I started reading Literotica several years ago when I was nearing the end of high school. It offered something different from the porn sites I usually visited and aside from the great quality of the best of its writing, it featured realistic characters and storylines that sadly have yet to make it into the visual medium.
At first I read all varieties but gradually, and to my disquiet, I found myself gravitating to the taboo section and specifically to mother-son stories. I couldn't figure this out as I had zero desire for my own mother. I could see that she was kind of hot – think a 1970s frowsy Dyan Cannon; but she was my mother who scolded me, sometimes looked a wreck, talked too much and too loud and would laugh uproariously at lame jokes so long as they contained a sexual reference. The men she dated were usually preening jerks. Also, she smoked; I didn't. She liked martinis. Beer for me.
She was also a published author with several titles in her own name and several others under pseudonyms for one of those bodice-ripper houses. I'd read a couple, make that, I started a couple, but couldn't get past expressions like "her hidden treasure" or "honeypot". Her heroes were bold and smouldering if male and proper yet coy if female. While she wasn't the most highly regarded in her field, she was prolific and her income afforded us a decent standard of living.
My father wasn't in the picture. Too many affairs; indiscreet ones at that. I'm Steve, now in my early 20s and a student at a state college. Blond, 5'11, trim and unlike so many Literotica protagonists, normally proportioned.
Anyway, a couple of years in I'd been focusing on the mother-son stories. I'd picture some imaginary mother who was cool with her son and through various circumstances, they'd hook up. All was fine until one fateful evening. I'd been checking out the latest Taboo offering when I got a call from one of my crew. Word had gone out to a friend that she could take the stage at a local music club since their main act had gotten busted. We all had to hurry down to support her. I closed up my laptop but worried, when, a half hour later, I couldn't remember closing the windows. "Oh well" I figured, my mother surely wouldn't be checking. And had she not, I wouldn't be writing this.
She'd already gone to bed when I got home so the confrontation didn't happen until I got back from school the next afternoon. I'd gotten in and was pouring myself an OJ when she, I'll call her Sheila, appeared in the kitchen.
"Steve, last night after you went out, your laptop started beeping. I went to close it down but I couldn't help but notice what was on your screens."
It wasn't just Literotica. There was a porn window also open and I reckon you can guess its contents. Dread. Anxiety. Shame at being caught. Worst of all, some sort of looming honest conversation.
I remained silent and hoped she would do the same. It wasn't much of a plan but I was floundering. She kept looking at me and for a while, I looked at the kitchen faucet as though it was suddenly fascinating. If it were only the one window I might have said that some unexpected link led me there. Or maybe attribute the beeping to some malign virus aimed at getting young men into trouble with their moms. These and other less intelligent plans came and went while I continued to study the faucet. But eventually I looked up.
"Well?"
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
"Of course you will. But why those subjects? Do you have a 'thing' for me?"
"No. It's just a fantasy. Not about you but some fictional mother."
"Fictional mother? You're saying that this 'fiction' never seeps into the real world?"
"No. Honestly, I don't think of you in that way."
"Then why this interest in incest between a mother and her son?"
"I don't know. There just seemed to be something..." I didn't want to say "exciting" or anything more sexual. But it was an honest answer. I'm not given to introspection but I sometimes wondered why I found the topic so stimulating. I put it down to "fantasy mother" but that explanation always seemed to lack something. Now I'd gotten lost in thought and I noticed my mother's look of impatience.
"Well?"
"I really don't know Mom. But I swear it's not about you." And I really hoped that was so.
"Steve, I'll take your word for that but just think how you'd feel if you caught me reading or writing about sex between a mother and her son."
I blushed and went back to examining the faucet. Still, she may have offered me a saving opening.
"But I wasn't writing about anything."
"Does that make a difference?"
I was hoping so but had no idea.
"Well, writing seems more personal."
"It is. But usually one doesn't read unless something about the subject interests them."
How I wished this talk would end. But I was now feeling like a beaten mutt and figured I might as well absorb all the punishment at once. If it got too bad there was always suicide.
"I dunno. It just seemed like a fantasy."
"And you're sure it doesn't involve me?"
