This story is pure fiction.
I hadn't had sex since my husband Ray had left more than four years ago. Strange as it sounds, the thing that finally brought my celibacy to an end was my son breaking his leg. Since no one else lived with him, so I decided to move him back home where I could take better care of him. Mike was 20 and a natural athlete. whatever sport was in season, he played. He was good at all of them and great at some. It was at a baseball game where an inexperienced player slid into second base, spiking Mike's left leg and breaking it. There was knee damage as well, so Mike was now laid up with a cast almost hip to heel. And I was forced to care for him, enjoying being needed by my increasingly independent son.
Mike and I had always been close. He wasn't a mama's boy by any means, but was sweet and very sensitive, especially after his dad moved out. Mike was sixteen at the time and the two of us gave each other much needed comfort and support then. I remember the first night when Ray left, Mike heard me crying in bed and crawled in with me, talking to me, stroking my hair and finally falling asleep beside me.
After that, without either of us saying anything about it, he would sleep in my bed every night. Sometimes we'd talk, sometimes not--but I was happy to have another person in the bed next to me. I slept naked--had done so since I was a teenager--but Mike didn't think much about it.
Mike saw me naked often when he was growing up but seemed to not even notice. Ray and I were very casual about covering up around him then. But one morning, she awoke to find him sitting cross-legged on the bed near her shoulder, touching her nipple gently with one tentative finger, his face wearing that serious, inquisitive look he often saw.
That night, she had him start sleeping in his own bed again. It made me sad to sleep alone, but I didn't think he should be in my bed anymore. From that day, she made a better effort to cover up, too. Although the flea market vintage kimonos she favored for around the house had a knack for gapping open at the top or falling away from her thighs, so she knew Mike still saw things from time to time.
Now it was Saturday afternoon, a week after the accident that had him mostly confined to bed. He could hobble to
the bathroom on his own--and refused my help to bath him, thankfully--but it still hurt to stand up for any time at all, so the rest of the time he was in bed. I had to go back to work the next Monday, guilt-ridden, but had I no choice.
I left the phone by his bed and made sure there were snacks, beverages, books and the TV remote all within reach. And I came home at lunch, bringing take-out food and stories to break up his day. With time off work, things around the house were having little effect to occupy him, I was glad to be off today, to spend some time with him--I knew how bored he was. We had watched old movies together till the wee hours the night before; I sat beside him on the bed, so I could let him sleep.
One afternoon, I heard the TV and brought him some lunch on a tray. As I opened his door and walked in, a wall of funk hit her. Gasping a little, I sat the tray on the bed and crossed the room and threw open the window. Mike was not the neatest kid when it came to his room, but this was different--this was body funk.
"Mike, you stink, son. Bad. You need a bath." I said to him,
He tapped his cast with his knuckles. "Yeah, right."
"Well, you need to wash up or something." I protested,
"I can barely stand up to pee, Mom. How can I stand up long enough to wash up?" he explained to me,
"Well, I can't stand to smell you like this. If you can't wash yourself, I'll do it."
"Mom..." he protested.
"Right after you eat lunch, I mean it. Jeez!" And I waved my hand in front of my face as I walked out. Mike knew that tone--not bossy, but dead serious. There was no way around it.
