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Text:Tom Hathaway - Taboo: A Memoir Confessions of Forbidden Love

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 Please feel free to download “Taboo: A Memoir” by Tom Hathaway
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For Diana

FOREWORD

I’ve had an unusual life, and now that the unusual part of it is sadly over, I feel the need to communicate it to others, although doing so will expose me to risk. My mother’s and my memoir is sure to offend, even enrage, some people because it challenges a deep-seated phobia in our culture. The forces of repression and shame are strong, both within us and in the self-appointed watchdogs of our society who want to prevent change.

The love affair we enjoyed contradicts the establishment dogma that all incest is sick, dangerous, perverted, sinful. Although it had its stresses, this relationship was the right path for us, a powerful bond of mutual devotion and a radical opposition to patriarchy. We discovered that other people, too, are daring this forbidden love.

The reactionaries view this as a great threat. They know the next and most fundamental stage of the sexual revolution is beginning, and they are trying to stop it with scare stories and punishment, just as they tried in years past against masturbation, oral sex, premarital sex, and homosexuality.

These guardians of the status quo use the very real danger of child molesting to generate hysteria and blanket condemnation of all incest. I agree with them that child molesting is inexcusable. Adults can do great harm to children by sexually aggressing them. Children aren’t autonomous yet, they’re not fully formed, so having sex with a grownup, especially a parent, can make too deep an imprint on them.

Incest between consenting adults, however, is a different issue, one of personal freedom, really no one else’s business, especially now that birth control has removed the genetic risk. Once we get over the superstitious dread, it becomes another private preference, an activity that will appeal to some people and not to others. As with many matters, we can live and let live, love and let love.

An ancient myth is about to be exposed. As this boogie man fades away, we humans may learn to accept our basic but currently banned urge.

What you are about to read is the story of two people, both of legal age, discovering an irresistible attraction for each other. In short, a love story.

I have tried to reconstruct the past as vividly as I can, to preserve it in my memory now that I no longer have her.

ONE

“Do you want to go to the Rolling Stones concert tonight?” my mother asked with a smile. She stood in our living room, just home from work, holding two tickets in her hand. Long auburn hair cascaded over her boldly colored blouse. Tight jeans tapered down above a pair of leather sandals.

“Well … uh … who with?” I replied cautiously.

“With me, you toad. Isn’t that good enough?” She slapped me with the tickets.

“Hmm … I guess … yeah, OK,” I said in my teenage mumble.

I loved the Stones and had never seen them live, but the idea of going with mom wasn’t a thrill.

Diana’s pert, lively face fell into a disappointed frown. “You don’t seem excited.” Her small white teeth sank into her crimson-colored lower lip.

“Yeah, well … like ….”

She snapped the tickets into her purse. “I can go with someone else.”

“No, it’ll be fun,” I backpedaled, not wanting to miss out on the concert. “It’s just that ….”

“Yeah, I know. Mom’s a drag.” She understood me so well that I couldn’t hide anything from her. I was eighteen and she was thirty-six, but in some ways she was as much of a teenager as I was. Most of my friends’ parents seemed to have forgotten what it was like to be young, but she remembered.

“Well … uh ….” I groped for words. There was no point in lying. She could always tell.

“You want to go or not?” Diana put her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow in a way that said, Don’t jerk me around.

“Sure. It should be cool,” I said, getting more enthused. “Where’d you get the tickets?”

I could tell by her quick smile she was glad I wanted to go. “Allen at work gave them to me. We were going to go together, but one of his cases fell apart. Witness disappeared. So he has to stay late and track him down.”

My mother had been dating one of the other lawyers in the Public Defender’s office. I thought he was square, with his crew cut, tab collar, and Hubert Humphrey for President button. Mom—with her long hair, peasant blouses, and Angela Davis for President button—thought so too but said he was an “OK guy” and they were “just friends.”

“The Stones will be groovy,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

This was 1968; change was everywhere in the air; even our hometown of Denver wasn’t dull anymore. It seemed that music, protest, and free expression would soon create a very different world. Each day brought new possibilities.

Diana let me drive her VW Beetle to the concert. She sat beside me and tried not to be a front-seat driver.

The concert was one of those Happenings that haven’t been duplicated since that era. The crowd was half the show, all these new freaks with their long-suppressed weirdnesses coming out, finally able to show their hidden sides, still tender and fresh. Everyone greeted one another with open, accepting eyes. The mood was peace and love, but spiced with the highenergy mania that the Stones do so well. Mick pranced around in tight pants showing off his buns and singing, “I can’t get no satisfaction.”

I could identify with that. I was still a virgin, which is now a rarity but back then was a normal teenage affliction. Although curious and eager, I had so far been unsuccessful in convincing any of the fair sex to share theirs with me. The music roused my frustrated lust.

The crowd was awash in marijuana smoke. People were passing around an endless stream of joints and offering tabs of acid. Diana and I declined the LSD but toked on the grass pretty heavy. We had both smoked before but never together. She hadn’t wanted to encourage me, but here it was unavoidable. It was also super strong grass, a blend called M&Ms, Michoacán mixed with mescaline into a psychedelic cocktail that took us high-higher-highest. We floated through the rhythms and melodies as if they were the protoplasm of our cells. The music, the whole universe even, seemed to be coming from inside us. We found ourselves holding hands, overwhelmed. After the last encore, Mick mooned the crowd and scampered off.

Royally stoned, neither of us could drive, so we rolled home in a cab, headed straight for the fridge and munched out on Rocky Road ice cream. We were having a great time, giggling like kids, more relaxed and free than we’d been around each other in years. We were really whacked out of our skulls.

We started talking about the great songs they didn’t play, and dragged out their records. Soon the stereo was blasting. The Stones’ music is, of course, solid sex, the lyrics and beat obsessed with eros. That made us more nervous here alone than it had at the concert. Since it’d been a sit-down event with no dancing, we had a pent-up need to move and burn off tension.

While Mick sang, “Let’s spend the night together,” we kicked off our shoes and boogied around the living room, both of us in jeans and multi-colored shirts. We didn’t have the same dancing style, and we were too bombed to be very coordinated, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was to have fun shaking it to the music.

At first we were each more into ourselves, woozily bopping and grooving. Then our eyes met more often and we started getting into dance as communication between us. We laughed and did little routines together, twirling around, bumping shoulders. She flipped her auburn ponytail in my face. Each time we looked at each other, so many emotions poured between our wide-open pupils: shyness, apologies for old hurts and harsh words, fear, nameless yearnings, defiance, and strongest of all—love.

The slow tempo of “No Expectations” brought us into a ballroom pose, like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. With me a millimeter taller, we glided around trying to be elegant, but she hiccuped from having eaten the ice cream too fast, and we broke up. While Mick crooned, “Never in my sweet short life have I felt like this before,” I held her manfully and bent her down into a low dip, my leg between hers. I could feel her warm midsection pressing against me and see the bulge of her breasts beneath her Mexican blouse. I almost dropped her, but managed to raise her back up. She must’ve felt something in my middle, too, because she skittered away.

The next song caught her, though, and we were off on a fast one. To not fixate on her jiggling chest, I focused on her eyes. They were the same shade of brown as mine, but seemed flecked with sparkling gold.

With the psychedelic vision, it was as if I could see into her personality, all the churn of her thoughts and emotions, and then beneath that even to her soul. Before, I’d just seen her as Mom … or a Lawyer. Now I could look through that surface to her feminine essence—the most beautiful and desirable woman I’d ever imagined. Her female core drew me like a magnet.

I could tell from her surprised, embarrassed glances that she was seeing me as a man.

We played eye games, staring into each other’s and dancing closer and closer as if hypnotized, until it got too intense and we darted away. Finally we found ourselves just standing two inches apart, gazing into each other through a great silence. The song was over and we weren’t dancing.

The next cut snapped us out of our reverie, and we were off again. “You’re ten thousand light years from home,” Brian Jones sang. As we danced, we continued watching each other, as if we were each the first human being the other had laid eyes on. We were similar but different, familiar yet strange. Our seeking eyes glided over skin, taking the other in.

When the record ended, I needed to look at something else, so nervously I picked up one of the jackets, Between the Buttons. The title seemed hilarious, and I cracked up, laughing to relieve the strain.

She came over to see and thought it was funny, too. We pointed at the musicians’ pictures set into flowers and giggled together.

“Between the buttons,” I said. “What do you have between your buttons?” It seemed witty, and she reached out and tickled my tummy between my shirt buttons. We were blushing and our looks had turned daring. I tickled her in return, along her ribs then under her arms, and she squirmed and shrieked. We were both so tripped out that we did things we normally wouldn’t’ve let ourselves even think about.

“The buttons!” I intoned in a mock basso voice. “What’s between your buttons?” We stood close together panting with laughter. I touched her embroidered blouse and stretched my fingers between its wooden buttons as if measuring. A button came open and my hand kept going, into the soft fullness of her bra.

At that touch, every cell of my skin came alive, my breath hung suspended, and a different music drummed in my mind. I touched more, ran my hands over her luscious mounds. The other buttons came undone. “What do you have—?”

“Whoa, you!” she cut me off and backed away on unsteady legs, rebuttoning her blouse. “Put on something a little more quiet.” Mom turned away and looked at the record rack. As she bent over to pull out an LP, her jeans stretched around her curvy bottom.

I forced a laugh to make it seem this was still just a game and pulled the tails of her blouse out from her jeans. She jerked up, turned around with a reprimanding but amused look, and waggled her finger at me. “OK … stop now.”

“Only if you give me a kiss,” I insisted, trying to sound playful.

Diana puckered her full lips, then began laughing through her nose, which made her sneeze. I lurched into her, held her in my arms, kissed her cheek, then her lips. She didn’t return the kiss but let me continue. I brushed my lips gently over hers, trying to recall all my limited make-out skills. I slipped one hand under her blouse and up her back.

She broke the kiss. “Enough of that! Let’s—”

I quieted her by covering her crimson lips again with mine. Hers now responded just the tiniest bit, and we kissed each other hesitantly, exploring these lips that we knew so well but not in this way. Inside each of us, a voice was screaming, No! But another voice—long buried and now stronger— was screaming, Yes! We were awkward, as if we’d both forgotten how to kiss and were reinventing it. We nibbled at each other curiously, and I rubbed the taut skin of her back.

“You won’t quit, will you,” mom said, but didn’t pull away. I remained silent, knowing talk could only distract us. Instead I drew her again into the swirl of our kisses. Her breath deepened into a sigh.

I brought my hand around to the front and petted a breast, felt her nipple under the bra, marveled as it stiffened under my touch.

“Don’t do that!” She tried to twist away, but not very much, and I held her with my other arm, kissed her again, and continued to pet.

My thoughts were chaos. What was I doing? This was mom I was groping! That’s the Big Don’t. What if somebody found out? What would the kids at school say? I must be crazy … freaking out. Quit it! But I couldn’t. A wild roaring hunger drove me on.

I couldn’t bear the nylon covering her breasts. I didn’t know how to undo her bra, so I simply pulled it up. As they swung free, I plunged my hand into her soft treasures.

Afraid to meet her eyes, unable to stop, I unbuttoned her blouse. There they hung: large lovely tits with nipples standing out boldly, waiting all these years for me to touch them again.

“Tommy … don’t,” Diana managed to stammer.

The sight of them chased away the last of my inhibitions. I needed them, I needed her. I pressed myself against her so our eyes wouldn’t meet and fondled them, squeezed them, stroked them. Gasping now, I pulled off her blouse and bra. They were round and magnificent, glad to be freed, not the least afraid, unlike us, who were trembling with shock. “Stop … we can’t do this,” mom said through her heavy breathing. She folded her arms over her chest.

I met her eyes long enough to see terror and desire battling within her. I kissed her, and her lips opened. I pressed deeper, and our tongues greeted each other shyly. They had never touched before, and they seemed to like it. When I pulled her arms away from her chest, she encircled my back with them.

Somehow we found the couch, and as we sank onto it, my lips moved toward her breasts. From the black tufts of her armpits came a whiff of rancid fear.

With her mouth freed, she began to cry and murmur, “No … no ….” She pulled at my shoulders but without strength.

I dived for the nearest nipple, a rosy beauty prickled with readiness, and enclosed it with my lips. I held it and loved it and sucked it, and it grew, expanding under my attention. The flesh around it became firmer and jutted towards my mouth.

The most divine, remembered ambrosia flowed into me. I was filled with a wonderful calm, a knowledge that all’s right with the world. Stored up feelings came flooding back over me, and I was perfectly happy for the first time since I’d nursed there.

I opened my mouth to take in more of mother’s swelling fullness, then covered her other breast with my hand, delighting in its softest smoothness, clutching as much as I could manage. From both breasts, more billowed beyond my touch. Her bounty was greater than my grasp, and I was brought to the contentment of Plenty.

She was lying against the arm of the leather couch, sobbing and sighing, stroking my head, my back, my sides. As I continued to feed, her breathing became deep shudders. “This is wrong,” she mumbled with no conviction at all. “Please stop.”

I knew that meant she wanted me to kiss her lips again.

They were feeling neglected and certainly didn’t want to be used for such silly talk.

I rose up and met her eyes just long enough to give her a look that said, Don’t even think about stopping. I plunged back into her lips, and my tongue sought hers. Diana’s responded with its own force, and the two wrestled boldly. Her breath through her nostrils grew rapid.

Being a virgin, I knew where my goal was but I wasn’t sure what it was or how to get there. I touched between her legs, and she writhed. “No!” she cried from our joined mouths and wrenched away from me.

I knew I’d made a mistake. Ignorant but running on instinct, I took my hand away from The Place, embraced her more firmly, and kissed her lips gently. At first she resisted but gradually she grew still and began returning my kisses again.

Holding her tightly with one arm to make her more willing, I rubbed the other arm down her side. When I reached the danger zone, I skipped over it and stroked her knees, then risked a bit higher on her legs. They stayed closed but they stayed there.

I brought my hand back up to her breasts, knowing they were on my side in this struggle. I petted and fondled them and dropped down to kiss them again. Why did you leave us? they seemed to accuse me.

I was worried that with her mouth uncovered, she would start protesting again, but now she needed it to breathe through in long, loud pants. Eyes closed, face contorted from the battle within her, mom slipped lower onto the leather cushions. From her breasts, I gazed up at her with adoration.

I rubbed slow circles down her tummy to the top of her jeans, then skipped over the narrowing danger zone to her legs and rubbed circles on the denim, which felt like sandpaper compared to the softness of her skin. I gradually edged my hand between her thighs and stroked both sides until they parted just a bit.

My hand hopped over The Place up to her abdomen and pressed the blue cotton. Diana moaned at the touch. Around to the rear, I rubbed her bottom. The tension went out of her legs and they relaxed. I moved my hand through and clasped each side where the legs joined. As I caressed her thighs, they slowly opened. Aha! It was as if I’d finally found the secret lever to swing open the gates of the Great Pyramid.

I brought my hand to the front and placed it delicately right There. She gave a cry, but it wasn’t No; she twisted, but didn’t twist away. I probed gently into her firm but yielding center and kneaded it with pulsing pressure. Heat radiated through the denim.

I opened the top button of my mother’s jeans. Her hand rose in protest, then fell limply to her side.

She’s going to let me! I get to have her!

But suddenly she doubled her knees into her chest and turned away from me in one last paroxysm of resistance. I pushed my hand through her round cheeks and clutched and rubbed her groin. I held myself close against her. Reflexively she lifted her rear to me and cried out in surrender, her voice filled with shame defeated by lust.

Mom began pulling at the top of her jeans, trying to get them off. I helped her, and we slid together onto the thick Rya rug. Her Lady Lees came off, revealing graceful legs in white underpants so sopped that I thought she’d wet them. When I touched her there, though, the fluid was thick, clear, and slippery. Little hairs curled timidly out from the sides of the silk.

Years ago I’d caught a glimpse of her getting out of the shower, half covered with a towel. I’d hoarded the image in my mind, but it had faded into vagueness. Now here she was in the flesh. The beautiful expanse of Diana’s bare skin lay before me like a wonderland: the peaks of her breasts, the rippling field of her stomach, the canyon of her legs leading up to the mystery of her center, still tantalizingly covered.

“You,” she said hoarsely and began stripping me. She went right for my Lee Riders while I threw off my tie-dye shirt. On her knees, glassy-eyed, moving as if in a trance, my mother yanked my jeans off. My urgently red and swollen penis stuck out from the side of my jockey shorts pointing right at her. Panting and swallowing, lips drawn back from her teeth, she stared at its length with a mix of yearning and loathing, as if it were forcing her to do something she wanted very much.

Now that I was no longer holding her, I grew afraid. So near yet so far—maybe something terrible would happen— she might reject me. My face trembled and my limbs quivered.

Seeing my anxiety, she hugged me to her and held her cheek against my erection, cupped gentle fingers around it. Mom’s touch calmed me instantly, and I stopped shaking. I knew I would get home, that everything would be all right, that I would have her at last.

My shorts came off and my member swung free; we stared at it and then into each other’s eyes. Within her dilated pupils, I saw my tiny reflection splashing and playing like a baby. Bowing to a force greater than ourselves, we folded into each other’s arms.

I eased her down onto the rug, and she raised her hips to let me remove the last silken barrier between us. As the panties came off, what they had been hiding emerged, its red lips and black hair wet and glistening. Its musk mingled tantalizingly with the scent of her perfume, making me want to inhale it, burrow into it, devour it.

Her Place was just as bold, proud, and triumphant as its coconspirator between my legs. Perhaps even more so, because it had given birth to all of me. My manliness had passed through her womanly portal once before and was finally coming back for a more pleasurable visit. From our middles, our genitals commanded us like generals marching to victory. Except that I had no idea what to do. I stared at her riches with awe, but seemed in suspended animation. With a smile, Diana pulled me on top of her. The feel of her breasts, belly and legs under me, all of her soft, supporting structure made me swoon.

Mom took me in her hand, placed me where I needed to be, and led me back through the gates of life. I pushed inside her and felt her moist heat enfolding me, drawing me into heaven. Her center encircled me, surrounded me with a pressure that flexed and flowed in rhythms of delight. As I pushed in deeper and filled her up, she wrapped her legs around me, wanting me as much as I wanted her. A happy, wordless burble poured from deep within her. She gazed up at me like she couldn’t believe it was me, her son, doing this to her.

“Ooh … my boy,” she said in appreciative amazement.

It felt so good and I loved her so much I wanted to cry. “I’m back inside you … finally … so wonderful.”

With a pounding rush, I exploded gloriously into her. “Oh, mommy!” I cried in delirium.

She clasped me in her arms and held on. “Oh, Tommy!”

TWO

I was dreaming my penis was a candle, and mother leaned over and lit the wick with a match, not to burn it but to inflame it with passion. She had to get quite close, but it didn’t hurt at all and the wick took fire and the whole candle glowed with translucent blue light that shone over our faces.

I woke up in mom’s bed holding her in my arms and thought I was still dreaming. We were nude and I watched her sleep, breasts rising and falling as she breathed. They seemed like twin worlds, each complete in itself yet complementing the other in their double glory.

Think of what you did! an inner voice yammered at me. Now you’re a motherfucker.That’s the worst, the pits. You’re a freak, a geek, a weirdo. My throat tightened—the voice was trying to strangle me.

For relief I stared at the curved fullness of Diana’s tits and thought of how they had thrilled me last night. I yearned to suck them again. Now the nipples were smaller, softer, paler, blending in more.

The sight of them relaxed my throat, and I breathed deeply. You’re just an uptight square, I told the voice. Last night was fantastic … far out … revolutionary. The revolution begins at home. We’re the Che Guevaras of sex.

Mom’s thick russet hair was tangled around her sprightly face. The nostrils of her slightly upturned nose swelled and contracted slowly as she breathed. Dotting her cheeks were faded brown speckles that had once been youthful freckles. I hoped mine would fade someday, too. Her mouth was closed, lips puffed out a little, their color now a pale pink with all the crimson lipstick kissed away by me. I had seen her face wearing so many expressions, but never this one of deep rest. I was stunned by how beautiful my mother was, so unworried and peaceful. Love for her welled up in me in great waves. Twelve hours ago I would’ve scoffed at the idea of loving my mother. Now the feeling was so strong all I could do was enjoy it.

One golden-brown eye opened, looked at me, and closed. A groggy murmur emerged from Diana’s lips. She opened the eye to look at me again, then opened both eyes. Her oval face sharpened with a shock of recognition. “Tommy! What are you doing here?”

Rather than answering, I smiled, tried to look innocent, and snuggled up against her. She patted me reflexively, then caught herself; her eyes widened as memory returned. “Oh … no!” She snatched at the sheet to cover herself, then shook her head, mouth gaping in disbelief. “We didn’t!”

With her breasts now hidden, I resisted the urge to pull the sheet off. “We did,” I said, “and it was great.”

Her covering herself had uncovered me; she stared at her son’s morning erection, then blushed and averted her eyes. “Tommy, get out. This is awful.” She began to cry, holding the sheet to her face. “What’ve we done?” A wail burst from mom’s lips and tears spilled from her eyes.

The sobs that wracked her body also wracked my heart. For the first time I understood how painful it is to see a person you love in pain. I stroked her head and cuddled in close to her, trying to reassure her. “It’s OK … everything is fine.” “No!” Diana persisted. “I can’t bear to think about it.”

I rubbed her shoulders to soothe her while she cried and snuffled into the sheet. I pulled a tissue from the bedside table and gave it to her. She blew her nose with eyes closed, unable to look at me. She was like a hurt child, and I longed to comfort her. I rose above her back, which was heaving with sobs, and began to massage her, my penis swaying heavily as I moved.

“No … no!” she chanted again.

I rubbed her back with both hands, trying to knead the knots of tension away. “Don’t talk, just cry.”

Mom obeyed me. I was amazed. She cried in long, breathy moans, a little calmer now. I gave her more tissues, and she nodded in thanks. I felt so tender towards her. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, but I was afraid to get words going because they might rouse her fears again, so I hugged her through the sheet. She cried louder, and I rocked her in my arms. The motion uncovered her breasts. As I drank in their beauty with my eyes, the nipples stiffened and darkened. They knew they were being admired and wanted more of it. They really did have a mind of their own; they just couldn’t talk, so they had to send me different signals. I certainly wanted more of them.

I slipped under the sheet next to her, sighing with delight at her warmth and smoothness. “No,” her chant began again.

As I kissed a motherly breast, she rolled away from me, turning onto her side. “We can’t … it’s wrong.”

Since I was confronted with the sleekness of her back, I began to rub it again. I looked down at her rear end, so round and curvy, the cheeks almost like breasts in their double voluptuousness. I didn’t dare stroke them yet for fear she would leap out of bed, but I very much wanted to. I spooned in close behind her, though, and brought my legs against hers.

My thing brushed Diana’s buns and began throbbing with excitement. Her crying had quieted, but at this touch it grew louder. I pulled my organ away to keep her from bolting, and rubbed her back some more. This calmed her again, but I was wild with frustration. My hard-on was straining out towards her, bursting with eagerness, furious at being repressed. I looked down and saw a sheen of moisture at the top of her legs. The hairs were wet and glistening like last night. She wants it too! Maybe I can get in from this side.

Very slowly I edged up against her again. Mom’s bottom was cool against my warm member. This touch increased her crying, and her body heaved with each sob. Each time she moved, I pressed a little deeper between her legs, seeking passage. I didn’t know much about female anatomy, but I knew my goal was somewhere in that area. I wanted to get back inside her more than I’d ever wanted anything, and this made me creative. I kept timing my moves to hers to avoid alarming her. Her buns now pinched my cock tantalizingly, but my tip kept nudging up against solid ground. Finally it felt slick dampness and began following the trail, sliding towards the source. Fortunately she had a nice compact rump so I could get in close.

Things got wetter and warmer, and I got more excited knowing I was on the right track. I bumped into a wall, though, that stopped me. As she felt me there, her body froze. “No!” mom wailed and tried to wiggle away, but I held her hips. As she continued to wiggle against my shaft, her motions and my pressure parted the wall and let me enter. I had found her secret passage.

With a gasp of pleasure, I pushed deeper inside. The divine feeling of last night returned. I was home, back where I belonged, plugged into the source of everything. I pressed into my mother, and the farther inside her I went, the better it got. “Oh, Tommy, my god, don’t!” Diana’s voice was raw from crying but also from passion.

I reached up and encircled her with my arms, clutched her brimming breasts, and held her tightly against me. “We have to,” I said and I pressed on. With a yielding moan, she tilted her pelvis towards me so I could enter all the way. As I plunged into her maternal glory, she lifted her chin, jutted out her throat, and groaned.

It was so wonderful entering her that I wanted to do it again. I pulled out almost to the top and pushed back in, feel- ing waves of delight from the tight clutch of her vagina. She gave a low grunt of satisfaction. I’d never heard my mother make a sound like that before. It thrilled me that I could push that sound out of her.

I kept moving in and out, slowly to make it last longer. I was still groggy from last night, so I could prolong the sensations. I’d never imagined anything could feel so good. She was moving with me, eyes closed, mouth open, panting.

Our sex smell had festered and increased since last night, and now it billowed out, filling our nostrils, exciting us even more with its ripe odor. Twelve hours ago we had been mother and virgin teenaged son. Now we were two dirty lovers fucking each other. Nothing had ever been so fine.

I kneaded Diana’s breasts gently, massaging out to the tips and fondling the erect nipples. They were such a wonderful blend of soft and firm, bouncy yet yielding, so much fun to squeeze and play with, especially with my cock inside her. I wanted very much to suck them, but they were out of lip range. You can’t have everything … at least not all at once, I thought. Instead, I kissed and nibbled the back of her neck, then sucked it a long time to leave a mark that would brand her as mine. I felt incredibly possessive of her. I knew now I’d always loved and wanted her but had never admitted it before.

I looked down at our bodies working together in perfect coordination. Her bottom was nuzzled up against my tummy, and each time I pushed in, my force squeezed and flattened her buns, and she made that sound again. We rocked back and forth as our passion mounted. She clutched my hips as they drove into her.

I wanted to know more about mom’s special Place, so I brought one hand down to explore it from the front. My fingers slid through a hot, mysterious realm of folds, crevices, and nodes, all of them wet. I probed and caressed her labyrinth while pumping her from the back. The sound of her breathing sharpened and grew faster; she thrust the fingers of my other hand into her mouth and chewed on them. Her hips swiveled as if dancing with my strokes. She cried out, “Oh, Tommy, there, there … yes … press,YES … again … PLEASE! OH GOD!” Her body flexed and stretched, flexed and stretched, and she shouted long and loud, her voice becoming a waterfall, a hurricane, an avalanche. The explosion of her passion pushed me over the edge, and I erupted into her, thrusting to the hilt, pounding against my mother’s butt and thighs, clutching her body for dear life, streams of juice pouring from me into her, screams of joy pouring from my mouth. We were wild and helpless in our thrashing union, closer than we’d ever been since the cord had been cut.

