This is a history based on events far enough in the past that I can look back with some objectivity, and thus the notion of history rather than a more current, journalistic account. I am recounting them now at the suggestion of my therapist, who I was seeing for other issues related to anxiety. But when this came up in a tangential way, she encouraged me to face it rather than continue to have it filed away. I suggested that I write it out before talking about it with her.
Not to, as they say in journalism, bury the lead, this is a recounting of incest. My mother and I engaged in sexual activity, and ultimately carnal relations. As I have recounted the events in increasing detail, I have found it to be a turn-on, and now when I masturbate I will think of my mother watching me, or touching me, or in some of my sessions, I think about her bending over and letting me enter her from the rear.
Our sexual journey, and for me it was a journey, because she also was the first woman I had any sort of sexual encounter with beyond the usual high school explorations, started with a split second impulse, exactly the same impulse that leads to staying in rather than pulling out at the moment of ejaculation despite the clear risk of an unwanted pregnancy.
I masturbated pretty much every day, and it was so much of my routine that I kept a jar of Vaseline on the shelf by my bed, naively thinking my mother – she was divorced at the time, and I was the only of the kids still at home (probably part of the background for this) – would not know what it was for. My room was just off to the side of the front door. It used to be a study. The real bedrooms were used by my sisters when they visited. Even though they had left for college and only came home on occasion, I didn’t bother claim one of them, because I was going to be going to college shortly myself.
If I got the urge right as I woke up or was going to bed, I would lie on my side and clean up with a wash cloth that I also kept nearby. But during the day I would stand, pants pulled down, looking out the window from a safe distance, because my typical fantasy was masturbating in front of Caroline Parker, a girl two years younger than me who lived across the street. I would imagine her looking into my room from her bedroom window, shocked at what I was doing, being initiated into the male anatomy and sexual function, and aghast at what came shooting out of me at climax. I guess I had a bit of exhibitionist streak, or maybe I was still too protective of her to have the fantasy of actually fucking her.
I was thus engaged, and at the verge of climax when my mother knocked on my door. And this is the point of the impulse that was new to me then, but that I have experienced many times over the years, the deep-seated, primal urge to push as far into a woman as possible to shoot deep into her, to push up against her cervix. The urge to have a woman watch – like I wanted Caroline to watch with a sense of amazement and a tinge of disgust – at all of the cum spurting out; to cover a woman with the cum, on her breasts, her face, into her mouth, into her anus.
At that moment, there was a woman on the other side of the door, ready to come in, ready to see my climax and the wonder of my ejaculation. It was my mother. But in that moment when I was so blinded to anything rational, it was a woman. I could have shouted to wait, to not come in, but instead I faced the door and kept driving my hand up and down, trying to hold it in for just one more second, until the door opened. At that moment the opening of the door could have been the parting of the lips into her vagina. It was as if I was entering her even as she was entering my room.
She opened the door, looked at me as I looked at her with my face having the grimace of climax. In the complete surprise of the moment she did not avert her eyes or turn away, at least not for the two or three seconds it took for my cum to squirt out in repeated spasms. And her eyes, quite naturally, focused on that.
I think back to that moment as my first sexual experience. The first time I had come deep inside of a woman, that I had cum all over her face. That I had stuck my cock in her ass. She looked with shock, but also had the look of amazement, or what I took as the amazement that I fantasized a woman would have in seeing me complete the act. She let out a gasp, a “whoa”, looked up to my face and at the cum that had dripped to the floor. She then turned and walked out, quietly closing the door as if she was afraid to wake me. I was guilty at what I had done, ashamed, but as the last of the semen oozed out and onto the floor, I also felt that I was watching the cum drip off of her, off of her face, being spit out of her mouth, oozing out of her cunt.
I stayed in the room for a bit, but realized I would inevitably be confronted by her on this, and felt it was better sooner than later. As soon as she heard the door open, she came up to me. “I know you do that. Every boy does. But I shouldn’t be seeing you. I respect your privacy, I knock before I come into your room. But you also need to be more thoughtful. It’s really not right.”
I replied in a way that recounted the image of that moment, that still dominated what might have been a natural embarrassment, “I’m sorry you saw that, but I really couldn’t stop. It was already shooting out.”
Then as now, my masturbatory fantasy moved toward reliving that moment. My mother replaced Caroline Parker as the object of my sexual display. My mother was watching in amazement and approval, in shock and awe at the cum spurting from me. The difference between Caroline and my mother was that my mother was in the house with me. She was accessible, and she already had seen it for real. It was not a fantasy.
And, it could happen again.
Having now felt of my mother in that sexual moment as simply a woman, and again and again masturbating with this recollection as my fantasy, I had pushed beyond the mother-son barrier. I could look at my mother and know that in the current moment of us having dinner or of me watching her clean the house she was my mother, but that in another moment of me closing my door, taking the vaseline and working my cock into its climatic spasms, she was the sexual receptacle for my passion of that moment.
And what kept this fantasy from a further reality? Nothing more than my door! It was as if the door was the thin fabric covering her, separating me from entering her, from her seeing me in my sexual moment and me seeing her in her response.
So I pulled away the door just as surely as I might pull up her nightgown. This I first did as I was blinded by the excitement of masturbating. In that moment I would go over with one hand still rubbing my cock and pull the door ajar. I would then turn to the side, so that I could not see if she was coming by, and so she would realize I could not see her. I would pretend she was watching. But maybe it was not just my imagination, maybe she really was. It was exciting, and my sessions reached a new level, and my schedule for this activity changed – I masturbated only during the day, and only when she was at home.
And then came the time that I knew she was watching, because I could hear her. The sound of her footsteps coming toward the front door and then stopping. There would only be one reason she would stop there. I worked by cock harder, wanting to finish before she might turn away. And I did. Because it was only after I was finished that I heard the footsteps continue.
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