Robert Lubrican - A Model Mother

She drove for what seemed like twenty minutes before she said anything. I’m sure it wasn’t that long. It’s only a ten minute ride to our house from campus. Then again, we didn’t go straight home. She stopped at a liquor store on the way.

"You stay here. I’ll be right back," she said.

Yes, that’s the first thing she said after we left the parking lot. There was no explanation, no motherly expression about how things would be fine and for me not to worry. Instead, the first thing she said to me was to tell me to stay in the car.

I finally had a chance to gather some thoughts. My heart rate slowed and colors looked more clear. She was back in almost no time, with the ubiquitous long, tall, brown paper bag clutched in her hand. She put it in the trunk for some reason and then got into the car. She didn’t start it, but turned sideways to face me.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t think you’d find out."

"How could I not find out?" I asked.

"You didn’t tell me you were taking art," she pointed out. "You didn’t tell me anything about what classes you’re in."

"I guess not," I admitted.

"I know boys pull away from their mothers," she said. "It’s still painful."

"I’m not trying to pull away from you," I said.

"Really? After tonight you must hate me."

"Mom, I couldn’t possibly hate you," I said. Worry stabbed into me. My mom was the only person in the world who I really trusted. She’d taken care of me through thick and thin and I knew it hadn’t been easy. She’d sacrificed unimaginably for me and I loved her more than anybody else on Earth.

"Not even after tonight?"

"I was just shocked, that’s all," I said. "I’m still trying to understand."

She started the car and backed out. She didn’t explain anything.

"Seat belt," I reminded her, after the dinging of the dashboard didn’t seem to register.

She got her seat belt fastened and stared straight ahead. Home was only a few minutes away and there was still a strained silence as we got out of the car and went in. She pulled a bottle of sour mash whiskey from the bag and opened it. She took a hit straight from the bottle and I heard her gulp.

This was new. I’d seen my mom have a cocktail now and then. Usually she drank screwdrivers, and then only one, while she watched NCIS or something.

"Can I have some of that?" I asked.

"No," she said, automatically. "You’re too young."

"But not too young to see you naked, showing off everything you have," I said.

She sat down in her recliner and took another hit from the bottle. She was drinking way too much and way too fast.

"You must think I’m a slut," she said.

I almost laughed. Almost. The last person I’d think of as a slut was my mother. As far as I knew, she’d never been on a date in her life. She never brought men home, and never stayed out overnight, unless she was at some real estate convention. Even then she called me every night. If she was slutting it up in some hotel, she wouldn’t be calling her son while she did it, right?

"You’re not a slut," I said.

"I was in high school," she said. "That’s why I ended up pregnant with you."

She tipped the bottle up again.

"Mom," I said, gently, "give me the bottle. I’m not going to drink any. You’re just going too fast. You’ll get sick."

"I just wanted to make some mad money," she moaned. "I didn’t think it would hurt anything. I almost chickened out, but Maureen said it would be fine."

"You know Mrs. Gaskill?" I asked, taking the bottle from her fingers. About a third of it was gone. Turns out my mother can knock them back with the best of them!

"We’re in Pilates together," she said.

I knew my mom belonged to a gym. She’d gotten a deal because she sold the owner a house. I knew she went religiously, and I’d known it kept her in shape. Now I knew just how much shape it kept her in.

"How about that?" I said.

"So you don’t hate me?"

I got down on my knees in front of her chair.

"Mom, I love you. I’ll always love you. Stop worrying about that."

She scooted forward and I got a somewhat awkward hug.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. And suddenly she was crying.

If you want to destroy a big, tough fireman, just hug him and cry. We turn into bunny rabbits. Or something. Something soft and weak.

"He was such a bastard," she cried into my neck, "but he gave me you."

I realized she was talking about my father. This was something else new. She never talked about my father. I’d asked her about him several times, and each and every time she replied, "I don’t think about him, and I don’t talk about him. He will never be in your life."

"What about my father?" I asked, thinking she might be off guard enough to let some kind of information spill.

What I got was a gentle snore in my ear.

I had enough experience with alcohol (unknown to my mother, of course) to realize that a third of a fifth of whiskey on a basically empty stomach is a recipe for … well, for passing out.

She was breathing okay, so I practiced my fireman’s carry and slung her over my shoulder. I carried her up to her bedroom, aware of her body pressing against mine. Those perfect breasts I had stared at for hours that night were touching my back. Her perfect ass (I hadn’t actually seen that, but I was sure it was as perfect as the rest of her) was cupped in my hand. I gently laid her on her bed and those perfect legs landed more or less straight, feet apart, forming a natural inverted Vee that led to the good parts.

She’d let her hair down and now it was covering her face. I brushed it aside, to make her more comfortable, and I still think today that’s what gave me the idea to remove her clothes. I didn’t do it to ogle her. At least not exactly. I really did think she’d be more comfortable without them on. Somewhere along the line, though, I guess I got a little creepy. After I got her blouse off, which wasn’t too hard because she was as limp as a noodle, I worked at getting her jeans off. They were a lot tighter and in the process of jerking and tugging them, they pulled her panties down with them. Those panties were powder blue and they were bikini style. If you’d have asked me what kind of panties my mother wore, assuming I didn’t paste you one for asking, I’d have probably said they were granny panties or something. Seeing these wispy, sexy things, though, didn’t seem at all odd anymore. Not after seeing what they covered.

That left her in only her bra. Getting things off of her had been difficult enough that I didn’t want to try to put PJs on her. I stood there, thinking, trying to imagine her waking up and discovering she was wearing only her bra. That would be distinctly creepy, at least to me. I picked up the panties, thinking about putting them back on her. Then it occurred to me that I’d seen her naked already. Nobody would be more aware of that than her. So I just took her bra off and tucked her in.

I confess I stared at her for a while before I covered her up. That’s the creepy part.

Or maybe the creepy part is that I got another boner while I did it.

At least I went online and stared at some anonymous porn while I jerked off to get rid of the erection.

I didn’t set my alarm because the next morning was a Saturday. When I woke up I smelled bacon. Mom liked to make pancakes, bacon and eggs on Saturdays. It was kind of a tradition. The fact that I smelled that made me feel better, because that meant my mother was not cowering in bed and was at least trying to act normal.

I think the normalcy of that bacon scent is why I did what was normal for me, too. That was to bounce out of bed and, wearing the boxers I already had on, went to get breakfast.