Gradually we quieted and lay together awed and exhausted by what we’d given each other. The force of our lust ebbed into a peaceful calm, a bliss of togetherness. We held and petted each other, mumbling incoherent shards of sound that occasionally became, “I love you.”

We turned facing. Still unable to look at each other, we sought lips and lost ourselves in deep kisses. In a merging swirl, each surrendered to the other, having finally found what we’d been seeking all these years. Eventually we spun back to ourselves and were able to gaze into the magic of each other’s eyes with total acceptance, knowing there could be no turning back, but not knowing what lay ahead except more of this.

Diana managed to rouse herself to speech. “This is … really … too heavy.” She looked at me as if she expected the world to fall on us. “What are we going to do?” As she propped herself up on her elbows, her breasts spread out, relieved from being squashed.

I gazed at them, and the world seemed fine to me. I was totally blissed out. I stretched my arms. “Let’s eat breakfast.”

She hit me with a pillow. Then she gasped and covered her mouth. “What if I’m pregnant!” She closed her eyes and counted to herself, fingers and lips moving, breasts swaying. “Whew, probably not. But we need to be careful.”

I was glad to hear this last because it implied we were going to keep doing it.

First she made me shower, then she made me waffles, my favorite breakfast, with hot maple syrup that now reminded me of her syrup.

Trying to return to “normal,” we sat at the kitchen table for a typical Saturday breakfast wearing our standard jeans and T-shirts. Diana’s chestnut hair fell halfway to her hips, my brown hair halfway to my shoulders. Her gamine face was tense as she brooded on what we’d done, but underneath she was glowing with contentment. “So … I guess we … did it, didn’t we?”

“We sure did.” I gave her a waffle grin. “And it was fantastic.”

Our faces kept falling apart as we looked at each other.

The old facial expressions didn’t work anymore, and we were having to invent new ones. My ‘son’ look and her ‘mom’ look had to change into something else now that we were lovers.

She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe it. “Nothing will ever be the same again, will it?”

I thought it was sweet how she was turning these statements into questions, asking me for confirmation. She’d never done that before with me. “No, it can’t be,” I said. “It’ll be better.”

Worries pinched the corners of her brown eyes and darted her pouting lips. “No one can know about this, Tommy. No one! Ever!”

“Our secret,” I agreed.

“I haven’t begun to figure this out. Maybe it can’t be figured out.” Her head slumped into her hands. “I just know … we ….” When I leaned over and kissed her, she relaxed, her face becoming smooth again. “I give up,” she said with a shrug. “Love is strange … just like the song says.”

“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.” I meant every word of it.

“Then good, I’m glad.” She squeezed my hand with an ironic smile. “I mean, what else are moms for?”

I cleared the breakfast dishes away and began washing them. Diana stared at me in stupefaction, and I realized I’d never done this of my own free will before. She’d always had to pester me into it. Now helping her seemed just another way of being close to her, the natural thing to do.

“Well, if I’d known it was going to make you do the dishes”— she tossed up her hands in amazement—“I’d have given it to you ten years ago.”

THREE

As you can tell, mine wasn’t the typical mom. She was a rebel from the start, and to understand her, you need to know about her background.

Diana grew up in Denver, which despite its tourist image is a rather ordinary town, a city of the plains rather than the mountains. The Rockies float off to the west, distant blue peaks on the horizon. But visitors come here expecting the city to be special, and that affects the place. It makes Denver suspect it could be greater, that it has missed an opportunity.

In the late 1940s and early 1950s, when Diana was a teenager, the city attracted a stream of rebellious drifters. They were similar to the high plains drifters of the late 1800s who had made it their base, lone outcasts, many of them burnt out by the Civil War. The later group emerged disillusioned from World War Two. They too were restless seekers for ever-new beginnings on an open frontier, this time a mental one. They were fleeing themselves and the constricting propriety of the homes that had produced them. The dislocation of the war had blown off society’s lid and given these discontents a vision of other worlds of possibilities. They developed a disdain for the mainstream and its bourgeois concepts of normality. Anything that smacked of ‘nice’ was anathema to them.

This was the Beat Generation, with the writers Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs as their verbal leaders, and jazz musicians Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie and Thelonius Monk as their musical leaders. Some of them were drawn to Denver by Neal Cassady, a street kid, car thief and master seducer who grew up here. Cassady was brilliant, handsome, and possessed of an insatiable and omnivorous sexual appetite. He became an apostle of free love, of liberation from puritanical restraint, of just doing it. Women and men were both fair game for him, and he enjoyed them all, declaring, “The worst sex I ever had was great!”

He chronicled his exploits in endless raps and long letters that inspired the shyer Kerouac and Ginsberg to throw off their restrictive upbringings and express their full personalities, both sexually and artistically. The Beats created an art of the moment, of spontaneous expression of feelings, of nonstop, nonjudgmental enthusiasm for life. Through their lives and works, they helped to summon back the Dionysian spirit that had been forced down into the subconscious of our culture.

The Greek god Dionysus personifies ecstasy, impulsiveness, surging life energy that demands free release. When he has sole reign, anarchy ensues. But when he is banished, as under Puritanism, the joy and creativity wither in the human spirit. Dionysus’ return from exile was spurred by the Beats, broke into the mainstream with the Hippies, burgeoned out with the sexual revolution, and is still going on. This memoir of our forbidden love will take it the inevitable next step further.

A credo of the Beats was movement, as expressed by Cassady’s mantra, “Go!” They were travelers, ever restless, shunning the stay-put, routine, settled life. Dowdy Denver turned out to be a handy stopping off place on their journeys along the great triangle of New York-California-Mexico City. All these factors combined to give Denver an itinerant bohemian subculture, small but vital.

The Beats attracted Diana, who was the rebellious daughter of a conservative banker. She rejected the material comfort and emotional sterility of her family, and instead sought out this new wild breed. Rather than becoming a debutante like her mother, she became a teenybopper beatnik, hanging out in the coffee houses and jazz clubs that made up the Denver underground. She imbibed be-bop, free verse, action paintings, and philosophers of protest such as Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Wilhelm Reich. She wore her hair long and let it grow under her arms, European style. She was cute, sassy and uninhibited, so attracted many men. She had brief flings with Cassady and alto-sax man Sonny Stitt before taking up with Jacquot Funk, a self-named anarchist poet and importer of Mexican herbs.

When I made the scene, Jacquot decided fatherhood was a bring-down. Rug rats weren’t his style so he packed his rucksack and went back on the road. Mom got a postcard from him once from Tangier but nothing else.

Diana pulled herself together and, at eighteen, accepted her new role as single mother. It was difficult. She was a free spirit, and now she had a huge responsibility—yours truly. She decided she needed a college degree, so she pushed aside her Beat disrespect for academics and enrolled in the University of Colorado at Boulder, majoring in cultural anthropology. Maintaining her nonconformist ways, she became active in the Young People’s Socialist League and the Congress of Racial Equality. She toted me along to classes, to civil rights demonstrations, and to the Ten O’clock Scholar and the Sink, the hang-outs for the few fifties’ fringies at the university. Her parents footed the bill. They’d been mortified by her pregnancy and were relieved when she “left that disgusting milieu and got back in line by going to college.”

Diana discovered she liked mental work and poured herself into her studies. She went on to law school, an outgrowth of her political activism, and became a criminal defense attorney. The Denver Public Defender’s office offered her a position, which she accepted. Most attorneys use a stint as a Public Defender to gain experience before moving on to big-time criminals who view large legal fees as CDB: Cost of Doing Business. But Diana stayed with it, defending poor, uneducated people who made mistakes out of desperation.

Early on, while she was still naïve, she fell in love with one of her clients, a charming, good-looking crook who stole her cash and jewelry. This happening after Jacquot’s desertion must have soured her on men. In the years that followed, she dated and had an occasional affair, but it didn’t go beyond that, and she became pretty much of a career woman. But when I got rheumatic fever and had to miss a year of school, she cut her hours back to half time so she could take care of me.

Mom and I had a good relationship until I hit puberty, and even then it wasn’t terrible, just typical. Since we knew each other so well, we could still communicate, but it was too often a communication of anger and frustration. I was sullen and rude, she nagging and high-strung. The tension between us was palpable, blocking us from each other, pushing us away. In retrospect, I can see that we were fighting our urges, trying to alienate the other person to avoid embracing them.

Once we discovered the joys of the embrace, there was no going back. Our passion was unstoppable.

FOUR

That evening, though, while we were still in shock, Diana had an attack of conventionality and tried to call a halt to it. We were in the living room, she sitting in her leather chair and I sprawled as usual on the matching couch, watching a new TV show, Saturday Night Live. John Belushi and Bill Murray were playing astronauts who had landed on the moon only to discover Gilda Radner sun-bathing there in a bikini. Both men instantly fell in love with the moon maiden. After much pulling and tugging, John managed to get out of his space suit but then floated away into the void as soon as he stepped towards her. Bill swung her over his shoulder and started to carry her into his lunar landing craft, but she yanked out his hose and he shriveled into a little pile of plastic. Mission Control kept calling, “Eagle, come in, Eagle,” while Gilda blithely went back to sun-bathing.

The commercial came on, and Diana turned to me with a grave look that brought out lines on her lovely, auburn-framed face. “I’ve been thinking about what happened.” She spoke carefully, as if she’d rehearsed the speech, but as she continued, her voice crumbled. “I think we should just … pretend it didn’t … happen … forget it. We would never’ve done anything like that if we hadn’t been tripped out. Even on grass we wouldn’t have done that. It was the mescaline. So … we should just write it off as a bad trip … and get back to normal.” She tried to give me her little mom smile, but her face was bleak and baleful.

I felt as if a wrecking ball had crashed into my chest, crushing it to a pulp. My throat was pinched so I couldn’t breathe. I stared at her, and she glanced away from my stricken face. I burst into tears. Humiliated to be crying in front of her, I hid my face. She couldn’t just cut everything off like that. It was too cruel. I wouldn’t let her. I marched over to her, weeping and distraught.

Mom opened her arms to comfort me, and I collapsed into her, tears streaming, face scrinched. After our two frolics, I’d been feeling so grown up and sophisticated, but her words reduced me to a bawling little boy. Resenting her power over me but needing her all the more, I burrowed under her baggy pink cotton sweater. It was cozy underneath, like a tent. She was so warm and soft and smelled so good. She couldn’t take all that away and leave me with only two memories.

She patted my head, but that made me feel worse because she was treating me like a child again. Without thinking, just reacting on instinct, I lifted her bra, and her creamy pink treasures flowed out to me, glad to see me again. The patting stopped. “Please, Tommy, don’t. We really can’t anymore.”

Don’t pay any attention to her, her tatas seemed to tell me. Sometimes she’s impossible. Just ignore her when she gets this way. Now give us a kiss.

Still weeping, I snuggled into them, loving their splendid roundness, their proud fatness. As a nipple slid into my mouth, I could almost hear it squeal with delight: Yes! That’s what we want!

It was what I wanted, too. Wanted and needed. I gorged myself on her, gurgling with contentment like a nursing infant, and my tears stopped. I was still sniffling and my nose was dripping onto them, but they didn’t mind. We all felt much better. From deep within them, their peace flowed into me, calming me like a magic potion. Everything was all right again.

Just don’t let us go, they told me. We’ll show her who’s boss. Simple solution to the problem: hold on to us and keep sucking. She’ll come around.

From beyond the pink, mom’s voice droned, “Stop … this can’t go on. We made a mistake, it was an accident, and now we’ll stop … and get back to normal. No one will know … and we’ll forget about it. Please, Tommy!”

I kept sucking one and squeezing the other, both so big and fine. I cupped my palm like a mouth over the nipple and nipped it gently, feeling it harden at my touch. Yes!

Diana sighed, but her hand tried to push my head away. “Do-o-on’t,” she drawled. She didn’t push with much effort, though, and as I kept sucking and squeezing, the push turned into a stroke on my head, and she sighed again. Holding her tight, I nestled and slurped at her soft chest of wonders.

We slid off the leather chair together onto the thick shag rug, with me holding on for dear life. She tried to sit up, but I leaned into her until she gave in and lay back down. As she sensed my desperation, her maternal instincts took over; she wrapped her arms around me and mothered me with her body. “Don’t cry,” she crooned, “my baby … baby.”

My sniffling stopped and I reveled in her caring. I rolled on top of her, craving to be even closer. I also wanted to show her I wasn’t a baby, even though right now I felt like one and loved her calling me that. With all mom’s curvy contours underneath me, I relaxed totally, still very childlike and vulnerable, my head buried under her sweater. I tried to part her legs by nudging mine between them, but they resisted. “Ple-e-ease,” I whined, rubbing and tugging at her thighs. Gradually they opened to let me in. As I squirmed deeper, she hugged me with her legs but then began crying. The struggle within her poured out in great sobs, and she convulsed with shame. “I’m a monster. Only a monster would do this.”

Now Diana was the desperate one. I left her breasts, emerged from the pink, and took her in my arms to comfort and cuddle her. “That’s a lot of old lies. Don’t believe it,” I told her, wiping tears from her cheeks. “There’s nobody here but us … and it’s right for us.”

I held mom’s crying face in my hands and kissed her snuffling mouth, trying to heal her hurt. As I continued to kiss, she began nibbling back at my lips, like a little girl distracted from her tears by sweets. I wanted so much to soothe her and protect her so she’d never cry again. “You’re so beautiful,” I stroked her reddish-brown hair and fine-pored skin.

I was now enjoying being the powerful one just as much as I’d enjoyed being the baby before. But the lump in my jeans was becoming painful, so I pressed it into her jeans, denim to denim. As she felt my adamance, Diana reflexively arched her hips into mine but then turned her face aside, mortified by her urges.

“We need each other,” I told her, fondling her breasts and pressing my bulge in an insistent circle against her groin. I kissed and licked the tense tendons of her neck until they relaxed and her crying stopped. She drew in a long gasp through clenched teeth, dug her fingers into my back, and whimpered. Collapsing into my arms, mom offered up her mouth to me in a fountain of surrender and let me kiss her deeply. My tongue probed, hers rose to meet it, and they thrust and twisted around each other in a dance of lust.

On the TV, Dan Ackroyd was doing a Richard Nixon imitation. I reached up and clicked it off, then pulled off the pink sweater and untangled the bra from around her shoulders. Mom’s breasts, large and proud, smiled up at me in happy triumph. We can handle her. Piece of cake, they seemed to say. Exhausted by her inner turmoil, she had become submissive. The resistance had vanished from her face, leaving it a placid oval of willingness. Her buttery brown eyes were unfocused, almost stunned, and her full lips parted wanly. Diana let me pull off her jeans, then watched with increasing focus while I stripped down to my shorts.

I snuggled next to her, wanting to touch as much of her warm smooth skin as I could. Our eyes met in a crossfire of desire, terror, and joy. The gaze was too intense; I was afraid it might start us talking, which could lead to problems, so I kissed the crinkled corners of her eyes until they closed. Then I kissed her ear, sucked its lobe pierced by a gold and coral stud, ran my tongue around the seashell rim, blew in it, listened for the sound of the sea coming from within her, licked down into the curlicued spiral to taste the bitter salt of her wax. She shivered with pleasure and inhaled deeply, dilating her nostrils.

With my fingertips, I delicately traced the line of chestnut wisps from her neck, up over her temple, and across her high, broad forehead. Breath soughed out between her white teeth and red, kiss-glistening lips. My touch pleased her, which pleased me. As I explored her beauty, the inviting hollow between her neck and shoulder drew my attention, and I pressed kisses onto its thin, freckled skin. Mom lay back on the rug, conquered, compliant, open, willing to let me do whatever I wanted.

Not so desperate now, I took my time, grazing again on her breasts, getting to know the sides and slopes of them, the calculus of their curves. My fingers slid beneath Diana’s pink panties and sought her center, exploring its brambly mound and damp grotto. Her cavern was alive and moved to my touch; amid her folds and tucks, hidden springs flowed with slippery juices. Heat filled its chambers from the center of her earth. This cave was my home; it had made me and now wanted me back just as much as I wanted to come back.

Mom tugged at my underpants but was too subdued to be very effective. I pulled them off, and my rod sprang out at her. She took one look at this long thick red thing she had made, then closed her eyes and clamped her jaw in a grimace of fear and craving.

I pulled her wetties off and gazed at her hairy hillock while inhaling its tangy lure, the scent of the ocean from which life emerged and longs to return.

Needing her urgently now but not sure of what to do, I lay on top of her. Diana spread her legs but was too dazed to do more. Somehow I thought it was supposed to go in automatically, but it didn’t. It was bouncing against all sorts of interesting anatomy but was still an outsider trying to get in. Daunted by engineering problems, I was beginning to feel foolish, helpless, frustrated. Mom sprawled supine, hands back over her head, passive and ready. She had guided me in before, but now I had to learn to do it myself. I groped around the moist terrain, exploring overhanging ridges and angles of access, and discovered I was trying to enter from too high. I lowered my approach, nudging in from farther under, and the tip of my impatient shaft finally parted her folds to be greeted by a warm, wet hug. Good to have you again, her nest seemed to say. Glad you managed to find your way. Come in and play.

Wanting more of this intrusion, she moved her hips in a small swivel, and another inch of me slipped into her tight inner squeeze which flowed with fluid heat and encircled me with delight. My whole body, my whole being lit up with joy. This is IT! This is THE PLACE! This is HEAVEN! Just where Saint Peter belongs, I thought, pushing him in another inch. A long moan sounded from Diana’s arched neck and open mouth. Her lips and closed eyelids quivered. Her loins swayed to make more space.

Elated, I rocked in the cradle of her thighs. Exuberant, I frolicked belly to belly with her. Exultant, I buried myself in her middle and wrapped her in my arms, possessing her inside and out. Pushing deeper, I made her writhe and groan. I felt mighty now, and she clung to me, seeming small and vulnerable.

I gazed at the naked beauty of my mother stretched underneath me, yielding to me and needing more of what I was giving her. I wanted to feel all of her at once, but that was impossible. My lips dipped down and snagged a nipple, drew it up into my greedy mouth, sucked in as much of her as would fit. My cheeks bulged with her lovely boob.

“Uuuu … you sweetie,” she said. She was filling me and I was filling her; we were plugged into each other, joined in mutual fulfillment.

Her sheath loosened to caress all of me, and I could move in and out, plumbing her depths with long thrusts that made her grunt and gurgle. Diana drew my head back to look at me, as if to make sure it was really me making love to her, then she smiled and kissed me.

Mom undulated around me, hot and wet as a stormy tropic sea, and I was splashing and playing in her waters, happy as a porpoise.

It was too much, too great, I wanted it all right now and I was moving too fast for it to last. From deep within me, sperm throbbed up the channel of my phallus, building momentum with each of my frantic thrusts, pumping and pounding until it erupted forth and gushed out in long spurts of ecstasy.

As she felt the hot splash in her core, Diana held me tighter. “Yes … oh,YES! Give it to me!” I was out of control, bellowing with bliss, mating with mother while she went wild beneath me. My surges slackened and I flailed around on her in a swirl of sensations. I pressed my face against hers. “Whew … thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” mom said. “Now … maybe you could give me … a few kisses down there … so I can come too.”

I didn’t know she hadn’t. In my ignorance and egotism, I assumed she must’ve had the same experience I had. Now I wanted to make sure she did. Kiss her down there … that sounded interesting. Plus I’d get to explore her some more.

Diana’s body was tense with anticipation as I moved over it. Satiated by my climax, I could focus totally on her. My eyes drank in her geography, seeing her midlands up close for the first time. Her flat tummy narrowed and gave way to broad hips. At her span of least diameter, I kissed the dimpled crater of her belly button, then moved my hand over to feel mine, the spot where I’d been joined to her. I imagined the umbilical cord running from my tummy back up into her womb after I was born, still connected and feeding me. It was like the cord between my legs that had just gone back in to feed her. I was so glad she let me, so much luckier than Bill Murray had been with his moon maiden.

I browsed the territory between Diana’s hips, brushing my lips over the pale skin which sloped down to a little mound topped with a thicket of tight black curls. These vines cascaded over a cliff that disappeared into the steep ravine of her closed legs, leaving only a dark, bushy triangle visible.

That’s it, I thought—mommy’s pussy. It seemed so delicate and shy. Kiss it. I planted my lips atop the mound. I expected her to explode into an orgasm, but instead she raised her knees and spread her legs, exposing the viney cliff. It was cleft down the middle, open, dark, moist, ready for examination. Eager to know more, I moved into the V of her legs and took a good look. What I saw scared the hell out of me. A furry gash like a raw wound gaped between her legs, as if she’d ripped the flesh when she’d spread them. In the center of this furrow, purplish, red lips splayed out around an open pit from which drooled the gray gruel I’d given her. Swampy smells of our fluids wafted from it, enticing and repelling. It wasn’t a pussy anymore but a lioness in heat, livid and bulging.

Now she was the strong one and I was limp. I gazed in fearful amazement at this hairy maw which had given me birth and had just taken me for a trip to heaven. It was so earthy, so primal. From each side of her trunk jutted wide, thick thighs. Beneath them spread her bottom, its puckered, pink hole and two lush cheeks forming a larger version of her front.

This groin of Diana’s was like the basement of a building where the beams and girders come together with the plumbing and furnace. I was awed by her architecture. Aboveground her structure was beautiful and graceful; her fundament, though, was too powerful to be pretty. Down here was another world, the underworld, the ur-world of femininity. Confronted by all this, I felt tiny as a bug or a baby.

Worship me, it said.

And I did. Surrendering to its force, I stretched myself reverently before the red redolent shrine of the Goddess.

“Give it a little kiss,” she said.

I pressed my lips into her fur, which tickled my nose.

“Inside … kiss it inside.”

I pulled back and stared into her wet chasm, the insides of which could swallow me up forever. Enter! it commanded imperiously.

As I buried my face in mom’s wonderfully icky, sticky, stinky cunt, it greeted me with a burst of energy that made my body tingle. Hungry for more of this charge, I burrowed my nose, lips, and tongue through her labyrinth, licked her slick lips, and drank the salty, mushroomy cream I’d given her. I sucked her folds, nodes, and fluffy ruffles and inhaled her fishy bouquet.

Diana was panting and her body vibrating as it twisted into my face. As I continued feasting, she began writhing faster. She stroked my head and mumbled, “Oh … my dear boy. Don’t stop … don’t ever stop. OH! PLEASE! YES!”

She was galloping now, her crotch a soft slippery saddle. I almost lost hold, but her thighs squeezed me in where I belonged so I could ride her bucks and heaves as they built to a frenzy of release. My wild filly neighed and whinnied as she thrashed around the rug, and I held on, loving the ride she was giving me. She slowed to a canter, then to a trot, and finally halted. I rested my cheek on her thigh, hair in my mouth, face smeared with our mingled juices. “Wow!” was all I could say. “Come up and give me a hug,” my filly said.

As I moved back up, I noticed a rosy flush across her chest, and her nipples were firm, dark, and prickled as strawberries. I kissed each one and licked around its lusciousness, then kissed Diana on the mouth, wanted her to taste our broth. We clasped each other in a swarm of happiness, cooing and rubbing and patting.

“You convinced me,” she whispered. “No more objections. What we’ve got between us … it’s too strong for me to fight. Have to just enjoy it. But not a word to anyone. The world isn’t ready for this.”

I put my finger, still fragrant, across my mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“With a kiss.” Mom’s lips fused with mine, long and lingering. When they parted, she propped herself up on her elbow and asked me: “Do you … uh, do this often … with girls?”

“You’re the very first,” I said, “but I want to do it often … with you.”

Her face wrinkled with dismay. “You were a virgin?” She clutched me to her and began sobbing again. “I took my own son’s virginity? That’s terrible!”

“That’s great!” I hugged mom and kissed her cheek. “I can’t think of a better way. I must’ve been saving myself for you … without even knowing it. And believe me, it was worth it.”

She stared at the ceiling, stunned. “Who would’ve ever thought this would happen?”

I turned her head towards me and captured her brown eyes with mine. “Wasn’t it good?”

“Well … yes.” A smile broke through her tension. “Very. Now that you mention it.”

“Then forget what the world says. It’s between us.” I stroked her back and rubbed our two very different chests together.

She sighed, her body relaxing in acceptance of a passion stronger than society’s ban. “OK … I can’t help it … I’m yours. So then … kiss me again.” She pressed herself tighter against me. “Your first time … I’m so flattered that you picked me. I guess you weren’t disappointed … because you sure came back for more. My bold boy … kiss me. Always.”

I brushed my lips against hers. “I love you.”

“Then love me always. That’s the only way we can make it right.” Her eyes were closed and her lips looked almost swollen as they merged into mine. She touched me delicately with her fingers and I came to life again and while still kissing I plunged into her nether lips again and we rolled coupled to the rhythms of man and woman slowly now with delicious exhausted yearning until we grew and swelled and burst with joy and poured our juices together once again.

We were lying in our wetness, which had become a dark amoeba-shaped stain on the colorful abstract design of the Rya rug. On the far side, last night’s stain had now dried to matted beige. Mom tried to mop up the soup with her underpants, but they were already sopped, so she used mine. “We can have it cleaned,” she said with a shrug.

“Maybe we should leave them … as souvenirs,” I suggested.

She kissed me again, lightly. “We don’t need souvenirs. Now we can do it whenever we want. But not on the rug.” She gave my damp cock an appreciative pat. “Well … maybe if we put a towel under us.”

FIVE

Mom went on the pill, and we went on a royal sex binge. In addition to doing it a couple of times a day, we paraded around naked so much of the time, we had to turn up the heat in the apartment to eighty. Now we could satisfy our curiosity about all the things we’d caught glimpses of but didn’t really know. I feasted my eyes on the swing of her breasts as she walked, nipples tracing loops in the air, proud to be her leading edge, her snatch winking at me from the curly crown of her legs, the slow sway of her hips, the regal lift and fall of her ass—all her parts working together with such fluid grace. She could ogle my dangle—her own creation and biggest fan—bobbing up and down, hairy balls rolling from side to side, peering up adoringly at her with the endearing homeliness of a droopyeared, long-nosed basset hound. We explored each other’s forbidden secrets to our heart’s content. Diana wanted to get caught up on everything she’d missed in my development. She used to know every bit of my body—she’d changed my diapers, bathed me, dressed me, but then gradually had to withdraw to avoid ‘indecency.’ For years we’d hidden our bodies and hearts from each other, but now we could share them again and be as indecently loving as we wanted.

“You know,” she said with one of her last blushes, “I’d really like to take a close look at this thing you’ve got.” She wore only a pearl choker and pearl studs in her ears. Her index finger pointed towards my middle. “Come over here.” Mom sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, breasts swinging free, and I stood in front of her so she could examine my penis. Her face reflected adoration and repulsion, appetite and apprehension, fascination and fear. As my member felt her gaze, it stirred pleasurably but was too satisfied to spring instantly erect. “The last time I really saw it, not just a glimpse, but really … when was that? It must’ve been that time you sat on a bee … you were about ten. It stung you right here.” She patted my bottom. “Turn around and let me see if it left a scar.”

