What a bastard I must have been; what an abominable shit. If there are years I'd like to revisit it would be those from when I was around twelve to sixteen, just to see if I could do a better job second time around.
On second thoughts I don't think I'd like to revisit them. I've heard people say, "Those are the best years of your life." They may be for some, but not for me. They were the loneliest years of my life, and no wonder given the sort of arsehole I was.
Always looking for an argument and when I got one saying the most stupid and illogical things just to win it; always irritable and complaining; abusing the teachers; I was suspended from school at least three times and came close to being expelled.
Those were the years of seething hormones, when you shoot upwards but not outwards, so you're a skinny gangling thing, and you tell yourself you're ugly and pimply and no one, especially a girl, could ever like you - that proved to be a self fulfilling prophesy.
Then there's the pubic hair and an enlarged penis that always seem to be horny, which I suppose is okay if you've got someone to play your horn with, but I hadn't, so I had to learn to play solo.
I used to go for long walks on my own, and although I pretended I liked being on my own, I was really praying I'd meet someone to walk with and talk to. Of course, if that someone was female and she said "Let's go behind that bush and fuck," it would have been a bonus, but it never happened.
To add to my woes I caught a vile disease; it's called, "Liking classical music." I caught it from my mother who along with her other maladies suffers from "Going to the theatre syndrome," and an infestation of "I like reading poetry."
The overarching infection mother suffers from is "Being a university lecturer in English."
As those who suffer from these types of ailments will realise, they do not make for popularity when you're a teenager. I seemed unable to engage in activities popular among my peers, and even in sport I went in for long distance running which is hardly a team sport.
If I could turn back the clock and return to those days there would be one reason and one only. I would like to try and heal the many wounds I must have given mother at that time with my petulant and insulting behaviour.
Perhaps some of you have heard the old song, "You Always Hurt the One you Love;" a sloppy and sentimental piece, but with more than a grain of truth. I think I must have loved mother a great deal if the hurts I inflicted are the measure.
Looking back now at those days from the vantage point of f******n years on, I can see how much mother had to endure, not only from me, but my father as well.
Some said my father was a genius. He and mother had met when both of them were just starting as tutors at the university; my father in the Physics Department. It was expected that he would have a brilliant career; sadly it never happened.
How it all began I'm not sure because I was only a k** when my father first started to drink excessively. By the time I did understand about such things father was an alcoholic. In addition he had taken to gambling believing that mathematically he could come up with a system that would mean he would always win.
Of course, as he explained endlessly, like all such systems it had to be perfected. In the process of perfecting his system to my knowledge he twice emptied his and mother's joint bank account and ran into overdraft. There may have been more times that I did not know of.
By the time I was around eleven his career was in tatters. He had been dismissed, not only from his university position, but from a series of jobs and was on a fast downward slope.
There were times when he had treatment and it looked as if he would overcome his alcoholism and gambling obsession, but it never lasted.
How or why mother tolerated his behaviour and why she stayed with him is still a mystery to me. Knowing her as I do I think she is one of the minority of people who these days take their marriage vows seriously; that and the hope that one day father would get back on track again.
I can recall a time when I was fifteen and I'd just been suspended from school for the second time and father was going through one of his frequent drinking and gambling periods. I found mother sitting at the kitchen table crying. I had never seen her cry before. I wanted to comfort her, but didn't know how.
I suppose my inability to say or do anything arose from the guilty knowledge that I was in part responsible for her distress.
Mother's hope that father would change was a vain one, and finally it was he who made an end of it. One day he left the house and didn't return. Mother eventually contacted the police and reported him as missing. At first I don't think they took it seriously, no doubt believing it was just one more guy who'd run off with another woman.
It became serious when a couple walking along an isolated beach found a heap of clothes that were eventually identified as belonging to father. In addition his car was parked at the top of the cliffs that skirted the beach. No body was ever recovered and at the inquest an open verdict was given.
Most people, including mother, believed he had committed suicide, and that seems rational enough, but I'm not so sure.
What are the alternatives? Accidental death; he went for a swim, got into trouble and drowned? Murder; that's a possibility, the murderer wanting it to make it look like suicide; I think that the police believed it might be murder and questioned mother, me and a few other people, but it all came to nothing.
