June 12, 1961
I remember reading The Diary of Anne Frank. She wrote her diary addressed “Dear Kitty.” Maybe I should try that.
No. It’s a journal, not a diary. Well, maybe there is no difference.
God, I’m rambling.
Maybe I can be forgiven.
I got a death sentence today and I’m scared.
At least I know what causes the headaches. Too bad it’s a tumor growing deep in my brain. Doctor Bob said I might survive surgery to remove it (he gave that 60-40 against, but not bad odds). But he said the chances of surviving it with my mind, my personality, my very SELF intact were, well, basically ZERO.
And so now I need to make some decisions.
Do I want to live badly enough to lose myself to do it?
What will I do about David?
And I don’t know how long I have. I think I could actually deal with this better if he had said “you have six months” or something like that. But he said there’s no way to tell. We can “monitor” it (I’m a nurse but I hate when doctors go so cold like that, even doctors I kind of have a crush on) and see how it grows.
God, I am so frightened.
June 16, 1961
Well, so much for my idea to write in this journal every day.
I guess I can be forgiven for a four-day bender (God my head hurts right now).
The aspirin I have been taking doesn’t help. Even the Excedrin (these are truly Excedrin Headaches) only blunts the force.
Vodka helps. A lot of vodka helps a lot. More vodka and I can sleep.
I think I’ve found my solution.
I worry about what Davey thinks. God, this is a lot for an 18-year-old boy to handle.
I’m going to call Al next week and let him know what’s going on. I wonder how he’ll take it.
God, I must have been having nightmares last night. When I woke up my nightgown was hiked up around my waist and my boobs were out. I hope I had fun.
June 18, 1961
Well, I got up my courage and called the ex.
What a surprise that was.
He was so supportive, God, if he’d have been that good when we were married we’d still be married.
He said he understood that I didn’t want to disrupt Davey’s life any more than I had to so I should call him when, as he put it delicately, “things got too bad” and he’d come and take his son back to Chicago.
I bawled for an hour.
I barely had myself under control when Davey got home and he was so sweet seeing that I had been crying.
God, he held me like I was the child and he was the parent. Sort of stroking my hair and telling me it was okay. And so, of course, I started crying again.
Jesus, he must think his mother is a drunk wreck.
Actually, he wouldn’t be all that far off, would he?
June 23, 1961
I’m not sure how it happened.
Okay, I’m being honest in these pages and of course, I know how it happened.
My son is the man of the house now.
It started last week.
After my crying binge, I asked him to make me a screwdriver, which he did.
I wasn’t up to making dinner so he made some egg sandwiches, his one culinary talent and he makes excellent egg sandwiches.
After we ate we were sitting there watching something (Perry Mason I think) on TV and I asked him to make me another drink. When he came back he had my screwdriver in one hand and a beer in the other.
He looked so grown up when he sat down and casually took a drink of the beer before setting it down.
He looked at me, kind of challenging, but I didn’t say anything.
Really, what could I say? Here I am a quart of vodka a day drunk. I couldn’t very well begrudge him his beer, could I?
Later he woke me up. I had been sleeping with his arm around me. Okay, I had been passed out with his arm around me.
“Come on mom,” he said softly as he helped me to my feet.
I wasn’t completely falling down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk, but I was pretty darn close.
He led me into the bedroom and reached down to the hem of the pullover I was wearing.
“Arms up,” he said and I looked at him and, well, hesitated.
“Come on, arms up,” he repeated and there was just a hint of command in his voice and I lifted my arms over my head.
And there I was, standing before my 18-year-old son in my slacks and bra.
I watched, kind of fascinated, as he got down on his knees before me and started working on the button and zipper of the slacks.
I had to grab his shoulders for balance as he started peeling the slacks down and then as I did that awkward little two-step to get out of them.
And there I was in bra and panties before him.
He stood and turned me around gently with his hands and unhooked my bra. My arms went sort of automatically to hold it on but he worked it down and gently pushed my arms down until he could toss it onto the chair in the corner.
I have never been as aware of how my boobs sag as I was at that instant, as I stood with my arms crossed to cover myself.
