The Christmas Present

Based Upon the Real Life

Experiences of my Online Friend Paul

Most people would consider what we did to be wrong. A few would say it was okay, but mostly out of prurient interest. A few others, those who have been through the experience themselves and understand the emotional impact, would claim that it's both. My son and I are certainly in that last category.

I knew even before Paul did, that he had a problem. One morning when I was 36 and Paul had just turned 18, I came downstairs dressed in only my bathrobe to make Paul breakfast. After a minute or two of wandering back and forth between refrigerator and cupboard, cabinet and sink, chatting with him aimlessly as mothers do with their children, I realized that Paul's eyes were following me everywhere I went. I was bent over at the time with the front of my robe hanging open loosely. Although the angle was wrong, I could feel the intensity of his desire to see my bare breasts. It shocked me, to say the least. I reacted as any mother would, jerking upright and covering myself, blushing madly as I did so. It was the last time I let myself be around Paul in nothing but my bathrobe.

Paul's preoccupation with me increased. He was very popular at school and something of a jock; the girl's of course, simply loved him. But no sooner would a relationship with a girl begin, than things would turn sour. Two or three weeks would pass, a month, maybe two months, during which time I'd feel his interest as strongly as I would any admirer. It was embarrassing, and sometimes a bit on the frightening side. Because, no matter how much I told myself it was just teenage infatuation--Puppy Love, in other words--another, more deeply-rooted part of my psyche insisted that I was ignoring--possibly even engendering--a dangerous situation. I know this because, I had dangerous feelings for Paul in return.

"Soccer Mom!" he greeted me coming in the front door one evening. Actually, this was his favorite greeting to me. I routinely shuttled his teammates to soccer and basketball games, to football and baseball games, also to his tennis matches depending upon the season. "Mom's Taxi" we called the Voyager.

Normally, I loathed the big ugly vehicle. But you can't transport half-a-dozen testosterone-pumped 18-year-old's around in a Lexus SUV, no matter how big you think it is. And they certainly wouldn't fit into Melvin's beautifully restored Buick LeSabre, and of course, not into Paul's Chevy pickup.

Ever had half-a-dozen or more testosterone-pumped 18-year-old's checking out your breasts? Just one of the joys of being a Soccer Mom.

Dropping his backpack just inside the door, and his parka on the back of his father's chair, Paul crossed to where I sat and planted a kiss on my forehead.

"Gonna be at the game Friday night?" he inquired.

"Are you going to be at the game Friday night?" I corrected.

He grinned at me, and I looked back at him over the rims of my reading glasses, suppressing a grin.

"Like I said," he joked. "Gonna be there?"

"Of course, I'll be there." I sighed, shaking my head.

He sat down next to me on the couch.

"Whatcha reading, doll?"

I showed him the cover and waited for his sarcastic denouement. His nose pinched.. "Chick shit," he pronounced.

"Don't curse," I admonished.

"Whatever. You driving us?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"The game's at Walter Johnson."

That day I had worn a brown angora sweater over a white turtleneck and black leggings to work; I still had them on. Glancing down, I noticed that the swell of my breasts was perfectly delineated by the clingy sweater. I shifted uncomfortably and he looked away.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

"Pork chops, green beans, mashed potatoes and corn."

His stomach rumbled noisily. "Sounds great. When are you going to make it?"

"Your sister's in there making it right now," I said, again suppressing a grin.

His expression soured immediately. He looked in the direction of the kitchen, where Joanna, from the sound of her furious soft cursing, was industriously ruining dinner.

"Do not make fun of your sister's cooking," I warned him.

"But, Mom--"

"She's 20 years old and badly needs the experience." Home from school for Spring Break, Joanna had graciously offered to prepare tonight's meal. Though filled with trepidation not much different than that of her brother, I had graciously accepted. "She'll do just fine," I assured him.

In counterpoint, there came the clatter of a dropping pan and Joanna's outraged exclamation of anger.

"Maybe I should go help her," I said, rising quickly.

He rose, as I arose. "Have my present all picked out?" he asked.

I smoothed the sweater over my tummy, glad to have it no longer delineating my breasts. "All picked out, bought and wrapped up," I acknowledged.

He looked toward the kitchen, wincing at the sound of a dropped lid. "You're okay with my list of friends?" he pressed.

