Chapter Four
"UP sleepy butt," she said, yanking the covers off as she had done hundreds of times when I was going to school and wanting to sleep late.
I laughed and said, in my best whiny voice, "mommmmmmmMMMMMMMM!"
"UP!" she said again, slapping my ass hard enough to make me yelp.
"All right, all right," I said, rolling out of bed and reaching for her but she backed away and went into the bathroom.
So I followed, yawning, and watched as she started the water in the shower running.
We showered together, making it very sensual but not quite sexual. I washed her hair and face and body and she did mine. Then I watched, fascinated, as she got ready for our date.
She used the blow dryer and a brush on her hair until she had a coppery cap, framing her oval face. She worked on it about five minutes longer than I thought necessary, but it was worth it. It looked good.
I was fascinated as she sat at her little makeup table and did her face. The makeup she applied was light but effective. The biggest change was in her eyes. They went from attractive to downright beautiful with just a hint of pale blue eye shadow and tiny points of eyeliner at the corner of her eyes. She did her lips in very red lipstick and held me away when I went to kiss her.
"Nuh-uh, buster," she said, giggling, "you ain't messin' this up."
It was almost as much fun watching her get dressed. She started with very bright yellow panties, not a thong but a high leg French cut. Then she got out a pair of what I later learned was her Rabbit Bras. She slipped a round gauze pad in and then carefully adjusted her small breasts before pressing on the "ears" of the bra, high on her chest, lifting each breast.
I realized why she was wearing that kind of bra, if it can be called a bra at all, when she stepped into a bright yellow, one-piece coverall, what I later learned was called a jumpsuit. She tightened the belt and did the zipper before slipping her arms into the suit, long sleeves ending in small loops through which she put her thumbs. She shrugged her shoulders to get things adjusted and then did the single button at the throat. That left it open from the throat to the belt, and I understood why the Rabbit Bra was the only way to dress with it.
She grinned at me as she sat and worked up some calf-high nylons and then put on her high-heeled yellow shoes, open-toed with ankle straps. What I later learned were called "fuck me" shoes.
When she stood and did a slow turn I whistled and she giggled.
She looked down, where I had come erect, and said, "I'm glad you approve."
I just smiled, loving her look.
"Now, get dressed you pervert," she said, and left me there. I thought she did put a lot of extra swing in her hips as she left the room.
It didn't take me nearly as long to get ready. For me, it was boxers, one of my two pairs of slacks that weren't jeans, one of my three Oxford cloth, button-down shirts, socks, and loafers.
When I got to the front room she dialed a number and said, simply, "come on by."
"So where are you taking me?" I asked.
She smiled and said, "I think it should be a surprise."
I accepted that.
It was only a couple of minutes before there was a knock on the door. Greg and Stephanie lived only a couple of blocks away.
I answered it and he grabbed me into a big bear hug. Greg was always bigger than me, big and blonde in that cornfed way suggesting a northern European heritage, and he still was. He held me at arm's length, said "you look GREAT," and wrapped me up again.
I laughed and said, "good to see you too."
He finally broke the hug and stepped aside so Stephanie could come in.
She held out her arms and I accepted her embrace. It was awkward. She was hugely, immensely pregnant. Mom was right. I expected her to go into labor right then.
And she still looked good. Big and blonde, freckled, everybody's mom next door that you lusted after when puberty struck. She had put on weight since I headed off to basic training, but it looked good on her. Her face was round, her three chins looked inviting, and her big soft arms made you want to try to pinch an inch or two. And, of course, that big belly, so utterly feminine and perfectly female just made the image perfect.
"Okay," Greg said, his voice booming like the politician it turned out he was, "let's get this party started. I'm STARVING!"
I wasn't surprised at all to see that his car was a full-size Cadillac. I helped mom into the back seat and followed her while Greg got Stephanie into the passenger seat. We took off, him driving as aggressively as I remembered from our days of cruising.
"Soooo," I said from the back seat, "whatcha been doing the past four years."
He laughed and said, "Hey man, I am the youngest city councilman EVER. I'm gonna be President someday," and I believed him.
I lost track of where we were, only kind of vaguely aware we were heading north out of town. We just chatted as you do, filling the time on a car ride. I did most of the talking, telling of basic training and tech school and then being stationed in Japan with that final few months in Alaska where I was constantly cold. They both gave me the "thank you for your service" line but I waved it away. "Just a way to get college paid for," I said.
When Greg pulled onto a drive and after a quarter-mile or so into a parking lot with around 25 or 30 cars in it I had absolutely no idea where I was.
The building was big, cinder block, and pale grey in color with a big neon sign over the door reading "Bloodlines."
"What is this?" I asked.
Greg grinned and hooked his arm over Stephanie's shoulder and said, "This, old friend-o-mine, is THE place where very lucky men can show their love for their mothers without being judged."
I looked at mom and she sort of shrugged. "It's my first time too," she said.
Mom and I followed Greg and Stephanie across the lot and into the building. There was a doorman. Greg flashed a card and said, "My friends, George, and I'll need an application form."
George the doorman smiled, handed me a sheet of paper, and said, "enjoy Bloodlines."
Inside, the place was like every other supper club you've ever been in. There was a bar along the wall to the left as we entered, a stage directly ahead against the other wall, a small dance floor ahead of the stage, and about 50 tables, four-top configurations, carefully arranged to allow wait staff easy access. It was, in fact, a very standard supper club.
As we threaded our way across the room, heading for an open table a row back from the dance floor, Greg, the consummate politician, stopped at almost every one of the tables, literally slapping backs. He fed mom and me dozens of names, none of which actually stuck in my mind.
There was something I found not quite right, but it took a while for it to sink in. And suddenly it hit me. Every couple shared the same age gap. If the woman was 50-something, the man would be 30-something. If the woman was in her 40s the man would be in his 20s. If the woman was in her 30s, well, you get the picture.
I turned to mom and she was grinning sort of, okay, crazily.
"It's all moms and sons," she said, eyes wide, "isn't it?"
I just nodded as we continued a slow procession.
Nancy was introduced to us, big and ridiculously good-looking, and Mark, young and thin, with one of those faces that would have you him being carded if he wanted to buy beer when he was 40.