I about-faced, and she ran her hands over my cheeks. Her touch revived the memory of the sting.

“No, it’s all gone,” she continued. “It was a mean red lump. You came in crying, pointing back there. I had to pull down your pants.”

“I remember. I was so embarrassed.”

“You were! You insisted on taking off your underpants yourself. It was all swollen and red. The stinger was still in, right about there”—she poked my bun—”and I had to pull it out with tweezers.” She gave me a little pinch. “You didn’t like that at all. But then I rubbed salve on it … that seemed to help. You stopped crying.” She rubbed me, reminiscing, and my bottom tingled with excitement.

I stroked mom’s head, which was bent over inspecting my butt. “That’s ’cos you made it all better.”

“But I couldn’t help seeing this on the other side.” She petted me in front. “I felt guilty but I wanted to see. It was growing, but it still had just this fine downy hair.”

“It’s growing right now.” I turned to show her.

“So it is.” She watched it rise to ninety degrees and point at her as if saying, You! I pick you! You’re the one I want. She gave it a little kiss, just a peck on the tip, then took it in her hand. I quivered all over. “It didn’t seem fair that I wasn’t supposed to see it, let alone touch it. After all … we used to be quite close.”

“It loves you to touch it.” I was having trouble breathing, as if my air and blood were both flowing down there to expand it and make it stand. She lifted it and inspected it more closely. “It’s so … interesting … the long part, the round parts. It’s not really pretty … but it’s so strong … and … well, interesting. Now you’ve got kinky curls like mine. Let’s compare.” With her other hand she reached into her bush and—”Ouch!”—plucked out a pube, which she held up to mine. “See, they match. We’re the same. But not quite.” She tickled her fingers the length of my pole, and it stiffened more, craning up towards vertical.

“What about the hair under the arms?” she asked.

Right now I couldn’t’ve cared less about that, but we looked at each other’s arm pits and felt the fleecy hair, straight and finer than our pubes. “The same,” she said with a smile. “You really are my other half.”

I used to be bothered by the hair under her arms, wished she’d shave it. It embarrassed me, but I didn’t know why. Now I realized it was because it reminded me she had a pussy, something I couldn’t let myself think about. It was great now to be able to enjoy her four forests of hair, their different textures and aromas.

“Yours smell better than mine,” I told her.

“Well, you’re a man. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

Proud that she called me a man, I asked her, “Am I your man?”

“Yes indeed, the best I’ve ever had.” She kissed my belly button. “I can do things with you I’d never dare with anyone else. We’re so close … and I trust you so much.”

“What do you want to do with me?”

“Well … grab this.” And she did, her hand encircling it firmly. “And play around with it.” Curious, she moved it back and forth and side to side. “It’s like a stick-shift on a sports car. BRrrmmm!”

“Just don’t put it in reverse. We’re going too fast.”

Her hand daintily cupped my balls from underneath.

“These … they’re so strange.” Her pixie face glanced up at me, concerned. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?”

It felt so good that all I could do was gulp and shake my head.

She jostled them gently. “They’re like eggs … big duck eggs. And inside they flow all around … like yolks. But now they’re getting hard, too. Amazing.”

Responding to her caress, the skin contracted around them, and they tightened into two firm lumps at the base of the rod.

“Strange how they can change. In there”—she tapped one—”is where you make your seeds … you make seeds inside an egg, isn’t that strange. I read that scientists think the whole universe is shaped like an egg. Maybe God laid it at the big bang … and it’s been growing ever since, getting ready to hatch.”

I lifted her heavy, pendulous breast and rubbed the nipple against the rough skin of my scrotum, which prickled with the stimulation of this special part of her, and her nipple swelled. I had an egg in my throat, so it was hard to talk, but I managed to murmur, “Then God is a mother hen.”

Diana squeezed what she was holding, sending waves of bliss through me. “I think She’d like that.”

“I like what you do to me,” I admitted.

With her brown eyes teasing up at me, she darted her tongue around the head, and I groaned with delight. “When you were a baby,” she said, “I was amazed how big it was. It seemed like half of you was cock. I thought I’d given birth to a mutation … but I found out that’s normal. It’s born bigger, but the rest grows faster.”

“Is it big enough for you now?”

She drew back to look at it admiringly. “If it were any bigger, I’d need surgery. What I’d really like to do is see it come … spurt out or whatever it does. I don’t know what that’s like.”

“I don’t think you’ll have to wait much longer.” “What do boys do? Jacking off? How do you do that? Teach me.”

I was embarrassed. “Well, you kind of … move it up and down.”

She tried to move the whole thing up and down but it was too full to go very far. “Like that?”

“No, move the skin on the sides. Slide it up and down.”

Mom’s fingers grasped the shaft delicately and began stroking the skin down, then back up.

“Harder,” I told her. “Wrap your whole hand around it.”

The pressure increased as she surrounded me. “Like that?”

“Yeah. But faster.”

“That makes your balls bounce.”

“Yeah.”

“This vein in the middle … now it’s standing out more.”

“Yeah.”

The fingers of her other hand traced the bulging channel. “Your sperm … it runs through here and out the tip … is that right?

“Yeah.”

“Should I keep jiggling it like this, teacher?”

I was breathing so hard I could only nod.

Mom stared raptly at my cock. “The head is getting even bigger … and redder. Now it’s wet at the tip. Is that your come?”

I shook my head and managed to say, “Not yet.”

She moved her hand faster. “Your balls are so tight.”

“Squeeze them.”

Diana’s other hand clutched them tenderly. “Like this, teacher?”

“Harder.” She squeezed them firmly. “Oh yes!” Starbursts went off in my whole body as my balls and groin flexed in spasms and a thick stream of cream climbed higher and higher up my pole, building in thrills until it spilled over the top and shot out in long gushes. The first one hit her on the forehead, the second on the cheek, two splats of viscid spunk. By the third, she had her mouth on it, sucking it in. Mom’s thick auburn hair fell around her face and tickled my thighs as she bent over my fountain.

I was petting her head and screaming. Her mouth went down as far as it could, drinking as it went, tightening around my throbbing stalk and sending shocks of ecstasy through me. The underside of her chin bulged full, and her eyes fluttered back, showing the whites under the irises. Her silken skin was moist with my lotion.

After I’d yielded up the last drops, she sat up smiling and licking her lips. “Like mother’s milk.”

“Fantastic!” I croaked, still dizzy with pleasure. “Drink it whenever you want.”

She held my empty member, ringed with crimson lipstick, gently in her hand. “It was so great … feeling the whole thing throbbing and pounding like that … then to get hit in the face with all your power.” She bent down to it. “Little Tommy,” she whispered, kissing and stroking it, “you’ve come a long way since the last time I saw you. You’ve learned how to do it. You’re really something!”

Pearly drops of come were running down mom’s neck almost to her pearls. They looked good, so I licked them off but wasn’t as enthused about the taste as she was. I preferred her juice to mine, and this made me want to suck her pussy. I wiped her face with the sheet (we changed sheets a lot), then put my hand on her thigh. “What can I do for you … down there?”

Diana rolled her eyes with anticipation. “I’m sure you’d come up with something wonderful, but … there’re other kinds of food we need to eat, too. The fridge is empty … I’ve got to go shopping. Hate to be a spoil sport.” She glanced at the clock. “Yikes, I’ll catch up with you tonight.”

SIX

That night, though, mom’s face held a distracted, worried expression that I recognized as the old boogie man, guilt. Our last session was as kinky as we’d gotten, and that must’ve taken its toll. She said she had a headache and would rather sleep alone.

Next morning at breakfast she was a bit distant and her eyes avoided mine. Knowing I had to do something to bring her back, I scooted my chair next to hers, took her hand, and kissed her on the cheek. She kept her face turned away, a pained, sad expression clouding its beauty. I took it in my hands, turned it towards me, and kissed her on the mouth, at first gently, just brushing her lips, and then deeper, crushing them a bit. Diana returned the kiss in a reluctant, involuntary reflex that she seemed to regret but couldn’t resist. As I stroked the back of her neck, her face crumbled and she began to cry. “What are we doing?” she asked with a sob. “This is crazy.”

Oh no, here we go again, I thought. Gathering up my powers of persuasion, I told her, “It’d be crazy not to do it. It’s so wonderful.” I held my cheek next to mom’s and patted her head, trying to soothe her like she’d soothed me so many times as a child.

She turned her face away. “No! Mothers and sons just don’t do this.”

“We do it. We need it.”

Diana shook her head and closed her eyes. “We’ll be punished. Something terrible will happen.”

“That’s just a myth. It doesn’t have to be true … only if we make it true. We can do whatever we want. We love each other. That can’t be bad.” I brought her face back towards mine and kissed it more—her wet cheeks, the leaking corners of her eyes, her full, pouting lips. “Now can it?” As I encircled her firmly with my arms and drew her closer, she gave me a helpless, panicked look. I knew we were at a crisis—mom was hanging in the scales of fear versus passion, and I needed to tilt her in the right direction and conquer her resistance once more.

I held the back of her head and kissed her mouth deeply; my tongue nudged hers, stroked it, tried to tease it into response. Finally hers licked back, at first hesitantly, but as I penetrated towards her throat hers grew wild, and they slid over and around each other like two lascivious sea creatures. My fingers delicately stroked her neck then moved down her yellow silk blouse, where they lost restraint, greedily rubbing and squeezing her soft mounded chest.

Diana clutched my hard, flat chest the same way, but then broke our kiss. She sobbed and her body tensed as another wave of resistance swept over her. Through the silk, I kneaded her nipples until she began to breathe slowly and deeply. All her tension seemed to flow into her nipples, making them firm and erect as the rest of her relaxed again. Vanquished, she bowed her head into the crook of my neck, and her other hand touched my thigh. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. It was an addiction.

I stood up, pulled her to her feet, and pressed myself against her. She gave a shudder that became a sigh. I stroked her round rear end through her skirt. I liked mom in skirts, liked to see her legs stirring the fabric as she walked, but the only time she wore them was when she had a trial or a meeting with a judge. This skirt was a loose velvet maxi— soft, smooth, and dark as her womb which I was yearning to re-enter. I pulled it up slowly, seeing her sleek ankles emerge into morning sunlight, then her curvy calves and luscious thighs. Her smooth, bare legs were white sculpted columns tapering up from slim to squeezable. I stroked them, but I couldn’t reach too far down because I didn’t want to separate my chest from hers—I could feel our love flowing from heart to heart like the current in two magnets.

My fingers glided over the tops of her thighs, and she shivered and pressed harder against me. I hitched the skirt into her belt so I could access her with both hands. Diana’s legs trembled as I parted her thighs.

“I’ll be late for work,” she protested through her heavy breathing.

“I’ll be quick.” But I wasn’t. This was our work and it was too good to rush. I jutted one leg between hers, then cupped my hands on her buns and rotated them slowly, stretching them open then bringing them together, all the while rubbing my leg against her front. As I parted her cheeks more and rubbed harder, mom moaned and swiveled her groin into my leg.

I knew I had to take her in a way that would dominate her into submission so she wouldn’t keep slipping back into inhibitions. She had to admit that she was mine and stop objecting. I pulled her underpants down and rubbed her neat little nates, massaging and spreading the cushiony hemispheres. They responded happily to my touch, the white soft skin tightening and getting goose bumps. “Oh … but we can’t …,” she mumbled. I didn’t say anything—I knew talk could never conquer her. My fingers reached farther and delved through the moist opening at her midpoint, shielded by hair and legs but ever open. She had to accept that openness and that I was the one to fill it. I spread its lips and rubbed its inner walls and the fleshy button at the top. She mumbled again, but now it was just sound, no words.

I didn’t want to risk a trek to the bedroom—she might grab her keys and briefcase and be out the door. I broke our embrace long enough to drop to my knees and pull her panties off. She lifted each foot for me, and I tossed them aside. The hem of the skirt slipped out of the belt and fell over me; it was like being inside a tent with just her lower half. The velvet blocked the light so I could see less, but held in her aroma so I could smell more. It was a scent that made me widen my nostrils and breathe deeper. I licked up her legs, getting more excited the closer I got, chafing her thighs with my teeth, then stuck my nose and tongue right into her nest. My lips sucked her lips and my nose poked her little button. Her body quivered, and she was so wet her juice ran down my face. I could hear mom’s breath outside the tent like wind in the trees. I couldn’t stay bent over on my knees any longer because my cock hurt too much in my pants, so I stood up.

Needing to have her right now, I tucked the skirt high into the belt again, exposing her backside, pale against the blue velvet. It looked so good that it inspired me with an idea. “Over here.” I turned her facing the edge of the kitchen table, pushed aside our cups of tea and bowls of crunchy granola, then leaned her over the table.

“What’s this?” Diana asked skeptically.

“Should be fun,” I said, nestling up against her behind. She braced herself with her arms. I dropped my pants, and my member leaped out for her crotch. I rubbed it against her entire middle furrow, which was now awash with lubricant. I wanted urgently to be in there, so I tried to find the right spot, but it wasn’t easy—I was confronted with a whole new set of angles than I was used to.

“Hope you know what you’re doing back there,” mom said dubiously.

“Sure,” I said with false confidence. Although we were about the same height, I discovered that to get up under her far enough to put it in, I needed to be taller. What to do? She wasn’t going to stand here forever. “I’ll be right back.” Holding my pants up from my tennis shoes to keep from tripping, I hobbled as quickly as I could into the living room, snatched a suede cushion from the couch, and came back. I was worried that while I was gone her inner ambivalence would tip back towards No, so I was delighted to see her still leaning obediently over the table. “God, I love you,” I said, and she raised her butt to me. I thought about sticking it into her sexy ass, wondered what that would be like, but decided I’d better not press my luck with her.

I parted Diana’s cheeks so I could get closer to her pussy, placed my organ at the threshold of hers, and pushed the head in. “Ow!” she cried. “That hurts!”

I didn’t want to hurt her, but I sure didn’t want to take it out. “Maybe … farther over,” I suggested. Grimacing, she bent more until she was propped on the table with her elbows. With a hand on each cheek, I canted her rump higher, which let me slip in a little more.

“Oh!” said mom, but it wasn’t a cry.

“How’s that?”

“Better!” She moved her hips in a small circle, and I kept nudging farther in.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Just a little.”

We swayed and wrestled together until I was fully inside her, flush against her rear. It was so wonderful—even if you come in through the back door, heaven is still heaven. As I began moving slowly in and out, she bent over even more and leaned her head on her arms. Her eyes were closed and she was panting through her mouth. Her face looked happy. “Oh, I think,” she said, “you’re fucking me again.”

“You’re right.”

“Oh … help!” she called out. “My son is fucking me! My own son! And there’s nothing I can do to stop him. He’s got his cock all the way inside me. What a terrible thing!”

I did it to her a little harder. “Mommy, do you like my cock?”

“Yes!”

“Good … ’cos you made it. It belongs in you.” I reached forward and gripped her tatas through her blouse with both hands. “I like these so much.” But I liked her pussy too, so I dropped one hand down there and fondled it from the front. There was so much to it, so many different folds and tucks and nodes. Exploring it could be a life’s work. But for now I focused on this little part at the top that was standing out. Whenever I touched it, she moaned, so I touched it quite a lot, rubbing it and petting it. My stalk slid in and out of her from the other side, and my hips made a smacking sound each time they met her butt. With each of my thrusts, her tongue stuck out, licking the air. Flexing her knees, she moved with me, and her breathing was like loud, slow laughter, “Ha … ha … ha … ha …,” as if laughing away all the ridiculous rules that had kept us from this before.

Our rolling passion built as we swayed and lunged together. I kissed her back through the yellow silk. “Oh … you’re making me come! Oh, fuck me!” she said. As I pounded it into her, her voice became a scream and her ass writhed around my tool. I didn’t know she could bend in so many different ways and her cunt could grip me in so many different ways, but I managed to stay with her as her orgasm sparked mine. In waves of pleasure, my semen streamed out of my balls, pumped higher and higher up my shaft, jetted out the tip, and spurted into mom. We were one once again. My screams of lust blended with hers while the table rattled, tea sloshed out of the cups, and blueberries bobbed in our cereal bowls.

As our passion slackened, we moved more slowly, then stood still, and I finally pulled out of her, our morning gymnastics completed. Diana raised herself from the table, and her skirt fell back down so she looked again fully dressed in her serious business outfit and ready for work. I, on the other hand, had my jeans down around my ankles, and my wet red organ was dripping the last of its load onto them. Pointing at it, mom asked in mock outrage, “What’s that doing at the breakfast table?”

She gave it a squeeze, then plucked her undies from the floor. “So much for these. I wear them a half hour around you and they’re already drenched.” Waving them, she dashed into the bathroom to clean up. I pulled up my pants, sat back down, and finished my crunchy granola.

She came out all hurried and professional looking, picked up her briefcase, and kissed me on my milky mouth. “This was truly a breakfast to remember. But I won’t tell the judge why I’m late.”

I shot her a V-sign as she swept out the door.

As we continued to enjoy each other, we realized this was more than just fun and games. It was also stressful. By defying our culture’s deepest ban and daring the ultimate no-no, we’d put ourselves far outside society’s norms. Sex was for us not just a passionate but also a political act. We’d become guerrilla warriors fighting an ancient myth and centuries of prudish repression. We were overthrowing the conventional order and liberating new potentialities, and this turned into a personal struggle, too. These inhibitions and guilts were inside us; we’d absorbed them, so we now had to confront them and drive them out. Sometimes we broke down under the strain and yelled at each other or just held each other and cried. Irrational though it was, we were afraid of going insane or becoming shattered wrecks.

Throughout it all, however, we knew our love was right and good, the best thing we’d ever experienced. More than just wild and crazy sex, more than anti-patriarchal revolution, it was deep mutual devotion. Even if we had wanted to stop, we couldn’t. We were hooked on this combination of two most powerful loves. Whatever might happen to us, we’d go through it together.

But life has its practical side, too, and that part we were ignoring. After several weeks of nonstop obsession, my grades were sinking and her work suffering. We both needed more time to ourselves and more privacy. When our nerves would fray from too much intimacy, we’d shout at each other: “Leave me alone!”

I guess you could say the honeymoon was over. We put our clothes back on and decided we’d sleep together on the weekends, really go wild, but during the week, I’d sleep in my room and we’d focus on school and work. Congratulating ourselves for being sensible and responsible, we settled in for the long term as a loving family.

SEVEN

Our love nest was broken up, though, by the reappearance of a forgotten member of the family. One Saturday afternoon the phone rang. “Is this Tommy?” a man’s voice asked, friendly like a salesman.

“Uh … yeah.” I wondered who it was.

“Hey, guy, this is your dad, Jacquot. You probably don’t remember me, but I sure remember you. How’s it goin’? Say, I need to talk to mom.”

I went to tell Diana, “There’s a man on the phone … he says he’s my dad.”

Her lively face froze and drained of color. She shut her eyes in shock. “What could he …?” she mumbled. Her hand moved towards her mouth, and her teeth pressed distractedly on the knuckle of her thumb. After a long pause, she shook her head to clear it and stood up. “I’ll talk to him,” she said decisively.

When she closed the door to the living room, I instantly resented it: What were they saying that she didn’t want me to hear?

I was sulking in the kitchen when she came out. Her face was pinched and her chin sagged. She looked at me, then past me. “Your father’s been in prison … a long time. He just got out.”

“What does he want?” I asked suspiciously.

“I think he wants … a family.”

My stomach clenched with dread. I knew what he wanted: Her! Exactly what I wanted. What if she liked him better than me? She must’ve liked him quite a lot … and liked doing it with him. After all, that’s how I got here. With the urge to put him in a bad light, I asked, “Why’d he go to prison?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he’ll tell us tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“He’s coming to dinner.”

The threat spread its tension up to my chest and throat. “You just invited him?” My voice cracked. “You didn’t check with me?”

She gave me a sharp, puzzled look. “I thought you’d want to meet him. He’s your father!”

“Do you want to see him?” I tried to make it sound like a question, but it was really an accusation.

“Well … yeah. I’m curious … what happened to him … what he’s like now.” Diana appraised me keenly. As she tilted her head, her thick chestnut hair draped over her shoulder, and she cupped her chin with her small fist. “Tommy, are you jealous?”

My face reddened. “No! It’s just that ….”

She took both my hands in hers and kissed my cheek, which made it even redder. “Don’t worry. I lost interest in Jacquot a long time ago.” She gave me a look that wrapped me up with her eyes, and my fear lessened. “He gave me you. That’s the only reason he’s important to me.” She squeezed my hands and shook my arms back and forth. “But we need to see him. You especially. You should know your father.”

My father. I used to wonder about him: what he was like, what he was doing now, what he thought about me, why he never tried to see us. I would stare at pictures of him and then at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t see much resemblance but I thought maybe I’d look like him when I got older. He looked kind of OK.

Diana had some of his poems. I’d read them a long time ago, thought they were weird, but sort of liked them. I’d even memorized one, “Cascade Mountain Fights Back”:

Moonworts fiddleneck maidenhairs in the sphagnum
while pikas chirp revenge on you, armed-toothed narcoleptic lumberjack
in the double-bitted sprawl of the night.The ptarmigan widows
are gathering to bring you in.You’re a wanted Man,
the Man of the hour, but it was only an hour, and now it’s over.
We can’t kill you—you’re dead already.
We can’t jail you—you own all the keys.
But we can drive you crazy
with agoraphobias of infinity
and old haphazards of heartbreak to a mescalero beat.

What it meant, I didn’t know. Maybe that was why I liked it. I also liked that my dad had written it and that he was out there somewhere writing other weird poems. He was this mysterious figure brooding in the sprawl of the night. I thought he was a jerk for running out on us, but I was still curious about him.

But all that was back then, before mom and I became lovers. Now I couldn’t see anything but trouble coming from Jacquot Funk.


“Hey, long time no see. But I know it was my fault. Sorry about that. Thanks for having me over,” he said when he came in the apartment that evening. His voice had a hoarseness that sandpapered the edges off his words. Diana shook his hand but kept her arm stretched out far enough to discourage a hug.

I was pleased by how tall he was, about six feet. That meant I’d probably get taller—so far I was only five-eight. His smile showed stained yellow teeth. He had short straight black hair with long sideburns, a droopy mustache, and a little tag of whiskers under his lower lip. His skin was pale, probably from not getting much sun in prison. Although he wasn’t old enough to have any gray hair, his face was lined and his mouth turned down.The long blade of his nose was crooked from being broken. His eyes were a clear, hard, brittle blue, and they kept darting around, unable to look into yours for more than a second. “This must be little Tommy,” he said. I hated him instantly for the ‘little,’ but shook hands with him, trying to give a firm grip. His hand seemed cool. “How’s it goin’, son?”

“OK.”

“Last time I saw you, you were still in diapers. How old you now?”

“Eighteen.”

“Well … that’s great … a great age to be. I remember when I was eighteen ….” His voice trailed off, and his long thin face turned wistful. “Old enough to know better, but too young to resist, huh?”

“I guess so,” I said, thinking about last night with mom. “Hell, I just spent half that many years in slam.” His smile fell back into a frown. His skinny body was dressed in a denim shirt, thin jeans, canvas belt, and black, clunky shoes. That must be what they give you when you get out of prison.

“What for?” I was hoping it would be murder, something that would really turn mom off.

He gave me a mind-your-own-business look and said, “I’ll tell you about it sometime.” That sounded like he was planning to stay. Diana was wearing pale lipstick and a black leotard, maybe out of nostalgia for the old Beat days. She looked great in black; it brought out the red in her hair, which fell to the tips of her breasts. The tightness of the outfit brought out her curves, which made me wonder if she was trying to turn Jacquot on. I had to admit they looked good together, her all in black and him all in blue.

On an impulse I ducked into my room and changed from my white T-shirt to a black one. With my jeans that made me black and blue, a combination of the two of them.

When I came back, Jacquot was talking to Diana. “… after all that time in a cell, I get nervous in new places. I need to know all the ways out.”

The door is right there, I told him in my mind, then was sorry to be so mean.

“You mind if I look around … just so I know where I am, so I don’t get claustrophobic?” He tugged on the tuft of whiskers under his lip and gave an apologetic shrug.

“I’ll show you around,” she said with a cautious but understanding nod. Diana was used to the jitters people have when they’re just out of prison.

He’s probably casing the place, I wanted to tell her.

We had the upper floor of an old brownstone near downtown Denver with a view of the gold-domed state capitol. With its high ceilings, large windows, refinished wooden floors, bright rugs, and modern furniture, it was the opposite of a prison cell. Jacquot prowled it with lanky, loping strides, thumbs hooked in his jeans, nodding appreciatively, grinning greedily. Every once in a while the side of his face would suddenly tighten in a tic that made him blink his right eye. He gave mom’s queen-sized bed—where she and I had screamed last night in naked, incestuous ecstasy—a look that could only be described as goal-oriented. Glancing around the bedroom, he raised his eyebrows and tapped his yellowish teeth together. “Diana, you did good. What a crib! Hey, you come a long ways from that little pad we had in Five Points.”

“Well … it wasn’t easy … a single mother,” she said with a look that made him wince and look away.

He gathered himself and glanced back at her, his face older, sad, sincere. “Worst mistake I ever made was leaving you … running out on you like that. And you too, Tommy.

Wish I’d’ve stayed … and helped you both out.”

It was hard to imagine what help he might’ve been. “Why’d you leave?” I gouged mercilessly.

He looked past me, through the walls. “So long ago … I don’t know ….”

“Well,” Diana said, “you’re probably hungry. Let’s eat.”

“Yeah!” He smoothed his mustache.

We started with antipasto—a platter of artichoke hearts, olives, cheese, salami, cherry tomatoes, and jalapeño peppers—using forks at the beginning but ending up with fingers. Then we divided our attention between spaghetti with tomato sauce full of sausage and garlic and a crunchy salad of lettuce, carrots, croutons, green onions, and vinaigrette dressing.

“Hallelujah! I’ll say! Girl, you learned to cook,” Jacquot crowed, mouth red with tomato sauce, staring at her like she was dessert. He refilled his wine glass from the straw-covered Chianti bottle and took a lip-smacking sip. “Mmm … a lot better than that Red Mountain rotgut we used to drink.” I had some wine, too, but didn’t like its sour-bitter taste. Why drink rotted grape juice when the fresh stuff was so much better?

After we finished up with chocolate ice cream and hot fudge, Jacquot leaned back in his chair glassy-eyed. “I thank you, ma’am. Best meal I’ve had in … I don’t know when. Mind if I smoke?”

Diana shrugged. “No, go ahead.” She got up and dug around in a drawer until she found an ashtray.