I have what most would think an absurd belief that father is still alive. He knew he had ruined his life and thought he could make a fresh start, so he faked suicide and disappeared. I sometimes wonder if one day he'll just walk into the house. I don't think I really grieved over father's death. It was in fact something of a relief not to have him around either boozed out of his mind, or bringing yet another financial disaster upon us, or more likely both at the same time.
I couldn't read mother at that time. Always a very quiet person she became almost incommunicado for a while. Perhaps it was something like this that she had expected to happen and she probably felt a sense of relief that it was over and was in the process of digesting it.
I am tempted to call father's death, if that is what it was, a tragic event, but the real tragedy had taken place long before his actual death when he began to ruin a promising career, and with it what could have been a fulfilling relationship with mother.
From what I have been told, when they married they were seen as "The beautiful couple." That's how they were for some time. From the wedding photographs I could see that my father was a very handsome man and mother undoubtedly an attractive woman.
Eventually my father's drinking had started to mar his looks, and by the time of his disappearance my mother was still attractive but had a weary look about her.
Not long after these events I had my sixteenth birthday. I think what had happened to my father and the waste of it all had a positive effect on me. I can remember coming to the conclusion I'd better start doing something about my life and future.
Perhaps my hormones had settled down a bit, and instead of being a long streak of misery, and while still growing upwards, I could see the first signs of my filling out. I even flattered myself that I resembled my father when he was young.
It was during the following year that I not only got down to studying and attempting to be a less obnoxious person, when I also had what I call my "Near sex experience."
It came about like this: there was a girl in my class called Mercy. She was a buxom creature with frizzy red hair and a white freckled complexion. Her major asset was huge breasts that threatened to burst out of her clothing. Some of the guys used to joke about those might mammary glands, saying there they arrived on the scene five minutes before the rest of her.
At one time she had been very popular with the other guys in the class, but I'd noted they'd gradually dropped away from her.
I should have taken a warning from this drop off in her popularity, but being somewhat naïve about such things I didn't. I don't know how I managed it, but I sc****d up the courage to ask her for a date. She accepted and we went to see a film at what was known locally as "The Flea Pit." Believe it or not this was my first date with a girl.
Some time during the film our hands touched and fingers intertwined. By the end of the programme our hands were hot and sweaty and my penis was hard and dripping eagerly.
I'd taken over my father's car so I started to drive Mercy home. She lived a little way out of town where there is a small cluster of houses near the cliff top. Before we got to the house Mercy said, "Why don't we stop here and look at the moon reflecting on the sea."
I should point out that there was no moon in evidence that night.
This, I decided, was it. I stopped the car, its nose pointing out to sea, and took Mercy's hand again. She leaned her head on my shoulder and screwing up my courage I kissed her. I admit it wasn't a very expert kiss since I'd had no prior experience of kissing a girl – well only mother when I was a k**.
Mercy turned it into a full-blown job, and in seconds her tongue felt as if it was halfway down my throat. I responded – or is it reacted? She was wearing a low cut dress that had her nearly naked to the nipples.
I shoved my hand down the top of her dress to take hold of a breast. Then I got my reward. She struck me a stinging blow across the face and said, "You filthy bastard, I'm not that sort of girl."
I think she said a few more things in similar vein but I was recovering from the shock of the blow. She got out of the car and stomped off up the road disappearing her rear end wagging wrathfully (she had a rear end to match her boobs) into the dark. I suppose I should have driven after her but since her house was only about half a kilometre from where I had parked I let her stomp on.
That ended my near sex experience. I learned later that most of the other guys in my class had received the same treatment; a nice lead up and then a swipe across the face. I also learned she was known as "Balls breaker Bested," (Bested was her f****y name).
Being somewhat hesitant when it came to things social I made no further attempts to date girls.
The strange thing is, about six months after my close encounter with Mercy she left school. Rumour had it that she was pregnant and daddy was a widower farmer some twenty years older than Mercy.
The rumours proved to be true since their wedding was announced in the local paper. About a year later I saw her outside the supermarket pushing a baby in a pram. She passed me without a glance.