He smiled and turned down the bed for me and then held my hand as I lay down.
When he went to the other side of the bed and started undressing I almost panicked. I thought he was going to come to bed naked but he didn’t. He left his shorts on.
And then he crawled in beside me, kissed me, said “I love you,” and snuggled against me, his arm across my belly. He was snoring softly before I went to sleep, but not by much.
I whispered “I love you too” as I drifted off, taking his hand in mine.
June 28, 1961
Oh God, it happened.
Anyway, I think it happened.
I’m leaking between my legs so it must have happened.
What have I done?
Is it wrong?
God, I can’t let this happen.
But I’m not sure I can stop.
My head hurts.
June 29, 1961
My head was about to explode by the time he got home from school yesterday but I knew I had to be sober to talk to him.
He walked in and tossed his books on the coffee table and came over to kiss me as he had been doing lately.
I stopped him, holding him at arm’s length, holding his gaze with mine. He met it, actually, he met it boldly.
“Davey,” I started, and then had to think. It had all sounded so straightforward when I had been rehearsing it in my head.
He waited, his eyebrows up a little.
“Davey,” I started again, “did you, ummm.”
And I didn’t know how to go on.
He stood there and I found myself being the one embarrassed in this conversation.
And he waited.
“Oh god,” I said, taking a deep breath, “Davey, did you, well, did you,” and again my voice trailed off.
His smile was far too knowing for someone 18.
I couldn’t hold eye contact and looked down at my feet.
And he did that thing that men seem to know how to do from birth. With two fingers he lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes.
Holding my gaze as he said, slowly and clearly, “did I fuck you?”
I think I actually gasped a little and then I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore and broke the contact.
“Isn’t that what you want to know?” he asked, his hands on my shoulders.
My voice was barely audible even to myself as I sort of whispered “yes.”
Then he did that two-finger thing again, two fingers under my chin.
His hand lifted my chin until I was forced to meet his eyes.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Before I could respond or faint or something, and my knees did go a little weak, he went on.
“I love you, mom. You love me. Why can’t we,” and now it was his turn to sort of stammer.
“Why can’t we, well, show it?”
And honestly, I didn’t have an answer for him.
I thought about the genetic issues that had been understood for a long time, but I certainly wasn’t going to have a child with him. Not that I could have any more children anyway.
I thought about the taboo but then thought that was tied to genetics.
I thought about the law, that it would be illegal probably but, well, that didn’t make a lot of sense to me since he was so much the man of the house anyway.
I realized I was crying when he reached up to sort of brush the tears away.
And that kiss, that first true man-woman kiss, with tear salt taste and snot slickness was the best kiss I have ever experienced.
“Okay Davey,” I said, “I need to, as we girls say, freshen up and this drink is empty and I’m hungry so if you would work your cooking magic I would like that please,” and I handed him my now-empty glass and turned and headed for the bathroom before I made even more of a fool of myself than I already had.
I was as sober as I had been for months as I walked away, and I was aware he was watching me and I could not resist putting a little extra swing into my ass as I walked away.
In the bathroom, though I almost collapsed again.
That woman in the mirror couldn’t be me. God, I wasn’t yet 40 and she was 50 if she was a day.
My once black hair was clearly showing the silver that was a trademark of the women in our family.
Those slightly crooked front teeth seemed to be jumping out of my face.
I pulled my clothes off and stood naked, looking in the mirror.
Not that bad.
I was always heavy-chested although my boobs fell after Davey was born. I overflowed my C cup but, well, kind of like the cleavage.
No waist. Never had one.
My pubic hair is sparse and black and very straight and coarse.
My lips sort of peek out between my legs.
I showered and washed my hair. Scrubbing myself hard.
When I felt the stubble, hell, the hair under my arms I wondered how long it had been since I had shaved. So I did my armpits and my legs.
I screamed when I pushed the shower curtain back and started to step out.
Davey was standing there, grinning and staring and holding a towel.
And then I got the giggles.
I was howling with laughter as he dried me off. I squealed when he did my ribs. I won’t deny that I enjoyed the way he did my boobs, slowly and carefully. As the towel worked down my belly I had a moment's second thought but there it was again, what my daddy used to say – “in for a penny in for a pound” and I stood quietly as he dried me down there.
