Are You Serious 1

"You can tell me," Marty says. "It'll go no further than this table."

Jim Sanborn feels relieved. For weeks, he's been looking for someone to confide in, and Marty Gayle is a guy he can trust. He and Marty, a friend and neighbor, have been close since grade school. They're sitting in Renaldo's, a local watering hole, nursing their Coors on tap. "This will blow your mind," Jim tells him.

On this cool Saturday in March, they remain dressed in their baseball uniforms, red jerseys over gray pants. They play for the Buccaneers, their college baseball team. Jim pitches; Marty plays first base. Today's practice is over, one of the last before their opening game.

Jim strokes his dark goatee, then knocks back a swig. "You swear it will go no further than this table?"

Marty throws up his right arm. "As God is my witness."

"Oh, don't say that," Jim says. "I don't think me and the All Mighty are on the best of terms right now."

Marty scratches his head, then runs a hand through his close-cropped blond hair. "Damn, dude, what did you do, commit murder or something?

"Yes, and I'm about to tell you where I dumped the body." Jim takes another swig, watching Marty roll his eyes. "No, look, it's actually more complicated than that."

Marty shakes his head and squirms in his seat. He's becoming impatient. "Say no more. You screwed Melanie, coach's stacked daughter, and now she's pregnant."

Taking a deep breath, Jim leans across the table. Close to a whisper, he says, "I screwed someone, all right, but it wasn't Melanie." Pause. "It was Frances."

Marty sits there with a blank stare. "Frances...don't know a Frances."

Jim isn't surprised that the name doesn't register. Marty's known Jim's mom for as long as they've been friends, yet the idea of Jim committing incest with the woman who gave birth to him is too perverted for him to guess that it's her he means.

"Yes you do," Jim says. "Think about it."

Marty takes a sip and shakes his head. "The only Frances I know is your mom."

Jim looks him in the eye. "Bingo."

Marty looks like he just swallowed the proverbial bitter pill. "Hey, April Fool's Day isn't for another week. And even if it WAS April first, that's the most disgusting April fool's joke I ever heard."

"Hey, disgusting isn't a word you've ever used to describe my mom. Hot and sexy is what you've told me, ever since we were old enough to know and feel what those words meant."

"It's your joke I find disgusting, not your mom," Marty says. "She's what you just said, hot and sexy, especially for a gal in her mid-forties. She's very well preserved, doesn't look a day over thirty-five. Great legs and all that. But Jesus, she's your mom."

"Okay, then what would you say if I told you that I'm not joking, that I really did screw Frances Sanborn?"

Marty looks slightly alarmed as he stares into his friend's brown eyes. "You can't tell me you're fucking serious."

Jim grunts. "What happened was FUCKING SERIOUS, all right." Pause. "Look, we've always been each other's confidant, right?"

"Okay."

"Okay, so I'm asking you to listen, not judge. Think you can do that?"

"I'm not sure I want to hear this, but go on."

Jim does, beginning with what went on in his household since even before his parents separated.

"I became mom's lightening rod," he explains, "her repository for her complaints about dad, of which there were plenty. Everything from his drinking to his skinflint ways. She also suspected that he fooled around."

"Sex wasn't happening between them, I suppose," Marty says.

"Right, and she let me know that, too, without even trying to be subtle. She started flirting with me, actually flirting with me. She'd wear skimpy clothing like see-through nighties when doing housework. Once she even modeled a teddy from Victoria's Secret that dad had bought for her in better times."

Marty was starting to enjoy this. More than that, he was becoming aroused picturing Frances prancing around the house half-naked. He was eager to hear more. "Okay, so then what happened?"

"Well, shortly after dad moved out, she upped the ante. So a couple weeks ago—"

"Wait, you neglected to tell me how you felt about what she was doing," Marty interjects. "Were you turned on? Embarrassed? Repulsed? What?"