No doubt the farmer was somewhat more experienced in matters sexual than most of the guys who had attempted Mercy, and maybe he got a bit insistent and had f***efully invaded Fortress Mercy Vagina which lacked the defence of the contraceptive pill.
I considered I'd had a narrow escape, because if Mercy had been merciful and let me relieve my overfull testes into her, I might have been daddy and then saddled later in life with an overweight partner with couple of collapsed and dangling bosoms. I think a number of the guys breathed a sigh of relief.
Mother gradually came out of her time of silence and started to talk again. Not only did she talk, but she smiled, something I hadn't seen her do for a long time. Since my years of near insanity which they call "Adolescence" seemed to have calmed down we were getting along very well together; which might have been another reason for her smiles.
Mother also took to going out occasionally in the evenings; something she had rarely done when father was around. Once when she was out at a faculty function, father, well and truly boozed, had decided to cook something in a pan of oil.
During the course of this the cooking oil had caught fire and in attempting to put it out he somehow managed start a fire in the kitchen. It was just as well I was at home and smelt the smoke, because by the time I got to the kitchen the top of a low wooden cupboard was soaked with oil and burning very merrily.
After that mother tried never to go out when father was d***k, and since he mostly was d***k, that constricted her life.
Now, with her newly acquired freedom she started to go out on dates with some of the younger and single members of the faculty – with a couple of divorced guys as well I believe.
She never said much about these dates but they did go to concerts and theatres, and that was also something mother had been denied in those last few years when my father was around.
Mother never said much about the men she dated, but none of them seemed to last very long. I think that after her experiences with father she was wary, and didn't want to get too deeply involved. Whether or not these relationships became sexual I didn't know.
So for a while she played the merry widow, and then that petered out and she spent more time at home with me. I don't know why the dating tapered off but guessing I would say that the men wanted more than mother was prepared to give.
I wondered half humorously if she slapped their faces if and when they tried something. I don't really think so because mother isn't the slapping type. Perhaps she would be more likely to give them a brief dissertation on the virtues of abstinence.
Actually I don't think it was attempts on her virtue that caused the dating decline; it was more likely to be suggestions of something long term like marriage. On that score I had some sympathy for the guys because gradually I was coming to realise that mother was the sort of woman that any virile male would like to be married to.
Now that's another odd thing; I'd never really considered mother's looks while I was a k**, nor during that time when I was half k** and half adult. It was during those last two years at high school that I came to appreciate what a fine looking woman she was.
The departure of my father, apart from that time of silence, seemed to have peeled some years from her. For a long time her only relief from father and I had been her work. How tutoring a bunch of dim students could be a relief only shows what a lousy pair father and I were.
By the time I was s*******n mother had risen to become a senior lecturer in the faculty, and went off each day to regale the slow of wit with her love of literature. Over the years she had managed to instil some of that love in me, and with my post sixteenth birthday resolve to study hard, I started to excel in English and English literature. This started to rub off on other subjects, success, as it were, breeding success.
When I was a c***d mother had sometimes taken me to museums and art galleries and, if she considered it suitable, to some concerts and theatre.
During my pubescence if mother asked me to go with her to the theatre or a concert I'd refuse in a snarly manner. It wasn't that I didn't want to go, but going with mother seemed such a k** thing to do, so I ended up not going at all.
I also think that there was so much misery and confusion inside me I wanted to pass it on to someone else, and as the song says, it's always the one you love that you hurt. God know how many hurtful things I said and did to mother in those days.
In the end mother gave up asking me to go out with her, so it came as a mild but pleasant surprise when one evening she asked me to go and see a play with her.
It happened to be a Shakespeare play that was on the faculty curriculum that year and I didn't have mother all to myself. She had made up a small party of her students to go to the theatre with her. As best as I can recall there were three guys and five girls.
I sat through a rather average performance of "All's Well That Ends Well." Afterwards we went for a cup of coffee and I discovered that these were the brighter of mother's students. The discussion was really a critique of the performance and in their view it hadn't stacked up well.
They were all older than me, one of the women being at least forty; what they call "A mature age student." One thing was clear, they all admired mother and seemed fond of her.