"Invite a few more," I offered. "I'm sure we can find space in the laundry room." Between friends and family members, it looked like a record-setting 19th birthday party.

He winked at me and headed upstairs while I headed for the kitchen to see what catastrophe waited.

* * *

Three days later, we held what I came to remember as the Birthday Party from Hell. Not only did a crowd of invited friends swell all out of proportion to the square-footage of our house, but alcohol and some very potent-smelling marijuana found its way into the basement. I can't tell you how many times I yelled at Paul to turn down the music, nor how many inappropriately locked-together couples I separated in my wanderings. Although no proof ever surfaced, I'm told that two classmates copulated with their boyfriends in the downstairs bathroom. When finally I herded the last of them out the front door after midnight, I was a complete wreck.

"You are never having another birthday," I growled at Paul.

He locked the front door and glanced at me in surprise. "I thought it went good," he said defensively.

I really was fuming. "The Roman's thought it was going well as they fed Christian's to the lions," I said hotly.

"Mom!" he protested, snickering.

"Oh, go to bed," I said disgustedly. "We'll clean this up in the morning."

We did not wait until the morning, but spent the next hour and a half picking up the mess, working both individually and together. We spoke very little, but with the passing minutes my mood lightened so that finally, when we turned off the downstairs lights and I accompanied him upstairs, I had my arm around his waist.

"Thanks, Mom," he whispered outside his door.

I didn't want to awaken either Melvin or Joanna, so I eased Paul into his bedroom and closed the door softly behind me. Even so, I gave my response in a whisper.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier, Paul."

"You didn't yell at me," he said dismissively. "Besides, things really did get out of hand there for awhile." He rolled his eyes, laughing softly, telling me about one of the trysts in the downstairs bathroom.

"Oh, please," I said, rubbing the middle of my forehead. "Tell me that didn't really happen."

"Sorry," he said, still laughing softly.

"It isn't funny, Paul. What if that girl gets pregnant?"

"Girl's get pregnant all the time," he reminded me.

"Not in my downstairs bathroom, they don't." I sighed, giving up on being upset. "Did you like your present?"

He instantly brightened. "Shit, yeah! It was the greatest."

Carefully, he placed the iPad2 on the top of his dresser. He'd showed it off all night, as though it were a bar of gold. Then he darted forward and grabbed me in a hug, and planted a kiss on my right cheek.

"You're the greatest too," he said.

Now, I've been hugged and kissed on the cheek any number of times by Paul. This time was no different, should have been no different anyway, but having his arms suddenly around me, having my breasts mashed up against his chest, smelling his strong aroma of aftershave, deodorant, sweat and testosterone, my breath caught in my throat and suddenly my blood pressure shot into the stratosphere. Embarrassed, I looked numbly at the iPad and mumbled something instantly forgettable.

There was an embarrassed silence. Then Paul said in an oddly constrained voice: "Mom? Can I kiss you?"

I blinked at him. "You just did," I said stupidly.

"No," he said, leaning forward. "Like this."

Suddenly his lips were on mine, and try as I might to stop it, there was no stopping the instinctual movement of my lips in response.

"Paul," I said, pushing back. My hand rose and I touched my lips with my trembling fingertips. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he said, innocently.

"That!" I said feverishly. In truth, I was in a fever from being kissed. Kissing had sent blood rushing to my face and every other part of my dermis. I was suddenly itchy all over and scratched both my forearms, and my right underarm. There was a totally unwelcome tingling between my legs that made me want to go screaming from the room. I felt horrified.

"Paul," I said. "You can't kiss your mother like that."

"I don't want to kiss anybody else," he came back.

I shook my head, exasperated. "You could have so many girlfriends."

"The only girlfriend I want," he said, taking half a step toward me again, "is you."

I turned around and left the room.

* * *

For two months, things remained status-quo. Paul watched me like a calculating, long-suffering suitor. I made sure he didn't get close enough to set off another critical chain-reaction. However, things will always reach a boil when the fire's on, no matter how closely you watch the pot. Eventually it did with us.

It was Christmas Eve last year. Melvin had a mid-morning flight out of Philadelphia into O'Hare Airport in Chicago. I was extremely upset and justifiably rancorous.

"I can't believe they're sending you out on Christmas Eve," I said angrily. Neither of us suspected yet that Chicago would get snowed in, and I'd not see Melvin again for three days.

"Take it easy, dear," he said soothingly.

I didn't want to be soothed.

