*ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY ARE 18+*
I am not a bad mother.
I work a phenomenally comfortable office job, I love my husband, I packed my children lunch every single morning before work and then cooked a family dinner seven nights a week when I got home. Everything I do, I do for this family.
So it strikes me as odd that God would punish me by making my youngest son so... different. And yes, that is the word I am choosing to use. Bullies at school use words like "queer, dork, virgin, and loser". The other moms in my walking club use words like "special, touched, girly" and yes, "different."
I personally love the word for its neutrality. My son is not queer, he's not stupid, he's not touched, he's just... different. It's his damn dad's fault for naming him Maxwell. I objected with every argument, tantrum, and blowjob that I could muster, but the name prevailed. I had successfully named the two older children, Veronica and Harrison. My mother named me Julia and my husband's name is Nick. All good family names. We Cunninghams are a good family. But the name Maxwell always hit my ears wrong and it seems that dissonance has manifested in my youngest.
Maxwell is definitely weird. He's not into any sports, he never goes out to parties, he refuses my pleas to buy him new clothes, and his voice never quite dropped. But still, I will never admit to Max being anything more than "different."
On one fateful Sunday afternoon, my son tried to narrow the term. We were all relaxing after church having just eaten lunch and dreading the coming work week. My eldest children had just left to head home to their respectice local apartments. Nick and I sit on our bed watching the Bachlorette. The man swears on his own mother that he hates the show but I have never seen anyone more invested in a single rose. We both drearily began to slip into our weekly Sunday nap when Maxwell slowly approached the doorframe.
"Mom?" he asked, "Is dad asleep?"
I mentally groaned, not wanting to take on another of the boy's anxious rambles about school or friends. I tilt my head to my other side and see his father snoring. He opens one eye and smirks at me as he continues the facade. Damn liar.
"Yes baby, he's asleep. Why?"
"Can we-umm... can we talk?" Max sheepishly asks.
I nod my head reluctantly and rouse myself from the haze of a nap I was just beginning to slip into. I get off the bed and slip on my pair of pajama pants and house slippers. Damn it I was so cozy!
Max nervously leads me into the living room, out of his father's earshot from the bedroom. Whatever this is, it must be big. Too big to handle on such a casual Sunday. Too big for me to handle. But I'm a mom, handling big things on a whim is everyday sidework.
Max motions for me to sit on the couch before clearing his throat. "Ok-umm Mom? I have something to admit..." he looks down at his feet.
I snicker a little, "Sweetie what is it? Why are you so nervous? Did burn a cigarette hole in the carpet? Get a girl pregnant?" I almost let out a howling laugh at my own last question.
Maxwell blushes. "N-no... not exactly. Listen have you maybe ever wondered why people make fun of me all of the time?"
I smile at him warmly, thinking I see through his anxiety. "No honey bunch, I don't wonder. People are mean. You're just unique is all. It's nothing to be so worried about-"
He stops me before I finish my sentence. "It's not that mom. I know I'm unique but I'm... I'm also... I'm..."
I look at him with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm gay."
The color rushes from my face and I let out a slight gasp. An instant wave of nausea overwhelms my senses as I touch a hand to my temple for a moment and close my eyes. I can feel Maxwell waiting for my answer.
Gay? How could he be gay? What did I do as a mother to deserve this? Even if he is actually gay, why the hell would he want to come out?! We are a steadily Christian family and popular faces in the community. Bake sales, school fundraisers, festivals, the Cunninghams are avid participants. This community might turn their noses up at different but it outright scoffs at gay. We would never be able to show our faces again.
"M-max... baby.." I stutter, "You are not gay. You have never been gay. What made you say this?"
I can feel his piercing glare as his brow begins to furrow. "Mom I AM gay! I knew I was different from other guys my age years and years ago but I eventually realized it was because I am not attracted to girls. I'm gay!"
I look at him wide eyed now, prepared to dispute this as far as I must. "No no that can't be true Max. What about your girlfriend a few years ago? Were you gay back then too?"
He groans and rolls his eyes. "Mom... she was a lesbian, we were just covering for each other at a time when bullies were spreading rumors at school. I swear to you, I'm gay."
I rub my temples deeply and truly. "Ok Max... well you can't just be gay, alright? I'm sorry baby but that's not how it works around here. I'll have to talk to your father about this..."
He doesn't even argue. Instead he gives the sassiest sigh of annoyance I have ever heard and stomps up to his bedroom before slamming the door as hard as his thin arms and weak muscles can muster. Christ, maybe he really is gay.