I kept quiet just listening and watching. It was obvious that the guys admired mother for more than her knowledge. I noticed that while she was friendly with them, she kept them at a little distance, quickly turning aside anything that seemed like a suggestive remark.
For me mother had always been just mother. It was no surprise to me that men somewhere near her own age would be interested in her, but young guys almost half her age? Observing this I started to take more notice of mother's appearance.
I came to realise just how attractive she was, but it was an attractiveness I found hard to define. It was one evening that her strange beauty was driven home to me.
I was sitting in the lounge idly looking through an old photograph album when she came into the room. I glanced up, and my attention was riveted. Evening sunlight was coming in through the glass of the French windows and she was caught in its golden glow.
She stood looking at me for a few moments, and then giving a beautifully impatient movement of her head she shook back the ruddy brown curls and waves of her hair and they seemed to flash and gleam in the fading sunlight.
She smiled and asked, "What are you doing?"
"Visiting the past," I replied.
She came and sat on the arm of the chair and looked down at the photographs. I was aware of a faint fragrance, a fragrance that I had experienced more potently with Mercy, but with her it had been mingled with a distinct smell of perspiration. With mother it was delicate, yet subtle as it was it screamed "Female."
I looked up at her face and although I had seen those features thousands of times, I seemed to be seeing them anew.
Beneath that gorgeous tangle of dark hair her forehead was almost as smooth and clear as a contented c***d's. There was also something innocent about her short, slightly tip tilted nose.
Between their narrow lids her cat green eyes seemed to reflect inner laughter, that laughter being reflected in the corners of her mouth in a faintly ironic smile that seemed to say, "I have known pain and more may come, but at this moment I am content."
Her mouth seemed full of contradictions; the lips were full and looked as if they had been carved by a sculptor; sensitive, voluptuous yet grave and sad; lips that were defenceless in their brooding sensuality, they seemed to be abandoned to their helplessness by her small, unassertive chin.
Her neck long and finely moulded, it ended at her gently sloping shoulders, and there, concealed yet indicated by the swell of the shirt she was wearing, breasts that suggested they were not overly large but firm. For those who have some knowledge of these things I can tell you that I had once seen her bras in the linen basket with the label 34C on them. They were not like the Mercy tits that must have been in the 42G range.
Since she was sitting I could not properly see her body, but of course I knew she was slim, with slender yet nicely shaped arms and legs, her feet and hands small.
She pointed to a faded sepia photograph. "Your great grandmother," she said. For all the fussy clothes that entombed her and the faded state of the photo, I could detect the resemblance between her and mother.
I have used the word attractive to describe mother, but it is more than her looks that gives rise to that word. In a crowd she might warrant a casual glance from the female hunting males, but unless they were perceptive they might not glance again. It was some inner quality that shone through the physical that really deserved the appellation attractive, and it was on that evening I first came to understand this.
That may sound ridiculous, for how could someone who had been part of my life since my birth – no, even before my birth, since conception – not be known to me. Of course she had been known, but it takes a degree of maturity to be able to identify the things you love in that person.
Even after all these years I still find it difficult to describe those aspects of her. It's like trying to enter into the infinite depths of a person; but try I will.
A patience and loyalty that had been honed on the whetstone of the misery my father had brought upon her; love that had born my insulting, abusive behaviour, and my constant rebellious conduct at school and its consequences; an intelligence that was never used to strike another down but always to try and build up; sensitivity that gives rise to a compassion for those caught up in consequences of actions, whether self generated or not.
A female paragon? Perhaps. If you wish you can put it down to my prejudice; I only state what I have experienced with mother.
That particular evening, as mother bent over looking at the photographs, identifying this or that person or scene, I began the journey to a whole new way of looking at her.
After the first flush of the merry widow and that evening at the theatre, we started to spend increasing amounts of time together, and I was proud to be seen with her at the theatre and concerts.
When I finished high school and went on to major in sociology at the university I was even prouder. On several occasions we met up with some of my fellow students. They didn't know she was my mother, and I always introduced her simply as Aurora. I could see the looks of envy in their eyes; no doubt they thought I had got myself an older woman whose body I was enjoying.