"All of the above. I mean, well, you know, my mom's got these long smooth legs, a great ass despite her age and boobs that don't yet sag. She wears her wavy, sometimes curly hair short, but a sexy kind of short, like what you might see in the nineteen-fifties. And she's always had this seductive quality about her. She oozes sexuality without even trying. Well, you know what I'm saying."

"You're preaching to the choir, dude. Your mom's my older woman fantasy. Not to embarrass you, but she's been jerk-off material for years. I love when she mows your lawn in her halter and short shorts, so short I could see her panties sticking out of them. Great ass and legs, like you said. She caught me looking a few times, smiled as if she ate it up. So yeah, I know what you're saying. Can't wait to hear more."

Jim gulps down the last of his beer, then calls the waiter over for another. Keeping his voice low, he continues. "Okay, here goes. So I'm in my room on my desktop computer, and she walks in wearing one of her negligees and—"

"Color?"

"What?"

"The negligee...what color was it?"

"Oh...blue."

"Go on."

"So in she waltzes wearing this sheer, see-through thing, sits on the edge of my bed and crosses her legs. She's wearing thong panties, I notice—yellow—in case you'd like to know that, too."

Marty grins. "Good man. I was about to ask."

"Right. So then, she leans back on her hands, rhythmically swinging her leg back and forth, her boobs jutting out from beneath her negligee. Dispensing with the usual pretense, she says, 'Like what you see?'

So then I go, 'Mom, is this a social call?' Then she replies, in that breathy, seductive voice of hers, 'It's any call you'd like it to be.'"

Marty gives an understated "wow" and finishes his Coors. Like Jim, he orders another, then prompts Jim to continue.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," Jim says, "that she was also wearing a silver headband, something out of the nineteen-twenties. A flapper in a negligee. Made her look even sexier."

"Man, this is getting better and better," Marty gushes. "So she says 'it's any call you'd like it to be' and you say..."

"I don't, at least right away. I'm too busy looking her over, somewhat in a state shock if you want to know the truth. So then she goes, 'Perhaps you'd like to join me on your bed. Don't be shy, son.' Tempting as hell. I mean, my dick is bursting out of my underwear, practically. Still, I've got this ambivalence, you know."

"Makes sense. She's your mom after all."

"Right. So finally I manage to say, 'Well, I'm kind of busy with this,' this being my computer work for school. So then she gets up, stands behind me and leans over to the point where her boobs rest on my head. She then messages my shoulders while looking at the screen. Talk about distracting."

Marty shakes his head, trying to take it all in. "She was merely feigning interest in your work, I take it."

Jim shrugs. "Maybe, it doesn't matter, because that's when I cross the line, throw my inhibitions out the window."

"Uh oh."

"Yep. I spin my desk chair around, reach up and begin messaging those luscious bumpers of hers over her nightgown. 'Ooo, baby, that feels so good,' she moans. Next thing I know, she's sitting on my lap pulling up her nightgown, affording me bare access."

'Suck my boobies,' she says. Boobies she calls them, which I think is really cute because their size hardly qualifies them for boobies. Her nipples perk up right away—there's hardness all around, her nipples and my cock. We're kissing also, and I don't mean the kind of kissing moms and sons normally do. Plus, she smells great, splashed with some erotic scent that has me going even more."

Mary sighs. "She's straddling your lap through all this?"

"Absolutely, her amazing legs hanging over my lap, her bare feet just touching the floor, my face buried between her boobs when I'm not tonguing her nipples."

Marty blows out a breath. "Wild!"

"Well, buckle your seatbelt, my friend, because it only gets wilder."

"Proceed."

"So we're both incredibly hot at this point as you can imagine."

"I can," Marty says, "and pardon me if I start jerking off under this table." Pause. "Just kidding. Well, half-kidding anyway, because this is the hottest fucking story I've ever heard."

"Like I said, it gets hotter. Well, I don't know, five or ten minutes of this, and she again suggests we share my bed. This time I don't hesitate, can't get my clothes off fast enough. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, I'm standing there naked and she goes, 'You can't wait to plunge that big, stiff dick of yours into my hot, wet pussy, can you?'

