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Text:Tom Hathaway - Memoirs of Forbidden Love/On the Rebound by P.W.

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“You want to drop any hints about what you might like for an anniversary present?” I asked my wife a week before the date.

“A divorce,” she answered.

She meant it. After six years of what I thought was a pretty good marriage, she dumped me.

I took it hard, it hurt more than I thought it could, made me bitter … and I have to admit needy.

I did the classic thing of going home to mother for comfort. Mom and I were in the same boat — dad had dumped her last year. She was having a difficult time adjusting too. We both felt lonely, rejected, unwanted.

Her standard of living had dropped too. She was now living in a condo rather than the big house and drinking Cutty Sark rather than Glenlivet. Drinking quite a bit of it.

We got along fine, commiserating with each other and complaining about the fickleness of spouses. When Iʼd been growing up, we had lots of conflicts, but now we seemed much more compatible. We were both older and wiser.

One evening we were sitting on the couch together watching TV, both enjoying the closeness of the other. The show got pretty sexy, which made us nervous, so we turned it off. We talked more and slipped back into our sadness. Weʼd both had a lot to drink and were maudlinly mulling over how painful life can be. Mom started to weep, but this was nothing unusual. We both cried sometimes, found it to be a healthy release, were glad the other person was there to accept our feelings nonjudgmentally.

I got a bit carried away with my comforting, though, hugging and kissing her not just on the cheek but the damp edges of her eyes, her hair, the top of her ear, the back of her neck, her throat, her lips. A deep hunger welled up in me, and I couldnʼt stop, just wanted to lose myself in a swirl of sensation and emotion.

“Now, now, thatʼs far enough,” she finally said. “Stop now.” Mom was flustered and her face was pink.

Abashed by my forwardness, I sat back on the couch and tried to pick up the loose strand of our conversation. We had another drink.

Then I got more depressed and started to cry. Now it was her turn to comfort me. As she hugged me, I snuggled against her bosom; she patted my head and cooed soothing words. The closeness of her breasts mesmerized me. I was transported back to infancy when they were my inexhaustible source of happiness. I nuzzled into them, petted and kissed them.

This time when mom said, “Now, now, enough of that,” I ignored her and held onto them for dear life. My pawing had loosened her buttons; I reached inside her blouse and stroked the soft mounded skin above her bra. She tensed with a combination of fear and excitement. “Phil, donʼt.”

Instead of obeying, I rubbed my other hand on her tummy and undid the rest of her buttons. The blouse came open. Her breasts were large and straining against her bra. I embraced them through the fabric and kissed her bare skin. Momʼs breath was deep and loud. She closed her eyes while I took off her bra.

Nothing has ever looked so heavenly as they did. I plunged into her treasures with my hands and mouth, loved them like a baby, and her breath turned into moans punctuated by sobs.

Mom and I had each other right there on the couch, afraid if we tried to move to the bedroom our consciences would stop us. Our mating was glorious in a drunkenly desperate, guilt‐ridden sort of way.

After a six‐month incestuous fling, we had both recovered from the trauma of our divorces. We felt whole again and able to handle the world.

We were unable, though, to handle each other. We didnʼt work out as a couple. Many of the early conflicts we had experienced now resurfaced. We were very different people and, we were gradually forced to admit, not very compatible. But the realization was mutual, without bitterness.

Mom and I helped each other through a bad time and are grateful for it. Weʼre both dating other people now, and our adventure remains our secret.


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