Don’t Be A Mommy’s Boy

It started with a question no man ever wants to hear.

“Babe, how come you’ve never told me anything about your ex-girlfriends?”

I laughed it off, shrugged, and said, “Umm, where is this coming from?”

But her eyes didn’t move from me. They stayed sharp, curious, almost… hungry.

For a moment, I felt like prey.

When I first met Claire, she was magnetic. The kind of woman who could silence a room just by walking into it. Her laugh was bold, her eyes piercing, her confidence overwhelming. I thought I was lucky. Every friend of mine told me I had hit the jackpot.

But behind the smoky eyeliner and that perfect lipstick, there was something else. Something I ignored in the name of love.

She didn’t just want my time. She wanted all of me.

And she wanted to know everything—especially the things I didn’t want to share.

At first, it was harmless questions. Who was my first kiss? Did I ever cheat on anyone? Did I still dream about someone else when I slept?

But soon, she wanted names. Then pictures. Then stories so detailed that I could see my ex-girlfriends’ faces forming in the shadows of her bedroom wall.

Whenever I refused, she pouted, twisted her lips, and whispered, “Don’t be a Mommy’s boy. Don’t hide behind innocence. I want the real you.”

I should have walked away then. But love—or what I thought was love—can turn chains into bracelets, cages into comfort.

One night, she came to bed with strange symbols drawn across her face in black eyeliner. Ancient markings that I didn’t recognize, curling down her cheeks like rivers of shadow.

I laughed nervously. “What’s this?”

She only smirked. “A game. Let’s summon your past, shall we?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, low and rhythmic, as though she were chanting. My skin crawled.

The candlelight flickered, and I swear the air grew heavy. I saw shadows forming on the wall, long fingers stretching, faces appearing—faces I knew.

Ex-girlfriends I hadn’t thought about in years.

Claire’s eyes locked onto mine. “You never left them, did you? They live here.” She tapped her temple. Then, softly, she traced a finger across my chest. “And here.”

That night, I dreamt of them. Not in the usual way—no warmth, no nostalgia. Their eyes were hollow, their lips cracked, their hands pulling me down into dark water. I woke up gasping, clawing at my throat.

Claire lay beside me, smiling. “See? Now you’re honest.”

The questions turned into demands. She wanted blood. Not metaphorically—literally. Just a drop, on her altar of candles and broken mirrors.

“Don’t be a Mommy’s boy,” she teased, pressing the knife into my palm. “Be a man. Give me your truth.”

Every instinct screamed at me to run. But I stayed. Maybe because I was weak. Maybe because I was afraid of what would happen if I left.

One night, I caught my reflection in her cracked mirror. My eyes were ringed in shadows, my skin pale, my smile forced. I didn’t recognize myself. I wasn’t her boyfriend anymore—I was her offering.

And the worst part? A piece of me wanted to surrender.

The last night I saw Claire, the house was silent. No laughter, no chants, no whispers. Just silence.

I walked into the bedroom, and she was gone. All that remained was her lipstick-stained glass, the candle wax dripping like melted flesh, and the words scrawled across the wall:

“Don’t Be A Mommy’s Boy.”

Sometimes, I still hear her voice in my dreams. Sometimes, I see her symbols when I close my eyes.

And sometimes, when I wake up in the dead of night, I smell her perfume on the pillow beside me.

She isn’t gone.

She’s waiting.