He Called Her Janice

How and when did it begin? Well, on reflection, it began while taking notice of my mom Janice doing housework. This was a few months after dad left. What had for years been mundane, barely on my radar, suddenly became exciting, watching her bend over in a short house dress, or squat down to dust. It pains me to admit this, but I've developed a hard-on for my own mother. It disturbs me, instills in me a sense of guilt and shame. Nineteen-year old, handsome guys like me (so I've been told) who do okay with the ladies aren't supposed to harbor erotic designs on their forty-something year old mothers. Yet I do. I'm perplexed, caught in a quandary, turned on by the very thing that I find repulsive. I'm still in the closet, keeping my Jones for mom to myself. No one knows, not friends, not acquaintances—and definitely not my mom.

Of course, it's no secret to me. Feelings are feelings and I can no longer ignore mine. I tried, boy did I try, forcing myself into states of denial. Invariably, those states crumbled like stale cookies. So I've accepted it, grudgingly, but I've accepted it. That's why on this Saturday morning, mom's usual chore time, I'm crouched at the top of the stairs half hidden by a wall, peeking through the banister at mom going about her work wearing nothing more than an oversized T-shirt, bra and panties. The shirt falls to the middle of her plump but solid thighs. She's vacuuming the living room carpet, oblivious to me watching her. As usual, I'm enjoying the show, getting off watching her bend over far enough to expose her red laced panties stretched over her luscious bubble butt. Mom's got nice boobs, too, but being a leg man, I can't help but drool at the sight of mom's sexy extremities, her skin glowing tawny and bright, her calves and thighs an anatomical masterpiece of shapely female muscle. Shoving my hand inside my sweat pants, I begin to masturbate. In seconds, my cock is fully erect. My groans and heavy breathing go unheard, muffled by the plangent roar of the vacuum cleaner. Before mom is even finished, I duck into the bathroom, plop myself on the toilet and finish what I started.

I play out this routine in successive weeks, variations on the same theme. Sometimes mom is vacuuming. Other times she's doing the dishes or dusting or padding into the kitchen in her short, see-through nightie to grab an evening snack. Once content just to look, my imagination takes a kinky turn, gets me thinking about crossing that deep crevasse between fantasy and reality. Scenarios have me fucking her anywhere and everywhere, from the shower to the backseat of my car, while she moans with uninhibited pleasure. That lyric from Green Day's "Basket Case" plays in my head—"sometimes I give myself the creeps." Some would call me sick and perverted, deviant at the very least. Part of me feels compelled to make a move, tell her how I feel and see what happens. The other part tells me to seek help. But what help is even available for a would-be motherfucker? ******

I can't date the precise moment when feelings for my son Rick took an unexpected and disturbing turn. I can say it was a few months after my divorce from his dad became final. We had been married close to twenty years, fifteen of those years not so good; the last five sexless and loveless. Now, almost a year later, I find myself fantasizing about engaging in unspeakable acts with my own son. He's a good looking young man to be sure, strong and well built, a brown haired version of blond, big wave surfer Laird Hamilton. Always athletic, he played lacrosse and football in high school, and now plays lacrosse for his college team. Before my divorce, I could talk objectively about Rick's good looks like any "normal" parent could. I can't do that now without seeing the disgusting, perverted images that go with it—the two of us doing what mother and son ought not to do. This is just a stage you're going through, a traumatic reaction to your divorce; it will pass, I tell myself. Who am I kidding? Far from passing, my urges become more palpable by the day. I'm experiencing firsthand the weirdly irresistible allure of taboo relationships, something I read about years ago. I can't help but wonder if Rick is thinking what I've been thinking. Perhaps it's my imagination, but I'd swear I've caught him catching glimpses of me in various stages of undress. And I'll have to admit that traipsing around the house like that gives me a rush, makes me feel sexy. If he's embarrassed, he hasn't let on, hasn't complained. In fact, I suspect he might even enjoy it.

******

"Rick, can you get my back?" mom asks. It is the third weekend after Memorial Day, and mom and I are relaxing on chaise lounges by our development's Olympic sized community swimming pool. This is the first really hot day of the summer, and people are out in force, most of them congregated on the surrounding stone patios. Not us. We pick a relatively isolated spot on the grass, a good distance away from most of them.