Clean and wonderfully, thoroughly, completely dry I pushed him out as I walked down the hall to the bedroom.
“Shoo,” I giggled, “finish making something to eat.”
I did accept the screwdriver he had made gratefully.
And for the first time in weeks, I sat at my little makeup table to actually try to look nice.
I brushed my hair furiously to get it into some kind of shape but it was too wet to actually do anything with.
But my face.
When I look in the mirror I see a librarian. A grumpy librarian at that.
But I have been told by enough people whose judgment I trust that I am pretty that I accept it.
So I went to work to do the best with what I had.
Twenty minutes later, face done, I got into my nightie drawer for the first time in months.
I normally wore a nylon gown to bed but, well, “in for a penny” and all of that.
I selected a pale blue peignoir that I hadn’t worn in years. A bra and panties set went with it and they were so sheer you could read a newspaper through them. Then the gown itself, a mid-thigh number. And the long filmy robe over the top.
I looked in the mirror and said, out loud, “God Mary, you whore, are you really doing this?”
But of course, I was.
“In for a penny….”
July 4, 1961
Okay, the line is well and truly crossed.
That first night still lingers in my mind.
I finished the sandwich and my second screwdriver and was sitting there smoking, enjoying the strong menthol of my Kool cigarette and watching him do dishes and then make me another drink and opening a beer while I had what may be the last sane conversation I ever had with myself.
“It’s not too late,” I said to myself, taking another drag on the cigarette and watching him
“I know that,” I replied to myself, “but I don’t know that I want to stop.”
“He’s your SON,” I told myself and literally stomped my foot on the floor for emphasis.
“Goddamit, I KNOW that,” I replied.
“Mom?” he said, standing there and holding my drink in his hand. “Are you okay?”
I giggled softly.
“Yes honey, and thank you,” I said, taking a big slug from the drink.
He was smiling oddly and I looked up at him. “What?” I said, a bit crossly, still thinking about my conversation with myself.
“It’s just that,” he started and then took a breath and continued, “that you are so damn beautiful.”
And just like that, he had me. That simple compliment to someone that hadn’t had many compliments in a long time was enough.
I stood then, and took both of his hands in mine,
“Are you sure?” I said and before he could reply, “Are you absolutely CERTAIN you want this?”
He was grinning then.
“Seriously?” He said. “You seriously have to ask?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied.
“You can’t tell anyone, you know that don’t you?” I said.
“Well of COURSE!” he replied and stepped closer, his hands slipping under the long peignoir, finding my waist under the filmy silk and bringing goosebumps to my arms.
He stood like that, his eyes holding mine, and then leaned in so slowly that I couldn’t wait and leaned to him to complete the kiss.
And to hold the kiss.
And to feel his hands on my back now, exploring, stealing my breath.
I finally broke the kiss and took his hand, leading him into the bedroom.
It felt strange, still early in the afternoon, but by then I couldn’t wait.
I unbuttoned his shirt as he stood there. I was pleased that he was trembling a little. Pleased that I wasn’t the only one so nervous that I had shaky fingers.
And then it was my turn to be on my knees before him as I worked on his shoelaces and then his shoes and socks. Just as mine had been before, his hands were on my shoulders for balance.
I took a deep breath and pulled the shorts that were his school outfit down, leaving him in only his shorts.
I touched his erection through the material and then pulled them off of him.
His erection was thin, a man’s and yet still young, and VERY hard.
I stood and mirroring his movements of the other night turned down the covers and held his hand as he got into bed.
And then I took a deep breath and slowly, making a show of it, undressed for him.
I have never done anything more exciting, more arousing, or more embarrassing in my life.
I was aware of his staring and I was enjoying it as I allowed the peignoir to slide off my shoulders and arms to pool on the floor.
I watched his eyes watching my hands as I reached down and slowly pulled the nightie up and over my head, and then dropped it.
I was fascinated at the way his eyes locked onto my boobs as I shrugged the straps off and then reached back to unhook the bra and drop it. And then the panties so that I stood naked before him.
