Home Again: Coffee Confidential
"Did you ever have sexual thoughts about me when you were growing up?" The words shatter the relative silence, pierce my ears, and ricochet like a pinball off the insides of my skull. Painful.
Setting my nearly spilled coffee on the end table, I slowly look up at my mother, sitting across from me in her living room, "Huh?" I mutter simply.
"I'm just curious, I read that most boys have sexual thoughts about their mothers at some point. I'm curious if you did?" she asks calmly.
My mouth hangs open. How does she know? When did she find out? How did she find out? Wait, does she know? What? Why? How? When? My mind frantically processing while also trying to formulate a response that doesn't incriminate me. Nothing comes, the gears quickly bog down, grinding to a near halt, 'Tilt' flashes behind my forehead. My mouth open, words tumble out, "Yeah, I did," I hear myself confess impulsively. Oh, fuck me, what did I just do? I grimace, unsure what to expect.
"I see," my mother says, showing no emotion, taking a sip from her mug. "When was this, or rather, when did it start?"
I sit rigid, stunned by her lack of condemnation. My brain crashes like a CPU in race condition, reverting to it's base programing: Truth. "Um... I mean... I couldn't help notice you were an attractive woman growing up obviously, but... um... but after I turned 18, I started imagining... doing... stuff... with you," I stammer. Kill me now, I think, sighing.
"Hmm, interesting," Mom says sipping her coffee, unperturbed. "Did something start you thinking like that or did I do something that made you think about me like that?" she asks, eyebrows arched.
When I moved in with Mom a month ago, after splitting with my soon-to-be ex-wife, I had expected some amount of awkwardness, but nothing could have prepared me for this. What possibly brought this on? Did she catch me checking her out while she made breakfast? In my defense, Mom is still beautiful, and the blue, barely opaque babydoll nightie she is wearing both accentuates, and barely hides, her many physical charms. Sitting here on her couch, looking over at her in her large easy chair, awash in natural light from the tall windows, I can't help but appreciate her beauty while acknowledging my lifelong infatuation with her. Realizing I've been carrying this secret since I was a teenager; however awkward this is, I do feel a strange relief in finally admitting it.
I exhale, accepting my fate is in her hands, and answer, "I mean... other than being hot... no, it wasn't anything you did, not really. You were just always the prettiest woman I knew growing up and being around you all the time... you know... I'd see you in stuff... like bra and panties. Or bikinis. And, um... after I turned 18... I, um... tried to see... more of you..."
Mom actually seems amused, "Huh, I had no idea. So, you'd peek on me, to try and see me naked?" she questions.
"Yeah... um... yeah, a lot... actually... especially when you showered." Mom arches her eyebrows, clearly questioning, clearly expecting an answer. "I would kneel at the foot your bed and I could see you in the shower through the mirror over your sink...I really couldn't help... myself. Sorry." I shrug, still feeling a little guilty after all these years.
"Wow. I guess you were a pretty good little spy," Mom half grins, seemingly still more amused than offended. She seems lost in contemplation for several seconds before asking, "So... one day you were horny and you just... imagined me... doing things... for you or with you? It started like that?"
"Pretty much. I mean, I was so horny then... I couldn't control it... it... just kind of happened. I'd imagine you offering to help me or teach me... at first..." I cringe, hearing my own words, fuck!
"At first?" Mom smirks, turning in her chair to face me, pulling her legs up under her. "This IS getting interesting," she smiles, holding her mug with both hands.
Sighing, "You're really going to make me do this? You really want to hear this?" I ask, bewildered, shaking my head. This was always Mom's super power. Getting me to confess stuff by simply calmly asking, no anger, no judgement. Damnit, I guess she'll always have this power over me.
"Uh huh," she simply nods in response.
"Fuck, okay. Well, at first... for a while, it was just an every once in a while thing, like when... nothing else would... get me off. But I would feel really guilty afterwards. You know, I thought there was something wrong with me, thinking those things, about my own... you... you know? So I'd try not to do it again but... I couldn't stop... Then I found... stuff about it and knowing I wasn't the only one, kinda... made it seem okay. I guess it made me feel less bad about doing it anyway. If that makes sense? And so I kind of stopped trying not to think about you... and the more I learned about sex, the more I imagined... doing stuff to... I mean us... doing stuff," I admit to my mother.
Leaning forward, Mom says, "It does make sense, I'm sorry you went through that, feeling like something was wrong with you. I certainly understand why you didn't come to me with your feelings, but I want you to know you could have."