I minded, but that didn’t matter. I opened a window.

Jacquot took out rolling papers and a pouch and started to roll what I thought was a joint. I perked up, but it turned out to be Bull Durham.

“So … you got a boyfriend?” he asked her.

She turned her eyes on me with the trace of a secret smile. “No. Not really looking for one either.”

“Oh.” He crossed his long legs and tugged on his whiskers again.

I was curious to know more about this seedy guy who was my father, so I kept firing questions at him. Loosened up by wine and food, glad someone cared enough about him to ask, he got talkative. His family was from St. Paul, Minnesota, out of Boston out of Ireland. His real name was Jack Frye. He’d studied English for three years at Carlton College before dropping out to become a poet. He worked as a logger in Washington state but quit because he hated how they clearcut the forest. That’s when he wrote ‘Cascade Mountain Fights Back’ as a protest. By then he was doing lots of grass and peyote and smuggling it in from Mexico to deal. On one of his marketing trips to Denver he met mom—the best time of his life. After he got spooked by the family scene and split, the biggest mistake of his life, he went back to his import business, expanding it to hashish from North Africa. Then he made the second biggest mistake. He started working for the syndicate, bringing in lots of drugs, making lots of money. They bribed the narcs but that wasn’t enough—the fuzz still needed a bust every now and then to keep the chiefs off their backs. So Jacquot, the new guy, got set up for a fall, then sent to Attica for a hard nickel—five years before the possibility of parole. He got hold of some heroin in prison but got caught in a shakedown, so he ended up doing nine years, more time than some murderers do.

I felt sorry for him, he’d gotten a raw deal, but he was still kind of creepy, glancing around like somebody might be after him.

“You write any more poems?” I asked.

His expression dropped, and I could tell he wished I hadn’t asked. “Oh yeah, I’m always writing poems. I write ’em in the sky, I’m a sky writer now.”

“Tell me one.”

“I write ’em … and they blow away. You gotta be there. That’s a poem right there: ‘You gotta be there.’ My life is my poem … and it’s getting better.” He sat glum for a moment, then turned to Diana. “I gotta ask you something. I know you got a nice tight little scene here … and I blew my chance at it. I’m not trying to horn in … now that’s it’s too late. Understand? But if I could bunk down here just for the night.” Diana eyed him leerily and started to speak, but he continued faster. “I got nowhere else to stay. I’ll be gone in the morning. Promise.”

She swallowed, looked displeased, but said, “OK … just tonight. We’re not really set up for visitors.”

Jacquot sighed with relief. “Thanks.You saved me from all night in the bus station.”

I was furious. His sleeping here never occurred to me. I was expecting him to leave now. He could come back in seventeen more years to see how we’re doing. This was our Saturday. Mom and I’d had a great time last night and were looking forward to another one tonight. Who was he to break up our weekend? But she made up the couch in the living room for him, and we all went to bed. I left my door open so I could see if he tried to sneak into her room. Imagining rescuing her from this repulsive rapist, I vowed to stay up all night. But at some point I fell asleep.

In the morning, they were both already up, which made me wonder what had happened. I couldn’t help tormenting myself with images of mom and Jacquot doing it. She made waffles, which made me mad. How could she share our special breakfast with him? She even put amoretto in them; the most I ever got was vanilla extract. If she wanted him to leave, why was she feeding him so well?

We sat around the same table she had recently bent over and leaned on so I could take her from the rear. Now she was in the middle between Jacquot and me, which I resented even though she was closer to me. She should’ve sat on the far side away from him.

I felt sorry for my dad but still couldn’t like him. I was hoping he was on his way to Mexico or Tangier to smoke hash for the rest of his life, but he said he wanted to stay in Denver, good memories here, the best time of his life, a place for a fresh start.

Diana knew some companies that hired guys out of prison, and said she’d try to get him a job.

Her being a Public Defender really impressed him. “Hey, I bet you give those cops and DAs hell. If you’d been my lawyer, you’d’ve got me off. I never would’ve gone to the joint.” She shook her head. “Let’s not try it. Don’t get any ideas about going back to dealing. The heat is coming down … harder and harder. And Cañon City isn’t any better than Attica.”

“Don’t worry, I’m all done with that. Stayin’ clean as a desert bone.” He stood up. “Well, I’ll be on my way … as promised. Thanks for everything. Good to see you. You, too, Tommy. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

“Sure,” I said, relieved he was finally leaving.

At the door Diana pushed a folded bill into his hand as she shook it. He beamed with gratitude, bent his rangy, mangy body down to kiss her on the cheek, and was gone.

EIGHT

“Goddamnit, I hate prisons … what they do to people,” Diana said when she’d closed the door. She lowered her head and put her hand to her forehead. “He used to be a bright guy … flaky but sweet. Now he’s … what a waste.”

Mom and I walked into the living room and she collapsed onto the couch, her face contorted with sadness. I sat down beside her and held her hand while she blurted out her anger. “I’ve seen it happen so many times. A guy with some potential in life … makes a mistake, messes up … goes into that system … and comes out ruined. Now I just want to keep people out of prison. That’s what my job really is. I don’t even care if they’re guilty anymore. I just want to keep them out of those terrible places so they don’t get more screwed up than they already are.”

“Did he go into your room last night?” I hated myself for asking but couldn’t help it.

She stared at me like she couldn’t believe what was on my mind. “No! And if he did, I could handle it.”

I could feel my eyes narrowing and my forehead furrowing. “What do you mean, handle it? Did you want him to?”

“Tommy, what’s got into you? Come off it.” Her irritated expression turned worried as her eyes probed me. “I feel sorry for Jacquot, for what happened to him … for what he turned into. But I don’t want him. He’s a turn-off to me. If he’d come into my room, I would’ve kicked him out. That’s how I would’ve handled it.”

“Oh … OK.” I felt better and a little foolish for getting so upset. Dad isn’t a threat, I told myself.

A couple of days later, though, he called and convinced mom to go out to dinner, just the two of them, ‘to talk about old times.’ I stayed home and ate canned enchiladas while they went to our favorite Mexican restaurant. At least they could’ve picked some other place. I was in a rage, imagining them kissing over sangria and going back to his pad and doing all sorts of unspeakable acts. I felt unwanted and inadequate— how could I compete with him? I was just a kid. Part of me knew I was having an irrational fit, but I couldn’t get out of it. Because of our double relationship, all the passions between us were magnified. Love was squared, but so were jealousy and possessiveness.

I thought about going out with a girl to get even with her, but the idea of a girl—all that nervous, teenage inhibition— seemed ridiculous. I’d been spoiled for girls by having the real thing.

I was slumped sullenly on the couch watching Laugh In when Diana came back. I refused to look at her. She sat on the edge of the couch and took my hand.

“What happened?” I managed to blurt out.

“Nothing happened. We just talked.”

“Did you go back to his place?”

“No, of course not.” She shook her head. “You’re really in trouble over this, aren’t you?”

My jaws were clenched so tight I couldn’t talk.

“God, you’re such a Scorpio.” She shook me by the shoulders and gave me an embracing look that filled me with reassurance; I felt the fear melt from my face. “Now let’s just sit here a minute and be quiet,” she said.

In the silence, I could hear how loudly I was breathing. As a current of calm ran from her hand into mine, my breath slowed and fell into sync with hers. We just sat there, each enjoying the presence of the other. The enjoyment grew more physical as we felt the warm, pulsing closeness, and our breathing gradually grew faster, staying in sync. Finally she squeezed my hand and stood up and I wordlessly followed her into her bedroom.

Mom took both my hands in hers. “Look at me,” she said.

Framed by straight auburn hair, her oval face was unsmiling but calm, full of love. Her smooth skin seemed to glow from within. The corners of her golden brown eyes were crinkled. Tiny lines creased the edges of her full lips. “Touch your mother’s face.”

I brought my fingers to her cheek and felt its silky warmth.

“Kiss my lips.”

As I came closer, her face seemed to expand to fill my vision; my eyes absorbed her as I pressed my lips into hers. What had been a dull dark void inside me now sparked with light and chimed.

“These lips are only for you. No one else kisses them.” As she spoke, I could smell sangria and salsa. I kissed her again. She stepped back. “Tommy, look at me here.” She pushed her chest forward and I feasted my eyes on the bulges in her batik blouse. “Now unbutton this.”

My fingers trembled as they reached towards her and undid the wooden buttons. Each one revealed more of her beauty: swelling décolletage, deep cleft of cleavage, lacy white bra filled to overflowing, ribs set far under these gracefully cantilevered mounds, friendly tummy with its dimpled middle.

“Take off my blouse.”

I eased her arms out of it, tossed it away, and reached immediately, greedily for her breasts.

Diana crossed her arms over them. “Not until I tell you.”

I lowered my hands obediently.

“Kiss me here.” She touched the little hollow at the base of her neck.

I did, imagining her thyroid gland humming beneath my lips, keeping her in tune.

“No one else has ever kissed me there. No one besides you ever will. It’s all yours. Now here … kiss me.” She touched the tops of her breasts where they canyoned down into her bra.

“This spot’s just for you now. No one else kisses me there, just you.” She cupped her hands under her bra. “Now take this off. I don’t like it.”

I reached behind and eagerly unhooked the clasp—I’d gotten good at that. The bra fell away and her tits spread out to take charge of her topside, fresh and sassy, twinkling up at me, nipples already firm. Hi there, they seemed to say. We need a kiss.

I dipped my head and started for them, but mom cupped her palms over them. “Not yet. First you need to know something.” She raised my chin with her fingers until our eyes met. “These are only for you. No one else gets to suck them.” She lifted them with her hands, offering them to me as a bountiful gift. “Here. Take them.”

I held one in each hand, loving their substantial heft and overflowing luxury. As I kissed one, the other began piping, Me me me! I went from one to the other, sucking and smiling, alternating between two heavens where worry was unknown.

“Take off your mother’s pants.”

I left her bosom, sorry to be parting but hungry for her other treats, and got down on my knees before her.

“But first kiss her tummy.”

Pressing my cheek and ear to hug her midriff, I heard dinner gurgling under her padding. I kissed in a circle around the soft cushion of her stomach, then homed in on her belly button, licking it and teasing it with my tongue.

“Tickles,” she said with a shiver.

I stopped licking and stared into her knotted omphalos, sensing the great chain of navels leading from womb to womb back to the first mother, wishing my phallus was long enough to reach all the way along it back to Eve. The first family must’ve been incestuous or else none of us would be here.

“My tummy is just for you to play with. Now pull down my pants.”

I unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans, revealing a slice of white abdomen. I used to be inside there, I thought, all cuddled up in her. As I kissed down to her pink panties, I inhaled her piscine scent and began panting. I lowered the blue denim over her round bottom and could see the black pubic shadow under the lace of her panties. I pressed my lips worshipfully against the mound, feeling its warmth and breathing its aroma deeply. Diana kicked off her Mexican sandals. Pulling the pants further down, I uncovered her strong, thick thighs and nipped them gently with my teeth while nuzzling my head into her crotch. At her knees, I sucked the skin and thanked the inner bones and cartilage for their good work. I licked her curved calves and narrow ankles, and she stepped out of her jeans. Staring back up the long columns of her legs, I saw an oval of moisture on my mother’s pink panties.

“These legs love to wrap around you … and nobody else.” She patted my head. “Now make me naked … then take me naked.”

I slid the damp undies down in back and stroked her plump buns, lifted them, squeezed them, kissed them. The scent of her musk made me pant faster; my dick was so hard it hurt. I pulled the silk away from her center, uncovering its black kinky curls, fat cheeks, and wet protruding lips that chirped a command: Adore me!

With a long swipe, I got rid of the underpants. Gasping, I pressed my lips to the lips of her cunt and licked their slick fuchsia ruffles. Yes, I do! My nose prodded through her bush, craving more of her sex smell. From behind, my hand slid into her groin, fingers opening her passageway.

“My pussy is just for you,” mom assured me from above. “No one else gets to look at it … or kiss it … or put their cock inside it. It’s your pussy now.” She ran her fingers through my hair.

I gave her thighs a parting kiss and stood up. Our eyes formed a deep channel of trust as they met. I gazed down at her nude curvaceous body, and my hard-on now ached inside my pants. I was so moved by the way she’d given herself to me that I had to do the same for her. “Take off your son’s clothes,” I told her. “Strip him.”

I raised my arms, and she peeled off my T-shirt, tickling her fingers over my chest. “OK if I cop a feel?” she asked. I nodded, and she pressed her hands hard against me, squeezing my chest, shoulders, and biceps. “You’re strong,” she said.

“You made me strong.”

“I want to make you right now.” Diana bit me on the neck, and I gently pinched her tit between the muscles of my upper and lower arm, loving the contrast of her softness and my hardness. “Then you can have me. I’m only for you,” I pledged myself to her.

Her hands were at my waist, caressing my stomach then tugging at the metal buttons of my jeans. As they came undone, the heavy denim fell to my ankles and my white steepled underpants proclaimed, I’m next. My turn!

The tip of the tented cotton was wet, and her rubbing finger made it even wetter. She gave it little pinches, first the head, then down the shaft, and I shuddered with pleasure. “What’s inside there?” mom asked innocently as a little girl.

I had to swallow before I could speak. “That’s for you to find out.”

She pulled the elastic away and looked in; her eyes grew big with alarm. “You’ve got a strange, big thing in there! What’s it for?”

“For you to find out.”

“Not sure I want to. It might bite me.”

“It won’t.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Good. Then here!” she yanked the shorts down, and its full heft swung out, its one moist eye focused on her. “Oh,” she said and put one hand to her chest. “What does it want?”

“You,” I told her. “You’re the only one it wants. That thing is just for you.”

Her fingers reached out and touched it tentatively, as if it were a large and possibly dangerous animal. “What does it want to do to me?”

I stroked her shoulders comfortingly. “Go inside of you. It only goes inside of you.”

“Well … OK. If you say so. But where does it go?”

I touched her sopping wet center. “Here. It belongs in here.”

Her face was anxious. “Then put it in me now … before I get too afraid.”

“You have to lie down on the bed.”

Diana fell back, legs spread, knees up, wet, red cunt open. “Like this?”

“Just like that.” I toed out of my tennies, then stepped out of my jeans and shorts.

“It won’t hurt?”

I kneeled on the bed between her ankles. “Maybe just a little bit.”

“Oh!” She closed her knees and bit her full lower lip with her small white teeth.

I opened her knees. “Just at first.”

“And then?”

“Then it’ll feel good.”

“OK. But don’t put it in all at once. Just a little at a time,” she said in a pout.

I moved up between her thighs. As she saw my prong approaching, she closed her eyes, scrinched her face and turned it to the side, then gnawed fearfully on the quilt.

I pushed it between her nether lips. “Does that hurt?” I asked, shuddering with bliss at the touch.

“Not if you do it slow.”

I did it slow … and long … sinking in gradually, loving every millimeter of it, until I was buried to the hilt in her tight, hot, wet vagina.

“I’m all filled up,” mom mumbled through puffed lips.

“Good. That’s the way you’re supposed to be. I’m supposed to fill you up.”

“Oh.” She wiggled around it. “I like it.”

I pulled it back out.

“Don’t go away,” she protested.

“I’ll come right back.”

“OK.”

I rubbed the head around the rim, pressing it into all the soft frills and nodes, nudging it against the arch of her portal. Then I sank very slowly back into ecstasy, opening her up again.

“Oh … you’re doing it to me.” Her voice trailed off into a grunt.

“I’m only going to do it you,” I told her. “You’re the only woman for me.”

Mom clutched me tightly in her arms and raised her legs high to wrap them around my back. I encircled her with my arms and cuddled her up into me. With her tilted like this, her breasts slid toward her shoulders, and I filled my mouth with one of them.

I moved in and out while she rocked back and forth to my slow thrusts. Her hands clutched hungrily at my head, back, and rear. We stared deeply into each other, seeing the kind of love that can only come after a pledge of fidelity. “Thank you for being mine,” I managed to whisper.

“Oh, I am! You’ve taken me. I’m your woman.”

“Yes … and I’m your man.” I began to piston her harder, banging against her, needing to have her totally, even wanting to punish her a little for ever having made love to anybody but me, ridiculous as that was. She threw her head back and arched her body into mine, taking it all in, liking it. “That hurts so good. Oh … it’s making me come,” she gasped. Diana’s inner muscles tightened onto me in spasms, and her pelvis rose to meet each of my pumping thrusts, just as strong and urgent as mine. Our bodies were smacking into each other, joined at their hairy middles into a creature that was more than both of us. Her fingernails dug into my back and raked long stripes in my skin.

This sting added a delicious spice to my excitement. I drove into her faster, harder, over the top and spinning out of control. In a roiling mass of shouting bodies, we came together, grappling and wrestling, merging into one. After a long tumult, we lay sprawled in exhaustion like warriors after a battle. “What a good fucker you are. You really put it to me,” mom said finally. “After that I can’t call you Tommy anymore. Now you’re definitely Tom. My man Tom … as in male animal!”

She laid her head on my chest. “You make me feel like such a girl … like I’m still learning about things … how it all works down there. It’s gotten so much … livelier.” Diana peered at her Down There, then at mine. Mine was now considerably smaller, and hers was damp and soft. What mine had put inside hers was now seeping out between her pink lips. Resting now, both our parts seemed smugly contented and totally in charge.

Snuggling in closer, mom offered her breasts up to me.

“Kiss them some more. They like it so much.” While I gladly took them in my mouth, she continued to talk, but nervously now. “You’ve played with other girls’ breasts before, right? I mean, you’ve gone this far … with … girls. Am I a girl? Do I count?”

I stopped kissing and rested my cheek on her tits. “You’re the only one who counts.”

“But how far did you go … with the other … girls?” It was as if she didn’t want to ask but forced herself to. “The breasts, like now?”

“Sometimes.”

“Inside the underpants?”

“Once.” I was embarrassed and irritated that she was prying.

“Who was that with?”

“Why do you want to know?”

She hugged me as if I might suddenly disappear. “Guess I’m just jealous. Maybe I’m tormenting myself. What little bitch has been after my boy?”

I left her bosom and propped myself up on my elbow. “Maybe I was after her.” Mom flinched—it brought out the lines around her eyes and mouth, made her look older. “But I’m not after her anymore,” I reassured her. “It was just because I didn’t have you.”

She hugged me and seemed relieved. “Sorry to pester you. I’m glad you want it to be only me. We’ll forget about the others.”

“Good,” I said. “Just you and me.”

Diana gave a short, exhausted laugh. “This isn’t easy, is it?”

“No … but it’s worth it.”

We lay back in each other’s arms, and I thought about what a heavy vow we had pledged. Now we were really a couple. It was a little scary, but it felt deeper and richer, much better. Jacquot’s threat had raised us to a whole new level of commitment.

NINE

Jacquot got a job. Jacquot wanted to be my pal. Jacquot wanted to have us over to his pad. When we kept turning him down, Jacquot got mad.

He started calling us up, ranting about his ‘rights.’ At first, mom felt sorry for him, thought maybe we should see him, but the more obnoxious he got, the more turned off she got. We noticed him hanging around outside the building at weird hours. He got a motorcycle, an old Triumph without a muffler, and we would hear it go by late at night. He’d kick it into low gear and rev it up, make it roar. Finally mom got so pissed she threatened to call his parole officer. That backed him off.

I felt like a bastard for hating him, then realized it was his fault that I actually was a bastard, so I hated him all the more. I had driven him away when I was a baby, I could do it again.

We tried to forget about him but couldn’t totally. He lurked in the background of our thoughts, reminding us we weren’t alone. It wasn’t just him—there was a whole hostile world out there that could bring down our love. To block out his and its presence, we clung to each other all the more.


One of the things I loved to do most with mom was nurse. She would half-sit, half-lie in bed with pillows behind her back and cradle my head in her arms, holding it up to her breast. Her skin there was pale and translucent, webbed with tiny blue veins deep within. Naked, I would cuddle into her soft, ample roundness. Together we would go back in time and relive total contentment. As soon as my mouth was on her nipple, both our brains waves seemed to switch into calming alpha and we were floating off in our dream. Even the songs she used to sing me then started drifting back into my mind, and we went sailing through the Milky Way with Winken, Blinken, and Nod.

When my mouth was bulging full with one teat and my hand bulging full with the other, the double delight seemed to trip me into another state of consciousness.

Something flowed out of them, something subtle that maybe couldn’t be measured but still quite real, a nurturing elixir of femininity. It always brought me to peace. I loved to suck one and drink in the other through half-lidded, sleepy eyes. They were full, demulcent cones that flowed and rolled but held their shape. They were ice cream cones and Christmas trees. They were mom’s tits and they liked me.

The nipples were so alert and responsive, always changing and reacting to new stimuli. And it wasn’t only touch; they responded to looks, even thoughts. They were very giving of their nourishment, but they were quite greedy when it came to attention. They liked to be focused on, whether by my lips, eyes, or mind. It perked them up, gave them power. They didn’t like a brassiere any more than a cat likes a leash. They liked to be free rolling mammas, out in front, the first thing you notice. When the weather was warm, they wouldn’t mind being bare for all to admire. But they didn’t like being cold. Maybe that was one reason they liked my warm mouth. They were proud they’d kept me alive as a baby. Back then, they’d been life itself to me. Now they were more of a psychic balm, but if they still flowed with milk, I’d want no other food.

“Nursing you as a baby was such a sensual trip,” mom said as if reading my thoughts. “You’d latch onto my nipple, and I’d start floating in bliss. The feeling would spread all over me … like my whole body was a tit, and its making you happy made me happy.

“You used to get hard then. Just like now.” She delicately touched my swelling pillar. “I used to wonder about who would be your first, a little jealous and possessive … but I never dreamed it would be me.”

“Are you glad?”

“Very. But you know … I’m also glad we didn’t do anything back then. It would’ve been a bad idea. What do you think?”

“You’re right … it wouldn’t’ve been good. It was better to wait. I wouldn’t’ve known what to do. And I sure couldn’t’ve satisfied you when I was little.”

“Let me cuddle up and nurse on you,” mom said. I thought she meant my tiny nipples and couldn’t imagine that being much fun for either of us, but she went down and slipped the tip of my cock into her mouth and sucked it like a nipple. The sensations made me tingle all over. Curling around it in the fetal position, she nestled in and started slurping and gurgling. Her eyes were half closed and dreamy; she became like a baby. As I petted her happy face, I saw her as the child we could never have, and I was hit by a pang of love and loss that almost made me cry. No little ones for us. It didn’t seem fair.

You can’t have everything, I told myself again, and what we did have was so much greater than what most people have.

Gradually mom took more and more of me in her mouth and increased the force of her sucking, like there was something deep inside me that she needed. I could feel my lubricant trickling and tickling up my channel into her mouth. The taste of it must’ve increased her thirst, because she sucked harder.

She took it out and nibbled down the bulging central vein with her teeth, stopping here and there for a little swirly action with her lips and tongue, then opened her mouth wide to take in both my balls. With her hand now stroking the shaft, she sloshed my stones around and hummed on them— the tune to the Stones’ lyric, “My obsession with your possession.” This quite amazing humming vibration lit me up and switched on pleasure nerves I never knew I had; my jaw dropped open with a gasp.

By now I was panting, rock solid, about to explode. She put the mast back in her mouth and slid up and down the length of it, taking it deep into her throat, then drawing out to the tip, which she licked with her tongue and nipped gently with her teeth. I cried out in frenzy as something erupted deep in my guts. My organ started throbbing and my balls began to bounce, pumping the juice up and up in levels of ecstasy, each greater than the previous, mounting, pounding, building in power until it crested and shot out the top. We both moaned as the first burst hit the back of her throat. She moved her mouth up on it to make room for the spurting sap and sucked even harder. It felt as if she’d stuck a straw of delight deep into my nuts and was draining the cream out. She wanted every bit of it, and each time she swallowed, that increased the pressure and more jetted out.

I was floating among the stars, then I became the stars and for a moment the whole universe as everything united into oneness. And I was still right here on her bed patting my dear mother’s head while she gave me head.

As the flow slowed to a trickle, Diana took it out of her mouth and drank the drops seeping out the tip. She licked all the way down around the lipstick-smeared pole, getting the leftovers. Mom was panting and her eyes had turned wild. She moved up to hug me—her teeth were dripping with my come and I could smell it like the wheat germ, full of healthy energy. “You feed me with your seeds,” she said. As I hugged her in return, she kissed me on the mouth, and I tasted my slimy, salty semen.

This made me crave her taste, so I went down Diana’s body with my lips, grazing on her breasts and belly. With a sigh of anticipation, she lay back on the bed and spread her legs, ready to be pleasured. I moved between them and stared at their junction. Protected by her brambly bush, a rose was budding there, its petals tightly curved one on another, each leading down into a deeper level of womanly mystery. The petals glistened with dew, and this moist shine brought out their many shades of red. Drawn by its fragrance, I nuzzled my nose through her viny tangle, glad her bush was thornless. Breathing the scent deeply, I lay with my head on her thigh and gazed from the side. Her pubic cheeks were like the calyx shielding the bud. From this angle, I could see only the topmost petals, moving ever so slightly with eagerness. I ran the tip of my tongue along their sensitive edges, and they pushed forward for more. I thought about waiting and teasing her, but I was too impatient. Rather than delay the delights, I pressed my lips against her flower, delved into it with my tongue, and spread her petals out. She bloomed for me, opening fully from a bud to a blossom, ready for my bee to pollinate her.

I pushed my tongue as far inside as I could, exploring her depths, seeking her stamen, savoring her nectar. She really was a flower; even her taste had the tartness of rose hip tea.

She began to move and moan. As I rubbed the top of her arch, she said between pants, “A little higher … on the outside … my clit.”

I knew where she meant but I didn’t know that’s what it was called. Clit … rhymes with slit, likes to be licked, gives her a fit. I held this tender button between my lips and sucked it while brushing it with my tongue.

“Not too hard. Gentle,” she said. I eased up. “Yes … ouooo. Now slow,” she murmured. Mom stretched her arms back over her head and relaxed into it, wiggling and groaning.

Barely moving my lips and tongue, I pressed around it and glided over it, trying to tune in to what it liked the best, but not wanting to give it to her all at once. Whenever she started to quiver, I’d back off so it would last longer. With my hands I pressed her tummy and rubbed what I could of her bottom beneath her raised thighs.

“Now, dear, put your finger inside me.” I shoved my longest digit deep within her. “Oh good. Now press … on the other side … from where you’re sucking.Yes … rub it around.”

I pulsed my finger against this spot, and it engorged so that now she was swollen on both sides. With my tongue, I continued to encircle her clit, then began whirling around it faster and sucking harder with my lips.

Mom fell apart, collapsing into spasms, voice thundering, body shuddering. All I could do was hold on as her flesh- flower billowed and shook in rippling waves, her loins writhed, and her legs squeezed me tight. Fluid showered out of her underground springs, soaking my hand and chin. She was awash with wetness.