All I can do is nod while she starts to blow me. She must have had loads of practice with my dad, because she's good, knows how to do it without scraping my dick with her teeth."

Marty gulps down another swig. "You're killin' me, man, killin' me."

"It gets better—or worse, depending how you look at it. So then she asks, 'Are you ready?' I assume she means ready to come, but when she slips off her panties, lays back and spreads her beautiful legs, I take it to mean ready to fuck."

"A clear sign, yes," Marty says glibly.

"Right. But believe it or not, I almost chicken out. She's lying there, legs spread, nightgown pulled up to her boobs, rubbing her pussy, her mouth open, her blue eyes half-closed, seductive as all get-out, practically begging me without actually saying anything. So I'm standing there, stroking my cock, when she says, 'Come on, baby, I'm exploding with desire, swooning with passion. You want this as much as I do.' Which was true, but still..." Jim pauses to gulp more beer.

Then Marty says, "So what finally persuaded you to—"

"I'm getting to that. So then she says, 'Don't let uptight moral misgivings inhibit you from doing something wonderful, something we both want that won't hurt anyone else.' That sells me, persuades me to take the ultimate plunge, so to speak."

"And you do."

"Man, do I ever! Got between her silky-smooth legs and pumped away. She's moaning and throwing out superlatives like 'that's one incredible dick you've got there, young man.' I've never been so hard in my life."

"Un-fucking real! Did you shoot insider her?"

"She said we were 'safe.' So yeah, I did."

"I suppose the rest is anti-climactic," Marty says. "Pun intended."

"Well, not unless you call changing positions anti-climactic. Only a few minutes go by and I'm hard again, thanks to her deft oral skills and a mutual hunger for seconds. This time, she gets on all fours on the edge of the bed, doggy style. Claims she gets greater penetration that way. A first for me, by the way. Me, I'm standing up, pile-driving my cock into her, while also leaning over, fondling her boobs. 'Ohmygod," she cries, 'that dick of yours doesn't quit, does it? Fuck me, fuck me into dreamland.'"

Marty knocks back another swig. He sits awhile, trying to process. Then: "So, you're telling me this why? To purge any guilt you might be feeling?"

Jim shrugs. "Maybe, I'm not really sure. I just needed to unload and you were my number one choice. You know me better than anyone. I trust you."

"I guess Father McShane wouldn't do."

"No priest could handle this, not even McShane. Besides, I haven't been to confession in years. Don't intend to return, either."

When they get outside, Marty again assures Jim that he won't breathe a word to anyone. He also debates the merits of revealing his desire for Frances Sanborn. If the woman is so horny that she'd seduce her own son, maybe she'll accommodate him, a neighborhood "kid" with a penchant for gawking at her when she does lawn work. As he told Jim, she seems to enjoy the attention. Of course, that doesn't mean she has any sexual designs on him, just that she's flattered that a guy over twenty years her junior finds her attractive.

Marty feels somewhat guilty picturing himself flirting with Frances in the hope that it will lead to something more. Would Jim condone that idea? He doubts it. Still, he throws out a feeler. "I hope you realize you made me horny to the point where I wouldn't mind doing your mom myself," he tells Jim on the parking lot.

Jim nods and chuckles. "I get that. Guess I supplied you with a month's worth of masturbation material."

"At least. But let me ask you this. And please don't get mad."

Jim swings his car door open, ready to step in. "Go on."

"Do you think that," Marty says, wearing a sheepish grin, "that, well, your mom would consider doing with me what she did with you?"

"Don't know, but I can ask."

Marty isn't sure how to read Jim's deadpan expression. "Are you serious?"

"Are you?"

Jim's look, turned hard and cold, almost threatening, convinces Marty that serious could land him in deep shit with who up to this point is his closest friend. "Had you going there, didn't I?" He forces an unsmiling laugh.

Jim's look doesn't change, a sure sign that he doesn't buy Marty's ruse. Look but don't touch seems to be his message, and Marty knows it's best to respect that—at least for now. Meanwhile, thoughts of Frances linger, hot and vivid.