My father had never, to my memory, been a healthy man, and he had long been quite sick before he died when I was sixteen. Mum had been a nurse when she met dad; he had been hospitalised for a minor operation, and I believe it was one of those fictional "nurse/patient" relationships. There's no doubt that dad was a good looking guy before his final illness set in, and Mum had told me he could be quite charming and sometimes downright irresistible.
I had never had a mature relationship with Dad; his illness prevented that, but he was always kind and supportive towards me. So was Mum, although in my early adolescence, the needs of my father tended to take precedence over mine. In my own selfish way I resented this, even when I realised that my father's condition was terminal. I never reproached Mum over this, and I was later grateful to myself that it didn't sour our relationship.
Mum had nursed Dad through his final illness and I can remember his funeral well. Mum had mourned him but not to the extent that some people thought right. Mum told me later that her mourning had started well before Dad's actual death, knowing that this was inevitable. She told me that her feelings were a mixture of sadness and relief, relief that he was finally released from his pain and suffering.
Fast forward nine years. My exams were complete, my thesis had been accepted and I was now a fully fledged psychologist after 6 years of study. Still very wet behind the ears but full of ideas and enthusiasm. My personal life was a quite different kettle of fish. At 25, not still a virgin, my experiences with women had been limited. It seemed that they were either party girls who wanted no more than a good time and who thought I was dull and boring, or ultra serious young women who wanted to talk about deep and meaningful social issues, with sex way down on the priority list. I had one or two positive outcomes, but nothing at all lasting.
So here I was, still living at home with my mother, wondering where to take my personal life next.
Let me tell you a little bit about Mum. At 45, she was still, to my biased view, stunningly beautiful. She had kept herself very fit, initially to give herself the strength and endurance to nurse Dad through his illness, then as a deliberate strategy to keep herself fit. She told me that it was the ideal antidote to gloom and depression following his death, and I knew that she worked out regularly at the local gym. Dad had a couple of longstanding insurance policies that left her reasonably well provided for, and she had a part time job that gave her a small income and paid some of the bills.
Mum was quite tall, around 5'9" with a beautifully proportioned body. I know she had a 38C bust—in my adolescent fantasies, I'd searched through her underwear drawer. Her hair was what is usually called "dirty blonde", a rather demeaning description, I've always thought. Really, a blend of blonde and light brown, she kept it scrupulously clean and it fell softly past her shoulders. She had deep blue eyes that were usually soft and warm, but could, as I knew to my cost, turn steel hard when I'd messed up. Her face was not wholly dissimilar to that of the US actor, Jenna Elfman; she wore clothes well, but usually preferred jeans, tees and flatties at home.
Mum had supported, encouraged, and occasionally bullied me, but generally been my biggest fan as I worked through my university studies. When I told her that I had been successful, she crowed with delight and gave me the biggest hug ever, and rather more surprising, a big sloppy wet kiss on my mouth.
"Stevie, I am SO proud of you and what you have achieved. I want to take you out for dinner at a big city restaurant. Name the place and the time and it's my treat."
"Thanks, Mum, that would be lovely. If money is no object, I suggest we make it the Excelsior on a Saturday evening. Soon."
"Okay, Stevie, leave it all to me."
We settled on a date and time, and I dressed up – suit, tie, decent shirt, and even polished my shoes. Then Mum came into the lounge, and it was almost a case of "cometh the hour, cometh the man". I was bowled over by how beautiful she looked. Mum had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble with her makeup, had clearly had a manicure and was dressed in a figure hugging creation in a rich, deep burgundy. Working upwards, she was in black patent pumps with a 3" heel, stockings and a hemline just above the knee. The top was cut in a crossover style, emphasising a deep, mouth watering cleavage, and she wore an uplift bra that called even more attention to her gorgeous breasts.
"Wow, Mum, you look absolutely stunning. Is this all for me?"
"Well, you don't think I'd dress like an old bag lady to take my favourite guy out for dinner, do you?" she laughed.
"I cannot imagine anyone looking less like an old bag lady. I am so privileged to be seen with you. Yum yum."
"I can see I'm going to have to be very careful with you, young man," she pretended to chide me, but I could tell that she found the attention pleasing.
At that moment the taxi arrived; "Just in case we want to have a drink or two," and we set off for the Excelsior.
I noticed that Mum drew admiring glances as we walked through the restaurant, and I had no doubt that she looked at least ten years younger than her forty-five years. The meal was delicious and a great success, accompanied by two bottles of first class wine. The alcohol had the effect of making us both more talkative than usual, particularly Mum.
"I've often wondered, Mum, why you haven't gone into another relationship after Dad's death?" I asked her.
"Oh, I don't know, sweetie, I've had a few offers and been out on a few dates, but no-one that really appealed. Most of the guys of my generation are either married and looking for a fling on the side, are hopeless losers who only want to talk about the shortcomings of their ex, or alcoholics. I've had one or two approaches from younger guys, but they frighten me. Oh, and by the way, Stevie, what is a MILF?"
"Um, err, well ... I really don't know ..."
"I see—now just why are you stalling, young man? I don't believe you don't know, so tell me."
"Okay, Mum, you asked for it, it stands for Mother I'd Like to ... ," and then my nerve deserted me.
"So what does the 'F' stand for?"
I blushed a deep red while Mum looked closely at me, and then the penny dropped. "Oh, I see—you are trying to spare my blushes, although I have heard the word, 'fuck' before." Mum grinned at my discomfort.
"How come you want to know about MILFs, Mum?"
"Oh," she replied airily, "I heard a couple of young guys using the expression."
"While looking at you and drooling no doubt. Still, they had excellent taste."
Now it was Mum's turn to blush, and I decided to press forward and be a bit more inquisitive. "Don't you miss the physical contact with someone else, though, Mum, being close, touching, maybe kissing? In my sort of circles, that's called 'skin hunger'."
