I received the call around four o’clock. It was simple enough. “Johnathan, I need to speak with you. Come by around eight.” It was my mother. The fact that she addressed me by my proper name was enough to let me know the subject matter, whatever it may be, was serious in nature, and the fact that she offered no more than she did was her way of informing me that any questions I might have before eight would go unanswered. I told her I would be there, and I was.
I sat on the recliner adjacent to her position on the sofa. I was not reclined at all. In fact, I was sitting forward, my forearms on my quads, to show I was listening intently to whatever it was she had to tell me. After what seemed an eternity of silence, Mom said, “I had a doctor’s appointment today.”
“How did that go?” I asked.
Silence. Thirty seconds, a minute, a minute and a half, then, “Not well.” More silence. “I have a brain tumor.”
“I thought they got rid of that?” I asked, for it truly was my belief. It had been three years ago when she was diagnosed. She had had two of those gamma knife procedures, and ever since she had been told that it was shrinking more and more, up until the point where the doctors told her it was completely gone.
“It’s not the same one,” she told me. “This one is more deeply rooted. They overlooked it because they thought the one they found was the only one. This one, though …” She stopped and collected herself. “It’s been too long, Johnny. It’s grown too big. They said it was inoperable.”
“Have you gotten a second opinion?” I asked.
She lightly snorted a laugh. “This was a third opinion, actually, and they all say the same thing.”
“Which is?”
“I have less than a year to live.”
So that was it. My mother just told me that this time next year, she would no longer be a resident of the physical plane. “Um … I know it must be a lot to take in. Have you made any preparations for this?”
“Everything will go to you.”
“No, Mom. I’m not talking about that. What I mean is, do you have a burial plot? You know, things like that.”
“Yes. All my funerary needs have been taken care of.”
“When will you tell your friends? I mean, they deserve to know as soon as possible so they can prepare themselves for the eventuality.”
“I’ll let them know,” she said as she nodded her head in agreement. “In the meantime, I need something from you.”
“Sure, Mom. Name it.”
She laughed loudly. Once calm again, she just stared at me. In all honesty, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I was about to ask what it was she wanted when she said, “There is so much I never experienced. So much I have wanted to do, but never did.”
“Bucket list,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s called a bucket list. You know, like when someone dies people say, ‘he or she kicked the bucket?’ A bucket list is a list of things someone wants to do before he or she dies.”
“Yes, then that’s what I mean,” she said as she sat back a little. “I have a bucket list, but I suppose mine would be a bit unorthodox, considering the subject matter and my age.”
“How so?”
Another laugh. I waited. Finally, she said, “I am seventy-four years old and I never experienced oral sex, either giving or receiving.”
I was shocked, to say the least, both by the declaration and her willingness to talk about it. Still, having said time and again that I was as uninhibited a person as anyone was likely to meet, I pushed through that and asked, “Didn’t you and Dad ever do any stuff like that?”
“Your father? Heavens, no,” she said emphatically. “James was the type of man who believed in missionary sex only. He felt that oral sex was sodomy, and any position other than missionary gave the woman dominion over a man, and according to his religious beliefs, he refused to differ as he thought that would be to challenge God.”
“His beliefs?” I asked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said immediately. “Yes, when your father died, I threw myself into the church, fanatically at times, and I’ve lived the life of a prude ever since. The truth of the matter, though, is when James died, I never had sex again.”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” I stopped her. “Dad died over forty years ago and you’re telling me that you haven’t been with anyone else since?”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“Uh … I guess,” I answered, “but just understand how hard it is to believe something like that.”
“I have no reason to lie,” she assured me.
Silence, then, “So, you said you needed something from me,” I reminded her. “I hope it’s not to hook you up with anyone, because I don’t know anyone your age.”
“I wouldn’t want anyone my own age,” Mom told me, “but yes, I would like someone to live this fantasy out with.”
“One of my friends?” I asked in disbelief.
“Understand something here, Johnny: If I entered into a sexual relationship with someone at this stage of my life, I would really have to trust him. Right now, as it stands, the only person I can think of who I could trust that much is … You.”
“What?” I knew what I heard, I just wondered if what I heard and what she said were the same thing. I actually dug my pinkies into my ears to unclog them, then leaned forward.
“Would you allow me to experience oral sex with you, Johnny?” she asked, making herself perfectly clear.
“Oh, wow!” I exclaimed as I sat back. I looked up, through the ceiling and into the cosmos. I really couldn’t fathom what she was requesting of me.
Making note of my inability to make sense of things, Mom said, “Please, Johnny. If nothing else, consider it your dying mother’s last request.”
“That’s not fair,” I said as I looked back at her.
“You’re the only one I trust,” she said again.
I must have sat there for two solid minutes in silence, then I said, “Let me think about this, okay? It’s a lot to take in.”
“Well, take what time you need, but remember that my time is limited.”
Another jab. “Okay, Mom. Just … Give me a few days, is all.” With that, I left. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Most incest begins at an early age, yet here was my mother, who is seventy-four, asking her fifty-two-year-old son to engage in it with her. Had I ever entertained thoughts of it? In all honesty, yes, when we both were younger, but the last time I had a thought like that, Dad was still alive. Dad. Was he really such a slave to the Bible that he couldn’t enjoy anything other than missionary-style sex? If so, then poor Mom. No woman should be deprived of oral sex. No woman should be deprived of oral sex. Did I truly believe that? Of course, I did. I guess that I had found my answer, then. I decided to wait until tomorrow to call and tell her.
I invited Mom out to eat. We went to Mama June’s Country-Style Buffet where she got fried chicken, green beans and red potatoes, and rice and gravy, and I got a sample of about fifteen different things. I allowed her to pray, then I announced, “Okay, I’ve decided to do it.”
A smile came upon her lips as she bit into a chicken thigh. She chewed, swallowed, then asked, “What made you decide to do it?”
Pages:
[