Aurora, the goddess of the dawn; she was certainly the goddess of my dawn, leading me out into that glorious day we call "Love."
It took me a long time to identify the meaning of that love. It was a love that worshipped the goddess; a love that, like the courtly love of the Middle Ages, would have made any sacrifice for the loved one without asking anything in return except to be allowed to be in the presence of the beloved.
How foolish this seems when written on the page, but it was how I felt then, and have in modified form continued to feel to this very day.
When looking back I suppose most of us can identify certain moments in our lives that have been turning points. Some of those in my life I have already written of. Now I must relate at least two more.
The first of those occurred after mother and I had been out together to see Oscar Wilde's play "Lady Windermere's Fan."
Arriving home we had a nightcap before going to bed and mother asked, "Bruce am I being selfish?"
I was a bit taken aback by her question. "Selfish, how are you being selfish?"
"Well, I take up so much of your time. It can't be all that much fun taking your mother out."
It was really the case that she took me out since she paid for everything, but after digesting what she had said I replied, "I like being with you so why should you think you're being selfish?"
Mother had never really questioned my relationships with girls; not that there would have been much to relate, Mercy being my sole and hardly successful date; but now mother probed a little more.
"Surely there's someone, a girl you'd rather be going out with?"
Now like most young guys I didn't like to admit I wasn't regarded by the girls as God's gift to them, and it was true that had I not been spending so much time on – what shall I call them, dates with mother? - I might have overcome my reticence and tried to date girls; I might even have started to get some sexual experience.
Trying to avoid the matter of the non-existent girl I'd rather be going out with I replied, "As long as I can go out with you, why should I look elsewhere."
Mother looked at me quizzically her head tilted slightly to one side, and then simply said, "Oh." She continued to look at me for a few moments as if trying to determine what I was really thinking, and then kissing me on the cheek she said, "Well, goodnight then."
That seemed to end the matter, and certainly she never questioned me again about the girls I'd rather be going out with in preference to her.
The second turning point came some months after mother's suggestion she was being selfish.
Mother was having one of what she called, "A clear out." This amounted to a couple of days of an ever increasing pile of redundant household detritus – the sort of stuff that accumulates without you really noticing it – plus outdated files from mother's study.
I had taken over what had once been father's study in the days when he still had a use for one. I was sitting there one evening trying to write a tutorial paper which I hoped would solve all the world's social problems.
Mother came in carrying what looked like a black box. "Look what I've found," she said excitedly.
"Ah, a black box," I responded without too much interest.
"No...no, it's and old nineteen thirties portable gramophone," she said triumphantly, putting it down on my desk and opening the lid.
I looked down at a turntable covered with some sort of green cloth. There was a speed regulator and what I later discovered to be a brake, a little box of needles and a thing that looked like a small old fashioned car crank handle.
I remembered seeing something like it in pictures but had no idea how it worked.
Mother demonstrated, putting the handle into a hole in the side of the box and winding it. She released the little brake, and after a moment of hesitation the turntable groaned into life.
"Where did you find it?" I asked.
"It was in that old cupboard in the shed. I think it belonged to your father's grandparents and when they died it somehow got left to us. I'd forgotten all about it; it's almost an antique; and that isn't all I found."
"I'll go and get them."
Mother left the room and I wound the handle again and experimented with the speed regulator. After a few minutes mother returned carrying a dozen or so old records. They proved to be dance music, waltzes, fox trots and other dance styles of the past.
Mother put on one of the records and for a while we listened, amused, to the squawk of old time music.
Mother seemed to be captivated by her find and as the first side of the record came to an end, which it did after a few minutes, she turned it over and played the other side.
"You know," she said, "Your father and I used to go ball room dancing when we first met."
This was news to me. "Is this the sort of music you danced to?" I asked.
Mother laughed and said, "Well, some of it, but there was more modern music as well and the sound reproduction was much better, and often there would be dance bands."
We listened to a couple more records; that was when I heard the song, "You Always Hurt the One you Love," sung by a group called "The Mills b*****rs."
Mother said, "I haven't danced for a long time, dance with me."
"Dance with me."
"But I've never...I can't...I've never..."