Gradually her storm quieted and her garden grew calm again. Her hand found my head and she twined her fingers in my hair, which was still nestled in her hair. “You’re so good to me,” she said.

Licking my lips, I left her bouquet and kissed her thighs. “It’s quite amazing down here.”

“I’m glad you like it. It likes you.”

I came up face to face with her, kissed her upper set of lips, and held her close. Our exertions had smeared her makeup: her cheeks were streaked with blue eye shadow and black mascara. As she saw me examining her, she said, “I bet I’m a wreck.” She patted me on the thigh and sat up, her breasts swinging. “Let me redo, and I’ll come back for a cuddle.”

“I want to see you put on the make-up,” I said. She never wore a lot of it, but I was curious about what it was and how she put it on.

Mom wrinkled up her face and shook her head at this outrageous request. “My dear son, you may look at my pussy … but you may NOT look at me putting on my make-up. Never!

Don’t ask!”

From her tone I could tell this was serious business and I’d better not pry any further into this feminine mystery.

TEN

Jacquot couldn’t let go. He gradually started in again, this time more subtly, harder to pin down. He’d ‘just happen’ to go to the same grocery store when mom went shopping. He’d ‘just happen’ to pick the same movie as we did. (We loved necking in the movies. It was so daring to sit there in the dark surrounded by people while we French kissed and felt each other up. It made up for our not being able to make out in public. But knowing Jacquot might be there put a damper on our fun.)

We were getting spooked by him. When we were making love at night, we’d wonder if he was out there lurking around. We needed to get away from the pressure, so mom rented us a cabin in the mountains for the weekend.

She let me drive the green Beetle up to Fort Collins, along the Cache la Poudre River into the Rockies, and over the pass into Walden. She was wearing a denim miniskirt that showed off her thighs, but I tried to keep my eyes on the road.

It was a beautiful route, with willows flanking the river between pink sandstone canyon walls. For me the river was Diana’s flowing center, the springy willows her hair, the pink walls her legs, and I was penetrating up to the source of her stream. Over the Front Range, we dropped down into a broad, fertile plateau, green and well-watered, ideal for cattle, horses and growing hay. The rolling lushness of it reminded me of her midlands—her loins, stomach, and hips where I had spent nine wonderful months. On the horizon soared the white peaks of the high Rockies, where the storm gods lived in snowy heaven.

The small town of Walden, a commercial center for the local ranchers, was less charming than its name and the country around it. Our cabin was beyond it in the wild, at the end of a long gravel road behind a locked gate, totally isolated. Diana had picked it especially so we wouldn’t have neighbors.

The log cabin was comfortable but a little hokey, done up for Eastern tourists who want a cowboy outing: elk’s head mounted above the river-rock fireplace, spurs and horseshoes decorating the mantel, bear skin rug, wagonwheel chandelier, a branding iron for a fire poker. In the closet hung some western duds for the dudes: chaps, fringed leather vest, bolo ties, gun belt without a gun. The walls were hung with prints by Charlie Russell, the cowboy artist.

The ceiling was knotty pine—with all the knots looking like eyes peering down on us.

Next to the cabin were a small corral and a barn that held a few chickens and two riding horses. Surrounding that were pastures of the adjoining ranch, where other horses and a herd of black angus cattle grazed. Beyond in all directions stretched forest and mountains.

Ours were the only buildings in sight, so we finally felt free to just be ourselves and show our love. In the city, especially since Jacquot had shown up, we always had to hold back. Even something as simple as a kiss on the lips could cause suspicion. Although I was legally an adult, society had labeled our love a crime and would punish us both with years in prison. This constant need to be careful took its toll on our spirits. The Beatles’ lyric, “You’ve got to hide your love away,” seemed written for us.

The first thing we did, right on the front porch, was take off each other’s clothes. Reveling in new freedom and the warm sun, we rubbed each other’s naked bodies with tanning lotion until we glistened. Some parts that weren’t used to the sun got extra attention—we wanted to get hot but not burn.

Out in the pasture, the animals were mating. Wild with desire, the stallions were mounting the mares, biting their necks to the point of viciousness, neighing and whinnying as they sank their poles deep inside the magic place. The bulls were lumbering up on the cows, humping those massive haunches, thrusting their schlongs into those commodious cunts, both bellowing with pleasure. In the corral, a cock was treading a hen, hopping onto her back, digging his spurs in to hold on, poking his little red rooster into her feathery nest, crowing with delight. The bears and bugs and bunnies were fucking, and their frantic antics made us tremendously horny to join them.

“I’ll bet some of them are mothers and sons,” I said, rubbing lotion on mom’s rear end. “The animals aren’t hung up on all that prudery.”

“That’s true. They’ll do it that way whenever they get the chance.” She squirted a line of lotion along my cock and massaged it in.

“Yeah, it’s ridiculous to say it’s unnatural … when nature does it herself.” I patted her buns.

By now we were both aroused, but we wanted to find an idyllic setting for enjoying each other. Our plan was to explore the place on horseback, have a picnic, then play around.

To get there, though, we needed to wear a few things. Not wanting to squash my balls, I’d brought a jock strap. Curious about how it worked, Diana insisted on putting it on me. She stretched the elastic bands around my rump and tried to fit my penis into the pouch. One hairy, wrinkled testicle dangled from the side. “That will never do,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’ll hurt it if I just put it in.”

“You won’t hurt it,” I told her. “It’s not so fragile.”

Mom reached inside the pouch from the top, gave what was in there a tickle, raised the lower edge of the elastic, and cautiously pulled the straying nut back in. By then the shaft was hard and stuck out the top, unwilling to go in. She asked doubtfully, “You sure this strap thing’s going to work?”

I nodded. “Once he knows you’re not going to play with him anymore, he’ll give up and go back in.”

She gave him a parting kiss. “Good-bye for now. See you later.”

The kiss made him grow even more. “That’s not the way to discourage him.”

Mom looked at him sympathetically. “Well, I don’t want him to get too discouraged.” She examined the bulging pouch. “I don’t see how that elastic can protect him. The least little bump would go right through.”

“All it does is hold everything up out of the way … so he doesn’t get banged around.”

She gave it a pat and said, “OK … I hope so. I’d hate for anything to happen.” She looked me over again, then turned me around and snapped the straps against my bare ass. “It’s cute,” she concluded, “but not as cute as nothing.”

For protection from rocks and sun, we put on our cowboy boots and hats which we’d brought from home. These we hardly ever wore in Denver—too touristy—but out here they were practical work clothes.

The horses were two gentle mares, patient and used to all sorts of dudes. Our being nude dudes didn’t seem to bother them at all. With only her hat and boots on, Diana looked like the ultimate cowgirl swinging up into the saddle.

Staying within the property of the cabin for privacy, we rode a trail that wended among aspen trees along a stream leading to a green glade where beavers had dammed the flow to make a pond. We could hear the burble of water, the flutter of leaves in the breeze, chatter of birds, splash of trout in the pond, clatter of horse hooves on rock—but all these sounds were just punctuation in the surrounding silence. We were a long ways from Denver.

Diana’s thighs rippled and her jugs jiggled from the rocking sway of the horse. Every part of her was in tempting motion. Her nipples stiffened from a combination of the groin massage she was enjoying, the fresh air, and my admiring gaze.

I wanted to see a beaver, looked all over, but couldn’t find any. Mom’s was enticingly out of sight, too, hidden by the saddle pommel. I knew it was there, though, and that I’d be playing with it soon.

I got a great shot of it when she dismounted—blue glints shining on her curly black hairs in the sunlight, red lips spread and moist from riding, ready for me to ride them. She’d left a long smear of juice on the saddle, and I inhaled her delicious fragrance. Her scent and those of the horse and leather combined into an olfactory feast of nature in the raw. But we had other sorts of hunger, too, so we unpacked our picnic, then unsaddled the horses and tethered them so they could drink in the stream and graze. We spread the saddle blankets on the grass and sprawled out to enjoy a naked lunch of carrot sticks (most of which went to the horses), tuna sandwiches, potato salad, apple juice, and chocolate cake (none of which went to the horses). We tilted back our hats, gazed up at the white clouds and blue sky, and felt totally at peace.

“We’re so lucky,” Diana said. “We get to do what other people only dream of.”

I picked a dandelion crown and blew the dried seedlings over her; they stuck here and there on her fine-pored skin like spangles. “That’s ’cos we’re brave enough … to actually do it … to really love each other.” I kissed her earlobe, her forehead, her slightly upturned nose. She lay back on the saddle blanket and shielded her eyes with the hat. I plucked a grass stalk that was bending with graceful heaviness under its load of seed and teased the tassels over her breasts, down her tummy, around her loins, between her legs, through her bush, and into her fecund, furrowed delta. She squirmed under the tickling, and her moisture clung to the seeds, making them shine. Now they’ll sprout wonderfully, I thought, tossing the stalk back onto its mother earth. My balls hung heavy with a load of seed that yearned to return to its mother.

I cupped my hand protectively on her pubic mound; as I fluttered my fingers over it, she breathed a long sigh. I kneaded it gently, squeezing the lips together, then opening them. They seemed to like that, so I did it some more, this time with a finger between them that rubbed over her clit.

While that hand was occupied, the other went up to her breasts to show them some appreciation. My fingertips stroked them, skimming the nipples, aureoles, and full, sloping sides, teasing them into alertness. Then my whole hand massaged them, first one glory, then the other. My lips joined in the fun so neither mamma would be neglected, kissing them, sucking them, tasting suntan lotion and sweat.

With mock horror Diana asked, “Oh my, son … that thing between your legs … you’re not going to ram it into me again, are you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“No! Why? How could you do such a terrible thing to your mother?”

“Because I love you.”

She exhaled with resignation. “Then I guess you’ll have to do it to me.” She pulled the top of my jock strap down, and what it was holding expanded out at her, red and indignant at being confined. “There it is. It doesn’t look like it would take no for an answer.”

“It won’t. It’s going to take you. But it’ll be nice to you … if you’re good.”

“Then I’ll be good.” She pulled the strap all the way off. We kissed and our tongues writhed together like two snakes mating.

“Get up on your hands and knees,” I told her.

“Like this?” mom asked obediently. With her mane of bay hair falling over her face, teats hanging down, fanny up in the air, and legs spread, she really looked like a female animal, a pony ready for mating. She even smelled horsy.

“You’re my beautiful chestnut mare,” I told her.

“And you’re my mighty stallion.” She wiggled her butt in readiness. “I’m in heat.”

I lay on my back underneath her and nuzzled into her udder, let her tits flop in my face, and sucked their heavy fullness. This was definitely the place to be. I felt like a pony foal or Romulus and Remus being suckled by the wild wolf.

But Diana had other parts too. I scooted down between her legs, breathing the aroma of saddle leather, and stared up at her vulva, open and wet in estrus, exuding its own magnetic odor that drew me to it and made me tremble. The plum-colored lips were swelling and moving. Fill us, they ordered.

First, I gave them my face. My mouth fastened on her clit and began to suck. My nose, not big enough to fill her but good for starters, squished through the petals into her vagina. My eyes focused on her ass, its pink little bung smelling a bit like roasted peanuts. I licked a finger and rubbed it around the rim; she wiggled and squealed. I prodded it in a bit more, opening her rear vent; she squirmed. Propping myself on my elbows, I ran my other hand over her buns, spreading first one then the other. She had such a nice ass, so round and gentle, appreciative of affection, incapable of cruelty. It might not be as smart and sassy as her tits, but it was sensitive and good hearted.

“I want your cock—now!” Mom’s voice came from above.

“Where?”

“In my pussy,” she said with a pout of impatience.

I crawled out from under her, loomed over her, and mounted her from behind. She raised her rump to me and lowered her head onto her folded arms, compliant and eager. I placed the tip of my tool at her entrance and with one swift thrust of my hips plunged it all into her at once.

She yelled with pain and delight. “Oh, fuck me!”

I kept doing it, drawing it out and shoving it back in, but she didn’t yell anymore, just gurgled. Sweat ran down her breasts and dripped off her nipples like milk. For a lovely long time we rocked in each other. Feeling like a rutting stallion, I bit the back of her neck, not hard, just enough to let her know she was mine.

I realized I was luckier than a stallion. Although my organ wasn’t as big, my hooves had fingers. I reached my hand into her muff and caressed her spread-open parts. I found her clit and inflamed it with rapid pulses while driving my length into her. Gazing happily around at the mountains, trees, stream, and fellow creatures, I knew we were all joined as one.

As we continued, Diana’s body tensed to rigidity, then began quivering in climax. From her arched neck and open mouth poured a mating cry, a howl of desire. She met each of my thrusts with her own orgasmic force and ground her groin into mine.

I started coming and my surges flattened her onto the saddle blankets. I pounded my spouting limb into her harder and harder, and we humped together in a swarm of flesh, vibrant with all the force of nature, overwhelmed with the love and passion we were pouring into each other. Gradually our gushing streams ebbed and our flailing bodies quieted until we lay still, exhausted, mute.

After this power we’d unleashed, all we could do was hold each other and pant with satisfaction. Diana was first to speak: “My dear animal, what you do to me! I don’t want it to ever end. This is so amazing.”

Our hats had come off but we were still in our boots. The saddle blankets itched against our bare, sweaty skin. Still unable to talk, I picked up two green-and-silver aspen leaves and balanced them atop her brown nipples, but they kept falling off. Finally I put them back on and before they could fall I blew them off. “It doesn’t have to end,” I managed to say, but a shadow of fear had passed over me, and it sounded like I was trying to convince us.

Mom shielded her eyes from the sun and was silent a while, then said, “Let’s do something. Let’s … go swimming.”

“Sounds cold.”

She kicked off her boots and stood up in nude maternal glory. “Last one in’s a chicken.”

“What’s wrong with being a chicken?”

“You’ll find out.” She tiptoed out onto the beaver dam wincing from twigs against her tootsies, leaped into the pond, sank under the water, then burst back to the surface, spluttering and shrieking, “It’s cold!”

“Told you so.”

Incensed by my laughter, she splashed me with great gouts of water. “If you don’t come in I’ll drown … just like Ophelia.”

I didn’t know who Ophelia was, but I didn’t want her to drown, and I did want to see up close what the cold water was doing to her nipples, so I went in, too. I started slowly, a little bit at a time, but she splashed me so much that I jumped for her and we wrestled in the water. “You’re in trouble!” I said, spanking her bottom.

“Look at you!” Diana pointed at what was now shriveled from the cold water. “I haven’t seen it so little in ten years.”

Gradually getting used to the chill, we swam and floated in the pond, laughing and kissing, tingling with stimulation. Stippled with goose bumps, her breasts bobbed buoyantly out in front of her, nipples darker and more prickled than I’d ever seen.

From the surface, I saw a dark hole underwater on the dam that looked like the entry to the beaver lodge. I dived down for a closer look, but everything was blurry. Hello, beavies, I thought. Hope you’re having fun in there.

After five minutes we were cold again. Time to get out. “Oh no, we didn’t bring a towel,” Diana said. “Now we will freeze.”

Shivering and chattering, we scampered around the meadow and shook ourselves dry like dogs.The horses munched the grass and watched us contentedly. Then they clip-clopped us back to the cabin.

Once there, it was clothes time again—enough naked delights for now. We got dressed, bidding each other’s bods a temporary farewell. Diana had brought along some weekend work that needed attention. She dug into her briefcase, and I decided to take a hike.

Through experience, we’d learned that we got along better if we each had time to ourselves. If we did everything together, it got too intense and we’d burn out on each other. “What do you want for dinner?” mom asked as I was leaving.

I thought it over. “I guess they don’t deliver pizza out here.”

“You could be the mighty hunter … shoot us a buffalo.” Diana aimed an imaginary rifle.

“Buffalo Bill beat me to it … shot ’em all. How about a chicken?”

“No. If one’s missing we won’t get our deposit back. But fresh eggs would be good. I’ve been wanting to go vegetarian anyway.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Outside, I rambled the other direction from where we’d ridden, crossed the pasture, managing to step in both horse apples and cow pies, and came to the forest. Among the ponderosas, the air was cool and breezeless with an astringent nip of pine resin. I saw a porcupine bristling with quills as it waddled along, and wondered how they mate without stabbing each other. I saw a blue jay and a chipmunk.

I searched for edible plants. We’d read a new book, Eat the Weeds, and were into wild salads and veggies. In a meadow I found dandelion, sheepshead, sorrel, and along a stream, watercress. When my hands were full, I headed back.

In the barn, I gave the horses some more oats. A lariat hung near them on the wall. It gave me an idea, so I tossed the coil of rope over my shoulder. I found four eggs in the laying boxes, speckled and brown and stuck with bits of down and dung. I thanked the hens and took them. Feeling like a real Provider, I marched into the cabin.

Diana was sitting at the table sorting through piles of data processing cards. These colorful, perforated rectangles had been a great advance in office automation, although now they’re as obsolete as slide rules. I asked if I could help, and she said sure. It turned out the cards were the mailing list of a new organization she and some other attorneys had founded, Lawyers for Peace. They were setting up legal defense teams for draft resisters, bringing lawsuits to stop US violence in Vietnam, and wanted eventually to pass laws making war and the manufacture of weapons illegal. Those were more optimistic times, when change seemed more possible than it does now.

Diana had gotten a friend in the state’s data processing center to put the mailing list on these cards, making it easier to send out newsletters and organizational material. This unauthorized use of government equipment could get them both fired, but that risk made it more appealing.

She explained how the cards worked, and I grew fascinated. I’d always liked puzzles, but most of them seemed pointless. These cards with their patterns of meaningful punchholes were a puzzle with a purpose. When she told me the people who do this make lots of money, I got even more interested. Decoding the information on the cards, then sorting and classifying them, was my first introduction to what would later become my career: computer programming. The fact that it was for an idealistic organization also stuck with me. I still donate my time designing software for the War Resisters League and Greenpeace.

Mom and I made dinner together. She cooked corn-onthe-cob and a Spanish omelet. I made a weed salad and cut up the watermelon for dessert. For once, mine turned out better than hers. She didn’t realize how hot the salsa was and put too much in the omelet. To cool our mouths we had to take a big bite of watermelon after each little bite of omelet. Our eyes were watering and our noses running. Actually it was fun.

But when she apologized, it gave me an idea. “That’s all right,” I said gravely. “But of course you will have to be punished.”

“Punished? How?” She was shocked but intrigued.

I tried to sound like a British judge. “I should think whipping would be appropriate.”

She was appalled but a blush showed she was also excited. “Whipping is unconstitutional. Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“It would only be cruel if I used the bullwhip.”

“What are you going to use?”

“The gun belt.”

“Oh … that sounds very kind,” she said. “Why are you being so merciful?”

“Because we don’t have a bullwhip.”

“Oh. I guess I should be grateful. But it’s still unconstitutional because it’s unusual. You can’t deny it’s unusual for a boy to whip his mother.”

“It would only be unusual if you were hanging from your heels.”

“Oh. Where will I be hanging from?”

“Your wrists … the usual way.”

“Oh. It’s still pretty severe … just for too much salsa.”

“Maybe you need a Public Defender.”

“Maybe you need to do the cooking!”

“I made the salad. Did you burn your mouth on that?”

“No, but … the salsa was an accident.”

“Did the bottle break and the salsa just spill in?”

“No.” She was pouting now.

“You poured it in … but you poured in too much. Right?”

I tried to cross-examine her as compassionately as justice would allow.

She dipped her chin in a curt nod.

Now that I had this admission, I pressed the prosecution. “That’s not an accident, that’s an error. And errors must be punished.”

“Why?” she asked defiantly.

“Because it’s the law,” I intoned. “And without law we would have anarchy … chaos … the whole social order would break down. Then who knows what might happen. Sons might even pull down their mothers’ pants and whip their bottoms.”

“No! We can’t have that.” She shook her head, finally convinced by my stern logic. “That would be the worst thing that could ever happen. Well … if it’s a choice between those two things … I guess … I’ll have to take my punishment.” She raised her chin bravely, then bowed her head in submission to the court’s judgment.

“First you have to wear the prisoner’s uniform.”

“What’s that?”

“Not much.” I went to the closet, brought back the western duds to the table, and held up the fringed leather vest. “Just this.”

Diana stood with downcast eyes while I stripped her. My heart leaped up as ever to see her nude. She raised her arms and let me slip the vest on her; I was relieved that it didn’t conceal much at all, barely covering the sides of her breasts, with the fringe hanging to her hips, swaying as she moved. Nipples, ass, and pussy were all freely available. Feeling magnanimous, I told her, “You can put your boots back on.”

She stepped into them and asked, “What does the executioner wear?” I showed her the leather chaps. “Just these.” I stripped myself and put them on. Held up by thongs around the waist, the chaps covered just my legs, leaving my cock and butt bare. They were rough, stiff, and smelly, perfect for dirty work. I strapped on the gun belt (unfortunately without a six-shooter) and stepped back into my boots.

I looked both of us over—something was missing. I picked up her Stetson and set it on her head. “Good. You can leave your hat on.”

“Thank you,” she said dryly.

“You’ll need to be tied up, of course.”

“Why? Will it be so horrible?”

“It’s really just for your own protection. If you tried to escape, I’d have to increase your sentence … and we don’t want that to happen.”

“Oh no, I’m sure we don’t. Are you going to gag me … so no one can hear my screams?”

“No one can hear them anyway.”

Mom looked forlorn as I tied her wrists in front of her with the lariat. “I thought prisoners had their hands tied behind their backs,” she said. “That would cover up your behind. And that needs to be free.”

“Oh. I see.”

I led her into the bedroom and turned her around facing the door. I tossed the rope over the door, looped it around the knob on the other side, ran it back up over the top of the door, then raised her wrists and cinched them high above her head with the rope. Stretching her up like this against the door also raised her tits and flattened her tummy. She looked incredibly good, buck naked except for her boots, vest, and hat. My member strived out towards her with all his might. He wanted to spare her the beating, grant her a full pardon, and enjoy her right now, but I had to overrule him for the sake of justice.

“First you have to be branded as my prisoner,” I told her.

“That’s against the Geneva Convention.”

“So much the better.” I went to the fireplace and took the branding iron from the andiron rack and a spur from the mantel. We’d been too busy lighting our own fires to have actually built one in the fireplace, plus it was summer and hot, but I pretended to heat the iron to glowing red in an imaginary blaze.

When Diana saw it, her face cringed and her bottom quavered. “No!”

“Yes!” I pressed it against her rump and made a sizzling sound.

“Ow!” she yelped.

It left a sooty brand on her butt that could be a Rocking M or an upside down Lazy W, depending on how you looked at it. Either way, she was marked as mine.

“Now the skin has to be prepared.”

She glared at me defiantly. “You sound like a butcher.”

“A little rump steak.” I patted her tail, then showed her the spur. “First we have to tenderize it … with this torture tool.”

“Don’t touch me with that!”

I ran the pronged metal wheel of the spur over her gluteus maximus, leaving little dimples like cellulite, of which she had a bit anyway. Both luscious white hemispheres tensed, and she bit her lip. I took off the gun belt and flexed the thick leather. She cowered as far away as the rope would allow, but her butt stuck out deliciously. “Please don’t beat me.”

I raised the belt and she flinched. “I beg you!” mom whimpered. “Just remember,” I said, “this hurts me more than it does you.”

“Bullshit!” she spat out, switching from meek to militant.

I brought the belt down smartly across her backside, about as hard as fluffing a pillow. I expected her to scream out in agony, but she stood with mouth grimly closed, then opened it in a sneer. “You brute, I won’t give you the satisfaction of hearing me cry.” As she clamped her jaw, her chin quivered with the effort of restraining her wails.

Again I struck her mercilessly, increasing the force to hand-clap strength. A faint pink blush rose on her epidermis.

“Monster!” she screamed. With two mighty yanks, she pulled her hands out of her bonds. She clenched her fists and shook them at me. “Ha! Freedom Now! Revolution! Power to the People! Off the Pig! Revenge!”

I was startled. I thought I’d tied her pretty well. She picked up the rope, grabbed both my hands, and dragged me over to the bed. She pushed me backwards down across the mattress, and before I could escape (not that I tried very hard) she tied my two legs and one arm to the bed posts. She dropped the rope, though, and that let me land a good spank on her bottom with my free hand. It made a lovely smack, but that enraged her to a frenzy. Lying on my free arm and holding it down, she grabbed the lariat, looped it around my wrist, drew it tight, and bound it to the bed post. Now I was splayed out supine, helpless, unable to stop her vengeance.

Brown eyes flashing a savage determination, Diana picked up the gun belt and slapped it a few times against her palm. “Boys can get tied up and tortured, too, not just girls.” She wrapped the wide leather strap around my penis and chaffed it back and forth. “That feels hard and mean, doesn’t it?” When I didn’t answer, she scraped it like a file. “Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” I admitted, vulnerable and subdued. She cackled with wild glee. “Now you’re going to see just how hard and mean I can be.” She brushed the silver tip of the belt over the tip of my organ. “It could hurt.”

Mom whipped the belt over the chaps on the middle of my leg, making a loud smack and stinging even through the leather. She moved the belt up to my chap-covered thigh and whaled me again. The wind of the belt tickled my testicles; I flinched away, shuddering at the force of her blow. I was scared.

“Getting closer,” she said with a malicious grin. The top of the chaps came within an inch of my balls. She measured carefully to the edge of the leather, raised the belt, and struck again. I closed my eyes in fear, but this time the blow was light. “You’re lucky,” she said with a scowl and gripped my penis. “I’ll spare this for now. I’ve got plans for it. It may be useful to me.”

Mom tossed the belt aside, grabbed the loose end of the lariat, and straddled me. She held the rope up to my exposed gonads. The end of the hemp frayed out into hundreds of bristles, which she flicked over my flesh. “You’re in big trouble.” My organ, which had wilted under the belt, was swelling again. “And it looks like it’s getting bigger.” She brushed the prickly fibers against my prick. “A boy could even get raped … by his own mother.”

“Oh please,” I pleaded, “not that.”

“Ha! Now you beg. But it’s too late. Take your punishment.” She prodded the end of the rope at my scrotum, which contracted and wrinkled like a walnut shell. She looped the rope around the shaft and abraded it back and forth, causing shivers of delicious mild pain. My penis stood at rigid attention like a soldier being disciplined. Her thighs moved up to the top of my chaps, and the leather fringe of her vest brushed my wet tip. “Now I’m going to violate you … use you like a piece of meat.You’re just going to have to lie there and take it … like a slave. Whatever I do to you, you deserve.” She seized my cock in an eager hand. “I’m going to sit on this. You may not ever get it back.” Diana raised herself—pussy wide, red, and wet—above my rod, came down on it, and rubbed it against her clit until she was panting deep in her throat. She inserted it between the lips and, wincing, jostled up and down on the tip to spread herself and make room.