"Sure mom, no problem," I say, as she hands me a bottle of number 15 Coppertone. She sits on the edge of the chaise, her long, light brown hair tied in back. She grew it out after she and dad separated, her attempt to look more youthful, more "marketable," I would guess. Mom sports a string black bikini, unlike most women her age here who wear a one piece. I apply the lotion in circles over her back, breathing in the sweet scent of her natural aroma mixed with the lotion.

"You can get my legs too if you'd like," she says. She looks up at me and smiles, as if daring me to do something naughty. If she wasn't my mom, she'd simply be an older woman named Janice, one of my many MLIF fantasy chicks. She still fits that special genre, but the fact than I'm her offspring changes the equation, adds the titillation of taboo to the entire exercise. "I can do my own legs if you feel uncomfortable," she adds, sensing my reservation.

"No, I can do it," I insist, unable to resist the opportunity of running my hands over her shapely gams. She lies on her stomach, and I go to work. Starting at her Achilles heels, I move up to her plump calves, past her knees and then up to her thick shapely thighs. "You okay back there?" she asks.

"Sure. Why?"

"I don't know, you're breathing kind of heavy, like you're running for lacrosse practice or something."

I knew I was becoming aroused, but didn't realize that my breathing had picked up in response. "Quite all right, mom."

"Okay, honey, just checking." Her head, turned sideways, rests on her hands. "I hope you're enjoying this as much as I am." Probably more, I think, but don't say it.

"Anything I can do to help." My fingers linger at the tops of her thighs, messaging her smooth, supple skin. Then they creep upward toward her butt, the sort of butt you'd like to sink your teeth into. Gingerly, I slip my fingertips under the fabric of her bikini bottom.

Mom picks her head up. "Geez, Rick, do you think I need it there too?" I jerk back. Giggling, she says, "No, that's okay if you think the sun will burn my big derriere through the cloth."

I resume, but then stop abruptly again upon hearing this: "Hey Rick, are you licensed for what you're doing?" I look up and see a bare-chested, smirking Tom Bennett, beach towel slung around his thick neck, lounge chair tucked under his arm, maroon swim trunks pulled high above his navel. He's around mom's age and lives nearby. Before his own divorce, he and his wife Alice double dated with my parents. Since then, he has made no bones about his interest in mom, an interest that has thus far gone unrequited.

I scowl, letting him know I'm none too pleased at his crude attempt at humor.

"Hey, just kidding," Tom says, rubbing his hand over his shiny bald pate. "No offense."

Mom sits up and turns around. "Oh, hi Tom. Rick was just applying some sun block in those hard to reach places."

"So I noticed." He shoots me a devilish look and winks. "I could do the same thing, you know. Alice used to call me magic hands." Mom looks at me and rolls her eyes. Still, he reaches for the Coppertone. "Here, let me show you what I mean."

Mom bends forward and blocks his arm. "Actually, Rick's hands feel kind of magical too. Thanks but no thanks."

"Okay, if that's the way you want it," Tom says, his strained smile looking every bit like camouflage to hide the hurt of rejection. "Well, if not that, then let me take you to dinner tonight. Sun and water can make one mighty hungry."

Mom shakes her head. "Thanks, Tom, but I'm kind of busy. Perhaps some other time."

His smile morphs into a pout. "Okay, I can take a hint." Then he turns to me and says, "No disrespect, but I envy you your hands."

As he starts to move on, I ball my hands into fists and get up to confront him. "Get back here, he's not worth it," mom says, grabbing my arm. "Alice used to tell me what a jerk she married but I never really saw it until after she left him. Besides, even if I liked him as a person, I couldn't get past his sloppy, flabby appearance, his pot belly and that double chin. And he wonders why I won't go out with him. What a creep."

"And I guess his being bald doesn't help." Mom nods and laughs.

We stretch out, soak up the sun's warm, soothing rays and delve into our reading material. For me, it is one of the many books about Lance Armstrong. Mom, a "serious" reader of fiction, devours a short story collection by Joyce Carol Oates. I steal glimpses of her, her boobs hanging half out, her fabulous legs, of course, and her smooth skin glistening in the bright sun. We stop to take a brief dip in the pool, crowded and noisy, mostly with kids splashing each other. Shortly after returning to our spot, I say, "Do you really think my hands feel magical?"