Mother looked at me thoughtfully; "You've never...that's something I hadn't thought about, but of course, they don't dance like that anymore, do they?"
My knowledge of dancing was extremely limited but I'd attended one high school dance in order to sit bored and lonely throughout the evening. From what I could see the pairs danced a couple of metres apart - some of them danced on their own. They shuffled their feet, waved their arms in the air and pulled strange faces at each other, including poking their tongues out.
It reminded me of the New Zealand Maori Haka I'd seen the New Zealand rugby team perform before the match begins. I gathered it was intended to intimidate the opposition.
It was me who was intimidated when mother said, "Come on, I'll teach you."
I felt a strange paralysis creep over me and I protested, "I can't...I can't..."
"Of course you can," mother said, "I'll show you how to waltz, it's easy, now stand up."
For the next half hour it was slow-slow-quick-quick-slow without music. I'd more or less got the hang of it and wasn't feeling so embarrassed, and then mother put on one of the records and we danced to that – well mother danced while I shambled.
The style of dancing was very different from what I had seen at the high school. Instead of dancing far apart you held your partner in your arms with a space of about twenty centimetres between you – or at least, that's how we began.
After a while I actually started to enjoy myself, but mother said that one of the problems was the carpet on the study floor. She suggested we transfer our activities to the lounge. It had a rather nice parquetry floor which lived most of its life under a carpet, but the carpet was one we could roll up.
We carried machine and records to the lounge, moved some furniture, rolled up the carpet and set the records playing again. I was getting into the swing of things and was not treading on mother's feet too often and I could see mother's face was flushed with pleasure.
We had maintained a twenty centimetre separation from the beginning, but suddenly mother pulled herself close to me and said, "It's nicer if our bodies are touching."
It was nicer in a provocative sort of way.
You must have gathered by now that my Aurora goddess worship had an element of the sensual about it. I suppose a lot of the guys in ancient times got a bit horny over their goddess worship, but the goddess was not their mother except in a metaphorical sense.
Ever since that time when I had been looking at the old photographs and I'd first really become conscious of mother as a woman – as a desirable female - I'd been playing my solo horn almost nightly, but in my fantasies it had been mother who accompanied me, and in those fantasies we made very sweet music.
With our bodies virtually locked together, what had been incipient for some time during our dancing, now came to full and throbbing maturity.
Mother, who was about five inches shorter than me laid her head on my shoulder. Her pelvis pressed tightly to me as our dancing was reduced to little more than shuffling on the spot. I could smell the fragrance of her hair and she was softly humming along with the tune.
"She'll feel it...she'll feel it..." I told myself, "she can't help but feel it."
I tried to pull my lower abdomen away and for a few moments we must have looked ridiculous, our upper bodies clinging and our lower parts arched away from each other.
Mother protested, "What are you doing darling, it's uncomfortable like this," and she pulled me back to her.
"Mum," I panted, "don't you think we should stop now, we've been..."
"Why, I'm enjoying this?"
"I know darling, I can feel it."
We stopped shuffling, but mother still clung to me.
She touched my face with her hand and smiling said, "It often happened like that in the days people danced like this."
"Der-did it?" I stammered.
She laughed softly and went on, "That's what it was about mostly, a preamble to mating."
"But I thought people didn't do that sort of thing back..."
"In the Dark Ages," she laughed. "You know one of the troubles with people your age is that you think you've invented sex."
"I don't think like that," I protested, "but...but..."
"But the magic's worked for you, hasn't it my love?"
"Yes, the magic we call sexual desire."
"Your mother? There's nothing to be worried about darling, nothing to feel embarrassed about; I'm not embarrassed, it's perfectly natural."
"Of course it is; it's rather flattering and exciting really, my son getting sexually aroused over me."
"But you're not like that."
"Aren't I? I'll let you into a little secret; mothers can get sexually aroused too."
"But not you."
"Oh my dear Bruce, I've known for a long time you've had me stuck up on a pedestal of your own making, but now I'm jumping off it. Now how do you know I haven't been trying to seduce you all evening?"
"Wouldn't I?" she said with a sly twinkle in her green eyes. "Let's dance again."
