I went to call him in for a meal. He was doing something with one of the cars in the garage. There was a door leading from the house into the garage and without any attempt to be silent I opened it, and was about to call out, “Come and eat,” when I heard a rhythmic gasping noise.
Puzzled I walked into the garage. Richard was working, or had been working, on the car farthest away from me, a gift from his father and me for his eighteenth birthday. The family car for a moment blocked my view of Richard, but walking a few paces I stopped. I could see Richard.
He was half sitting on the bonnet of his car and his arm was pumping up and down as he emitted gasps and groans. One more step and I could see what he was doing; he was masturbating.
He had his eyes closed and he was obviously so engrossed in his self stimulation he failed to hear me.
I stood stock still, fascinated by what I was seeing. I knew he masturbated frequently because I had to wash his sticky handkerchiefs, but I had never seen him, or any other man for that matter, in the act of self relief.
As I watched his movements became more rapid and suddenly he gave an extra loud groan and great gobs of sperm began to shoot out of him. The first ejection shot out several feet to be followed by less violent emissions that seemed to gush from him.
I was captivated by what I was seeing. I know many people are either disgusted by masturbation or talk about it derisively. I think this is to cover up a sense of guilt about their own masturbating habits. I on the contrary, found watching Richard quite delightful; he was clearly lost in his world of erotic fantasy and I wondered who it was he envisaged as he pumped out his semen.
As the first explosion of his sperm was emitted I had flash across my mind, “If only George could….” That was too dangerous a thought, so I squashed it.
Richard approached the end of his orgasm as the last droplets of semen fell to the concrete floor. He leaned further back on the car bonnet breathing heavily, his eyes still closed.
I slipped quietly out of the garage, waited a couple of minutes, then opened the communicating door called out that his meal was ready.
When Richard came in I looked at him and saw he had a dreamy look in his eyes. “Still recovering from his orgasm,” I thought.
He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and as he turned to come to the table George, who had been working in the study, entered. For a moment they were side by side. There was George, slightly paunchy and balding, his usual good natured grin on his face; and there was Richard, young, muscular, lithe and slim, his dark hair slightly dishevelled looking relaxed with that distant look still in his eyes. I felt a slight ticking sensation in my clitoris.
After the meal and during the evening I began to get signals from George that he would be requiring what he called his “ration” that night. The signals were as usual, an arm round my shoulders as we watched television; getting me a cup of coffee or drink when it was normally left to me; his conversation interspersed with mild endearments like, “Sweetheart” and “Dearest.”
In bed it was business as usual, and I do mean usual. A grab for a breast; a brief period of kissing and then a feel to see if I was wet enough for him to enter. I was always wet enough, but what he didn’t know was that on the nights I suspected he would want his ration, I always applied a lubricant before getting into bed as his “love play” did nothing to arouse me.
Then he was pushing up and down in me grunting and groaning. It was always the same, except this night was different. I actually got wet with my own lubricant which made things rather slippery when added to the applied artificial love juice. In addition, and to my amazement, I had my first orgasm with George in I don’t know how long.
George was equally surprised and commented, “Sweetheart, you were really going it tonight, was I that good?”
I made some complimentary remark about his “love making,” but failed to tell him that all the time he was fucking me I had been fantasising Richard.
Don’t get the wrong impression. George is a good man and a generous husband and father. It is just that for him sexual intercourse is little more than a release of his banked up sperm. The idea that two people could enjoy each other’s bodies somewhat more extensively than we did had never occurred to him. When at times I had made suggestions about having some more interesting love play, he chuckled and said, “We don’t want to be bothered about that. I like to get straight to the action.”
So there it was, and like a lot of other women I had a kind husband and a hopeless or careless lover. From time to time I had toyed with the idea of taking an illicit lover. I knew I could because I had received a number of offers of “meaningful relationships.”
Having read in magazines some of the consequences of these relationships I had always rejected the offers. I gathered that such relationships tend not to last for long and usually end when one or the other of the partners start to demand more than the other is prepared to give. For example: “Leave him/her and come and live with me.” I had no intention of leaving George, but I did want more gratifying sex.
In the following days I found myself watching Richard more closely than usual. Increasingly I found myself weighing up his sexual potential. I realised that I knew nothing of his sex life.
