Prologue
I've wandered across a couple of those erotic story sites in looking my daily portion of spam. After a while my curiosity got the better of me and I checked a couple out. Due to my own experience, I was curious to see how, or if, they dealt with incest. Yup! They sure did, every possible coupling between any pair or group of relatives conceivable, heavy on dad-daughter and mom-son.
I checked out several of the mom-son stories. They were all pretty much the same; well-preserved mom alone due to divorce, widowhood, or abandonment, devoted (and horny) young son who for whatever reason isn't getting any elsewhere. Very predictable. But as our Postal Service is fond of saying, "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is." Not that I am everyman, but my experience was much different.
To begin with, I had a pretty satisfying life going. I was in what amounted to an internal affairs shop of a large nationwide financial and securities firm. I was on the road too much to make any lasting romantic entanglements. However, as a "spook", it was no trouble to learn who was the office easy at the various branches I visited, so my horns were always close cropped.
Mom, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. Dad had suffered a stroke many years back. Fortunately it had been in the day that many companies still provided decent health insurance and Dad's company had been one of the best in that regard. Over the years, though, his ever-deteriorating condition had turned Mom into a full-time nurse. Dad had passed about a year ago. I had used all the vacation time I could beg or borrow to stay with her and make sure Dad's affairs were properly taken care of.
I could see, even then, that the years of selfless caregiving had taken their toll. Although she grieved at Dad's death, she seemed physically relieved by her burden being lifted. We had agreed that she was strong enough to carry on by herself and that I should not jeopardize my job. I went back to work, but made a point of having a long phone chat with her every week.
During the past month, however, something in those conversations told me things weren't quite right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I decided to take the little vacation time I had built up to go see how she was doing. I was somewhat surprised that she didn't seem particularly happy when I told her I was coming to visit.
Arrival
After a fun-filled day of security screenings and airline snacks I arrived home in the early evening. I was surprised that Mom didn't respond to my ringing the doorbell or knocking. Luckily I still had my house key, so I let myself in. Even in the dim light from the foyer windows, I knew that things were bad. Junk mail and magazines were scattered here and there. Mom's almost threadbare overcoat lay crumpled at the foot of the clothes tree as if she had tried to hang it up, missed, and didn't care. I retrieved it and hung it up properly. Mom hade never been exactly a neat freak but she wouldn't have tolerated something like this when I was a kid.
I saw a light from the kitchen and called out a hello. Mom's flat voice answered something from the kitchen. I quickly hung my own coat and went there.
Standing in the kitchen doorway I was aghast at the wreck of the woman who was my mother sitting there before me. Mom had never been pretty but when I was a child she'd known how to groom herself to be reasonably attractive. Even in the last strained days of caring for Dad she'd managed to keep herself presentable.
She had dyed her hair some color nature had never intended, and her face was over made up with too much of the wrong shade of everything. Her frayed robe was stained and hung open in an unattractive, though fortunately not revealing, way. The ashtray in front of her was overflowing and a tumbler with a little of what was probably bourbon sat next to it.
"Oh, my God!" It probably wasn't what I should have said, but I couldn't suppress it. I could feel the tears coming.
"Hello to you, too," she rasped in a voice scarred by too much tobacco and bourbon. "I'd get up and hug you, but I'm a teensy bit squiffed," she continued in slurred speech.
I chastised myself for being glad she hadn't. It is hard to acknowledge that your own mother is a complete mess, but there it was. People usually say, pro forma, that they love their mother. This was a Hell of a way to find out whether it was true or not. I fought back the revulsion (and the last of the airline snacks that had risen to my throat) and went over to her.
"C'mon, Mom," I said, rather more forcefully than I intended. "Let's get you upstairs and to bed."
"Whatever." A voice beyond caring. A voice of total defeat. I suspect I could have suggested she lie in front of a speeding truck and gotten the same response.