She looks up from her book and smiles. "They did about a half hour ago when you were applying sunscreen. And I'd say it's about time for another application," she says, handing me the bottle. "And this time you can do my front." She puts her book aside and stays on her back. I kneel beside her and splash a few drops on my hand. Before starting, I check to see who might be looking. After all, it's my mom I'm doing this for, not a girl my own age. Seeing the coast is clear, I begin to apply the lotion. "Oh my, that's very nice," mom says, barely above a whisper. My hand circles her chest, then dips below her cleavage. I'm expecting her to blow the stop whistle. But she doesn't, not even when my fingers slip under her top and reach her nipples. "Oh my, yes, yes, like that," she groans. "That feels so good. You do indeed possess magical hands." And a throbbing hard-on as well, though I do my best to keep that to myself.

She makes a half turn and says, "Now you can do my back again if you'd like."

"Of course," I say, "and let's hope Tom Bennett keeps his distance."

"Yeah, that would be nice." She turns over and I repeat what I did last time—starting at her ankles and proceeding "due north," up her legs and then to her butt. "Ooooo, you're so good, Rick honey," mom moans. "Tom envies you your hands? I envy you you're girlfriends."

Soon, we're back to our books. Well, mom is. Me, I'm all but exploding with desire and can no longer concentrate. I slip on my ear buds, try to lose myself in the music. More folks from the community file in and surround our space, placing their chairs and loungers just a few yards away, nixing another go around with mom. The music helps but not much. What I need is to relieve myself and fast. And just as I'm about to hop into the changing room expressly for that purpose, mom says, "Well, I've had enough sun for one day. How about you?"

******

My only refuge right now is in the master bathroom. Here, hidden under the sink is where I keep my glass dildoe. It's either this or doing something that I still can't comfortably reconcile, propositioning my own son. Had we been the only ones at the pool today, I swear, I might have spread my legs, grabbed his dick and shoved it inside me. Okay, maybe not, but that's how I felt, how I feel right this second as I sit on the edge of the tub with my glass rod, preparing to get myself off. My skin still tingles from the deft touch of Rick's oily, Coppertone stained hands. He was excited too. I sensed it. More than sensed it, I felt it. More than felt it, I saw it, saw the bulge under his wet swim trunks. I groped for something to say, something on the subtle side, something that would let him know I'm interested without being too obvious. But nothing appropriate came. So, other than expressing joy from his handiwork, I kept my mouth shut. But how do you make appropriate comments about something so inappropriate like incest? The answer is you don't, not unless you're prepared to purge yourself of the sort of stigma attributed to that kind of intimate relationship.

I shake my head and almost laugh at the absurdity of all this—all this intellectualizing and analyzing while I'm sitting here horny as hell, my nipples rock hard, my pussy oozing liquid, my head dizzy with thoughts of Rick between my meaty thighs, pile-driving his young cock into me like I imagine he could. Oh, if it were only thus—tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. But wishing alone gets you nowhere. So what am I waiting for? If he recoils in horror, I could always make a joke out of it: "Rick, relax, I'm only kidding."

I put the dildoe away. Then I fluff my big, wavy hair before letting it fall to the middle of my back. Then I turn toward the full length mirror on the door. Not bad for forty-three if I do say so myself. My eyes, green and still sharp, sparkle. A few wrinkles line my face. Not many, though; I could pass for a few years younger. My boobs still look good, firm and high, devoid so far of middle-age sag. My tummy, though no longer flat as the proverbial pancake, is free from those spare tires I see on some women and men my age. My legs: Rick must love them because I catch him leering at them all the time. Most men do. They're large, though solid and shapely for the most part, with just a smidgen of cellulite in the backs of my thighs. My peculiar DNA helps, plus my treadmill work and thrice weekly power walks.

"Okay, enough procrastinating," I whisper. "Here goes, it's now or never." I slip on my silk, blue mini kimono. That's all I'm wearing as I emerge from the bathroom into my room and then step softly down the bare wood hallway toward the staircase. Rick, lounging on the sofa watching TV in shorts and a T-shirt, looks up. He says nothing, just stares. From that angle, I know he can see at least to the upper part of my thighs, maybe further. He continues to stare as I make my way down the steps.

Finally, he says, "Wow, mom. You look...incredible."

"Do I wow you, Rick?" He nods, continues to look me over. "That's great, because I'm yours if you want me." I stand in front of him and open my kimono.