She left me for a few moments and put on another record and then came back and pulled herself close to me again. We started that shuffling on the spot once more.
She'd admitted she knew what she was doing to me, and the renewed dancing was making it worse. What enjoyment I'd had from our dancing started to diminish in the face of my ever increasing arousal that mother seemed to be deliberately fostering.
I got the distinct impression that she was slowly gyrating her pelvis over my hard manhood as if to tease me, and I could no longer stand it. I broke away from her and said, "I've had enough, I'm going to bed."
Mother looked disappointed and said, "But darling, you were just starting to really get the hang of it, and it was getting interesting."
I was incensed at her apparently deliberate and careless attempt to sexually provoke me, so I said abruptly "Goodnight," and left her.
She didn't need to jump off the pedestal I'd allegedly put her on because by her behaviour that evening she was a fallen idol as far as I was concerned; she now ranked along with Mercy as a balls breaker.
I undressed and got into bed. I had some horn playing that needed an urgent performance, but before I got started there was a knock on the door. It had to be mother since there was only there two of us in the house. I was inclined to tell her to piss off, but despite what I perceived as her inexcusable behaviour she still retained some aura of "mother," so I yelled out irritably, "Come in."
She didn't come in, but stuck her head round the door and asked, "Are you all right darling?"
"I'm fine," I growled, "why do you ask?"
"Oh, you left so abruptly just when we were having such a lovely time, and you seemed upset, so I wondered if..."
Not willing to admit that she'd got under my skin I said gruffly, "I just felt tired."
She looked me in silence for a few moments and then said, "As long as you're sure you're all right, it's just that you seemed..."
"I'm perfectly okay," I said, not too politely, "I just want to sl**p."
"Oh, goodnight then."
Her head disappeared and she shut the door.
Alone I set about the task of relieving my complaining testes of their burden – another solo performance. I don't think I'd ever been so fired up before. It was worse than with Mercy. I had to perform twice more that night, and despite my efforts to eliminate mother from the fantasies, at my climax she kept coming back.
I slept little that night, and in the morning didn't feel in the least like facing mother. I had a late lecture that day so I stretched out showering and dressing as long as I could.
When I look back now I realise that I had constructed a totally unfair and impossible image of mother. I had no right to place her above other mortals and then blame her because she wouldn't stay there.
She had her needs, as we all do, and that first night when she taught me to dance had awakened in her memories of happier days when she and father had danced and loved together. I, spoilt brat that I was, wanted to deny her those happy memories and the emotions that went with them.
By the time I got to the kitchen mother had gone, much to my relief. I had no appetite for breakfast, and settled for a cup of coffee and a slice of toast. As I left the kitchen I had to pass through the lounge and I noticed that the gramophone and the records were still there.
My first inclination was to smash the lot, but as I stood there looking at them a feeling of sadness came over me. God knows mother had always asked so little of me; she had loved me and protected me from some of the worst times with my father, and one of the few times she had asked something of me I had behaved like a petulant c***d.
So she had aroused in me sexual feelings for her, was that really so bad? Most probably as she danced with me she remembered when she and father were in love and when the dance was over they would go off somewhere and fulfil that love.
I knew for certain that they had been lovers before they got married because I'd once come across their marriage certificate along with my birth certificate, and they told the story.
That love between them had run out into the desert sands of sorrow and death, and I had denied mother that brief time of happy memories.
I felt sickened at my behaviour; a son who had claimed to adore his mother, and he couldn't bear a little sexual frustration for her sake. I wanted to cry at my lack of sensitivity, my selfishness and uncaring for her. What a pathetic return I had made for all she had done for me.
These thoughts continued to plague me during the day and I resolved to do better in the future. I would show her how much I loved her, no longer as the impossible goddess, but as a real human being.
Actually I didn't acquit myself very well that day; going to sl**p in one of the lectures and making the most ridiculous contributions during a tutorial.
When I got home mother was already there preparing a meal. She obviously hadn't believed my claim to be tired the previous evening because she was rather wary.
We usually gave each other a peck on the cheek at such times, but we didn't this time. We were both uncertain of each other just then.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, I suppose so," I lied, "what about you?"