As I held her to get her up the stairs, I noticed her body seemed to have lost all resiliency, just tired flesh hanging on bones. Finally I maneuvered her into the bathroom and sat her on the closed commode.
"Shouldn't pee while my robe's on," she sort of giggled.
"No, you shouldn't," I said, starting to draw her bath water. "I'll be out of here in a second and you can take care of that."
Making sure that the tub wouldn't fill too fast, I left the bathroom. I wanted to get out of earshot, but knew I'd better not. It's not fun listening to your mother urinate (unless you're really kinky, I suppose). Fortunately, I guess that was all she had to do, because I heard the toilet flush. Then nothing. No sound of her turning off the bath water or moving around taking off her robe and whatever might be under it. Nothing. I knocked lightly at the door.
"Who...who's there?" Mom slurred.
"Just me. You okay?"
"Oh, hi. I wanted to meet you when you got here, but I had to pee." For the first time, there was something like liveliness in her voice.
Without invitation, I reentered the bathroom. She was standing by the sink, looking confused. At least she'd managed to get her robe on more or less correctly. I turned the taps on the tub, as the water was now at the right temperature and depth. I saw a can of some sort of women's bath stuff and sprinkled some into the water. "All ready, Mom," I said, trying to feign cheerfulness.
"It's so good to see you!" She lurched forward as if to embrace me. I braced myself for the reak of bourbon and body odor, and let her come into my arms.
Her body seemed weak against me with no real vitality. I tried to hug her as gently as possible. The "it's good to see you, too" bit stuck in my throat. The tears were really flowing now.
"I guess I must have been planning to take a bath, get cleaned up for my son's homecoming," she said uncertainly.
"Looks like it, Mom. I'll just step outside..."
"Oh, you don't need to go so soon, do you?"
"I'll be right outside, I promise. I won't go anywhere."
"You're such a good boy."
I quickly left the bathroom and closed the door. I found my handkerchief and wiped my eyes. Silence. Still no hint of activity behind the bathroom door. I gingerly opened it. Mom was standing there as before, arms hanging loosely at her sides. I didn't want to do what I now knew I would have to do. The airline snacks were on the rise again. I willed them back down as I stepped over to Mom.
"What are you doing?" she asked matter-of-factly as I untied her robe.
"Helping you get ready for your bath."
"Oh, yes. I forgot to take one before you got here," she continued in a flat voice. "I don't have anything on underneath, though."
Part of me was relieved, as there would be no more clothing to struggle with. The truth of the matter was that I'd just be seeing what I had no earthly desire to see that much sooner.
I moved behind her and slipped the robe off of her, to be confronted by a view of her back, ravaged by age and perhaps other factors. I noticed a few fresh bruises that weren't where one would normally get them by running into something. But now was not the time to ask about them.
Staying behind her, I talked her into getting into the tub and seating herself. I sorely wanted to leave the bathroom again, but common sense told me that wasn't a good plan. I just stood there quietly.
"Where are you? "
"I'm right here, Mom, by the door."
"Well, come around here where I can see you. Go sit on the commode till I'm done here."
I willed myself to comply, keeping my eyes riveted to the floor.
"Look at your mother. I want to see your face."
"You're my mother, sitting in a bathtub with no clothes on."
"I'm an old woman and you're an adult. It'll be okay."
I looked up and concentrated on her poor, ruined face. Somewhere behind that face and the near stupor she was still my mother. I did truly love her. I knew that now and it was tearing my guts out.
"I just can't seem to muster any energy. Must be the nice hot water," she said. "Do you think you could help me wash up?"
I'd been dreading the fact that I might have to do that, and had more or less steeled myself to do it. I moved over to the tub.
"Please hand me that jar over the sink," she asked. It turned out to be some sort of makeup remover/skin conditioner concoction. I opened it for her and she managed to get her makeup off. It certainly did nothing miraculous for her looks, except that now she looked like my mom and not some over-age tramp. With a silent prayer of thanks I closed the jar and returned it to the shelf over the sink.
