mom. All three of the women were married, and all three were hot as hell.
When I thought of my mother, I thought of her just as any adoring son should. But when I looked at her, I looked at her as I would look at any other woman. And from that perspective I found her to be a very pleasing woman to look at.
My Mom was not voluptuous by any stretch of the imagination; in fact slim would probably have described her best. She was five foot six and one hundred ten pounds with a nice firm ass and what looked like a nice handful of breast. Her auburn hair reached her shoulder and was kept in place by prodigious use of hair spray. She smoked way too much and drank to excess at times. But all in all I thought that she was beautiful, after all she was my mother.
She definitely was hot from cooking over the stove. I could see sweat spots on her blouse and I noticed that she had unbuttoned a couple of the buttons. With the buttons undone I could catch just the faint hint of cleavage when she turned her body toward me.
I could tell that the sweat had run down her chest because there was a faint trace of flour on her breasts where she had rubbed at the beads of sweat. The sweat must have been running down her forehead too because she ran her hand across her face and left a trail of flour on her skin. I began to chuckle at the sight of my dear Mom, sweaty and covered in flour.
"What the hell is funny?" She asked.
"Oh nothing, " I lied as I continued to laugh softly while I washed the last of the pans.
