Mom knows that Jamie and I are lovers. And that we have been since the night of "our" eighteenth birthday. (Mine is really a few days before her's, but since number eighteen, we have always celebrated them together.) Mom knows that my big brother George is the biological father of her grandchild by Jamie. And she knows that Punch is the biological father of her grandchild my moi. Mom knows that I idolize George. I once told her that if he were not my brother I would marry him. Mom knows me well enough not to have pointed out that he would have a choice in the matter. Lisa, I am your narrator in this little tale. Lisa is driven and she gets what she wants. Well, everything except that one thing I really, truly wanted. Mom thinks that I am gay because no boy, no man, could ever hope to live up to the idealized image that I hold of my big brother George.
Mom was never a prude about sex. I am guessing that this was because we were both girls. She never shared any intimate information with my three brothers. She told me that she did not have to worry about birth control because my father had a vasectomy. Well, that, and the fact that there were "ways to be intimate" which could not lead to "unforeseen difficulties". She taught me how human beings reproduce, and how to avoid doing so "until the time is right", while still satisfying "the natural urges we all have". Mom taught me that if someone really, truly loved me, that they (she actually said "he") would put my needs first, before their own. "Like the way that George did with (Jamie and I)." She could not have been more right about that. Not that she meant George as anything other than an example of the perfect platonic love that so often exists between siblings.
I have thought about just blurting out, "Mom, I found the PERFECT guy for me, and I know YOU WILL JUST LOVE HIM". But I couldn't hurt her in that way. The one thing I regret in life. The one thing I would have done anything for. That thing that I would have loved to have, but knew that I could never have. Would have been to have George's child growing inside of me. Mom taught me how to avoid "social diseases", and how to attract a better class of suitors.
Once in her seventies, she responded to a general question about my father's health with, "Well, he still knows how to ride a bicycle". This was something new, I had never seen my father on a bicycle.
"When did Dad take up cycling?" I inquired.
She blushed, smiled, and replied, "It's called a metaphor, honey. I really am surprised that you didn't learn about them in school." Even when everyone was saying in an unkind way that Jamie and I were gay together, the only thing she wanted to know was, was I happy. As I always do, I told her the truth, that I was very happy. Just not the whole truth, as I often do (or should that be do not). That what made me so very, very happy was being my big brother George's sex slave.
Dad is not much of a conversationalist unless the subject was Kenworths, Peterbuilts, Cameros, Mustangs or something that goes into or on one of them. I used to think he was reserved around me because I was a girl, or maybe because I was not into Kenworths, Peterbuilts, Cameros or Mustangs and couldn't tell if the part that he was holding came out of a washing machine or a diesel engine. But I found out later that he was just a strong, polite, silent, reserved guy. Someone trapped by circumstance into a mundane reality that was not as he had hoped it would be.
Someone who compensated for the ho-hum of his day to day toil, with a rich fantasy life. A quiet reserved guy in public, who spent his private time with his wife of many decades, binding her hands behind her back. Caning and or strapping the buttocks of the mother of his four children, until the spot that those children had emerged into this world from was soppy wet. Using a vibrator on her pussy and her clit. Then buggering her. I just love that word, bugger, verb, transitive. "Oh, Lovey dear, I think I shall have to bugger you now." "Yes, please do at once Thurston, darling." Shades of Sam Clemens, at sixteen I did not know my dad was cool. At eighteen I discovered both my parents were pretty cool. And kinky.