Rather than sending me to hell, that put me right into heaven. But this was only the first heaven. There was one for each inch, and as she gradually sank down, I moved up the scale of blessedness, feeling more and more divine until she’d fully absorbed it all and I entered seventh heaven.

I gazed up at mom as she towered above me. Her thighs were wrapped tight around my hips, and our middles were joined by an intermingled bush of pubic hair, all that could be seen of our fused genitals. She swiveled her groin around my plug, breasts joggling, nipples taut. The fringe of her vest swayed with her movements. From this angle I could see the skin under her chin was beginning to sag from thirty-six years of gravity. She breathed through her mouth in fast, shallow pants, lips curled into a sneer of mock fury, eyes enfolding me with love. “Now, Mister Thomas, you’re going to see what it’s like to get fucked.” She thrust her hips into mine, hard and insistent. “To have somebody really put it to you.” She butted her pelvis into me. “Not care about you … just take you.” Her hands groped my chest demandingly. “Someone who just grabs what she wants from you.” Her fingers kneaded my nipples. “Who might even slap you around.” She leaned down and slapped my face with her tits. When I reached for them with my lips, she drew back with a teasing, haughty look. She held my head down on the bed and swung the heavy pendulums right above my mouth, tantalizing me with their lushness. “Do you want them?” she asked coyly.

I nodded.

“You can’t have them … because you were bad … a very bad boy. You spanked your mommy. And now you’re being punished.” Diana moved back and forth and side to side until she had my prong placed just right to please her, then she began pounding up and down, faster and faster, grunting with excitement.

I felt helpless and yielding, at her mercy, as if I had the pussy and she had the cock and was driving it into me. I was a girl being ravaged, but with total love. I lay back in passive delight, absorbing her power.

I was so turned on by our game that I could’ve come instantly, but I knew it would take mom a bit longer to peak since I wasn’t directly touching her clit, so I tried to relax and make it last longer. I stared up at her thrashing beauty working me over and fell in love all over again.

She shifted until she was crouching above me on her knees and elbows, tits dangling on my chest. I got one in my mouth finally and gave it full suction. She liked what I was doing to it, moaning through her clenched teeth, tendons standing out on her neck as she pumped up and down on my shaft.

It won’t be long now, I thought.

Then mom screamed—in pain or fright, not in orgasm. I thought I’d hurt her until I saw her staring with horror at the window. She gasped and sobbed and covered her breasts. I tried to see what had scared her but couldn’t. “It’s Jacquot,” she cried. “He’s outside!”

That swine! I thought. The door was locked … but what if he tried to break in? What could I use as a weapon to defend us? She collapsed against me and I clutched her, our lust destroyed. With a sob, she rolled off of me and covered herself with the quilted bedspread.

I grabbed my pants back on and picked up the branding iron.

“He had a camera,” she spluttered through her tears. “He was taking pictures.”

I dashed around making sure all the windows were locked, closed the drapes, and hooked the chain on the door. I found a steak knife, but Diana cried louder and said, “No, put that away.”

Trembling, we got dressed and held each other, passion smashed, minds in turmoil. How did he get here? He must have been hanging out around our apartment building, then seen us leaving and followed us. I hadn’t noticed a motorcycle, but I’d been too wrapped up with grooving on mom’s legs and driving to even think about anyone behind us. The slimy bastard. How much had he seen? Had he been there at the beaver pond? I was in a helpless rage. He’d totally invaded and violated us. He could’ve forced his way in and raped her while I was out hiking. I really wanted to kill him.

After about twenty minutes, we heard the unmufflered brap of Jacquot’s Triumph approaching the cabin down the gravel road. Diana chewed on the knuckle of her thumb. I stood guard by the door but wanted to hold her and smooth her corrugated forehead and pinched eyes. He stopped at the locked gate, revved the bike to the max to taunt us, then roared it all the way back to the main road, as if yelling, “Gotcha!”

ELEVEN

Back in Denver we tried to go through the motions of normal life, but we were overcome by dread of what Jacquot would do. We tried making love a few times, but mom was nervous and I was limp. He must’ve wanted to draw out our agony because he waited almost a week before calling. I could tell it was him by the way Diana’s usually open, active face tightened when she answered the phone. She turned on the tape recorder she’d brought from the office and asked, “What do you want?” She motioned me to pick up the extension in her room.

When I did, Jacquot must’ve heard a click on the line, because he said, “Sounds like the little motherfucker just picked up the phone, that right?”

I was silent.

“So, you two are really something. While I was in the joint fuckin’ my fist, you were fuckin’ each other. Ain’t that sweet. You must’ve been practicing a long time … got quite a bag of tricks. Sure a lot of stuff you never did with me.” Beneath the hatred, his raw voice held pain from being left out and unwanted, the ultimate family rejection. But I couldn’t feel sorry for him. He was trying to ruin us.

“But your diddle days are over. I got a new job, much better pay. Professional photographer. I want to show you some pictures I took on my vacation. They’ll make great postcards. Send ’em to your boss, your friends, everybody. When do you want to see ’em?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Diana said.

“Aw, come on. I thought you were interested in artwork. Some of these are pretty experimental.”

“How much?”

“You want to buy the whole exhibit? A sold-out show. That’ll cost you. A lot of people will be interested in these.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

Diana sounded like she’d been hit in the chest. “That’s ridiculous. I couldn’t begin to get that much.” In 1968, two hundred thousand dollars were like half a million today.

“Hey, us artists got to make a living. And you’re a banker’s daughter. Hit up the old man.”

“He won’t give me a cent. He cut me off a long time ago.”

“Then rob his bank. Hey, what’s he gonna say when he sees the pictures? What’s the DA gonna say? Incest is a heavy duty crime, bitch! You and little motherfucker goin’ to prison. I got a nice shot of him branding your ass—now I’m gonna brand you both as freaks. Your lives are over.

Over! Unless you come up with two hundred grand … quick!”

Diana sounded broken, trapped. “Give me some time … to see what I can do.”

“I’ll call you next week. And by the way, I know you’re taping this.You can tape your pussy shut for all I care. Doesn’t matter. No way can you go to the cops now. Nothing matters but your getting the cash. Small bills. Fast.” He hung up. We sank together onto the couch, mom sobbing, me trying to comfort her. Prison, I thought with a shudder. They won’t even let us be cellmates.

“He didn’t used to be like this,” she said.

I wasn’t in the mood to hear anything good about Jacquot, so I said, “He is now. That’s all that matters.” “It’s not all that matters,” she insisted. “How he got that way matters, too.”

I let that go. “What are we going to do?”

She tossed it back at me. “What do you think?”

I mulled it over. “Is there any chance that grandpa would … lend you the money? Maybe we could say I had some terrible disease.”

She shook her head and bit her lip. “He’d want proof. He’s a banker. They get instantly turned off when a person really needs a loan. That’s when you can’t get one. Besides, he’s still pissed that I’m on the board of Lawyers for Peace. Says I’m dragging the family name through the mud again. He’d be convinced I’d give the money to the Viet Cong.”

“Maybe …” I started speaking out a half-formed idea, “maybe we could have Jacquot over here … tell him we’ll give him the money … he comes over … and I kill him.”

“No!” Diana waved her hands to shut me up. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But wait, let me finish. We could make it look like selfdefense. He attacked us … he’s a crazy ex-con. We had to defend ourselves.”

“Tommy, that’s crazy.”

I became suddenly furious that she’d discounted my idea. “It’s not crazy. He’s crazy! That’s true. It is self-defense. He’s trying to destroy our lives … and you’re making excuses for him.”

“Stop this! I don’t want to hear it.”

I rushed on, seized with the idea. “We can figure out a way. You know the law. And I’ll be the one to actually do it. We can make it seem like it was his own weapon … a switchblade or something … that he attacked us with. I’ll stab myself a couple of times to make it look real. The cops’ll believe it.”

Diana pulled away from me and stood up angrily. “You’ve totally sunk down to his level. And it won’t work. I’ve seen enough blackmail cases. He’ll have a copy of the pictures hidden somewhere. And he’ll leave word with somebody. If anything happens to him, the pictures go to the DA. Then we go to jail—for incest and murder.”

As soon as she said it, I knew she was right, but I was still too mad to admit it. “But what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, but we’re not going to kill him.”

I frowned. I still liked the idea. She must’ve known that because her tone turned urgent. “Tommy … I mean Tom, I’m sorry … you have to promise me you won’t do anything like that. Ever. I really need your promise.”

“OK, I won’t. Promise.”

“You won’t promise … or you won’t do it?”

“I won’t do it,” I said with irritated slowness. “I promise.” I still wanted to though.

Mom sat back down beside me. “Here we are fighting. It’s exactly what he wants … to drive a wedge between us.”

I saw she was right and I was playing into his game, but I couldn’t apologize or say anything. I took her hand, and we sat still for a while. I put my arm around her.

She squeezed my hand, but her face turned even sadder as she said, “Remember I used to worry that we’d be punished … that something terrible would happen to us? Now I guess it has.”

“No, don’t buy into that,” I told her. “We’ll find a way out of this. Why don’t we just disappear? Look, we could drop out, move somewhere else, change our identities … just like the Weather Underground.”

“It’s an idea.” She mulled it over. “But then I’d have to stop being a lawyer. And what else could I do?”

“You’d find something. And I could get a job.” I was getting more enthused. “We’d be new people. We could even … get married!”

Mom looked at me lovingly. “That’s so dear of you,” she said, tears running down her face.

I held her close. “Why not? We could change our ages, too. You look twenty-five.”

“Thank you.You’re certainly my biggest fan. Getting married! You sweetie. I’d love to be your bride and stand up in front of the world and say ‘I do’ to you.” She kissed me. “We’ll think about it. The thing is, going underground would put us at the rock bottom of the economic pile. And that’s a hard place to be in this country. I couldn’t prove I had any degrees. I’d be a terrible waitress. And I really love practicing law. But not as much as I love you. We’ll keep it as a possibility.”

For now we were too nervous and frightened to decide what to do. We had to keep the drapes shut all the time. We couldn’t hold hands or walk arm in arm in public like we used to. Having to hide hurt us, but not as much as jail would. Mom’s face stayed tense and strained, and she gnawed on her thumb so much that I threatened to paint it with that liquid pepper they use to break children of the habit. She drank three glasses of wine at dinner rather than one. We still couldn’t make love.

Diana calculated that with all her savings and borrowing from friends she could raise about $45,000. There was a chance Jacquot would settle for that, but she knew once she started paying him it would never end.

Finally we realized we needed to get away to someplace where we could think clearly and be ourselves again. Someplace remote and different, yet not too far away. We decided to fly to Key West for a few days. Mom drove to the airport while I peered out the rear window. No motorcycle. I walked the aisles of both the jumbo jet to Miami and the commuter plane to the Keys. No Jacquot.

Key West turned out to be the perfect place—the mood there is so free and easy. It’s a very accepting town, maybe because of all the gays. And maybe because it’s hard to be uptight in the tropics—Puritanism seems to be a northern disease. Amid the palm trees and sultry air we felt we could let our guard down. No one stared as we snuggled close in restaurants and smooched on park benches like other lovers.

The weather was ferociously hot, and Diana’s clothes weren’t light enough. In one of the little boutiques I bought her an almost see-through cotton blouse, leather sandals, and a suede miniskirt. It made me feel great to spend the money from my soda-fountain job on her. We looked so much alike that it was obvious we were mother and son, so the boutique staff gave us indulgent smiles, as if to say, How sweet. They did seem a little shocked when I went into the try-on booth with her, but they were too sophisticated to say anything.

She looked spectacular—bare thighs stemming out beneath buttery soft suede that clung to her buns like her own skin, alluring fullness of her breasts and twin peaks of her nipples beneath the thin cotton. In this heat I was finally able to convince her to go braless.

We knew we were taking a certain risk carrying on like this, but we were so bottled up that we had to release the pressure and prove to ourselves we had the right to be the way we were. No one here knew us, and no one who knew us knew we were here. We’d flown and registered under false names.

That night in the restaurant she told me the suede was a little warm, but she’d figured out a way to air condition it. She pulled the skirt up a few inches—we were sitting side by side in a corner with the tablecloth hanging down in front of us—and she wasn’t wearing any panties. Her dear pussy was right out there in the fresh air, proud as could be. It was such a turn on. She gave me a wicked grin and said, “A girl’s gotta keep cool.”

“And a boy’s gotta have an appetizer.” After checking to be sure no one could see, I stuck my finger through her hair into her cove, then licked her gourmet juice. “Um! Delicious sea food they have here.”

She patted me through my pants. “Their oysters and eels are supposed to be a specialty.”

“Maybe we can get a take-out order.”

Mom and I were back in gear, rampaging lovers once again.

After dinner we went dancing at a disco, doing the dirty bop under a strobe light. The flashes went right through her blouse, showing every quiver of her breasts. We soon scampered back to the hotel and did the dirty bop lying down.

We rented our own private island for the day, a Desert Isle Hideaway, popular with honeymooners. The staff boated us out in the morning and would pick us up in the evening. Riding the inflatable rubber boat was like riding her; a swaying, plunging surge through a warm, enveloping sea with unlimited depths below. Flying fish leaped from the water, porpoises rolled on the surface, and a huge turtle swam beneath us.

The breeze furled mom’s auburn hair out to the sides, and the strong sun brought out the red in it. She wore a Thai silk sarong over her bathing suit, and this concealment made her legs look even sexier.

The island had a thatch-roofed hut covered with vines

whose blossoms were as lush and aromatic as her flower. Two hammocks hung in the shade. Surrounding the hut were bamboo and mangrove trees and a small sandy beach. That was it. We could see a few other islands on the horizon, but the land dimension seemed insignificant—our world was mostly sun, sky, sea, and each other.

Off came our bathing suits, on went the suntan lotion. I rubbed it all over her, especially her breasts, which were like pink pearls but soft and warm. I got on my knees in front of her, massaged her tummy and enjoyed the scent of her inner female ocean. I licked its salmon-colored shores, savoring her sea tang, then lotioned her crotch until she said, “Don’t put any inside. The sun doesn’t shine there. And it certainly doesn’t need to be any wetter, thank you.” But she lathered my cock, saying, “We don’t want it to get sunburned and put out of action. It’s already rather red.”

We walked together into the clear warm Gulf Stream wearing only our snorkel gear. Mom touched my hard-on and said, “Be careful a barracuda doesn’t bite this thing off. We’d be in real trouble!” Then she splashed me and swam away. I followed her, looking anxiously through my mask for maneaters, but all the fish were small.

I watched the rippling flow of Diana’s orbs underwater, so buoyantly responsive to every movement. She swam with a frog kick, and I stared at her behind from behind: the bunch and flex of buns, thrust of thighs, muscles working the bellows of her legs to propel her forward. Magnified by my mask, her snatch, prodigious and powerful, opened and closed with her legs: red clamshell lips valving through the water; inner frills leafy and pink as the delicate anemones growing on the coral and the lacy sea fans moving with the current; air bubbles caught in her hairs shining like jewels; cute, little, puckered anus enjoying the ocean’s warm embrace. Sunbeams skeined down onto her legs, snaring them in a net of shimmering light. Up front her tits bobbled and oscillated, nipples erect from the titillation of the water coursing over them. She’d become a female sea mammal now, one I wanted immensely.

I knew this vast ocean encircling the world was the lavish cunt of Mother Nature. We all come out of it and yearn to go back in. Now I was swimming in it, feeling its warm flow caress my cock, staring at my mother’s cunt which I would also soon enter.

When I stroked her legs, she decided to take a break from swimming. We stood in the chest-high water with her breasts floating luxuriously out at me. Clutching her ass, I scooped her up in my arms, light as a feather, and she wrapped her legs around me. Her pubes tickled my stomach. We danced around, but walking was awkward with the flippers. I hoisted her onto my mast and tried to put it in her, but we couldn’t get our two members to mesh underwater. Maybe we were the kind of amphibians who needed to mate on land. The beach looked inviting. We swam back to it and flopped up onto the sand like sea turtles, our ankles still in the waves. Diana pulled me down on top of her, saying, “Just wallow all over me. Fuck me like a walrus.”

I shoved it into her and she opened up and took it until it was all inside and she was twisting and groaning with her eyes rolled back. The slick warm wetness of our merging organs transported us into joy while the ocean dripped off our bodies, little crabs scurried out of the way, and seagulls cawed enviously above. I let all my weight go heavy on her and started flogging it to her. “Mom, you’re such a beautiful animal.”

“I want your sperm,” she said throatily. “You’re my sperm whale.”

Grunting and heaving, skin sugared with sand, we floundered across the beach, two vulnerable mating creatures driven by instinct. Water droplets prismed tiny rainbows on her cheek. While humping her, I nudged a breast into my mouth and sucked in her ethereal milk. Diana reached up and squeezed my shoulders as they rolled above her. “So strong.”

For a glorious long while we cavorted and played and moved as one creature, our force swelling like a tidal wave. My fingers fondled her clit where our bodies joined below. She kissed me wildly all over the face, then sucked my ear. We moved in a unison of seeking, our rutting momentum increasing with each thrust and volley, pressing her curvy form deeper into the sand.

Mom’s sheath tightened around me and my balls throbbed as we started coming. Our coital cries became a wild baying. With an eruption of joy we climaxed together, spurting our love at each other, the friction of the sand making our pleasure grittier. For a divine moment we were united with the ocean, earth, air, everything, all part of a great circle that flowed through us and was us. Nature’s energy was gushing out of my staff into her and streaming out of her breasts into me, a ring of completion.

As we lay entwined on the beach in delirious afterglow, basking in the hot sun, her head on my chest, my hand on her breast, I knew we had to hold onto this love no matter what. Although strong between us, it seemed so fragile now that Jacquot was trying to smash it. I wasn’t going to let him … even if it killed me … or him.

Diana’s delightful voice interrupted my gloomy thoughts: “This animal’s hungry.”

“Good.”

The resort staff had packed us a gourmet lunch of local seafood and fruit. We lay together in a double hammock beneath our shady thatched roof feeding each other with our fingers. Then, sated with sensuousness, we drifted off into a nap.

When we woke up, we went snorkeling again. This time I noticed the coral, sea weed, and tropical fish. They were very nice but couldn’t compete with her.

Our time in Key West really restored us. Occasionally we drifted into the what-are-we-going-to-do blues, but for the most part we just enjoyed being with each other in a safe place. Mom’s face relaxed back into its lively beauty, and her smile returned.

On the flight back, at forty thousand feet with forty below zero outside, I let my sunburned brain sink into the Jacquot problem. At first my fear and hatred flared up, clouding my thoughts. As I let that go, I noticed an idea gleaming there like a shell on the beach. I picked up the idea and looked at it from all angles. It might work … it might not, but it was worth a try. But I knew I couldn’t tell Diana about it until afterwards. She wouldn’t want me to risk this.

TWELVE

The next day I went to visit my father in his run-down apartment building. Scared but determined, I clenched my fists together for strength to keep from trembling, threw my shoulders back, and knocked on his door. Jacquot looked surprised when he opened it. “Well, if it isn’t the little motherfucker!” He stood straighter to show how much taller he was than me, but then the tic started on his face. The black hair on his head, eyebrows, mustache, and tuft under his lip formed a triangle of darkness that contrasted with his pale skin. “Come to see his dad. How sweet. Or are you gonna put the make on me too? Practice for what’s going to happen to you in prison.” His steely blue eyes lacerated me.

I was glad he was being such a pig. It helped me focus on what I needed to do to destroy him. “I came to see if we could work something out.” I tried to steady my shaky voice.

“Sure. It’s called two hundred grand.” His tone was belligerent, but when he motioned me to follow him into the apartment, I knew he wanted to negotiate. That meant he’d let me stay long enough to do what I came for. I relaxed a bit.

He had one furnished room with a kitchenette. Sunshine filtered through the dingy windows, falling on faded wallpaper and dusty light fixtures with dead flies in the globes. Years of shuffling tenants had worn down the carpeting and the upholstery of the overstuffed chair and couch. Set into one wall were double doors where the bed folded out. Outside the windows were an iron fire escape and a neighboring building just like this one. No wonder he’d wanted to move in with us.

“No way can we get that much,” I said with a shake of my head. “But what I thought was … look …” I gestured impatiently, like a busy man making a business call, “… can I sit down?”

“Yeah.” He gestured to the chair and took the couch. He was interested but trying not to show it. I tried to remember to keep my mouth closed when I wasn’t talking, to look more mature and in charge.

First we bickered back and forth about Diana’s tightfisted father disowning her and how little Public Defenders make. I kept insisting two hundred thousand was impossible. “Diana’s on the verge of suicide.” I packed my voice full of worry. “I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s threatening to mail the tape of your phone call to the DA—blackmail, parole violation. Then kill herself. I don’t want her to do that. I really don’t want her to. So here’s what I’m willing to do.” I looked him in the eye with as much sincerity as I could. “I’ll deal for you … and pay you that way. I’ll sell the stuff—you keep all the money. I can get into all the schools. Kids are dying to buy dope. It’s the big thing. You just supply me—grass and acid, speed and coke. I’ll take all the risk, you take all the profit. I can pay you the two hundred thousand in a year. When we’re even, you can keep supplying me, but then I’ll keep what I make. You’ll still make a profit. The market is huge.”

Jacquot thought about it, thumb on his chin, tongue inside his lower lip making his tag of whiskers bristle. “I’d need some cash up front … to make the buys.”

“How much?” I asked.

“Twenty thousand.”

“That much we could probably get.”

We eyed each other like two hostile business rivals edging towards a merger.

“I can supply you,” Jacquot said in his hoarse voice, “but it can’t be directly. We’d need a cut out … a drop box … so you don’t get the stuff right from me. I leave it there, you pick it up later. If you get busted, there’s gotta be no way it can get traced back to me.”

“I wouldn’t tell ’em anything.”

“The hell you wouldn’t. Anybody would. The thing is to keep ’em from proving it.”

“Yeah, OK.” He was going for it. Now we were just working out the details. “I’ll think it over,” Jacquot said.

“Good. Otherwise ….” I let my voice trail off. “It’s the only way to avoid something terrible … for all of us.”

He crossed his legs and assessed me coolly, running his index finger along his broken nose.

“Diana can’t know about this,” I went on. “She’d never go along with it. So tell her you’ll settle for twenty thousand.”

“For now.”

He still wanted to torment her. My hatred of him flared up again, but I repressed it into a shrug of male complicity. “Have it your way. But as soon as I pay you the two hundred thou, if you try for any more, I’ll kill you. I don’t care what happens.”

“Big talk.” He snorted with dismissive contempt, but his eyes were full of pain. “You two are really crazy, you know that? It’s the weirdest! I heard about this kind of stuff but never thought ….” He gave a harsh laugh to show he was worldly. “How long you been diddling her?”

I tried to slide back into the man-talk mode. “Not long. It’s a new development. How’d you figure it out?”

His smirk showed he enjoyed having his sleuth skills appreciated. “That first night when I looked at the bed … got me to thinking. She’s got no boyfriend, but there’s two pillows next to one another, both with head holes in ’em, nice and cute and cuddly like. Then I see a guy’s socks and underwear tossed in the corner … jockey shorts—like young guys wear.” He laughed mockingly at me. “Hey, I’m a slob, too. Like father, like son.” His smile turned malicious again. “So I thought it was worth doing a little sneak and peak. What clinched it was—I never saw lights on in your bedroom on the weekends, just in hers. Ha! I knew you must be sleeping with her. Then I had to get the evidence.”

“That you did.” I let him have his moment of glory, then stood up and said, “I need to use the john.”

“Right in there.” His tone was almost hospitable.

Now began the real purpose of my visit. I was hoping there’d be a window big enough to get through from the outside if I left it unlocked. But there was only a tiny vent. That meant Plan B.

I took off the top of the toilet and saw that the shut-off bulb on the float mechanism was attached by a cord. I opened my pocket knife, plunged it into the water, and frayed the cord apart with the blade to make it look like it had broken. I put the top back on and flushed the toilet, then washed my hands and knife at the sink but dried them on my jeans rather than use his mildewed towels.

“The toilet won’t shut off … just keeps running,” I told Jacquot when I came out. “Might overflow.”

“Goddamnit!” He glared at me and went to check it. “What’d you dump in it? All your used rubbers?”

As soon as he was out of the room, I unlocked the windows by the fire escape, then took out one of the two lids of grass I’d brought with me and shoved it out of sight under the couch.

Jacquot came out muttering about plumbing. We warily agreed to talk in a few days about our deal. As I looked at his gloomy, haggard face and thought about how we were trying to ruin each other’s lives, I winced with regret. It shouldn’t have to be this way. My mind wandered through a maze of mighthave-beens. If he hadn’t run out on us but stayed around, I could’ve had a real father, whatever that meant. We could’ve been a regular family … if there was such a thing. Jacquot could’ve been someone I looked up to, my buddy. I wouldn’t’ve known what a jerk he was … he’d just be my dad. We could’ve gone fishing together. He could’ve taught me how to shoot baskets. But then mom and I probably wouldn’t be doing what we were doing … and I’d a lot rather be doing that than shooting baskets. This was our life and I liked it. If we had to fight to keep him from destroying it, so be it. I left without shaking his hand.

Out on the street, I found his Triumph and taped the other lid of grass under the cycle seat.

Next day I came back during his work hours. His bike was gone. I knocked on his door: no answer. I climbed out onto the fire escape through the hall window, circled around to his apartment, opened the window, and slid inside. If someone saw me, they might call the cops, but I thought the chances were slight. It was a poor neighborhood in the summer— people hang out on the fire escapes, since they don’t have AC or balconies. And most poor people don’t want anything to do with the cops.

The apartment was so small it didn’t take long to find the pictures. He had a couple of telephotos of mom and me riding in the buff, but I guess he couldn’t get close enough to snap our revels by the beaver dam. The photos of us playing inside were a bit blurred, probably because of the low light and slow speed, but you could tell who it was and what we were doing. The last one caught the terror on mom’s face as she looked up and saw him.

The negatives weren’t there. He must’ve locked them up someplace, maybe a safe deposit box. I looked for that kind of a key but couldn’t find one.

Footsteps thudded up the stairs, then down the hall; my heart began jackhammering. I ran to the window and opened it, about to flee, but whoever it was walked on past. With a sigh of relief I continued hunting.

In a little box with a pair of cuff links and a tie clasp I found a folded piece of paper with “89,” then “20-10-22” written on it. The second number looked like a combination, the first could be a box number. But what kind? Not a safety deposit—I didn’t think they used combinations. Maybe one of those private mailbox places that had just started up. It was a hot new business, like a post office box but more confidential. I’d heard drug dealers used them for their shipments.

That was all I could find, so I left, figuring Jacquot wouldn’t know I’d been there unless he looked for the pictures.

