Growing up, I never thought my mom was hot.
My friends did. Tucker, one of my best friends, started using that word to describe her when we were sophomores in high school. One day, when he came over to my house, he saw my mom in a bikini sitting by the pool in the backyard. His jaw almost fell off his face. When we went inside the house, and we were sitting around doing nothing in my room, he kept saying, "Randy, your mom is so hot!" It annoyed me to hear him say it, because I didn't like to think of her that way, and I didn't want my friends to think or talk about her that way, either.
I told Tucker it annoyed me, but that didn't stop him. On the contrary, it egged him on. It wasn't just Tucker, either. Mason and Alex said the same thing, over and over and over again. Even though I didn't think of her that way, I spent most of my high school years hearing that I was the guy with the hot mom. My house was the one that my friends always wanted to come over to. I think the main reason was that they wanted to see my mom.
No question about it, my mom was pretty. She was only 21 when I was born, so, as moms went, she was young, and she kept her figure trim and firm by lifting weights and doing yoga at the gym, running several times a week, and playing tennis. Mom, whose name was Inga, was tall and lean but shapely. She had athletic legs, sculpted and lightly muscled. I never asked her, but I guessed, from what I could see on the Internet as a reference point, that her bust size was in the neighborhood of a firm, perky C-cup. I knew that when she had been in high school she'd been voted homecoming princess, and it was easy to see why, with her long, wavy, darkish blond hair, full lips, and bottle-green eyes.
Because of my mom's active and athletic lifestyle, my friends knew that if they hung around long enough at my house there was a good chance they'd see her coming or going in a little tennis skirt, or in running shorts and a tight, nylon top, or in form-fitting yoga pants. After a while, it felt like my friends were timing their arrival at my house to coincide with the best opportunity to catch my mom in a skimpy, sporty outfit.
But I never looked at my mom that way. To me, she always was just mom. And she was a great mom: attentive, loving, supportive, and kind. She had a job in the human resources department of a big company nearby, and she worked there four days a week, but she still found time to do all the usual mom things well: she cooked, she washed the laundry, she kept the house clean, among other things. I always thought my mom was the greatest mom in the world. Despite what my friends said, though, I never thought of her as hot.
Until I turned 19.
When I was 18 years old, and had just been graduated from high school, my parents suddenly separated because my dad cheated on my mom. Dad always had been a good dad to me, but it had been obvious for a while that something was wrong between my parents. Dad was away at the office a lot, and eventually he confessed to mom that he'd been having an affair with his 24-year old secretary. He wanted to leave mom, and he did, abruptly.
Fortunately, my parents were able to negotiate an amicable settlement, and the divorce was granted within 9 months of the separation without too much acrimony. By that time, I was 19 years old. I was enrolled at a local college, and I also worked part-time selling TVs and computers at the local Best Deal store. I'd always known my way around computers, phones, and other devices, and I also knew how to persuade people to do things, so it was a good job for me. I didn't make enough to support myself and put myself through college completely, but it helped a lot to lighten the burden for mom and dad, and it gave me some discretionary income.
After the separation, dad moved out of the house and into an apartment that he shared with his girlfriend. I stayed in the house with mom. It was just the two of us. We lived in a one-story, ranch-style house in a suburban area on the fringe of a large city. My bedroom was on one end of the house; mom's bedroom was on the other. It worked out well for both of us. I got a free room. Mom got someone to keep her company after the separation and to help take care of a house too big for one.
One of the appealing things about the house, for me, was that it was located near the edge of the neighborhood, which abutted an expanse of hills that remained undeveloped. The hills were interlaced with fire roads and dirt trails. I had inherited my mom's fondness for running, so as often as I could I put on my running shoes, exited the house, and headed to the hills to run.
One afternoon, after I had finished my college classes and come home, I went for a run. It was a warm day in early September. It was warm enough that I decided to run without a shirt. I often ran without a shirt when the weather was warm enough; I had been doing so since being a member of my high school's cross-country team. It wasn't an exhibitionist thing; it was just comfortable for me.
