I want to tell the story...
Her name is Jessica and she is my mother. It's been 3 months since I've seen her and I am in agony. You see, I am a freshmen here at a University 4 states away from her and what happened before I left has been in my mind everyday. It's uncontrollable and constant, this yearning I feel inside. Throughout the day I see her face in every girl that passes or talks to me. In lecture hall, I find myself writing her name over and over in my notebook as the professor's voice suddenly turns into hers. I hear her soft sweet melodious voice telling me she loves me and wants me like she did that night over and over...
I want to tell the story so maybe I can let go of some of this...obsession. I need to. If I don't I fear I will never be able to go on leading a happy, content life away from her...
I am the son of a remarkably beautiful woman. I know how I came into the world, for she has told me more than once when I was younger. My mother was 19 years old when she was seduced by an older man. My father, a 45 year old married businessman from Houston, turned his back on my mom when she told him she was pregnant. He disappeared without a trace and she never saw him again. She kept her pregnancy a secret from her family, for she knew if they found out she was carrying a child - a child born from an adulterous affair nonetheless - they would disown her. When she finally went into labor - the night before her 20th birthday - my grandparents took her to the hospital, dropped her off and went home. She had me at 12:01 am the very next day. (We are exactly 20 years apart and share the same birthday). She has said that the moment the nurses lay me into her arms for the very first time, all fear and uncertainty left her body and soul.
"I instantly fell in love" she has said to me, smiling her coy loving smile that has always made me love her even more. After that day, she never left my side. She had to make it on her own, her family did just as predicted and turned their backs on her, ashamed that they could have such a harlot for a daughter. My mother suffered greatly because of this, yet she has always told me in her story - as she would toussle my hair or lean over to kiss me on the cheek - that I was more than worth it.
We were alone in the world, my mom and I. We didn't have anyone but eachother. There were no relatives to visit during the holidays. There were no cousins or siblings for me to search for easter eggs with or get our pictures taken with Santa. Yet I never felt alone or lonely because she was always there for me. She was worth more than a father, grandparents or siblings to me because she fulfilled all of those roles. The first time I rode a bike, it was her clapping behind me on the sidewalk, shouting encouraging words to me as I peddaled further and further away. It was Jessica who picked me up off of the ground and kissed my knee after I fell off of the swing set for the first time. It was my mom who invited all of the kids in the neighborhood and decorated our small apartment with ballons and streamers and cakes and candy whenever we had our birthday. We always celebrated mine and not hers. Whenever I questioned her about this, she'd smile and tell me I'm the more important one.
Can you begin to see why I love her so much?
My mother, as beautiful as she is, never seriously dated as I grew up. Oh, men persued her believe me, but she wouldn't let them get further than a kiss on the cheek. How do I know this? Everytime a date would drop her off at home, I would sneak into the living room after the babysitter left and hide, listening to what my mom and the strange man would say to eachother. Many times my mother had asked them to leave after they made it clear they wanted more than she was willing or wanting to give them. More often than not they would get angry, and tell her she was a tease, or a waste of their time and hustle out of our front door. My mom would sigh and lock the door behind them. It was at these moments that I wanted to jump into her arms and tell her to forget any of these men, that I was all she wanted and needed. I was just a kid and too innocent and naive to understand that the wants and needs of a grown woman are far more complex than a child could provide.
The actual story of my obsession with Jessica began years ago, when I was 15. That was the year I had my first girlfriend, lost my virginity, and suffered my first heartbreak. My mom knew about Tami, my girlfriend and she knew Tami was 17 and older than me. Sometimes when I'd come home after spending the evening "studying" at Tami's house, my mom would be sitting at our small kitchen table, reading a glamour magazine and sipping a glass of wine, looking lonely and sad. I'd sit with her and she'd ask me about Tami and I - what we did after school, and had we ever "done it".
"Cmon mom - of course not!" I'd say to her smiling nervously. I think she knew I was lying. Then she'd stare at me for a moment, as if she was trying catch the evidence of dishonesty in my eyes.
"You are getting so handsome, Scotty. I know girls want to be with you, but I want you to take it slow. I don't want you having to grow up too fast like I did". Mom would then look down at her drink, or her magazine, pretending to end the conversation, but I always felt she wanted to ask me more.
"I know mom", I'd casually say and I'd kiss her on the cheek before going to my room to call Tami on the phone.
After Tami dumped me for a college guy a few months later, my world fell apart. I stayed in my room with the door shut and the lights off and sometimes I'd cry long, mournful sobs into my pillow. I felt so weak and pathetic, the pain of a broken heart so new and raw - making me feel worthless and discouraged. My mom doted over me during that time. She'd come into my room and sit on my bed as I lay next to her, staring at the celing. She'd talk softly to me and rub my back or my stomach with her light warm touch, telling me I was too good anyway and I would meet another girl who was better for me. Then my mom would turn my face to hers and tell me how beautiful I was. She would say that I had her family's good looks. We're half Italian, half Swedish. She'd say I had her soft, wavy light brown hair that turned golden blonde in the sunlight. She'd run her fingers through my hair and tell me how silky it felt in her fingers. She'd be staring at me and I at her as she'd run her finger down the side of my face, saying my eyes were like hers as well. She'd remark on my dark eyebrows and long dark lashes that made my crystal blue eyes even more gorgeous and surreal. She'd say I had such a strong jawline that women will fall for me over, and soft full lips. It was like she was in a trance as she stared at me and just as quick as the trance began, she would snap out of it and excuse herself with a kiss on my forehead.
When she would do this, I often would be left with a squemish feeling in the pit of my stomach. At the time I didn't recognize that those feelings were the beginning of a wild infatuation with my mother.
I soon began to get over Tami and dating other girls. I grew taller and more built. My physical appearence took a priority in my life and I worked out ruthlessly. My mother, always petite and voluptuous at the same time, would constantly compliment me whenever I came home from school.