At a phone booth I checked the Yellow Pages and wrote down the addresses of all the mailbox places. I chugged to each one on my moped, tried that combination on box 89, but none of them opened. The Yellow Pages were a year old, though, so new places wouldn’t be in there. I called the phone company and asked for new listings, but the operator said I’d have to know the exact name of the place because she couldn’t check the files of the upcoming Yellow Pages by business type.

I was stymied. I knew someone could get them to check those files. Someone official in the Public Defender’s office, for example. But that meant I’d have to tell her. There was no way out of it, so I phoned her at work.

At first Diana freaked out—she thought I’d get killed. But I kept explaining it until she realized it might work and it was our best chance … maybe our only chance.

“But what happens when he finds out they’re gone?” she asked. “He’ll know it’s us.”

“By then he’ll be back in prison.” I told her the rest of the plan.

Mom hated it, of course, but the brute logic of ‘better him than us’ finally won out. She agreed to try to get the addresses and phone numbers of the new mailbox businesses. It didn’t take her long until she met me with the list. One of the places was near his apartment, so we went there first. I spun the combination on box 89; the dial clicked in; the box opened. We held our breaths. Inside lay a stamped, unmailed envelope addressed to the district attorney. “Just take it,”

Diana whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

Sitting in the Beetle, we opened the envelope with trembling hands. Inside were curled strips of negatives and a handwritten letter from Jack Frye to the district attorney:

“Enclosed is evidence I have gathered in a felony case of a crime against nature, incest. The photos of this perverted mother-son couple should be enough to convict them. To keep me from testifying against them, they may frame me for a crime or even kill me, in which case I have instructed a third party to mail this to you so you can bring them to justice and prosecute them to the full extent of the law. The perpetrators, I am sorry to say, are my former girlfriend and my son. I did everything I could to get them to stop their immoral activities, but now it is up to the court. Their names and address are ….”

“Well that’s one letter that won’t get mailed,” I said, giddy with relief.

Diana burst into laughter, close to hysteria. “Right, I’ll deliver it to the DA personally. I have to see him this afternoon.”

We kissed and hugged and bounced up and down, savoring our victory. We examined the negatives, with mom looking mortified, and found they were all there. “Ha!” she said triumphantly.

My spirits suddenly sank under a heavy thought. “He could’ve made another set … hidden it somewhere else.”

Her expression turned serious as she pondered the possibility. “He could’ve. If he was dealing with pros, he probably would. But I bet he didn’t think we’re enough of a threat for him to have to bother. He couldn’t imagine we’d find them.”

I shot her a V-sign. “But we did!”

“What bugs me most about it,” mom said, still wigged out, “is that the negatives turned my pubic hair all white. But I don’t have any gray hair, especially there!”

“Let’s get out of here … before we go crazy.”

As Diana backed out of the parking space, Jacquot swung into the lot on his motorcycle. He saw us, roared behind us, and blocked our way.

“Oh, my god!” mom cried. We both locked our doors.

Jacquot leaped off his bike and propped it on its kickstand behind the car. He strode over to her window. Beneath his black helmet and silver goggles, his droopy black mustache curled in a grimace around yellow teeth. He tried the door, then pounded on the glass.

With a determined scowl Diana put the Beetle into reverse and backed right into his Triumph, knocking it over and pushing it across the parking lot. Jacquot screamed curses and kicked the car door. She put the Beetle into first gear and drove forward, leaving the bike behind and pealing out of the parking lot. Jacquot ran to his battered machine, pulled it upright and kicked the starter pedal. I was praying it’d be broken, but the engine roared to life, and he hopped on and chased after us.

Panic flaring from her face, mom floored the gas, but he caught up, darting and buzzing around us like an angry bee. The bike was scratched and one of the handlebars bent, but it ran. For now our battle was a stand-off; he couldn’t stop us but we couldn’t lose him.

How did he find out? Maybe a neighbor had seen me crawling out the window and phoned him at work.

Mom saw a police car approaching. She started blasting out SOSs on the horn, then rolled down her window and waved frantically. The cop drove past us, and mom’s face fell in disappointment. Then he switched on his flashers and siren and made a U; mom’s face lit up. “Stick around, Jacquot,” she said.

Jacquot was gone.

I was so proud of her—Superwoman had saved the day.

I gave the patrolman a variation of the story I was going to phone in to the station: The man on the cycle was a drug dealer who had been pushing grass at my school. When I had told him to leave or I would turn him in, he had become furious and started threatening me and following me around. He was becoming more and more violent.

“You know the guy’s name?” the officer asked me.

“No, but I’ve got his motorcycle number. And I know he keeps his dope underneath the seat, not in the saddlebags.”

The cop radioed this information in, then offered to escort us home. Mom said thanks but she was sure the pusher was long gone and he didn’t know where we lived.

Instead of going home, though, we spent the night in an out-of-the-way motel. We didn’t sleep much and were too nervous to make love, but it was good to hold each other and know we’d made it this far. We were very glad to be together.

The next day Diana checked the booking records and found Jack Frye had been arrested for possession of a controlled substance. Since that was a parole violation, he’d be held without bail until trial and then sent back to Attica with this sentence added to the one on which he’d been paroled. This would be his third drug conviction—Jacquot would be away a long time.

“We’ve as good as killed him,” Diana said when all this had sunk in. She wept with remorse. For someone who hated prisons as much as she did, this was about the worst thing she could’ve done to another person.

I felt bad too. Even though he had started the viciousness, he was still my dad. But I knew we had no other choice. “That’s what he was trying to do to us, put us in prison. It’s self-defense … a basic law of nature.”

“It’s murder,” said mom.

THIRTEEN

This trauma took its toll on us. We had mood swings—happy then despondent, relieved then regretful. Diana was nagged by guilt. She had defended so many people, but self-defense didn’t seem right to her if it meant hurting someone else. She was a pacifist tormented by the classic dilemma: If someone attacks you, should you fight back?

I felt the only thing worse than what we had done would be not to have done it. I was very glad to be free of Jacquot’s threat.

I wanted to keep the photos as souvenirs, but mom insisted on burning them.

Her friend Allen was assigned to be Jacquot’s Public Defender. “Do you know this guy from somewhere?” Allen asked her. “He’s making some pretty wild accusations about you.”

“Never seen him before,” she told him. “I think he’s just another psycho.”

“So there’s no chance he’s Tommy’s father?”

“Pu-lease, Allen … really. Your man is crazy.”

“Seems that way,” Allen agreed. “Too bad we can’t use that as a defense.”

Mom and I had to testify at his trial that he’d threatened me and chased us on his motorcycle. I’ve never seen so much hatred pour out of two eyes as from Jacquot’s hard brittle blues. His face twitched constantly, and his hoarse voice stuttered when he spoke. Finally something snapped inside him and he went off the deep end, screaming that mom and I were incestuous lovers and he was my father. It took four bailiffs, one for each thrashing limb, to carry him from the courtroom.

We got a blistering letter from him in Attica saying he’d get even with us no matter what. Diana wrote him back saying this and any further threats would be referred to the district attorney for additional prosecution. That seemed to shut him up.

Diana arranged with the prison authorities that they would notify her if he ever came up before a parole board, so we could prepare ourselves for his release.

I was worried he might order a hit from prison, but mom said only rich cons can do that, and Jacquot couldn’t afford it.

As the stress gradually wore off, we became more determined than ever to stay together. We had paid a price of suffering for this relationship, and now we had to make it last. We knew the world might try again to smash our love, but we were resolved to defend it.

I became intrigued with the idea of marrying Diana. Who were all those governments and churches to tell us what we couldn’t do? We had a right to some traditions, too. I went to a custom jeweler and spent the last of my saved-up money on two gold bands, each mounted with a smooth cabochon ruby— gold for fidelity and ruby for passion.

Although I couldn’t afford a separate engagement ring, I decided to be a bit old fashioned about proposing. As she was sitting on the couch reading one evening, I got down on my knees before her. She looked at me puzzled. “You have really beautiful hands,” I told her and took them in mine. She smiled at the compliment, even blushed a little. “What I would like most of all would be if you would give me your hand … in marriage.”

Mom’s face softened, sad with the impossibility. “I would like that too … very much. It’d be so wonderful. But ….”

“We can do it for ourselves,” I said. “We don’t need anybody’s approval. We can write our own vows … have our own private ceremony. It would be for us.”

“You really want,” she asked almost shyly, “to marry me?”

“I want very much to marry you. It would be beautiful … our own wedding. And it would mean something … for later too. We’d know we were really a couple.”

She sobbed with emotion, wanting this but seeing all the problems. “But I’m eighteen years older than you. At some point,” she forced the words out painfully, “you’re going to want a girl your own age.”

I squeezed her hand to show my sincerity. “I don’t want a girl. I want you.”

“But when you’re thirty, I’ll be forty-eight. When you’re forty-eight,” she paused to calculate, “I’ll be sixty-six.”

“Those are just numbers. We’ll still be you and me. We’ll still be together. That’s the important thing.”

“Wait till I get all wrinkled.” She turned her face away.

“You won’t want me.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked, almost angrily.

Diana shook her head and squeezed my hand back. “No.”

“Lots of times the man is eighteen years older than the woman. They do OK. So can we. It even makes more sense with the age difference the other way. Women usually live longer than men … so it’ll come out more even. We can both kick the bucket at about the same time.”

“You dear man. You really love me, don’t you?”

“I really do. And to sweeten the deal, if you say yes, you get this.” I took her ring out and slipped it onto her finger.

Mom stared at it astounded. “Where did you get that?”

“I had it made. You like it?”

She held it up so the ruby caught the light. “It’s beautiful.

So simple … and sensual. You are a schemer! You knew I couldn’t say no to that.”

“I hope not.”

“Tom!” She flashed her hand around delightedly.

“I’ve got one for me, too.” I showed her mine. “They’re a mated pair.”

She took it and held it up to hers. Happy tears spilled from her eyes. “You win, as usual. Your desire is so strong … resisting you is silly.” She kissed me passionately. “But what kind of ceremony could we have?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about it ….”

She changed her mind. “Oh, tell me later. Right now just make love to me. I want you so much. But first,” she slid my ring onto my finger, “put it on.” We held up both our hands together, admiring the matching bands. “Now,” she started unbuttoning my shirt, “take it off.”

The book she’d been reading fell onto the rug and so did we. I needed to possess her, so I lay down right on top of her, encircled her with my arms, pressed my groin into hers, and clutched her to me. “Marry me. Be my wife,” I insisted.

“Yes!” Mom almost sang the word.

I kissed her open mouth and filled it with my tongue,

which she sucked and rubbed with hers. Her hands gripped my rear and pulled me harder against her. Aroused by this new level of our love, we pawed each other’s clothes off greedily, impatiently. We’d gotten good at that—shirts, bra, pants, panties, all went flying. Nude, we stared at our too most different organs that held us so powerfully in their grips. Their attraction was obvious, they were really made for each other; an open part and a filling part, concave and convex, with my vex fitting so well into her cave, like a sword and a sheath, a finger and a ring. Above them reigned her breasts, fountains of psychic and physical nurture, magnificent, magnanimous, and rather large. I seized them and squeezed them and tried to decide once again if they were firmly soft or softly firm, roundly conical or conically round. Like riddles of the Sphinx, these were questions I could ponder for hours.

We surrendered and embraced, covering as much of the other’s naked body with our own as we could, craving the touch of skin on skin.

I wanted to get to know some of her neglected parts, so I rubbed and examined her feet. Humble, practical, hardworking and very complex inside, they moved her through the world and certainly deserved some appreciation. I massaged the soles, and Diana lay back and relaxed with a sigh. Her toes wiggled and stretched, each digit so different from the others. I kissed them all, from big to little, thinking of Snow White’s dwarves. But they were cuter than that. They reminded me a bit of her nipples, so I sucked them. This they really liked. They’d never been the center of attention before, and they seemed to tingle with excitement. I licked between them, tasting their good earthy salt, and mom began to moan.

Her pelvis was writhing in protest of being neglected, so I put my hand on her mossy pubis and ran my fingers through her hot wet core. I filled my mouth with toes while caressing her clit, which was bulging out like her little toe. Diana was making all sorts of noises now, like a baby learning to talk. Finally I understood what she was trying to say: “Penetrate me!” She grabbed my post and tried to drag me away from her feet.

Sorry, gotta go, I told them. The boss just called. I’ll see you later.

Since we were by the couch, I got her up on her knees facing it and leaned her down until her head and breasts rested on the suede cushions. Her rump stuck out grandly, white orbs so proud and inviting, and her snatch hung red and open.

I mounted over her back and tipped her buns up towards me to allow access. It took quite a bit of wiggling from both of us to get our angles right, insert my tusk into her sultry entry, then gradually fill her. “Oh yes,” mom said once I was deep inside her. “That’s what I need.”

“How about this too?” I reached around in front of her, ruffled her petals, petted her ruffles, and fondled her clit.

“That too,” she groaned. “Oh … that too.”

I enjoyed the scenery from up here, watching the glide of her shoulder blades, the lift of her ribs, the bow of her neck as she responded to my long, slow thrusts. I could feel her dear ass squashed against my tummy.

I licked her ear and whispered in it, “Now we’re engaged, you’re my beautiful fiancée.”

Mom sobbed with emotion. “I’ve never been loved like this.”

Our fusion was generating a sun of heat between us, and we reveled in its radiance. We slipped and slid in sync, Diana pushing back and raising her butt, then me pressing her forward onto the couch. Her tongue stuck out as if to make more room inside. We worked so well together, sensing each other’s movements like dancers. My other hand kneaded her breast, and I could feel her heart racing as we merged in a full-body caress of smoothness, wetness, and warmth. Our momentum built—my balls started drumming and her loins shaking.

“Soon you’ll be my bride.” As I pumped her with frantic lust, feeding her with my cream, she cried out and crumbled into convulsions. We came together in a rush of liquid love that washed open all our inner doors and made us one. Murmuring shards of sound, we surrendered to a pounding rhythm greater than both of us.

Finally our motions slowed and I slipped out of her. We raised up from the couch onto our knees and turned facing, then rubbed our tummies and chests together. “I think I like being engaged,” she said.

We stretched out on the shag rug and clung to each other. “Thanks for saying yes,” I said.

She stuck her tongue in my ear. “Thanks for asking.”

By the time we noticed our seeping fluids, the rug was already wet. Mom sat up with a wry grin. “The cleaners again! Oh well, it was worth it.”

FOURTEEN

We decided to have the wedding in New York City: it was a tolerant place and we didn’t know anyone there, so we’d be free to be exuberant.

On the flight I tried to get mom to join the Mile High Club—we could cover up with the little blankets they give you—but she said we shouldn’t push our luck.

We stayed in the penthouse suite of a small hotel in Greenwich Village. Diana figured we could splurge since we’d saved so much money by not having to pay Jacquot. The suite had a king-sized waterbed, which were new back then; I was looking forward to giving it a test ride. It also had a private roof garden with a great view of the city.

After we unpacked, she said, “I need to henna my hair,” and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard water running, and she came out in a robe with her head wrapped in a towel.

I’d seen her this way before and assumed that was just how she dried her hair. “What’s henna?” I asked.

“Henna’s how the red gets in my hair.”

I was shocked. “I thought it was just that way.”

“’Fraid not. If you’re going to be my husband, I guess you need to know a few things.”

“You mean you dye your hair?”

“It’s not really dye. It’s like a rinse I put on … then it has to set. It’s all natural,” she said a bit defensively. “Made from the leaves of a plant.”

“If you didn’t put it on, what color would your hair be?”

“Brown … just like yours.”

I was astounded. All these years I’d thought we had different colored hair, but underneath this stuff we were the same. “That’s weird.” I resented this henna, although I loved the rich color of her hair. “Why do you do it?”

“Because you like it that color.”

“What? How do you know?” I asked, thinking she must be reading my mind.

“I tried it years ago and asked you how you liked my hair. You said great. So I’ve been doing it ever since. And just a couple of weeks ago you said you liked me to be your chestnut mare.”

I was amazed. She did it to please me. And she remembered all my reactions to her. My opinion really mattered. “Well, it does look great. I just thought … that was the way it was.”

“Sorry to shatter your illusions.”

“I’m crushed. Next you’ll tell me there’s no Santa Claus.”

“You’ll get over it, I’m sure. Actually, maybe you want to try it,” she suggested with a wicked smile. “We could have matching hair for the wedding. Who knows, you might like it.”

The idea had an alluring appeal—to look even more like her than I did already. I pictured our hair entangled as we made love, unable to tell one from the other. We’d look like one tree with merged trunks and the same color leaves. But I drew back from the idea, afraid of disappearing into her. We needed some distinction between us. After all, the parts that were the most different were the ones that gave us the most pleasure. “I don’t think so,” I said.

She scrinched her gamine face at me. “Want to be the tough guy, huh?”

“Well, it’s a hard job … but somebody’s gotta do it,” I said. “Let’s go outside and look around.” I led her through the French doors out onto our roof garden, and we gazed out over Washington Square with its arch and fountain. Greenwich Village isn’t as high-rise as the rest of Manhattan; the surrounding buildings didn’t tower over us, so we could see a long ways into a forest of stone, metal, and glass under a hazy gray sky. In summer swelter we sat side by side on chaise lounges among potted plants.

“Take off your robe,” I said.

Mom glanced around nervously. “Someone could see.”

“From way over there?” I pointed to a far building taller than ours. “They’d need binoculars.”

“Everybody in New York has binoculars. But what the hell. It’s the Big Apple—Give ’em a thrill.” She slipped out of her robe. “The sun is hot … and so is this son.” Mom tousled my hair. “They’ll think I’m an old woman with a young gigolo.”

“You don’t look old.” I rubbed her sleek leg. “They’ll think the truth, that we’re a honeymoon couple, the way we’re all over each other.”

Diana sipped her kirsch-sweetened lemonade. “We’re not even married yet.”

“That’s right. That means this is our last chance to sin.” I moved my hand up and caressed her garden. “How long does it take this henna stuff to dry?”

“About half an hour.”

“Great.”

It was muggy and buggy but we didn’t mind. We made love while traffic noise, jazz, sirens, our shouts and those of our fellow villagers, all the great wild roar of Manhattan thronged the air around us.

Afterwards we strolled arm in arm through Greenwich Village.We really felt at home in this bohemian enclave—everybody was a freak of one sort or another. From the crowds here, it was obvious that more and more people weren’t fitting into the cookie-cutter mold of straight society. I began to understand how important it was to have these alternatives to the mainstream. Diana and I had dinner in a sidewalk café, then went to a jazz club that reminded her of the be-bop spots in the 1950s.

We didn’t stay late, though; we wanted to be rested for the big day tomorrow.

In the morning we went shopping. Now that we were getting more traditional, I tried to convince mom to buy a white wedding dress, since she’d never been married before, but she said she’d be too self-conscious. In a West Village boutique she found a silk dress with gold and violet flowers on a white background. It looked great with her freshly hennaed hair.

I didn’t own a suit and didn’t want one, and I’ve never worn ties, although my grandparents gave me one for every birthday. I preferred to wear my phallus between my legs rather than around my neck like a hangman’s noose. In a Hippie shop on the Lower East Side I found burgundy bellbottoms and a white linen shirt with a Nehru collar.

Diana decided she wanted to wear the traditional something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. She had the new dress and had brought along a cameo brooch that had been her grandmother’s. For blue we found a beautiful lapis lazuli necklace and earrings in a handcrafted jewelry shop. But what could she borrow? When we went back to the hotel, the maid was cleaning the hallway. She was a friendly, heavyset black woman, and Diana asked her if she had a bobby pin she could borrow. “Why sure, honey,” she replied, searching in her hair and plucking one out. “You sure you need just one?”

“That’s fine, thanks,” mom said and stuck it above her ear. She secreted herself in the bathroom for a few minutes and emerged in blue eye shadow and apricot lipstick. We put on all our new finery and stood arm in arm for inspection in the full-length mirror. “A very attractive couple … in my biased opinion,” mom said.

“We look great together,” I agreed.

As we were getting ready to leave, I surprised her with a wreath of red rosebuds for her hair. She loved it—the crowning touch.

Outside, on a street softened by late-afternoon shadows, we flagged down a battered yellow cab. “Central Park, please,” Diana said.

“Central Park?” The driver tossed back curtly, “What part a Central Park? It’s huge.” His accent was so heavy I could barely understand him.

“Where the horses are,” I put in.

“Horses?” He snorted as if we’d insulted him, then turned the radio up and listened to the Mets game, cheering them on to another glorious defeat.

We got out by the carriage stand on Central Park South and rented a horse taxi. This driver was polite and friendly, an out-of-work actor. The horse was sadder looking than our Colorado mares, laden with blinders, feed bag and heavy harness, but his hooves made nice clip-clops on the street and he lifted his tail and made some nice plops there, a bit of nature in the city. We meandered through the sylvan oasis of the park, enjoying the trees and grass and slow pace, looking for the right setting for our ceremony. When we saw a small pond and a meadow with not too many people around, we told him to stop, we’d be staying here.

Above the trees, skyscrapers enclosed the park in a jagged, toothy horizon. The sun had disappeared behind them but still shone on the clouds, which hung in stripes of mottled gold.

We strolled about, searching for the best spot. Three people were tossing a Frisbee around and three others were passing a joint around. Ducks with shiny green heads cruised the pond and waddled through the reeds and ferns around its bank. Two birds with sleek black heads flew with beaks full of bugs to a nest hidden high among the leafy branches of a maple. Grass grew thick beneath the tree, almost hiding the cigarette butts and other trash that were a constant reminder of the surrounding millions.

We decided this tree would be our witness, and walked over to it with the bag we’d brought with us. I patted its bark and said, “Thank you for being here at our wedding.”

“Mighty maple tree,” Diana addressed it, “you are our minister, maid of honor, and best man. Please witness our vows.”

I took out the notes we’d made for the ceremony, and we read aloud passages on love from First Corinthians and The Prophet.

Standing with arms around each other’s waists, we said in unison, “We are here to declare that our relationship has grown and improved. In addition to being mother and son we are now going to be wife and husband. Today we are having a family marriage. We promise to stay together, to have and to hold in joy and in sorrow, through good times and bad, to honor and cherish each other with faithful love.”

With feeling-filled eyes, we turned facing. “Diana,” I told her, “I take you for my wife, and I pledge you my love and devotion for the rest of my life.”

“Tom,” she told me, “I take you for my husband, and I pledge you my love and devotion for the rest of my life.” Her damp eyes glistened.

I took out the rings and held her hand in mine. We had decided to wear them on the ring finger of the right hand, where Europeans wear their wedding bands. “My beautiful bride, heart of my heart, flesh of my flesh, I give myself to you.” As if making love to her, I slipped the ring onto her finger.

Diana held my hand in hers. “My wonderful husband, heart of my heart, flesh of my flesh, I give myself to you.” She slipped the ring onto my finger. The unity I felt was like a spiritual orgasm.

We held our ringed hands up together to the world. “We’re married!”

“You may kiss the bride,” Diana announced, and I did, first lightly on the lips, then holding her tightly and kissing her fully. She was mine now in a deeper way, thanks to our ritual. Blissed out, we hugged each other.

We took out the camera and tripod and set them up. After much twisting of dials and peering through the viewfinder, things seemed to be right. I clicked the time release and scurried back beside my wife in time to say “sex” to the camera. We shot up a roll of film this way, kissing, waving, and hugging the tree.

“These photos we’ll keep,” Diana said.

“If they turn out,” I added.

Ready to leave, we tossed brown rice over each other and threw the rest to the ducks, who quacked their best wishes.

We walked to Fifth Avenue and flagged down another cab—same dirty yellow, different driver, same accent, same Mets game. He took us to La Mer, where I got to show off my first-year French by ordering for us. Diana had scallops in cream Pernod sauce, and I had mussels in sherry broth. The mussels reminded me of her undersea cavern: pink frills around a plump center, slick inner walls of the shells with mossy sea weed clinging to the outside, oceany tastes and smells. Delicious.

We had dessert back at the hotel, our own little wedding cake with bride and groom dolls. We fed each other with our fingers and licked the frosting off. Then we cried a little because all this had to be secret, we couldn’t share it with anyone. Our isolation made us cling to each other more intensely.

I took her hand with a grave look. “My dear wife, I wanted to wait until after the wedding to tell you this … so you wouldn’t back out.”

She looked at me alarmed. “What is it?”

“After people are married,” I said hesitantly, “they do things … to each other … with their bodies.”

She smiled; her eyes widened. “What do they do, my dear hubby?”

“They … well it sounds shocking, but … they take off each other’s clothes. Then … the man has something … that he puts inside the woman.”

She was appalled. “No! What is it?”

“I’ll have to show it to you.”

“Don’t show me! Nobody ever told me about that. Who said that’s how it has to be?” Her expression became suspicious. “Are you sure you’re not just making this up?”

“All the girls have to do it. It’s the terrible thing no one talks about.” I laid the little groom on top of the bride.

Diana grimaced and covered her eyes. “The terrible thing! And you’re going to make me do it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Right now.”

She moved her hand up to her forehead; her face contorted with dread. “Oh no! I thought you were different. I didn’t think you were like all those other men.”

“’Fraid not.”

“You’re going to strip me naked. And put that thing inside me! And I have to take it … a poor defenseless girl.”

“’Fraid so.”

She threw up her arms, forlorn. “Now I see why women cry at weddings. Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have done it.”

“That’s true! No one would do it. But now it’s too late. Then take me, you brute!” She stood like a helpless captive.

I unbuttoned her dress and motioned her to do the same to my shirt. She bit her lip and complied.

As our bodies emerged, we forgot our game and got into disrobing as ritual. Each new body part made us more celebratory. What the clothes were hiding was much more beautiful than the cloth.

Mom lit two candles by the bed. Giving me her wicked look, she asked, “Should I light a stick of incest … I mean, incense?”

I moved in closer and touched her rump. “You’re lighting up this stick of mine.”

She put her hand on it. “Come here, you bold boy. Let me see it glow.”

We caressed each other eagerly. “Hello, wife,” I whispered in her ear. “Now we get to do it.”

“Hello, hubby. I’ve got a little present for you first.” From her purse she took a small box and showed me two pendants on chains. Each was a golden heart with the tip turning into an arrow that curved out to the side then back in to re-enter the heart at its center, where a ruby was set. The arrow had a hint of phallus about it, and the heart of vulva.

“They’re beautiful! Did you design them?”

Mom nodded. “You see, the arrow returns from where it emerged. I call it, the heart that touches its own.” She turned them over; on the back of one was engraved “Diana” and on the other “Tom.” She picked up the one with her name and fastened the chain around my neck.

I clasped the one with my name around her neck; it hung between her breasts. I realized again how much this woman loved me. “Such a wonderful gift. Thank you.” I was so moved I could hardly speak.

We each touched our ring to the other’s pendant, ruby to ruby. Diana put her hand over my heart. “There’s something they say in the Church of England wedding vows: ‘With my body I thee worship.’”

