Son only has eyes for mom, incest stories, Camilla is the most beautiful woman I know. Most people wouldn’t go that far. That’s what love does. I don’t know if love or the sexual desire came first, and it probably doesn’t matter. I’m not talking about the usual love a son has for his mother. Very early on I knew that what I felt was different, and I never thought that I was wrong to feel it. Right from puberty I was very well adjusted to my maladjustment.
Camilla and I lived in New England without family and a smattering of friendly neighbors. Roy came and lived with us when I was seven, and left when I was sixteen. Roy filled in for my biological father who died when I was three. I wouldn’t say we were close, but we stayed out of each other’s way enough to make it a better relationship than some of my friends had with their ‘Real’ fathers. He usually came through when I needed him.
The thing I had for Camilla started as soon as I could feel what the word ‘Sexy’ meant. I think that concept starts in the eyes. Mom has sleepy eyes that seem to be an invitation; I guess that’s why they call them bedroom eyes. It’s more than fine when a woman has nice tits, great legs and all that. But that’s not what makes someone sexy. It’s how they carry themselves, and how they make you feel when they look at you.
It wasn’t until I was older that I realized she had a killer body. Again, most people wouldn’t go that far. It wasn’t showy. In her clothes she looked more average than not. When I saw her in the bathroom getting dressed to go out one evening, I thought I had glimpsed perfection. To me she was a dime. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but she was wearing panties, stockings, and heels. Oh my God.
Her breasts were a nice handful, long rather than round. Her nipples were large and capped the ends fully. Her legs were perfect, her ass was perfect, her skin was perfect. What can I say? I loved her by then, and then I loved her more.
I thought about her too much, if you consider all the time too much. Getting meshed with my mother filled my fantasies. I can’t remember fantasizing about anyone else once I started on her. Watching her cooking, watching her walking, watching her watching TV, all fed the insatiable and inexhaustible scenarios I made up for us to engage in. No matter how bad a day I had, or how lonely I was, she would be waiting in my fantasy, dressed for sex, and saying something like, “It’s okay baby, you’ll feel better after you come in mommy’s mouth.” And I did feel better, even if it wasn’t real.
It got so bad I started believing it myself. And when I would look at her I would think, ‘How could she not know, how could she not feel what I feel, how could she not want what I want?’ I was amazed at how normal our concerns and conversations were. And when we fought about the things mothers and sons fight over, and I was yelling at her, I knew that I was angry because I wasn’t getting what I really wanted.
Mom was a bit of a neat freak and I’d heard the phrase, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place,’ one too many times, but it didn’t really matter how many times she said that or, ‘Matt, I need you to do this or that, Matt put this stuff away, Matt don’t go out during the week, Matt be nice.’ None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was that Matt wanted his mother.
By the time I was eighteen, my friends and I had taken to drinking on the weekends. It escalated to a point where we got blasted beyond repair every Friday night. I hid it pretty well because mom didn’t give me a hard time about coming home late on weekends, and I slept late enough the next day for it to wear off.
On the worst of these nights I walked into the house crunked in a stinking stupor. Mom was asleep on the couch with the TV on. I stood over her and looked while a current of electricity ramped up inside me. Her skirt was hiked up, displaying most of her creamy thighs. Her breasts were pressed together and some of her tit-flesh overflowed her bra. In reality, I wasn’t seeing a hell of a lot, but it was enough to make me hear my own breath.
I wanted to reach in and take out her tit so I could suck on it. I wanted to take out my hardened cock and put it in her mouth. I wanted to push up her skirt and pull her panties down. And fuck her. I wanted. And there was a part of me that was telling me to take what I wanted. I walked away with the TV saying “Act now,” because there was only one minute left to buy whatever they were selling.
After that night, I became wary of my own feelings, I started to think that maybe I was losing control of my fantasies. I wanted her so badly; I wasn’t sure what I could do to make them come true. In that alcohol fed state all I could think of was taking her. The thought of hurting my mother or forcing her to do something she didn’t want to, was enough to scare me. I didn’t get drunk after that night, but I knew I had to get away.
The next day I said to mom, “I spoke to Roy and he said that I could stay with him; that’s what I want to do.”
She said, “Don’t do that honey, just because we had a little fight, it doesn’t mean anything, and he can’t take care of you.”
“I don’t need him to,” I said. “I only need a place to stay. One way or another I’m leaving mom, so you can be a pain about it, or just let me go.”
She started to cry and said, “I can’t do anything right; I can’t even be a mother.”
I felt like a shit, but I knew I had to leave. I said, “Mom, it’s not because of the fight, or because of you. I just need to be alone for a while, away from this house. Look, I’ll come over and see you; I’ll only be across town. And anyway, I know how tight things are for you with them cutting back your time at work, and Roy said he’d pay for my stuff until I graduate.” She cried. I wanted to hold her. I saw myself kissing her, caressing her, fucking her. I knew it was time to go.
Not living with Camilla made some things easier and some more difficult. I looked forward to seeing her and spending time with her, but I knew I couldn’t be that close to her all the time. She didn’t. She always hinted at how well we were getting along, and that I should think about moving back. I always equivocated.
I think I started growing up at Roy’s because he gave me my independence, as long as I was responsible. I also grew up because of Bunny Spane. Bunny was a photographer that had an on and off thing going with Roy. She was probably a few years older than my mom, with tits too big to be real. She stayed over a lot and liked to talk all the time. Roy said it drove him crazy, but I liked that about her, because she would talk about anything and everything, and I learned a lot about women from talking to her. And since she was bi, I got different perspectives from our conversations. She even got me a few dates with some of the models. Nothing came of it but I definitely got comfortable around women, even if it was just to talk. The most serious I got was with a girl named Carol that I was with for five months who said I was never really ‘There.’ I guess it was true that I wasn’t with her the way she wanted me to be, and so we broke up.
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