"NO!"
"OK, but see it from my position. If I were to write, or just read, about sex between mothers and sons, what would you think?"
I didn't want to answer because I couldn't think. Or maybe I didn't want to think so couldn't answer. One of the two. Maybe both.
"I dunno."
She looked exasperated. "Alright Steve. I'm sorry but this must be embarrassing for you." Unlike her books, this was supremely understated. I nodded.
"I have to collect my thoughts on this and I may have more to say later on. But Steve, I don't mean to be condemning. Lord knows we all have our fantasies. Many of them are just that and would be horrifying in real life. And rest assured, I won't breathe a word of this to anyone."
"Thanks." I beat an exit with nary a look back at the faucet. But I knew there would be a round two.
I stayed away from Literotica and porn sites as though that might absolve my sins, or whatever they were. That if by some divine act, my browsing history were revealed to my mother, she might think it was a passing fancy and there'd been no recent activity of the sort. Recent meaning three days or so.
A few days later my mother had evidently collected her thoughts.
"Steve, have you got a minute?" Leading question.
"You know, I've spent the past few days reading some of the Literotica posts. Goodness, there must be tens of thousands of them. Some are actually very good. Some are better than what I could write. Have you ever given any thought to writing something yourself?"
"Nope."
"Why haven't you?"
"Ah, 'cause I can't write?"
"Nonsense. You did fine on that entrance essay to get you into college."
"Mom, you basically wrote it."
"Oh, I just helped polish it."
"Mom, if you're so keen on writing, why don't you write something there?"
She shook her head. "Steve, I'm working on three different novels that will pay. Literotica doesn't. Do you see?"
She had me. "Well, you're the writer in the family."
"No one starts our being a writer. I got my start submitting recipes. Why don't you give it a shot?"
"Well, I've no idea what I could write about."
This time the look was more of sympathy. "Steve, write about what you like. What you'd like to read. What you think that others would like to read."
"Why should I write about anything? Writers need an audience. Maybe I'm just that."
"Maybe you are. And maybe I'm projecting my own writing urges on to you. But give it some thought."
I did. The idea that I could create some living legacy, anonymously though, had its appeal. But I knew I wasn't much of a writer. I'd been paralyzed by that college entrance essay. It was only salvaged when my mother read what I'd done and basically rewrote it. My major was economics with a minor in math and logic so hardly any essays there. Still, I thought I'd give it a shot.
The first one was a flop, to put it favorably. Rating was 2-something and there were only two comments. One was "Stopped reading by the third paragraph". The other was longer but compared the writing to a 15-year old. Hey, I was 21. You should have seen how I wrote at 15.
The next one was a tad over 3. Nice trending. But only one comment. Anonymously, the coward. He or she cited deficiencies in the plot, characters and dialogue. As Spinal Tap would say, "That's just nit-picking."
Eventually came the day when my mother asked if I'd written anything. I was tempted to lie but decided what the hell. I'd like to have something moderately successful.
"Yes, but they're terrible. They always have the worst rating of anything else that's published that day."
"Would you mind if I read them?"
"Yes I would. They're bad." They hadn't seemed bad when I wrote them but then when I read them alongside of other mom-son stories, I had to admit that they sucked. There was some sort of alchemy others possessed that was beyond my reach.
"They probably are. You're just getting started. You should see some of the rejection letters I got when I was just starting out. Well-deserved ones too. More than a few politely suggesting that I take up some other line of work."
That didn't cheer me up as much as you might think.
"Now I don't know if you want to get better or if you'd rather give it up. But if you want to get better, maybe I can help."
"Help?"
"Steve, I'm a published author. I'm not going to write stories for you but I've been through enough reviews that I can give you some benefit of experience. But I do need to see what you've written."
It was painful but I showed her where to find them. "One thing though Mom. Can you read them while I'm not around?"
"Sure thing dear. Tomorrow while you're in classes."
I had a fatalistic attitude to the review. I knew it wouldn't be good and I wasn't convinced that I should even continue. But I really wanted to write something that wasn't crap.
"Alright Steve. You want to hear this?"
I nodded.