As was our tradition, we three had decorated the house three days before Christmas (Joanna had flown to Cincinnati the day before that, to spend Christmas at her boyfriend's parent's house), and Paul had hung a spray of real live mistletoe in the living room over the fireplace. Ostensibly for his father and I, Mom had a sneaking suspicion that Paul intended to use the mistletoe himself, and not with any girlfriend.

Melvin took me in his arms and rocked me gently back and forth. He was 6'1", weighed 220 pounds and at 38, was still blessed with an impressively athletic build. Granted, he was slowly going to fat in the middle, but what 38-year-old man isn't? And despite his eroding hairline, he was still the sexiest man I knew. A real man's man, like Daniel Craig.

Kissing me on the nose, he said, "We made it 22 years without a break. That's a seriously impressive record, sweetie."

"Twenty-three would be better," I said grumpily.

He kissed me on the nose again. Then I accompanied him to the front door where he gathered his flight bag and his two pieces of luggage.

"Drink an eggnog for me tonight," he said.

I nodded.

"You OK?"

"I guess I am," I said, clutching myself across the chest. I had a very bad feeling about tonight--a premonition, as it turned out--and I didn't want him leaving.

He did leave, however, just as he had to, and after watching him drive down the street and turn the corner, I slowly closed the front door and locked it. I knew, even without a crystal ball, that things would get out of hand that night with Paul. And of course, they did.

* * *

It was 11 o'clock. The last of the company had left and Paul and I cleaned up the mess in silence. In the kitchen, he came up behind me and said: "I guess it's just you and me now, partner."

Forcing a smile and a cheery tone of voice, I replied: "I think we'll make the best of it. Don't you?"

"I opened the flue in the chimney," he said, jokingly. "Santa should slide right down. Whoosh!" he added, making a swooping motion with his hand.

I was on the verge of saying something totally inane when he encircled my waist with his arms and pressed up against me. I went rigid.

"Paul!"

"What?" he said, releasing me and stepping back. "Can't a guy hug his mother?"

I chose to ignore it. "You'll like what I got you."

"You'll like what I got you as well," he said, a grin--and a blush--stretching across his face.

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

"Oh, you'll find out."

I guessed, not un-foolishly, that Paul had bought me either sleepwear or lingerie.

"We need to talk about this, Paul."

"About what?" he said, his demeanor innocent.

"You know what," I said.

"I don't know what you mean," he countered.

"Let's start with my underwear."

He blushed red as an apple.

For ages now I had been aware that Paul borrowed my underwear to fantasize with. Half a dozen times I'd found a pair of my panties or one of my bras--sometimes both--under his mattress or in a drawer. More than once I'd found them stiff with dried semen. I didn't mind as long as he didn't plant them somewhere out of reach. The problem was, he always took my lacy things, which I missed.

"You don't wear them, do you?" I teased.

His blush grew even stronger. "Of course not. I only--"

"Masturbate with them?" I asked.

He grew doubly red. "Can we talk about something else? Please?"

"Like what?" I asked. "The weather?"

Feeling sudden pity, I opened the refrigerator and withdrew two wine coolers from the six-pack on the shelf. "Here," I said, laughing at him. "On me."

He twisted off both caps, handed me back a bottle and took a sip. I had embarrassed him awfully and was feeling slightly guilty. The way he felt about me, I was surprised he hadn't simply moved my dresser into his own bedroom.

"Let's go out to the fire," I said. "I'm chilly in here. Especially with this," I said, holding up the cold bottle. Anything cold in my hands tended to send shivers down my spine, as it did now.

Putting his arm around my shoulder, he guided me out to the living room and to the divan on the long wall. We sat down side by side. Pillows were stacked before us on the floor, and kicking off my shoes, I stretched and placed my crossed ankles atop the closest stack.

"This is nice," I said, appreciating the crackling flames.

It occurred to me that for the past week, I had been a rudderless vessel being swept down the Niagara toward the falls. Suddenly, here I was in control of the damned boat and steering not away from the thundering flume, but towards it. Was I insane?

"You don't tell anybody about this," I said, tapping the mouth of my bottle against his. "I'm too old to get locked up for contributing."

He looked at me oddly. I sighed.

"Joking? A little humor? Contributing to the delinquency of a minor?"

He snorted. "Just cause you're twice my age doesn't mean you're old."

