It's been some months since I posted a story. I want to thank all who have taken the time to write and post comments while I was gone.
As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
* * * * *
One Friday afternoon, about a month before his high school prom, my step-son burst through the front door and headed for his room, nary a nod or hello. Not like him, and wasn't he supposed to be with Katie? Half-an-hour later I went upstairs, heard him crying through his door, silently backed down the hall, and re-entered it making noise more than sufficient to announce my presence. I tapped on his door and asked if he'd join me for a cup of tea.
Eyes red, trying to hold himself together, he appeared about twenty minutes later. I suggested dinner at his favorite neighborhood Uzbek restaurant There it came out. Katie, his girlfriend of eighteen months, had dumped him. She was going to the prom with an old boyfriend just returned from a year in Europe.
I wasn't surprised; things had been rocky and, other than the pain it caused him, wasn't upset. I didn't like Katie. I don't know whether it was conscious manipulation or just that she was an insecure young woman with limited tools stumbling through a relationship, but her constant condescension and criticism, penchant for blaming Ryan for her own bad behavior, and incessant discounting of his feelings had battered my step-son's confidence and self-esteem.
I'd wanted to say something, to do something, but hadn't. This was something he had to do on his own and, in any case, his friends had already tried to intervene. So while I, the good step-mother, had always been ready to listen, I'd gotten out of the way and let the relationship run its course.
* * * * *
A bit of background. Ann, Ryan's mother, and I met in medical school. We became friends, roommates, and served our residency -- Ann in neurology, I an internist -- at the same hospital. I was with her - we were eating lunch on a lovely spring day -- when she was introduced to John, the brilliant young eye surgeon and rising star of the hospital's staff.
Choosing stability and family, Ann married John a year later. Ryan arrived soon thereafter. Their marriage, despite John's growing reputation, had been successful. As John, consumed by work, became increasingly unavailable, independent Ann volunteered here, championed a cause there, was active everywhere. There were drawbacks. Husband and wife had more electronic than face-to-face communications and John, always at work, became an interloper in a family ever more centered on Ann and Ryan. And on those nights she needed to be held, she and I, like we had in medical school, would turn down the lights, split a bottle of wine, snuggle, touch, strip, make love.
I stayed single. A successful attractive doctor, I dated important men, went to the right parties, ate at the best restaurants. Unfortunately my important men were far too often self-obsessed blowhards and mediocrities in the sack. So if once in a while I envied my friend and if once in a while a good-looking visiting resident -- I was careful, they were always from another department -- was invited to share this doctor's bed, what was the harm? I showed them a good time.
And yes, maybe John and I married too soon after Ann passed. I knew of the talk, that it was hasty, that I married John for the prestige, that he married me, a semi-trophy wife, to be twelve year old Ryan's mother. And so what if the talk wasn't wholly inaccurate. John and I weren't smitten teenagers who couldn't live without each other. But I wanted a family, it was clear I couldn't have children, and I'd concluded there was no Mr. Right. If John was less than perfect, so was I. So I became Ryan's mom and, as he entered his teenaged years, his co-conspirator, acting as the cushion between him and his by-the-book father.
* * * * *
After the break-up I kept a close eye on my step-son, letting him mope when wanted to, listening when he wanted to talk. I noticed something else. Several times a day Ryan would say he had check his computer or take a nap, disappear into his room, and appear shortly thereafter, face flushed and smelling of sweat and sex. I mean, Ryan was a teen-aged boy, but still.... Had he always masturbated this much? Had I not noticed? Did this explain his attraction to Katie? My step-son had a robust sexual appetite. Did Katie's match?
Over the next weeks, the depth of my step-son's gloom lifting, we'd hang, go to the gym -- it's amazing how quickly a testosterone infused teen-ager muscles up -- jog in the park, chit-chat while I made dinner, watch television. On Fridays, knowing my husband would work late, concerned my step-son would spend the evening brooding over Katie and her new/old squeeze, we'd return to that Uzbek restaurant for what my step-son called our "date." It was nice. After the alienation of his early teen-aged years, after his eighteen month obsession with Katie, I was reconnecting with my step-son on a more adult level.
On the night of prom Ryan decided he'd skip the dance and hook up later with friends at a post-prom party. I suggested dinner at Ceburechnaya, an out-of-the-way sort-of-a-dive hole-in-the-wall with, by reputation, the best Uzbek cuisine in the city. I dressed up a bit, boots, jeans that wrapped around my bit-of-a-jiggle ass, a loose tank top that was not so loose it didn't show off my boobs, and a lacy supportive bra. At home, bending forward for my keys, I noticed Ryan glance down my open top. I knew I shouldn't, but I got a charge out of it -- I still had it. Later, at the restaurant, I dropped my fork, reached for it, saw him look down my shirt, fumbled with the fork, gave him a longer look.
After dinner Ryan headed for his party and I, ready for some action, showered, put on a short nightie that showed off plenty of breast and legs, and waited. John, unfortunately, got delayed at the office and when he got home one glance -- he looked exhausted -- told me there'd be no sex tonight. I fixed him a drink, talked to him about Ryan, the prom, saw he wasn't listening, suggested that he didn't need to entertain his wife on a Friday night or talk about his son, that he should hit the sack. I poured myself another drink, dozed off, woke up when Ryan returned home.
"Hey Mom, I didn't, sorry."
"It's okay son, I fell asleep reading."
"Is it okay if I have a beer, can I get you something?"
"How many have you had?"
He said, "A couple," which meant at least four, and I said, "Yeah, but only one and don't tell your Dad. I'd love a glass of wine."
Back from the kitchen he handed me my wine, sat down, resting his back on the couch's arm rest, his legs sprawled before him. I laid my legs on his, rubbed his knee, told him about my evening -- his dad arriving home late and heading straight to bed -- until, hearing the resentment creep into my voice, changed subjects and asked him about the party. He skimmed over it, omitting the interesting details, then turned the conversation back to me. "You okay?"
Clearly he'd heard the frustration in my voice and deciding what the hell, why avoid the issue, I said, "Yeah, its just that sometimes your Dad takes me for granted."
"He takes us all for granted. You look nice, that's a pretty nightie."
I said, "Thanks, I'm glad you noticed," left unsaid the implication his father hadn't, and added, "I wanted to feel like a woman tonight, pretty, sexy."
Taking a long evaluative look at me -- I became conscious of the amount of cleavage I was showing -- my step-son said, "Why? You don't feel sexy all the time?"
"Y'know, your Dad gets preoccupied. You get married, things change."
"C'mon, Dad's in love with you, in his own way."
