Robert Lubrican - A Model Mother

"You’re sweet," she said.

"I’m who you made me," I countered.

"And you really don’t mind if I continue to pose?"

Now I leaned back. She’d been honest with me. I owed her at least the same.

"Actually … no. I don’t mind."

"Why?"

I owed her this honesty, but that didn’t mean it was easy to give it.

"I guess some part of me - a guy part - appreciates how you look. I wasn’t kidding when I said you were smoking hot. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. It’s just true. At least I think so."

"I see," she said.

"Are you disappointed?" I asked.

"I don’t know," she said. "I have to think about that. I have to think about why I decided to pose that way, too."

"Why?"

"I know what men think when they look at me dressed. I also know that taking my clothes off invites a certain amount of objectification, and I hate that. And yet, I did it. You said there are at least some men out there who don’t think only about sex. And then you turn around and say you like looking at me … like that. That suggests things, Bobby."

"I said there are good guys out there, Mom. I didn’t say they never think about sex. They just control themselves. They do care how the woman feels."

"So you thought about … think about it, too," she said.

"Of course. I’m normal."

"Bobby, I don’t think you’re supposed to think about your mother that way."

"You’re right," I said. "But then again, I’m not the first son to do that."

"What?"

So I told her about what we’d studied in my English Literature class, the previous semester. We’d gone over Sophocles' Theban plays, in which Oedipus accidentally fulfilled a prophecy that he would end up killing his father and marrying his mother. I had to explain the whole story to her, but ended up by saying that if all this had been written about thousands of years ago, then the concept of a son getting turned on by his mother wasn’t anything new. I also explained about how Sigmund Freud thought it was actually common.

"I wish I could have gone to college," she said, when I wound down. "You get to learn the most fascinating things."

"That’s easy to say when you’re not the one being tested on all that material," I said.

"So," she said, staring at my chest again, "if a mother thought her son was handsome and even … sexy … that wouldn’t be the end of the world?"

Her meaning was clear. I felt zings in my testicles.

"I guess not," I said, weakly.

"Good," she said. "I feel better. Now. I have a house to show at eleven. I’d better get ready to go."

And just like that, the earthquake that had shaken my world for the last twelve or so hours, settled down.

I never thought about the fact that most earthquakes usually have aftershocks.

If this were a made-up story on a porn site, then the next chapter would be where I stumbled into the bathroom while my mother was taking a shower, or something like that, and things went crazy and I had torrid sex with her, or she fucked me relentlessly or whatever. But this isn’t that kind of story.

Everything was just as normal as pie for the next week, except that I kept trying to get more out of her about my dad. And my friends kept trying to get more out of me about my old babysitter. Like where she lived, and if I was banging her. If you’re a guy, then you know how guys are. If you’re a girl, trust me, you don’t want to know. I was able to ignore that part, but I couldn’t get out of my head the image of a high school senior climbing on top of a helpless cheerleader and basically raping her.

It was two days later when, at breakfast again, I asked, "So, do you know where he is?"

"Who?"she asked.

"The quarterback," I said. I just couldn’t call him "my father."

"You don’t want to meet him, Bobby," she said.

"Yes I do. I want to kick his cowardly ass," I said.

"You want nothing to do with him," said Mom. "That has served me very well for nineteen years. If you never set eyes on him you’ll be the better for it."

"I still want to clean his clock," I growled.

"And end up in jail for assault?"

"I’ll wear a mask," I said.

"Bobby, baby, I love you so much. You’re the only thing good that ever came from that man. So he’s a prick. So what? We didn’t need him back then and we don’t need him now. Don’t let him be a disappointment in your life.”

"Okay," I groaned. "I’ll try to be less angry about it. Besides. He did me a favor."

"What favor?" she asked.

"If he hadn’t gotten you pregnant, I wouldn’t be here. And if I wasn’t here, I would never have gotten to see my smoking hot mother posing on a podium." I grinned.

"I’m not smoking hot, Bobby," she said.

"Oh yes you are," I said. "Like I sakd,talk to my friends. They won’t stop talking about you. By the way, thanks for saving me with that babysitter stuff."

"It was true," she said. "I did take care of you when I was fifteen."

"I read somewhere that the best undercover cops build their false identity on a fragment of truth," I said. "Maybe you should have been a cop."

"I don’t think so. You said they talk about me. What do they say?"

"You don’t want to know," I said.

"If I didn’t want to know I wouldn’t have asked," she said, a frosty tone entering her voice.

I decided to shock her.

"Well, among other things, they want to know if I’m banging you."

She blinked.

"Maybe I don’t want to know," she said.

"I told you so," I replied.

"Yes, you did," she said. "But I still want to know. Is that all?"

I was surprised, but I answered her.

"They asked me if I know where you live, and if you’re married or not. Stuff like that."

"What did you tell them?"

"Well, I didn’t tell them I was banging you, if that’s what you’re worried about," I said.

"Of course not," she said. "But what did you tell them?"

"Well Don and Phil - you met them the other night - wanted to know if I could hook them up with you."

"You’re kidding. They’re just boys!"

"That’s what I told them. I told them you liked actual men, instead of wet-behind-the-ears punks."

"And what did they say to that?"

"Phil claims he has a huge dick, that makes a women forget about all other men. Stuff like that. It’s juvenile bullshit. Those guys are a lot more like that stereotype of men you had."

"Have," she corrected me. "So far I haven’t met any of these good guys you say are out there." She frowned. "Except for you," she amended.

"Well, they’re harmless. They’d spike your drink with Everclear, too, but only to get you in the mood. They wouldn’t force you. But you’ll never go to a party they’re at, so you’re safe."

"So, does this Phil person really have a big … penis?"

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I couldn’t believe she’d asked that.

"It’s not for me," she said. "Maureen says she’s looking for a boy toy … somebody uncomplicated, who won’t want any entanglements."

"You’re shitting me!" I gasped.

"You’re all grown up, now," she said, sounding injured. "Don’t be shocked."

"Isn’t she married?" I asked.

"No. She divorced her ex for cheating on her, but she still wears the ring to ward off unwanted advances. I’m not the only woman who thinks most men are pigs, Bobby. She just wants somebody to have fun with. Don’t ask me why."

"I’m available," I said. It just slipped out.

"No you are not!" she barked.

I wanted to argue about that, but I knew better. My mother and I had survived against the odds. We’d been successful because we worked together, but along the way I learned to recognize that voice she sometimes used that announced she would brook no argument.