I rolled my eyes. "Old enough to know better. Certainly old enough to regret it."

He laughed. "You're not old. Dad's old," he said, making me giggle girlishly.

Gathering myself, I said, "Your farther is not old," meaning to add something like: "He'd get really upset hearing you say that, Paul."

But Paul jumped on my mispronunciation and teased, "My farther?"

I punched his shoulder. "Don't mock your mother, boy."

"Knock my mother?"

"Stop it!" I ordered.

Laughing, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out beside me, placing his crossed ankles next to mine on the pillows. I felt comfy sitting beside him like that. I said: "Do you know how old I am?"

"I know your bra size," he replied facetiously. "Does that count?"

Laughing, I went to answer smartly but he got in ahead of me.

"37. Your age, not your bra size. That's a 36C." He looked pointedly at my chest. I wore another angora sweater tonight, this one light blue, just as clingy, with black leggings. My heart quickened and blood overloaded my capillaries, making me hot and itchy at the same time. It took every bit of willpower not to go digging at my underarms.

"Embarrassing your mother on Christmas Eve," I scolded, taking a sip of wine to mask my embarrassment. "You should be ashamed of yourself.'

He laughed softly and took a sip of his own. "What good am I, if not to embarrass you?" he said. "But seriously, Mom. You are not old."

"I'm no spring chicken, either," I said, taking another sip.

"Tell that to my friends."

"If it's bad, I don't want to hear about it," I warned, wondering where this strange conversation was going.

"Define bad," he inquired.

"Anything out of a young man's mouth."

He laughed, and I laughed with him.

"You know what a MILF is?" he asked.

I knew what a MILF was, and I wasn't flattered.

"Better never let me hear anybody call me that," I threatened, "or they'll be picking flakes of fingernail polish out of their throats."

He smiled at me wryly.

"And you better never call me that," I further warned.

"If it's true, though?" he asked softly.

What I should have done was what I had done two months ago: get up and leave. Instead, I sat there and gave the question thoughtful consideration. Maybe it was the wine.

"I'd probably be insulted," I said slowly. "Sons aren't supposed to want to fuck their mothers, Paul."

I had said it. For better or worse, it was out there now.

He was quiet a time. We both took sips from our bottles. Most of the relaxation had gone from my body and I felt like a mousetrap ready to snap closed.

Finally, he said: "I'd settle for a kiss."

I looked up at the mistletoe, hanging there innocently from the ceiling fan. The red berries, deadly poisonous if eaten, glowed softly with reflected firelight. And then I thought, Why not? Let him get it out of his system.

"One kiss," I assented. "No tongue, and no touching me, either, Paul."

This stipulation caused more embarrassment to me than it did to Paul, who just nodded eagerly.

"Anything," he agreed breathlessly. I hadn't even seen him put down his bottle on the end table before he stood up and reached for my hand. Trembling inside, I gave it to him and allowed him to pull me to my feet.

What happened next is not quite clear in my mind. I know we kissed, quite chastely; lips pushed out like some old Saturday Evening Post cover. Then we kissed again, and his hand was on my left bicep, and I had my head tilted back and I was raised up on my tiptoes and then my mouth was open and I touched my tongue to his and suddenly I was in his arms and he was holding me tightly and this kiss just kept going on and on and--

"Paul!" I gasped, staggering backwards. "What are you doing?" My chest labored and blood pounded in my ears. Had I just French kissed my son.

He caught me before I could fall backwards over the pillows.

"You okay?" he asked.

"No, I'm not okay!" I exclaimed.

Shaken, I reached down and snatched a wine bottle off the table--his, as it turned out--and downed the contents in one long gulp. Smacking it back down, I stomped across the living room into the dining room and then out into the kitchen, where I made a beeline for the refrigerator. Paul followed, unsure what to say to me. I didn't want him to say anything.

"Do you want one?" I demanded.

"Yes, please," he said, stepping forward. Snapping off the lid, I stuck the bottle into his hand and twisted the lid off my own. In three long swigs I had the contents down.

"Mom," he said. "Take it easy."

"Take it easy, my ass!" I said, freeing another bottle from its lid. "I just French kissed my son."

This time, instead of swigging the cold wine, I sipped it, trying to compose myself. My heart had slowed from full gallop to a spirited trot, and I could no longer hear surf pounding in my ears. As much as I hated to admit it, I had liked kissing Paul.