I couldn’t resist striking that classic pinup pose, back arched, left knee lifted, and one arm above my head.
I hadn’t realized how much this was all getting to me until I smelled my own excitement.
I crawled into bed with him, trying deliberately to look as sexy, well, as slutty, as vampy as I could. Back arched, ass up, knees slightly parted.
When I lay down next to him he immediately moved to crawl on top of me.
“No honey,” I breathed, “not so fast now. Take your time.”
I took his hand and guided it to my breast, gently pressing his palm against where my nipple and areola were so hard they hurt.
When he found my nipple with his thumb and forefinger and pinched I gasped and said “easy honey, it’s been a long time.”
And when he rolled my nipple gently I almost came right then.
I guided his hand again, this time using his finger to lift my clitoral hood and find my love bud.
And when he touched it I exploded.
My entire body clenched with the force of my first orgasm in months.
He was up on his elbow looking at me, his eyes wide.
“Are you all right?” he said. “Did I hurt you?”
The wave of giggles that took me left me absolutely breathless.
“No, God no Davey, you didn’t hurt me,” I said. “Oh thank you, baby.”
And I spread my legs for him and said “here baby, take what you want.”
He was awkward and unskilled. I had to guide him with my hand but when he slipped inside of me it was like nothing I had ever imagined. I’m not a virgin. I’ve had men who were bigger and men who were smaller. But as he entered me it was like we matched perfectly. It was like every cell found its mate.
And I was cumming again. And he was cumming too.
And that is how I broke the taboo and my son became a motherfucker.
I was asleep before he pulled out.
July 10, 1961
It seems that sex along with Excedrin and vodka is an excellent remedy for tumor-induced headaches.
After the long July 4th weekend when we were making love every couple of hours we’ve settled into a pattern. We’re a couple now. Husband and wife in all but the legalities.
And I don’t even feel like a cradle robber.
Friday he said he wanted to go out with me. When I asked what he meant he said he wanted to take me on a date and I hurt his feelings when I got the giggles.
Sometimes I forget that he’s only 18.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“What did you do when you were, you know, dating?” he replied.
And that made me stop and think.
I couldn’t take him to a party with friends.
I couldn’t take him to a bar somewhere.
And then I thought of the mountains.
“Let’s go to Red Feathers for the weekend,” I said.
And so we did.
The lodge where we went a couple of times a year had a restaurant, a bar, and live music on Friday and Saturday nights in the summer. I called and they did have a room.
I got him out of school at noon on Friday and we were off in the Cadillac and it felt wonderful.
I realized that for the first time since Davey and I have been, gosh, “involved?” “A couple?”
Anyway, we wouldn’t have to hide that we were together. Oh, I figured we’d get looks, but so what.
In the room, the first thing he wanted to do, of course, was make love.
He’s getting more and more skilled and God he’s a quick learner.
He had me on the bed, my knees pulled up until they touched my boobs while he played with my clitoris, taking me to the edge and holding me there until my breathing was little pants punctuated by “please baby, please Davey, please honey, please baby…..”
But he didn’t finish me. Instead, he got off of the bed and took off his clothes, telling me to stay there.
God, I was so excited watching him.
And as he took his position, his knees touching my ass in that awkward position he had me in, and then as he guided himself inside of me he was telling me “wait now mom, don’t you cum yet.”
I was SO close I didn’t think I could hold back.
“Wait now, wait for me,” he kept saying as his rhythm sped up.
And then suddenly “now” and we were cumming together and I thought my head would explode. It hurt, but it felt good all at once.
When I could breathe again I managed to whisper “where did you learn that?” And he just smiled and tapped his temple with a forefinger.
And then the headache struck with such force I almost passed out. I laid there, sort of whimpering, while he got my vodka bottle out of the suitcase.
July 16, 1961
What a wonderful weekend it was.
[Author's Note: If you would like to follow as David and Mary's doomed love develops, please leave a comment.]
About the author
College degrees in teaching, history, and economics.
Veteran, Vietnam ERA but I never, EVER, put myself in the same league as those guys who went over there and did it. I was an Air Force analyst.
Retired now, and write for fun and profit.