I hit the running trail and headed up a steep incline, wearing black nylon shorts, socks, and running shoes. I also wore a GPS watch that would track my time, pace, and distance. My cell phone was velcroed to my right bicep, allowing me to stream music through tiny headphones stuck to my ears. I'd cued up a playlist of songs by Slipknot, one of my favorite bands. I liked to run to the sound of hard, pulsing rock music.
After about twenty minutes my body was covered in sweat. I was running well, my limbs loose and strong. This was my favorite part of the run, the part where I was warmed up but not yet tired. The sun beat down on me in a cloudless sky, but the glare was no problem because of my sunglasses.
The trail on which I ran curved up the hill. I reached the crest with steady effort, and before me lay a smooth, flatter stretch, with some oak trees scattered around.
On the trail before me, I noticed a woman for the first time. She was running too, about 200 yards ahead of me. She was running more slowly than I was, but, still, she was running with grace and vigor. I picked up my pace, estimating I would catch up to her in a few minutes if I kept doing so. As I drew closer to her I saw her more clearly.
I confess I had a mild fetish for women in running outfits. As a former high school cross-country runner, I had been around runners of both sexes for a long time, and I had developed a keen eye for the way shorts and tops hugged and set off a woman's limbs and curves. The woman ahead of me wore blue shorts and a white shirt. The shorts were quite short, with probably no more than a 3-inch inseam, and they fit her snugly, accentuating the length and leanness of her legs. As I drew closer to her from behind, I saw the contraction of her thigh and shin muscles with every step. She was a graceful runner. Not all runners are. Some runners plod. Others run with short, jerky steps. This woman's stride was both fluid and feral, like that of an animal to whom running came naturally.
As I drew still closer to her, I saw her butt more closely. It was pert and round, like a ripe apple. Her hips, though not wide, nonetheless contrasted with the narrowness of her waist. Her little T-shirt didn't fully cover her. As she ran, the bottom hem of her shirt moved up and down, momentarily exposing glimpses of the skin of her back just over the waistband of her little shorts.
Her blondish hair, gathered in a ponytail that poked out from the back of a white cap, flew and bobbed after her as she ran.
I couldn't see her face, but from behind she was nice to look at, and the sight of her spurred me to run faster so I could catch up with her. I picked up my pace. I started rehearsing what I might say to her as I caught up to her. If the front of her looked anything like the back, I thought to myself, she was hot. The word "hot" escaped my lips in a breathy whisper as I ran to catch up with her.
Both of us ran for several minutes like that: her ahead of me, running slowly, and me, running faster and closing the distance between us. I drew closer and closer to her. So far, she had not turned around or noticed me.
When I was about 50 yards from her, I suddenly noticed something. It startled me so much that it almost stopped me cold.
The woman running in front of me was my mom.
At first, I couldn't believe it. But it was true. I had been running after my mom, admiring her and even thinking of her as hot, and I hadn't even realized it was her.
I had seen my mom in running outfits before, as she left the house. But I never had seen her running, out on the road, or on the trails. I hadn't recognized her stride, either. Nor had I recognized this particular running outfit.
Although I almost stopped, I didn't. Instead I kept pace with her. It didn't look like she had noticed me yet. I was able to look at her, running on the trail ahead of me, while she didn't even know I was there.
I just called my mom 'hot,' I thought to myself.
She was hot. I would never have guessed the woman running ahead of me was 40. The first sight of her had hit me with a wave of lust, and the wave lingered and washed over me even after I had recognized her. I was close enough to her now that I could see the cheeks of her butt clenching with every stride under tight-fitting shorts. I saw the thinness of her waist, and the V-shape of her lean but muscular back from waist to shoulders. I felt a twinge of guilt feeling this way. But I also felt the same thrill I got from looking at any sexy woman. It was the first time I had ever looked at my mom this way, and it was both embarrassing and exciting.
I realized it would be weird if I hung back too long running behind her, so I picked up my pace to catch up with her. It didn't take me long.
When I was about 30 feet behind her, I knew she would be able to hear my steps and my breathing, so I called to her.
