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Text:Tom Hathaway - Memoirs of Forbidden Love/Bi‐Bye by Convert

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I used to be the kind of guy who likes guys. At twenty‐one Iʼd had girls, Iʼd had boys, and somehow I felt more comfortable with the boys. I wasnʼt sure if I was bi or gay.

My mother of course sensed this. Iʼve never been able to hide anything from her, actually never felt the need to. Itʼs just the two of us — Iʼm living at home going to UCLA, psych major. She wanted me to be “normal.” She was worried about HIV, worried about her friends gossiping, worried about not having any grandchildren. So she concocted a maternal scheme.

She rented a DVD, told me sheʼd read good reviews of it, and suggested we have a movie night. She made popcorn and served wine, rosé. The film was French and a real steamer, not hard‐core porn but very erotic. A beautiful woman and a beautiful man having a beautiful time. There was some mystery story too, but it was mainly them … in many different settings and very few clothes.

I knew right away sheʼd picked the movie to turn me on to women. Sheʼs never been able to hide anything from me either. But the strangest thing happened — she got tremendously aroused by the sex on the screen. I could hear her breath and almost feel her desire streaming out. She was embarrassed at the same time, and covered up her nervousness by drinking lots of wine. I donʼt think she knew how sexy the film would be. She made some comment about daring French cinema to show me sheʼs sophisticated. Actually she is quite sophisticated; sheʼs creative director of a Los Angeles ad agency.

Her being turned on turned me on. I wasnʼt all that interested in the film — that was just pictures — it was HER, this hot panting creature next to me I was getting interested in. I was also peeved at her disapproval of my sexuality, her unwillingness to accept me just as I was. She probably thought the film would inspire me to bed some pretty co‐ed, fall in love, get married, and give her grandchildren. But it had backfired.

To call her at her game, I reached out and put my hand right between her legs (I was drunk too). She gasped and took my hand away. “Danny, donʼt!”

I put it back there and rubbed through her slacks.

“What are you doing?” she asked, shocked.

“You know what Iʼm doing … and I know what youʼre doing … trying to turn me on to women. Youʼre pretty obvious, pretty devious.” She looked chagrined, and I could tell she felt bad about manipulating me.

By now I was lustful and decided to manipulate her a bit … both with my hands and my words. “You should be ashamed of yourself, a trick like that. Well, it worked and now you have to bear the consequences.” I stroked her groin with one hand and held her shoulder with the other while I kissed her. If she wanted heterosex, she was going to get it, ready or not. The actors on screen were quite a bit farther along than we were, but I didnʼt watch them anymore. I gripped motherʼs hair with my fingers, to hurt her just a little but mainly to keep her there. I was kissing her mouth and rubbing her crotch and liking it, and I could tell she was scared but also liking it. By now she was radiating passion.

Finally, though, she broke away and gasped, “No … we canʼt do this.”

“You set it up. You wanted me to have a woman … well then I get to have you.” I kissed her again, deeper; my tongue wouldnʼt let hers alone until hers moved with mine and they danced together. My hand felt the heat of her earthy core. I was filled with a kind of power Iʼd never experienced before. Now I knew what it meant to take a woman, to overcome her resistance and make her want it too. I just kept plowing ahead, and she kept giving in, sometimes with words and tears of reluctance, but she didnʼt stop me. She was too excited.

One thing led to another … and another … and I liked them all — her tits, her hips, her pussy. This last took me awhile to get used to — Iʼd built up a mythology of ick about female VVs (vulvas and vaginas), thought of them as dank and smelly. But now I was drawn to the aroma, found it delicious, lubricious, licky rather than icky. I realized I wasnʼt staring at the crack of doom but at the gate of heaven.

Now we were on the rug and mother wasnʼt resisting anymore. Sheʼd shut her eyes, not wanting to admit what was happening.

Although I definitely donʼt have HIV, I took a condom out of my wallet and put it on so she didnʼt have to worry. My part slid into her part with an ecstasy of entry that made me shudder with joy. Mother loved it too, holding me with her whole body as I pushed into her and filled her up. All my mental blocks against females just dissolved as we moved together in instinctive rhythm. We were man and woman, doing what they were designed to do. When we climaxed together — bursting, lunging, screaming — it was like all of nature mating. Afterwards we lay entwined in each other, snuggled in tenderness.

The experience was an overwhelming catharsis. It forced me out of my psychology and into my biology, blew away the inhibitions Iʼd built up, and rooted me in the simple fleshy act of mating. I was converted, right there on the rug. Crudely put, I went from being a cocksucker to being a motherfucker, and I can assure you the latter is much more enjoyable.

This unleashed passions weʼd both been denying for years. After a couple of months of coupling, I could see this was what Iʼd really wanted all along but had been too threatened by it. Although it was my strongest desire, having sex with my mother was the ultimate prohibition, the great forbidden. This conflict was too intense, so I had flipped the roles internally and subconsciously become my mother. As her, I sought myself in the form of men. I was her and the other man was me, finally getting to do it. Since I couldnʼt accept my lust for mother, I had to cut myself off from the whole female gender to avoid my urges. For me, being gay was the incest taboo run amok. There are lots of different kinds of gay, but mine was oedipal repression.

Mother has her urges too, and we still like satisfying each other. Sheʼs adjusted to our “highly unconventional relationship,” and we sleep together a couple of nights a week. But she insists it canʼt be permanent. She keeps introducing me to girls (itʼs interesting that the ones she picks always look and act like her). Thereʼs one I like quite a bit, Darci, and actress in one of motherʼs commercials. Sheʼs incredibly bright and lively, and at twenty years younger, her figure is considerably more pneumatic.

Iʼm convinced mother is right when she says she has my best interests at heart, but I think she also has a selfish interest in trying to get me married. She still wants those grandkids.


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