----------
"He can't be gay Julia, he had a girlfriend," my husband echoes.
"He says she was a cover! That they were both gay and just pretended to like one another for a few months!"
We both stand in front of our bed with the door closed, afraid to face the rest of the house which contains our plagued son. I press on, "Nick, what are we gonna do?"
"I don't know," he sighs, throwing up his hands before collapsing back on the bed, "Where did the Roberts' send their daughter all those years ago? Remember? She tried to come out to her youth group at church and they sent her away for a few weeks."
"Conversion therapy," I remember, "They sent her to a camp where she had to pray the gay away. Only there was no praying and I remember she came back with a nose piercing."
"Think of the horror," Nick solemnly replies.
"Plus, they spent thousands of dollars. I know we're comfortable but the roof is leaking, we're going with your parents to Aruba next month, and we just put a payment down on that condo in St. Petersburg. We can't afford conversion therapy."
My husband turns his head towards me. "Well... what the hell are we supposed to do? Kick him out?"
I shake my head. Kicking him out would leave a whole different kind of mark on our family name. A gay Cunningham is shun worthy but an exiled Cunningham would mean wholesale excommunication. Plus, I love my son. He's weird and annoying and far too sassy for his own good, but I would die for him. It wouldn't matter if he was gay or criminal or mentally insane, Max came out of me, and a piece of my heart is always with him.
Nick sighs, also realizing exile is a forbidden option. "Well, what should we do Julia?"
"Just... just let me think about it. Don't mention anything about this to him, I don't want to rouse any more spirits of rebellion from him. He might dye his hair or get a stick and poke tattoo. I'm gonna get started on dinner. We'll talk more about this later."
My husband reluctantly agrees and tries to lie back down in bed, attempting to lose himself in the television but clearly, painfully toiling with the new revelations about our youngest son. I head to the kitchen to robotically begin prepping for dinner. Beef roast, vegetable medley, buttered bread.... gay. How the fuck is he gay?
----------
I think as I work across the kitchen.
What makes someone gay? Max would say he was born this way. My pastor would say something about blue-haired liberals. The truth might be somewhere in between. My two oldest children had slightly different childhoods than their little brother. They watched cable television, didn't get phones until they were in high school, and played with lots and lots of toys. Max never did. We went streaming only while he was a toddler. He never cared much for toys like his siblings did and we broke down and got him a cellphone early in life after he begged and begged. Maybe Max just missed out on some crucial piece of social developement?
I mean sure, I don't deny the existence of gay people. I'm not some cooky woman posting on facebook and making appeals to the republican party. I just don't think my son is one of them. He can be saved. Not by prayer in some expensive camp but by a new type of social developement. Maybe I can set him up on a dating app or bribe one of the mom's in my walking group to set up a blind date. Though Max would refuse at every turn. I would never be able to get him to take the step on his own. Maybe...
No. That was a stupid thought. I am a stupid mom.
I look at myself in the hallway mirror. Julia Cunningham is a hot mom. I once heard that line from my older son's bedroom one afternoon when he had his friends over. It creeped me out at first, but then it gave me confidence. I keep my yellow-blonde hair healthy and well shaped. It tumbles just past my shoulders in slight, organized waves. I pull down my sleep shirt a little, showing the first hint of my supple cleavage. Supple is probably too slight a word. My tits are heavy and perfectly round. I know this because more than once my husband has ejaculated early by sucking on my small nipples as he strokes himself. He calls them milkers, that fucking goofball. I turn in the mirror and back up slightly, looking over my shoulder. The ass that hangs from my wide hips is the queen's jewel atop my crown. Thicker than a bowl of oatmeal. My ass is fat, and not in a dumpy, lost-myself-in-a-can-of-pringles kind of way. My ass is fat in the works-out-five-days-a-week-and-eats-her-spinach kind of way. Nick once called it a "cum dumpster". He slept on the couch for three days after that. We had to tell the kids it was for his lower back pain. My long legs cascade to the wooden floor. I'm only 5'9" but some of the other moms still call me stretch armstrong behind my back.
I approach the mirror again and lean in close. The slender features of my face. My plump, nude colored lips. My wide brown doe eyes. I really am a hot mom.
Max would never agree to go out and meet a female date but I'm his mom, by nature he is forced to face me every single day. Am I fucking crazy? I can't be thinking about this...