When he was a little boy we had always been very close. When he got to around thirteen that closeness began to evaporate; to embrace or kiss him was to get the response, “Don’t mum.”
Puzzled at this changing relationship I resorted to books and magazines to try and find out why the change. Amid the surfeit of often confusing information put forth by the professionals, I gathered that during childhood boys often have a relationship with their mother that has a sexual content. When they get a bit older they realise that mother is not available, so they seek other sexual relationships.
I was consoled at the apparent loss of Richard’s previously demonstrative affections by the knowledge that this was what was supposed to happen. I did, however, miss the cuddles we once enjoyed, especially when he had joined me in bed early in the mornings.
Now I began to wonder what “sexual relationships” he had entered into. Prejudiced as I might be as his mother, as I looked at him now with a female’s eye for a sexy male, I found him not wanting in that department.
“Surely,” I thought, “he must be getting his sexual satisfaction with someone”; yet if he was, why the need to masturbate?
I resorted to the professionals again only to learn that both men and women, even when they are getting sexual gratification with a member of the opposite sex, or with the same sex for that matter, will sometimes masturbate for the sheer pleasure of doing so. I even discovered that a man and woman lying together would often enjoy masturbating.
On gaining the latter piece of information I found myself smirking sardonically. Often after George’s unsatisfactory copulating, and when I was sure he was asleep, I would have to use a little self relieving. “Huh,” I thought, “That’s a man and women lying side by side, but one’s dead to the world and the other’s masturbating in isolation.”
My beginning to review Richard frankly as a sexual object brought about some subtle changes in my behaviour. I started to take more care over my appearance. Of course, I told myself I was doing this for my own benefit, but a wicked little demon inside me kept whispering, “No you’re not Brigid.”
Normally careless about my hair, I took my hairdressers advice as to what cut would best suit me. When Richard saw it he said, “Mum, you look terrific. That cut has taken ten years off you.”
On the other hand, George failed to notice until I drew his attention to it. He glanced up from the newspaper then said, “Very nice,” and went back to his paper.
Clothes were another thing I had let go over the years, but now I splashed out and got myself some new ones. This time I was guided by the girl who served me and her first suggestions I rejected as “too young” for me.
“But madam can’t be more than thirty,” she protested. I took this to be sales talk, but at forty one to be told you look thirty is a compliment hard to resist. I bought a couple of items at her suggestion wondering if I should live to regret it.
My next port of call was a beautician. I had splashed out money to the point where I did not care any more. This time I had a very pleasant surprise.
The young woman who attended to me was apparently not given to a sales pitch. She firmly made the point that I hardly needed her ministrations.
“I think madam should use makeup very sparingly,” she warbled. “Perhaps a different shade of lipstick and just a touch of eye shadow and liner; certainly no pancake makeup, since madam has excellent skin.”
I was much relieved by this absence of the hard sell until, after purchasing a few items of makeup as advised, I saw the bill. At that point I felt I would rather have had the hard sell. I think I might have been the victim of reverse psychology.
On presenting myself that evening with my minimal makeup and one of the new garments, from Richard I got the acclamation, “Mum, you look so se…so terrific.”
I decided to be bold and said, “Did you mean to say ‘sexy’ Richard?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did.”
“Good; then in future, say what you mean first time.”
We burst into laughter.
George, even under the enthusiastic prompting of Richard later that evening, managed to look away from the television set long enough to say, “Yes, very nice sweetheart.” Then he went back to his favourite sit com. Given his less than appreciative response to the new me, I decided not to tell him what the bill had been.
I was not particularly troubled by George’s lack of enthusiasm about his wife’s apparent attractiveness. He would get his “ration” and be happy.
Crudely I thought, “I might just as well be a hole in a beetroot for all he cares.”
You see, I had got to the point where I had the courage with my demon’s prompting to admit that it was not for George I tried to make myself an object of sexual desire. I was trying to impress Richard.
Having got to the point of virtually admitting I wanted sex with my own son, I returned to the experts. I had understood the stuff about boys desiring their mothers and then giving up, what I wanted to know was did mother’s desire their sons or was I a sexual sociopath?
