"You bastard, you dirty, rotten bastard, fuck off," I screamed down the phone to my husband who had just admitted yet another 'casual fling', this time with a twenty-four-year-old receptionist in his company. It was the third time I had caught him and like Bill Clinton said many years ago it was three strikes and out. I had told him not to come back to the house and asked where he would like his clothes sent.
Throwing my mobile down onto the settee I put my head in my hands and started to cry.
"What is it mum?" Peter, my son asked as he came and sat beside me.
Sobbing I asked. "Where did you come from, I thought you were out."
"I was but plans fell through so I just came back and it seems that was lucky."
"Nothing, don't worry," I said rather ridiculously as I had tears streaming down my face.
He put his arm around me and said. "It's dad again isn't it?"
I started to deny it but thought what the hell and replied.
"Yes love it is."
"What is it this time another bimbo?"
"Oh Peter don't get involved."
"Not Carla in the office is it?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
"I saw how they were when I worked there in the holidays, it was sickening."
"Do the staff all know?"
"No one said anything to me but they wouldn't would they, but I think most know there's something going on between them?"
"Even more of a bastard then doing it so they'll all know and making me look like a right tit."
"Well not sure about just a right tit mum," he said smiling and trying to lighten the situation although I didn't get it.
"What do you mean Peter?"
"Well people don't just look at the right one mum."
"Oh shut up," I said nearly smiling as he joked about my 36 inch D cup boobs, something that he'd started doing over the past few years.
My family, John, my soon to be ex, Sara my eighteen-year-old daughter and Peter, my twenty-two-year-old son and I had a very open relationship and from when the kids were quite young we had broached subjects that many other parents shied away from. Thus, making a joke about my boobs was nothing unusual.
"And you're right mum he is a bastard, a right one too, I've known it for years."
"You don't have to side with me love after all he is your dad."
"I'm not siding mum, it's true he's always treated you badly, I've known and seen that for so long."
Nothing was said for some time but suddenly I realised he still had his arm around my shoulders and his hand was holding me just above my elbow. My head was resting against his upper chest and shoulder and my left boob against his lower chest. It felt nice and I felt secure, comforted and consoled. Another feature of our family was that we had always been quite 'touchy feely' so him hugging me was not that unusual.
"Ah well," I muttered, starting to move, but he held me.
"Don't move, mum just calm down and stay like this for a while."
It did feel nice being held and consoled after the shock of finding out about John yet again cheating on me. And I realised it also felt nice that it was Peter, my son, holding me so I stayed exactly where I was and without thinking rested my hand on his leg just above his knee.
Peter and I had become much closer over the past few years. I realised that this corresponded with the decline in my marriage and that it was almost as if my son was replacing his father in my affections and my life, well most of it.
During his time at university and the first year at work with the investment bank I saw quite a lot of Peter. He came home fairly frequently from uni, mainly for friends' and family parties and for football and cricket club events and lived with us when he first went out to work. Having him 'on tap' as it were gave me a range of feelings and emotions. A straightforward mother's pleasure at seeing a lot of her son which was natural and pure. But then there was the unnatural and somewhat impure thoughts when I imagined us together in situations that mothers and sons most definitely should not be in. However, most of the time I was able to cope ok, but then something would trigger me off, perhaps when I was ironing his clothes or tidying his room or when I saw an attractive young man when I was shopping or at the gym. Then I would have lurid thoughts that worried me and made me feel guilty. Looking back, I had worked out that I had those mostly when John and I were at war, which was becoming more frequent. And of course, other events from the past regularly came into my mind.
The time when I was celebrating my fortieth where John had let me down about going to the Ritz to dinner. When I took the phone call that he could not make it Peter had consoled me to the point that I thought we were going to kiss and as we had travelled home in the chauffeur driven car with his arm around me I thought he would do something when Sara dozed off. When we danced at my wedding anniversary and he held me in a completely, non-son/motherly way squashing my breasts against his chest and I felt the movement of an erection; the afternoon he came home unexpectedly and I was lying topless on my back in the garden. I looked up and our eyes caught. We both smiled. His eyes zeroed in on my breasts. I froze. I didn't know what to do. I half wanted to sit up and flaunt them at him and then I thought for a moment he was going to sit on my sun bed but he said rather croakily.
"Sorry mum," and went inside.
There were other smaller incidents. Little touches, brushing against each other, lingering smiles, catching him looking down my top, at my legs or breasts, frequent flirtatious remarks and double entendres.
Several times I was tempted to make an advance or more really indicate that I would not reject one from him but I was scared of rejection and what he would think of me if I had got it all wrong. In addition to the times when I thought he might kiss me or do something there were stares and holding each other's gazes that led to nothing, but must have meant something and, I concluded possibly meant he was feeling the same as me; scared, worried about rejection and wondering how I was feeling. At other times and this was the majority I put all such thoughts from my mind and concluded that I was just being silly. Things like that rarely happen in real life, I concluded. But then, I started researching the issue of mothers and sons and what I found online amazed me. It seems that a slight majority of mothers in the UK do have sexual thoughts and feelings about their sons and around 10% of them have some form of intimacy. That might simply be anything from an overeager kiss or caress to having penetrative sex. There was little data available on what proportion did actually go all the way, as it were, largely because it's a crime but it was thought that it was probably between 0.1 and 0.2% meaning around a 1000 each year.
"So what are you going to do mum?" he asked out of the blue.
At first I didn't know what he meant. I was confused by what had happened on the phone with John and what was happening now with him. But what was happening, indeed was anything happening? Then the penny dropped.
"It's the last straw, he's insulted me enough and made me look foolish in front of the whole company."
"So what's that mean?" he asked, squeezing me tighter as his fingers slid further round the front of my arm so that the ends of them were grazing on the outside of my breast. That sent a shudder through me.
"I'm kicking him out and I'll get a divorce."
"Great, good for you mum," he said, sounding joyful and kissing the top of my head."We thought you should have done it ages ago."
"We?"
"Yes S and me, we do talk you know and we do care for you?"
I looked up and into his eyes.
"I'll help you mum, make sure you get everything you're entitled to."
"Thanks love."
"And make sure you don't get screwed."
"Good."
"Well by him at least," he smiled, making me wonder what was going through his mind as at the same time the outside of his fingers were pressing more obviously into the outside of my breast.
"Now, now, I'm not like him with bits on the side."
"Perhaps that's what you need mum."
"What?"
"Someone on the side to er, um..." he said leaving the punch line hanging.
