As a young man growing into puberty, I recall very well when I first began to look at women as sexual beings. I remember happening upon various men's magazines, at a very young age, and being mesmerized by the scantily clad models. And I vividly recall having a poster-sized photo of a very appealing, nude woman posed in a kneeling position, which I employed on numerous occasions as a visual aid to my masturbation fantasies. As I grew older, I took special notice of many of the women in my neighborhood, appreciating them for their physical and sensual beauty and even developing many infatuations.
I am reasonably certain that it was my friend Terry who first directed my attention toward my own mother. Terry and I often talked about women, and what physical attributes we most appreciated from each of them. I had often noticed Terry's mother walking around in very tight slacks that emphasized the lovely shape and contour of her buttocks and expressed to him my feelings one day. Terry laughed. "You know what?" He said, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. "If we had one woman with my old lady's ass and your old lady's tits, we'd have ourselves a bombshell."
"My mom's tits?" I thought to myself. It had never even occurred to me to ever imagine or consider my mother as being an object of sexuality. Obviously, Terry had certainly noticed and perceived her that way. That evening, after dinner, I watched casually, through the family room window, as my mother carried a load of washing out to the back yard to hang on the clothesline. She wore a sleeveless, white blouse and a pair of navy Capri pants with flat sandal-style shoes. I tried to see her as Eddie saw her, not my mother, but just as a woman.
At forty years of age and standing just a little over 5'4", my mother's figure tended to be slightly on the heavy side. She had wonderful legs, shapely calves, nicely plush thighs, and wide, fleshy hips with more than ample buttocks. Even in her shapeless blouse, it was easy to see why Terry had been so attracted to her breasts. My mother was, indeed, blessed with a generously endowed bosom. Until that moment, I had never perceived my mother to be anything other than just that, my mother, and it was somewhat disturbing for me to look upon her with the same discerning eye for sensuality and physical attractiveness as I would normally apply to other women in the neighborhood.
With my perception of her skewed slightly so as to attempt to perceive her as others might, I actively set about looking for and noticing, any and all, expressions of sensuality, that she might inadvertently express, in her manner of dress and physical movement. The more attention I paid, the more I could clearly see a distinctly feminine aura of sensuality about her that, as her son, I had never taken the time to notice before.
Once, when I was staying up late to watch a horror movie on television, my mother, who had been sleeping, entered the living room to see why on earth the light was still on so late at night. Wearing only her nightgown, she stood with her hands on her hips, more than a little irritated to find me up past my bedtime and admonished me to get myself up to bed that instant and turn off the television.
I had seen her in a nightgown on many occasions, so it was not that much of a shock or surprise. She was especially fond of the nylon-tricot, knee-length pullover variety and had many in her wardrobe. That particular night she wore a pink affair, which, although a pullover, buttoned completely up the front, from hem to bodice. While not exceptionally diaphanous, it did however reveal her to be completely nude, her body appearing as a lighter shadow than that which surrounded her and highlighted her figure.
We argued slightly as I grumbled about having to go to bed. I got up and turned off the television and, just as I was about to turn off the light, she turned away from me to return to her bedroom. As she turned, her breasts swayed beneath the sheer fabric of her nightgown in a manner that was more provocative and revealing than anything I had ever seen or imagined before. For the first time I perceived the inherent heaviness of her bosom, as her breasts, hanging freely, moved with a pliant, heavy sensuality that would never be completely manifested within the tight confines of a bra.
From that evening on, I became more and more intrigued and infatuated by my mother's breasts. I paid much more attention to the way she dressed, especially when she wore tighter, more revealing sweaters or pullovers. It is often difficult to tell much about the shape or contour of a woman's breasts when she is wearing a brassiere and my mother was no exception. One defining characteristic that seemed to set her apart from any other women within the realm of my personal experience was that my mother's breasts seemed to billow out into her sweater as one large swell rather than two distinct bulges. Upon watching her more closely, I began to notice that which I had never taken the time to perceive before, a restricted but very distinct, heavy sway and bounce to her bosom that even a brassiere could not completely confine. I found myself shaking my head in wonder at how I had never before noticed such an alluringly sensual attribute in my mother. And, while it was nowhere near as sensual and provocative as it had been that first night, when I had perceived the heavy movement behind her nightgown, the subtle swaying beneath her brassiere as she moved was still remarkably alluring.
One night, as she got up from the living room sofa to get ready for bed, she bade me good night and admonished me to not stay up too much later. I continued watching the program in progress when, from the corner of my eye and through the glass sliding door, I noticed the light from her bathroom window suddenly switch on and bathe the backyard patio in a soft glow. With a start, I realized that, along with brushing her teeth and washing her face before bed, she would also be changing into her nightgown. My mind suddenly raced with the realization that I might very well be able to actually see my mother's breasts. Although the bathroom widow was completely opaque for privacy, my mother always kept the sash raised about an inch in order to dispel the steam of a shower and allow fresh air. Indeed, from my chair in the living room I could distinctly see a narrow strip of brighter light just above the sill.
With my heart pounding in my chest and my pulse racing, I slipped through the glass sliding door as quietly as I could and made my way to just below the bathroom window. All was so very quiet that I could hear the rustle of her clothing as she began to change into her nightgown. As I was too short to look directly into the window, I looked around for something I might stand on and chanced upon the old gasoline can we kept on the patio for the lawn mower. I quietly placed it beneath the window and then, supporting myself against the wall of the house, stepped up onto the can.
As my eyes reached the level of the windowsill and I peered into the bathroom, I was momentarily surprised to see only the bathroom, my mother was nowhere in sight. I moved my head from side to side to see the entire room and then started as she suddenly raised up right in front of me. She had apparently been bending over momentarily where I had been unable to see her and took me by surprise as she suddenly rose into view. As she stood, she was facing slightly away from the window, in a three-quarter profile, and she was completely nude. My eyes bulged to suddenly see her, for the first time, without clothing, her smooth, unblemished skin, the soft sensual flare of her fleshy hips and the round, plush swell of her buttocks. Her huge breasts hung in heavy profusion, the flesh a stark, milky white with small, very dark nipples. She bent again and her breasts moved freely, swaying with such sensuality that I literally gasped. I felt myself becoming hard, my penis pressing painfully in the confines of my tight jeans, as I watched her, completely enthralled, until she slowly lifted her arms and let her nightgown fall into place around her.
I quickly stepped down and made my way silently back into the living room. Moment's later she returned, wearing her robe over her nightie, and bade me goodnight once more.
