Mom and son, Love is within reach but requires a catalyst to come alive, It was my friend Samantha who planted the seed in my head.
She was visiting me one Saturday morning and as usual we were sitting on my balcony, drinking coffee and gossiping, when my son called from the backyard. I looked down to see what he wanted and Samantha got up from her chair and went to the edge of the balcony to look at him with me. He was about to mow the lawn and wanted to know if it would be okay with us if he started the lawnmower or would the noise disturb us. I told him to carry on and turned my attention towards Samantha.
She was still looking at him. I waited for her to come back to her chair before we could resume our conversation. She didn’t budge. She continued standing there looking down at my son as I heard the lawnmower start and come to a steady level of noise. I became curious—and a bit startled at the same time. I didn’t like the way she was so engrossed and I definitely didn’t like the simper on her lips. Knowing that her attention was on my son, I became a bit protective. My voice must have betrayed that protectiveness when I said, “Come, Samantha. Sit down, enough already.”
She looked at me rather coyly and said, “Come here, I want to ask you something.”
Reluctantly I got up and stood next to her. My son was pushing the lawnmower effortlessly from one end to the other. He had taken his T-shirt off and there were streaks of perspiration running down his back and his stomach. His hair were wet at the base and combed back, probably with his hands, as drops ran down onto his neck.
“What?” I asked.
“That,” She pointed at my son. “Don’t you just want to maul that body?”
I slapped her on the side of her arm, “Watch it, now. He is my son.”
“Yes, I know, but don’t you ever get tempted to teach him a thing or two that he normally wouldn’t learn in college.”
“You have no shame,” I laughed, “no shame at all.”
She turned towards me, grabbed my hands and said, “No, I am serious. I mean, don’t you ever just want to sneak into his bed at night and have your way with him.” She looked very serious indeed and that worried me.
“No, I don’t.” I pulled my hands out of hers and pushed her towards her chair. “Now, stop that nonsense.”
“Well, if you don’t, then can I?” She laughed. “Just let me in one night and point his room out to me. I’ll take it from there.”
I laughed with her, relieved that it probably was just a joke. “I don’t think he can handle you.”
She broke down, “I am so frustrated. I am sorry about what I said.”
“It’s okay, Sam. It’s okay.” I comforted her, knowing full well what she meant.
When she left, I got up with her and walked her out to her car. Her words were still ringing in my ears when I came back to the balcony to clear up. As I gathered the dishes, I unconsciously looked down onto the backyard again. He had finished mowing the lawn and was now busy weeding. I watched for a split second as his shoulder blades showed pushing and pulling movement as the little hand shovel dug into the soft soil. I then jerked my head to clear her words out and quickly took the dishes down to the kitchen.
As I stood at the sink washing them, I looked up and found myself looking at my son again through the window. He had finished weeding and was now watering the flower beds. It looked like he had intentionally splashed some water onto his body. There were streaks of water on his arms, stomach and chest. There were drops of mist on his face and hair. Normally I would have just smiled at his playfulness, but today I felt somewhat uncomfortable, even guilty. I couldn’t help but remember Sam’s engrossed look as I saw a drop or two hanging on his lips. Two things came to mind quickly: One, why was he using the hose when we had sprinklers, and two, why was I washing dishes by hand when we had a dishwasher. I quickly left the kitchen and went to my bedroom, cursing Samantha under my breath for putting her thoughts into my head.
Around four or so in the evening, as I was trying to get through a ton of laundry, he came to the garage and said, “I am going out, mom.”
As I saw him standing in the doorway, dressed in slacks and shirt, wearing dress shoes, hair combed with a part on one side, and a tuft of hair hanging on his forehead nuzzling his right eyebrow, I understood for the first time what Samantha was talking about.
“Have fun, honey.” I tried to be as nonchalant as possible as I turned my attention immediately to the washing machine. I was unable to look him in the eyes for some reason.
When I heard the front door shut close, I ran to the garage door. There was a stepladder next to the tools counter. I quickly grabbed it and used it to look through one of the glass panes on top of the door. His car was parked across the road to keep it safe from the lawnmower. He took long and confident steps as he walked towards it. I saw him press the remote to unlock the car. I saw him open the door and swing his head from left to right to look around before getting into the car. That tuft of hair swung in the opposite direction. The movement of his head was so sensuous that something snapped inside of me, or maybe something came right, I don’t know, but I almost slapped myself for the thoughts that were now echoing Samantha’s words.
He was big and strong and looked like a man. I felt warm around my neck and my heart skipped a beat or two as I realized that my reaction was so foreign, yet so vaguely familiar. I felt ashamed at the sweet pain that had suddenly started to emanated from my heart. My legs felt weak at the realization that a certain part of my being hadn’t died those many years ago; instead it was alive and well and able to kick-start at the slightest nostalgic provocation.
It was my son—for God’s sake—that was the catalyst to bring those feelings out that I had buried deep within my frozen self, and it wouldn’t have been possible without Sam, although her contribution was minute compared to the outcome. As I stepped down, I was feeling guilty, again, and very ashamed. I took a few deep breaths to calm down and quickly came back to the machine to get my mind off the subject.
My heart skipped another beat when the first thing I took out of the basket turned out to be my son’s briefs. I had touched his underwear many times in the past, but this time I felt warm all over as I felt the fabric in my hand. I felt weird at the realization that I was holding something that had been so intimate with my son, well, actually with that man that had caused such a sweet reaction in me. This time I cursed myself, and I cursed aloud. Why the hell was I reacting like a school girl and why was my reaction so strong, so quickly? I had no answer.
I struggled to force my hand to put that garment in the machine. Instead my hand brought it closer to my face. The shame became unbearable as I stretched my hand on the inside and felt the place where his penis must have rested and took a strong, deep inhalation of the hormones still present in the fabric. It felt nice and arousing and erotic and overwhelming and hugely shameful. I quickly threw the briefs towards the washing machine and ran inside the house.
The shame, the guilt, and yes, the excitement stayed with me throughout the evening and throughout the weekend. I stayed out of his way as I tried to get Samantha’s voice out of my head. I had cursed her repeatedly throughout the weekend for the great injustice she had done me. She had changed my son into a man. She had changed me into a woman, instead of a mom. She had taken away the shield that had kept him an innocent little boy in my eyes. She had replaced my son with an attractive, young college boy, whose mere thought made my legs weak and my vagina moist.
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