"I want you," he says. "I wanted you at the pool today. I've wanted you ever since dad left." He clicks off the TV, stands up and embraces me. I drop my kimono to the floor and then we start to kiss. Of course, I've kissed my son before, but never like this, never with the kind of erotic passion that his dad and I once shared. He bends down and starts sucking on my nipples. Jolts of electricity shoot through me. The air around me sizzles; the room spins. This is outrageous. Perverted. WRONG! But I can't stop. Don't want to stop.

The room spins faster. "I need to sit down before I fall down," I tell him.

"I've got you, Janice," he says as he eases me on to the soft cushions of the sofa. Does he realize he just called me Janice instead of mom? I'm not sure, but it excites me even more. In seconds, he throws off his clothes and then sits beside me. "You smell really good, like sun and chlorine and whatever you're wearing," he says. I reach down to stroke my throbbing pussy, and he says, "Here, let me do that." So I lean back against the back of the sofa and let him. He kisses me while he rubs his fingers inside my cunt, now deluged with my juices. The next thing I know, he's on his knees with his head between my legs, sucking my pussy and stabbing his tongue furiously across my swollen clit. I pick my head up in an attempt to kiss him, to no avail. Dizzy from his tongue lashing, I collapse back down and close my eyes in total surrender, a willing captive of my own son.

"Oh my god," I cry out as my climax approaches, a tsunami of a climax that crashes over me, sending my brain into a tailspin. Bereft of superlatives, I embrace the pure, raw sensation of it, including something I didn't anticipate—darkness.

"Janice, are you okay? Janice, wake up!" His voice sounds like it's coming from some distant, foggy place. My eyes flutter open. Then I sit up and shake my head. "I...what happened?"

"You must have blacked out for a few seconds. That's a good sign, I guess." Rick shrugs and grins.

I reach out and wrap a hand around his stiff cock. "I want you in me, Rick. If I pass out again, so be it. But I need to have you in me."

He accommodates me. Oh, does he ever! Only rarely does fantasy beget reality. Exceptions are few, and right now I'm a living, breathing, fucking exception. Rick, topside, alternates between kissing me and sucking on my boobs as his cock works its magic, thrusting and plunging, fast and shallow one second, slow and deep the next. I struggle to stay conscious—the room is spinning again. It helps when we change positions, gives the blood a chance to rush back into my head. He has me around the waist and under my butt, lifting me up and down, thrusting his pelvis into me. Sweat trickles down my face. My skin's on fire. My boobs bounce. My pussy pulsates and tingles. My eyes stay half closed, unfocused.

He's almost there. I know, because of the rhythm of his body, his accelerated thrusts and his breathing which picks up speed by the second. He starts to pull out, apparently apprehensive about shooting inside me unprotected. "It's okay, baby," I assure him, "you can come inside me. I'm on the pill." And so he does, his body heaving, his voice reduced to groans and sighs—the universal language of coital pleasure, the same language that speaks to me seconds later. This time I don't pass out. But I'm close, so close.

We cuddle on the sofa. "I love you, mom," he whispers.

"So it's back to mom now." I brush away a lock of his hair and kiss his forehead. "What happened to Janice?"

He looks confused. "Did I call you that?"

"You sure did. But don't feel bad. I thought it was cute, thought it enhanced the whole thing."

"Well, even though you're the sexiest woman I've ever been with, I'd feel more comfortable calling you mom."

"That's quite all right. Except when we do this. Then can you call me Janice?"

"After what you just did for me, I'll call you anything you'd like."

******

From mom to Janice and back again. We both found this to be a weird juxtaposition, one that neither one of us could fully reconcile. In bed (metaphorically speaking because where we made love varied from week to week), she was Janice, my lover. Out of bed, the dynamic changed, reverted back to what it was before that day on the sofa. The sex was great, but so was the feeling that what we were doing wasn't kosher. We tried to rationalize it, tried to convince ourselves it was okay. But, being slaves to society's norms, we could never fully erase the feeling of guilt that hung over us like a dark cloud.

Come fall, mom finally met a nice guy, one that fulfilled her on several levels. Her timing couldn't have been better, for around the same time, I stopped playing the field and got "serious" with someone myself, a girl I met through friends. That's when we stopped being lovers.

Sure, we both miss the thrill, the erotic foreplay, the over-the-top orgasms. Of course, I haven't told my girlfriend Patty that she's going with an ex-motherfucker. But one time during our love making, I dropped a hint, calling her Janice in the throes of my passion. "Do I look like your fucking mother?" she asked indignantly. I couldn't help but laugh.