I touched her heart and repeated to her: “With my body I thee worship.”

We kissed with a holy mix of reverence and lust. Our love now had a spiritual dimension, thanks to our ceremony. Diana lay back on the waterbed. “Now take me, Tom, take me forever. Don’t ever leave me. Do this to me always.”

By now we were so turned on that foreplay would’ve been frustration—I entered her. “My mother, my wife … thank you for marrying me.”

“My son, my husband … thank you for wanting me.” She raised her hips to make room.

Slowly, regally, we moved through swarms of love. We flowed around each other in a seeking dance of merging flesh, touching our tender quicks. Our hearts swelled closer and closer. We were making love, manufacturing it in our own little floating factory. Each movement on the waterbed spread out and reverberated back to us in interactive waves. We were awash and aslosh in each other, jostling and wobbling, swaying and rolling. Mom was already so cushiony and springy, and lying on top of her on top of the waterbed doubled the effect. We were rowing on a great lake of love.

Filling her physically wasn’t enough, I wanted to fill her also with my feelings, a message that would touch her deep inside. “My dear bride, we’ve been through so much together. We’ve had so many struggles … to have our love … and now to be husband and wife … to be able to do this … and keep doing it … to keep touching each other deep like this.”

I wanted to press my words into her heart. “We’ve won. We didn’t let the world stop us. Our love is stronger than that world.”

Her hips were rising to my thrusts and her heart was rising to my words. Her face was overflowing with affection.

“Now we get to keep doing this … we get to keep loving each other … we’ve earned the right to lie down like this and I put my thing inside you … and you hold on to me … and we move in and out together … and I get to look down at you and see how beautiful you are. Now we get to do this for the rest of our lives, my dear wife.”

While talking, I was pistoning mom in long slow strokes that made her groan and shudder. Tears of love were streaming down her face. She lay totally open, taking my words and my body in.

“Now I’m going to give you my sperm. Ah … I want to, I need to do that. It came out of you … now it’s going back in.

Everything in me came out of you. My cock loves to go back in and give you its sperm.”

“Yes,” she murmured almost incoherently, “I want it … I need it … I need you.” Her belly was sliding back and forth under mine.

My balls, bouncing against her fur, began to tighten and pump. All my energy, all my being, swelled and flowed and thrust and burst into her, throbbing with streams of delight.

Mom undulated in long rolling waves of orgasm, spasming at her depths around my spurting fullness. She wrapped her arms and legs around me, clasped me to her, and we rocked in oceans of each other.

“Love … you,” I burbled around her breast.

“Love you too,” she whispered in my ear.

FIFTEEN

We didn’t spend our entire honeymoon on the waterbed. We also found time for concerts, museums, long walks and food from around the world. We did Manhattan.

We’d heard so much about street crime there, but had no problems. As irony would have it, right after we returned to Denver I got mugged.

My high school and the one next to it had a constant feud going. My school was in a middle-class neighborhood and was named after a US president. The other school was in a poor neighborhood and was named Manual Arts, as if the kids there could only work with their hands. They knew what their chances were in life, so many of them were bitter and had chips on their shoulders. If we came into their turf, they might beat us up. They usually beat us in football, too. These were the only times in their lives they would have more power than we did.

I didn’t know them, didn’t like them; they felt the same way about me. The idea that we were divided into two separate neighborhoods and schools so we wouldn’t get to know and like one another and work together for change never occurred to me, until Diana explained it later. It probably occurred to some of them, but they couldn’t do anything about it. Except beat me up.

Four of them surrounded me as I was coming home from a friend’s one evening. They shoved me in the chest and bounced me back and forth among them like a basketball, then pinned my arms behind by back, hit me in the face, and took my money, three dollars. I staggered home, scared, hurt, humiliated.

I hadn’t cried, but as soon as I saw mom I burst into tears and told her the story. She knew exactly what I needed. Sitting on the couch, she stroked my sobs away, opened her blouse, and gave me her breasts. I nuzzled and suckled and snuffled there while she patted my head and whispered calm words of comfort. Her soothing balm rose from within and flowed into me through those nipples that had once kept me alive and now were easing the pain and trauma away. As I got hard, my strength and self-respect returned. I was a man again, and she reacted to me as that, lying back and letting me take charge. I took the rest of her clothes off, gazed gratefully at her naked splendor, and skinnied out of my jeans.

Mom gave my erection an awed, almost fearful look and turned away a little, as if to protect herself. I put my hand on her to claim her. Pulling her legs gently apart, I could see the desire drops shining on her labia. Her pelvis canted up in sur- render. Her mouth was open, eyes closed, waiting. With a gasp of gratitude I entered her and my troubles were over.

This woman knew how to heal.

But she didn’t take any crap either. If I slacked off on chores, made a mess, or left dirty dishes, she became the dominant one and showed me her power. Once I carelessly washed my red sweatshirt with her laundry on hot and turned her clothes pink. Diana was righteously pissed.

Without saying a word, she pulled off my clothes, pushed me face down on the bed, and spanked my bottom. Her open hand made loud, stinging smacks on my buns and thighs, turning my rear end hot and red, almost hitting my scrotum. While spanking me, mom took off her own clothes. She rolled me over, sat on top of me, and drilled me right in the eye with a stern, no-nonsense stare. I felt very little but my rod was very big. She slid her crotch back and forth over it, then rose up and worked herself down onto it, her thick russet hair splashing across her breasts. When my pole was all the way in, she straddled me with her hips and rode me domineeringly until we both came. I had been duly punished.

Whenever I needed discipline, she ran some variation on this theme, and it always brought me back into line.


Our relationship couldn’t be all bliss—it was too complex. The husband-wife and child-parent roles sometimes clashed, and we’d fall apart in confusion. But most of the time things went smoothly. When problems did come up, we’d talk them over and try to change. Even if we were angry, we could always communicate.

Since we’d gotten rid of so much psychological and physical frustration, we both had more energy now. We were so fulfilled that we didn’t have much need of distractions. Compared to what we did with each other, most entertainment and socializing seemed just silly. Since there are limits on how often one can do it, we had lots of time left to work.

Diana became such a skilled defense attorney, she regularly got offers from private firms, but she declined them, saying she liked poor crooks better than rich crooks. She also became the co-director of Lawyers for Peace, doing what she could to ban war and the manufacture of weapons.

Although I was a bit of a loner at school, I had some good friends, more girls than boys, actually. Maybe the girls liked me because I didn’t hit on them. There was a lot of peer pressure to go to school dances. I discovered if I went with a different girl each time, they didn’t get romantic ideas and mom didn’t get jealous.

I really got into learning. Every subject had its own fascination now, and I could focus on it without difficulty. I discovered that thinking was fun. Since mom and I had overthrown the rules and found them to be a sham, I began to see that many of the assumptions that run people’s lives are nonsense, so I particularly enjoyed challenging the conventional beliefs about an issue. I wasn’t always popular with the teachers, but my grades were high. I could’ve gotten into an Ivy League school but decided on the University of Colorado, mom’s alma mater. They gave me a good scholarship, but I actually took it to be close to her. I came home on the weekends, riding the bus an hour on the Boulder turnpike, bringing my dirty clothes and clean cock back to get washed.

I grew a beard that I was quite proud of, but I really felt adult when I finally grew enough taller than mom so I could take her standing up from behind without having to stand on a cushion.

One of my first courses was anthropology, which had been Diana’s undergraduate major. I became fascinated by tribal and prehistoric cultures. Now when I gazed at mom’s nude body, I felt like an ancient male worshipping at the shrine to the black, ruby-lipped cunt of Africa, humanity’s mother, or to the yoni of the Vedic Prakriti, consort of the Creator, the Divine Mother and female half of God, who holds us all in Her cosmic embrace, giving us life and taking it away.

Reading on my own, I learned that in the old matriarchal civilization, it was the duty of opposite sex parents to initiate their offspring into sexuality at puberty, to prepare them for their mates by teaching them the skills of tender loving. This was a ceremonial rite, the final crowning of the parent-child relationship.

With the triumph of patriarchy, this incestuous energy was deemed subversive and was outlawed. Rather than sexual celebrations, initiation rites for young people became brutal ordeals. The warrior replaced the lover.

Religion and mythology took on a new cast. The oracles fell silent. With his invention of the Oedipus story, Sophocles propagated a message of fear that left a deep mark on Greek civilization, which eventually became ours.

Back then, though, this prohibition had a reason. Before birth control, the danger of familial sex was real; the offspring of such close unions can be unhealthy. More genetic variety is needed to keep the species fit.

Now that pregnancy is avoidable and reproduction a matter of choice, the danger is gone but the fear remains. This superstition is obsolete and irrational but still powerful, having been ingrained for thousands of years. I was thinking about all this in the bloody years of the Vietnam War as the patriarchal males on both sides had built a death factory that was mass-producing corpses. In Vietnam, the Buddhists were opposing the war with self-immolation, and in the US the women and new males were opposing it with music and hair and sex. To render the old males extinct, I foresaw a legion of mother-son lovers on an incest crusade to overthrow patriarchy. This would be more revolutionary than politics as usual. It would really change the culture, root and branch.

I burned my draft card, but rather than fleeing to Canada or going to jail, I stayed in college, getting my master’s in computer science until the war was winding down. Mom and I were active in the peace movement; we attended and helped organize demonstrations and were immensely glad when the troops finally came home.

Without the war to unify it, the movement splintered into many factions—political, feminist, ecological, black power, gay and lesbian rights, mystic, artistic, back to nature. After this parting of the ways, some said the establishment had managed to divide and conquer us, others that it was just a blossoming of diversity. Diana focused her efforts now on opposing the death penalty, trying to have it declared unconstitutional as cruel and unusual punishment.

One night we saw Jacquot on TV. It turned out he’d been fighting the system in his own way. He’d taken part in the Attica uprising and was one of the few rebels who weren’t killed when Rockefeller’s troops stormed them. We saw him being led away in chains. “He’ll never get out now,” Diana said, and we both cried. Crying was all we could do, though. Neither one of us wanted him out and storming us.

As time wore on, the music and the drugs got harder, people stopped meditating, the mood slipped into retro, the big chill came on. Bumper stickers that once read, “Peace begins within you” gave way to, “The one who dies with the most toys, wins!” Many people gave up working for change and settled for making money. Guys started wearing not just suits but suits with suspenders like their grandfathers. Business was back in. Politics became a branch of corporate public relations.

Eventually Bill Gates replaced John Lennon as the generational hero. Since I knew something of the world of computers, I was particularly disappointed by this.

I became a software engineer in Denver, and at work I’d often find myself daydreaming about new ways of engineering my hardware into mom’s software.

Silicon Valley was just getting started, and I could’ve made more money there, but Diana was running the Public Defender’s office by then and loved her job. She could decide which cases were worth fighting, which defendants had a chance of changing, and plea bargain the others. I loved to see her argue cases in court, so proud of her. She designed and taught a course, Criminal Defense of the Indigent, at the law school.

To keep the gossip factor down, I rented a small apartment near hers. Having two places also helped us to manage the right mix of intimacy and autonomy, closeness and independence. This bit of separation kept us from overwhelming each other and losing our individuality or getting burnt out with the relationship. We spent weekends together, then threw ourselves into our work. We often got together or chatted on the phone during the week. This was mature love, not always as exciting as young love, but deep and lasting.

Every time the Rolling Stones rolled back through the US, mom and I managed to catch at least one concert. They were grand affairs. No one does Dionysus better than the Stones— their music took us right back to our passionate beginnings.

SIXTEEN

One evening while I was taking off mom’s underpants, I saw a gray hair gleaming in her bush. It scared me, intruding like a ghost at the portal of my birth and the playpen of our pleasure. I even lost my erection; as mortality raised its ugly head, the head of my penis drooped. Diana was aging; all her hair would someday be gray. Later she would die. And I would be alone.

I was filled with tender sadness towards her. She was with me now, and I needed to cherish and protect her, to appreciate her while I had her.

Mom caressed my back, stroked my head, and, with her unerring intuition for my inner state, asked, “How’s my baby?”

“Just a little distracted. I need to focus more … on all of this … your beautiful naked body.” I spread open the twin columns of her legs, stroked her voluptuous thighs, and gazed adoringly at the red, hairy cleft. The gray strand had disappeared amid all its black companions, but I searched through and found it, hiding and insulted by my negative reaction. I apologized, gave it a kiss, and said it actually looked quite special. It forgave me.

I moved up a bit and rested my cheek against her tummy, listening to her digestion, heartbeat, and breath. This ticking bodily mechanism now seemed fragile and fleeting. Mom was more than her body, but without it she wouldn’t be here … and here was where I wanted her. Clinging to her perishable flesh, I kissed her belly button, the link in the ongoing chain, then embraced the whole round spread of her haunches.

She rubbed a hand over the hair on my chest, teased my nipples, tickled my tummy, tiptoed through my pubes, then seized my stem in eager fingers that tweaked it and stroked it until it raised and stiffened under her loving attention.

I dropped back down to her gates of life where the gray hair now shone boldly. Underneath the protective cap of kinky curls, her rosy lips lay brooding with impatience at having to wait so long for attention. The scent of freshly plowed earth, fertile and subterranean, wafted up. This was my native soil, and my root craved to be back in it. The aroma was so arousing, I began to tremble and pant, almost drooling with desire.

With the tip of my tongue I licked the ridges of mom’s labia, then watched them respond, stirring to alertness, swelling with pleasure. More, they pleaded. I slid my tongue between them and ran it along their moist length, pressing into both sides, then turned it wide and drove it deeper in to spread her petals, which squished as they opened. I pushed as far inside as I could and tongue-fucked her, thrusting in and out, then reamed around the rim, pressing hard and slurping up her nourishing juice as she stroked my head and moaned.

I loved splashing in her swampy garden, and she loved it, too. It was our own Eden that we could return to whenever we wanted.

We were breathing with long in- and exhales, like experienced runners jogging at an easy pace, the ultimate lowimpact aerobic sport.

I focused on the pert little pip of her clit, sucking it gently. “Yes … oh … how lovely,” mom’s voice floated over me. The slower I sucked, the faster she breathed, until her whole trunk was heaving and quivering. “My son is sucking me and making me come. I love it!” Her voice became a wild cry as she twisted and fishtailed around the bed.

After her throes, I moved up on top of her and slipped my cock once again back into its snug fur glove. Diana stuck her nose into my armpit and sniffed, saying, “You’re such a fucking brute.” She wiggled her tits against my chest. We kissed avidly, joined above and below in a loop of pleasure, mom thrusting her tongue into my mouth while I thrust my prong into her lower mouth. I sang little songs in my mind to distract myself so I wouldn’t come too soon. I wanted to wait until she was ready again.

Well practiced by now, we moved entwined with fluid grace, tandem swimmers in a sea of each other. As the tempo of her breathing quickened, we rocked and pushed and tugged together, our tenderest parts pressed together, each inflaming the other higher and higher, fuller and fuller, billowing with waves, streaming with nature’s current until we peaked and burst and merged our joy in mutual orgasm.

All was right with the world once again; life doesn’t get any better than this.

Afterwards, curled up together, I told her about her new pube. “There too?” Diana asked, chagrined. “I have to admit I found a few already on my head … pulled them out.”

“But that’s mean. You should make friends with them.”

“I guess you’re right. Can’t pull them all out … or else I’ll be bald before long.” Mom gave a sigh of resignation. “And I won’t be able to henna it anymore. Henna turns gray hair orange … and I’m not ready for the punk look.” She turned away from me and covered her face. “Oh, but I hate it … I hate being so much older than you.You won’t want me. You’ll want somebody pretty.”

I pulled her hands away from her face. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I’ll never want anybody but you.” It was true. The skin around her eyes was wrinkled and puffy, the skin under her chin was droopy, the skin on her hands had spots—and she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“But I won’t be your chestnut mare anymore. What’s it called when it’s mixed with gray—roan! Will you mind having a roan mare?”

I stroked her mane, then her back. “Not as long as it’s you, pony … and you still let me ride you.”


As the years trotted by, I never failed to be awed each time I uncovered my mother’s glorious body. In her fifties she was in some ways her most beautiful, all lush and open and soft. Wrinkles aren’t ugly: they make the surface of the skin more complex and interesting. Her skin, like her mind, had more to it now, the imprint of experience. Fading roses smell the sweetest—petals open soft and fragrant, exposing inner delicacies, gradually yielding to time and gravity.

When her tissues became drier, we used ointments, and she would swathe my sword in lotion before I slid it into her sheath. We discovered the pleasures of taking it easy. By then we were both slowing down a bit, and my own hair was streaked with gray.

Occasionally we would see other mother-son and fatherdaughter couples. A certain spark came from them that let us know they were enjoying each other, too. Sometimes a code of recognition would pass between us—a nod, a half smile— but it couldn’t be discussed openly. Our kind of love was still deep in the closet. But at least we knew we weren’t alone.

SEVENTEEN

Last year Diana was diagnosed with cancer. The surgeons removed a breast and a kidney, but it was too far advanced. She tried various alternative cures, from sleeping on magnets, to eating apricot kernels, to Filipino touch healers. With each one, we had a burst of optimism, then a slump back into despair. Finally she came to accept that she had only a few months to put her life in order.

So began the terminal time, a countdown to a death that seemed to be as much mine as hers. She had aged rapidly under the disease and treatments and had less energy. She grew smaller, more birdlike.

I had to force myself to breathe normally rather than in rapid gasps; the air seemed to drain from whatever room I was in. I felt a panicky need to hold on to her. After having given me life, she had become life to me. One part of me was convinced I couldn’t live without her, another part knew I could learn to but it would be agonizing.

Diana’s agony was severe until she found a doctor liberal with morphine. “I never thought I’d end up a junkie,” she said, “but what the hell? It’s better than climbing these green walls.”

Her anxiety was also severe until she had a vision of afterlife. “I was meditating, and I saw all these glowing forms, like people but made of light. Their bodies had died, but they were alive, lying still … floating … but alert. And the light was their divine energy … they were healing themselves with it. All the pain and suffering of their past were dark blotches on them like stains. They moved the light in … and just shone them away until they were clear again. Deep down I knew that when they were all shining and ready, they’d be born again in a new body. They’d come back for another cycle … a fresh start … until all their desires are fulfilled … and then they’re enlightened. It’s a great circle, a beautiful round we all go on.” Her arthritic fingers stroked my hand. “And I could tell that in our next life our love will draw us together again. We’ll be about the same age … and have children.” Tears rolled out of her eyes. “I’d love to have your baby.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said. “I can’t wait. Then we can stand up in front of the world … without having to worry about it crushing us.” I gazed at that face I’d loved all my life. “This has been tough … but it was all we could do.”

“And we did it pretty well.”

“And quite often,” I added, leaning over and kissing her wizened cheek.

Diana squeezed my hand, but frailly. “This could’ve been a tragedy,” she said slowly. “Instead it was a wonderful lifelong … love affair. Thank you, my dear son and husband.” She gave me a V-sign.

“Thank you, my dear mother and wife.” I kissed from her cheek down to her lips, and rested my hand lightly on her breast. “I still want to know what’s between your buttons. Let me kiss it again.”

She gave a wan but willing smile. “So you still want this old body that bore you?”

“Yes, indeed. It bore me, but it’s never bored me.”

Mom tugged at her hospital gown. “Unfortunately these damned things don’t have buttons. They don’t have bottoms either.” She looked around to make sure we were alone.

I pulled the screen around the bed in case a nurse blundered in, then undid the ties in the back of the blue gown and helped her slip half way out of it. Keeping the scarred side covered, she pulled the cloth away to reveal her breast, sagging, webbed with tiny lines, beautiful, still graceful in its softness.The nipple looked the same as it ever had: a bold, reddish-brown fountain of bliss. I sat by her bed and took it gently between my lips and kissed and sucked. The breast was smaller now, so I could get almost all of it into my mouth.The same ambrosia as fifty years ago flowed into me, calming me, making me whole. She sighed and relaxed into the bed, then reached towards my groin. “Let him out.”

I stood and unzipped my slacks; my erection poked out, pointed as always right at her. “You’re the one he wants … the only one he’s ever wanted.”

“Hello!” she said. “Nice to see you again.” She kissed the tip, then sucked the whole thing long and lovingly. With one hand, I stroked mom’s withered breast and with the other her wispy gray head. We both knew this would be the last time and wanted to draw it out in all its sad sweetness. She nibbled my column with her teeth and swirled it with her tongue. She hummed a cheery little tune on my balls, then squeezed them with her hand while she moved her mouth up and took the shaft deep in her throat. She slid her lips up and down the length of it, making me feel like a mighty redwood. Except redwoods don’t weep. Finally with a groan of joy and loss I came, my seed surging into her mouth as I held her breast. “Oh … I love you very much.”

Cradling my happy cock in her hand, Diana swallowed with some difficulty and looked up at me with that same wicked twinkle in her brown eyes. “So much better than the hospital food!”

This woman could laugh in the face of death!

I got into bed with her, and we held each other. She pressed her hand against my chest as if envying the solidity of my body. “You … you … you … are my dear.”

As I hugged her she was running through my fingers and disappearing. “Wait for me … over there,” I whispered.

Gasping back tears, she squeezed me tighter and nodded into the crook of my neck.

Next day she slipped out of consciousness under the painkillers. I held her hand and thought of all the other times I’d held it: at our first Rolling Stones concert as we discovered an irresistible attraction, picnicking nude by the beaver dam, striding boldly along the streets of Key West, pledging our wedding vows in Central Park, and hundreds of other quiet, loving moments. Mixed with my sorrow was gratitude for being able to share my life so completely with hers.

In her last hours mom began seeming younger and younger; a beatific smile graced the lips I had kissed so often; the wrinkles and pain lines left her face; her skin glowed with light from her inner spirit which was now coming to the surface; she became a child again, full of brightness. When her soul was ready to go, her pulse began to flutter, then falter, and finally it stopped. I could feel a presence rise from her body and waft around me in a loving caress. But it was an embrace of farewell. Diana had other places to go and things to do. She really was leaving. Her presence diffused away, evaporating like dew in the sun. I was left alone with a small bag of flesh that no longer contained her. She was gone.

I cried. I unclasped the chain from around her neck and took off the pendant—the heart that touches its own. I kissed the golden heart, then took off her wedding ring and kissed it. I cried some more. I slipped them both onto my chain so they all swung together, united now that we were separated. I cried again.

I still miss her terribly. My life feels incomplete. I seek her in my dreams.

Years ago we had wondered if we’d be punished, if something terrible would happen to us. Now I realize my punishment is that no one can take Diana’s place. Her loss has devastated me. She was both wife and mother, and that seems to not just double but square the grief I feel.

AFTERWORD

Writing this memoir has been an incredibly cathartic experience for me. I’m hating to end it now; it’s like having to say good-bye to Diana all over again.

Despite the pain, I’m so glad to have known and loved her in the way I did. We were so close for so long. This love was right for us, the most rewarding and joyful part of our lives.

However, that doesn’t mean it would be right for everyone. Our story shouldn’t be seen as a blanket endorsement of incest. Like most human behavior, incest is a complex phenomenon. A relationship that works for one can be highly destructive and self-sabotaging for another. What brings joy and liberation to some can lead to depression, guilt, regret, and other forms of unwanted moods, attitudes, and outlooks—a life of gloom and doom—to others.

I find the way incest is often practiced to be deplorable, degrading, and usually destructive for all parties concerned. A father or mother aggressing their young children is harmful and wrong. Children shouldn’t be having sex with any adult, especially a parent; it interferes with their emotional development. Children are still dependent and often haven’t started building their bridge from parental protection and care to a place of self-love, self-esteem, and self-sufficiency. They haven’t yet become persons in their own right. Thus, having sex with a parent can overwhelm them and interfere with this maturation process.

History has shown us that what a society represses it will then manifest to abnormal extremes. Prohibition in the 1920s in the USA is a good example. It led to excessive drinking and alcoholism for many who got high merely due to the allure of tasting the forbidden fruit.

Puritanical notions and religious teachings that link sex with sin have instilled fear and the threat of punishment in the American public. With such repression, we can safely predict the upshot: an inordinately large percentage of incest, especially among ‘God-fearing folks.’ Incest as a taboo is even more titillating than drugs and alcohol … or it easily becomes an add-on. The resulting fear of discovery and persecution can lead to a life of guilt and low self-esteem that is devastating for the parties involved.

The anti-incest hysteria is fed by fundamentalists (some practicing incest themselves) who are determined to force everyone back into the strait jacket of the ’50s. They recognize the sexual revolution as a threat to their control. You can be sure, because of their hypocrisy, it will be their children who will be the first to experiment with any behavior labeled deviant by their parents.

It is now time for those who have followed their heart’s desires and had positive, loving incestuous experiences to speak up. Fortunately many persons, like myself, are now ready to tell the world about the happiness they have found, not because of, but in spite of a taboo.

As the truth emerges … as secrets are revealed, it might become evident that, in regard to consenting adults, the incest taboo is largely a superstitious phobia, an ancient fear that science has now rendered harmless through contraception. We can gradually free our psyches from this prejudice. The myth can slink back to ancient Greece where it came from and fade away. Then our primal urge will be freed from the closet of repression and shame into the light and fresh air of understanding. With the caveat that the lovers must be of legal age, society can gradually adjust to this basic but currently banned relationship.

The changes that will result from this are bound to be interesting. We might finally evolve into a society that is more wholesome and accepting of the many facets of love. The psychic energy now spent in restraining this desire, in chaining it up in the subconscious, could be freed for creative achievements. The old guilt trip might fade away. Some people may discover the fulfillment they’ve been seeking in life has been right there at home all the time. All they had to do is courageously acknowledge and embrace it.

By overthrowing oppressive authority, we might eventually be able to build a world in which the only rule is kindness. People would be free to follow their heart’s desires as long as it didn’t harm others. Just imagine what that could be like!

The path to this liberation will not be smooth or easily traveled. Deeply ingrained belief systems often require generations before their change becomes evident. Inhibitions and anxieties must be cleansed from our systems. We must release our biases. Along the way we could make mistakes and find ourselves blundering into chaos. Undoubtedly there will be the conservative crusaders ready with their ropes to hang us. These diehards will fight us every step of the way. Have they not done that in the past, whether it was to lynch the black person, fearing him because they believed he bore the mark of the devil, or to burn at the stake a woman with intuitive powers, calling her a witch?

To oppose repression, prophets must step forward and lead the way, persons like Diana and me, willing to declare to the world that any love that comes from the heart and brings joy to those who experience it, should be celebrated. As Allen Ginsberg said, “If you want to be a prophet, you have to tell your secrets.” He came out of the closet, and now we are coming out, too.

One thing I can say for sure is that after making love to my mother for thirty-five years I don’t feel like a monster, and I certainly don’t feel like tearing my eyes out like Oedipus. In fact I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.


Available under the terms of Free Art License

Produced in the year 2006.
FAL
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