"The students seemed to be particularly obtuse today, but perhaps it was me."
I tried to make a joke of it and said, "Aren't they always obtuse?"
She smiled sadly and said, "The trouble is, most of them don't really want to an education, what they want is a degree with the minimum of effort."
She shrugged and went on, "But there's always the compensation when you get one that loves what they're doing. That makes it all worthwhile."
"Suppose I try to cheer you up tonight?"
She laughed and asked, "And how do you propose to do that?"
"You liked it when we danced last night, even when I trod on your feet. Suppose we dance again tonight."
"But I got the impression you didn't like it Bruce."
"Oh, it was just a matter of getting used to it; what about teaching me some of the other dances?"
"Would you really like that?" she asked, looking somewhat surprised.
"Yes...yes I would, I'd like to try the tango, that record of "Jealousy" you played sounded really sexy."
I regretted that word sexy as soon as I'd said it, but it didn't seem to register with mother who laughed and said, "Oh no, no, that's very complicated. You can learn some of the other dances first."
"Right, you're on," I said, returning her laugh, "Nine o'clock and we dance for an hour."
"Nine it is then, now sit down and eat your dinner."
In my be-loving-to-mother mood I even volunteered to do all the clearing up after the meal.
Almost every evening, unless we were going out to a theatre or concert, we both had preparation work to do. Mother retired to her study and after the clearing up I went to mine.
At nine sharp we were both in the lounge ready for our dancing. We started with the only dance I'd learned, the waltz, but then mother started to teach me the quick step and the fox trot.
We went on for more than the allotted hour, and I was really beginning to enjoy myself.
At one point mother said that I might meet a girl who would like to go ballroom dancing, but I told her it was unlikely and I'd rather stick with her. Mother looked at me a little oddly, but said nothing.
For most of the time I think I was so focused on learning the dance steps that my sex organs remained calm. But towards the end mother put on a couple of waltzes and we started the body clinches again.
That stirred up the hormones and I found myself having a love-hate relationship with them. I went to bed that night and had to play my solo horn again, wishing it was a concerto with mother as the orchestra.
Over the following weeks we had many dance evenings, and I even got to learn the tango. That proved to be less sexy than I'd expected because I found I had to concentrate so hard on the movements.
Each time we seemed to end the evening with at least one waltz and it was always the case that we clung together, hardly moving, our pelvises glued to one another, and mother's head on my shoulder. This had the same arousing effect on me each time, and I finally had to face the fact that I was in love with my own mother.
If the goddess image had gone, it had been replaced with what had become for me the world's most desirable woman. I suppose that was also as unrealistic as the goddess image.
I made no overt sexual attempt on mother, the memory of my experience with Mercy still lingered and I was not going to risk another embarrassing rejection – a rejection that I had convinced myself I would get from mother if I overstepped the boundary of filial love.
Mother's enthusiasm for our dance sessions reached the point where she bought CD reissues of the old dance tunes and after that we were able to dispense with the gramophone and have the benefit of our modern sound system. That was just as well because the needles were wearing out and I'd discovered you couldn't buy them any more.
Nevertheless the old gramophone remained along with the records on the table where we had first placed it. They seemed to symbolise the change in the relationship between mother and me.
I had summoned up the courage to tell mother on a few occasions that I loved her, but I did not speak of the manner in which I loved her; but then I didn't need to tell her because she had been aware of that from the first time we had danced together and she'd felt my erection.
One Saturday mother was having another of her clearing out sessions, a mini one this time, concentrating on her wardrobe. It took a long time for her to decide what was to stay and what went to the Red Cross Charity Shop. I was working in my study and when she had finally packed up what was to go mother disappeared into her study.
We only emerged for a cup of tea or coffee and for lunch, and mother seemed to be rather excited. As I helped with the clearing up, and apropos of nothing, or so it seemed, mother suddenly kissed me on the lips and said, "You do know I love you, don't you?"
I started to say something like, "Yes, I know...," but she fled from the room, leaving me, as so often she did in those days, with an inflamed sex organ.
All afternoon she stayed in her study so I resorted first to my bedroom to try and rid myself of the awkward projection that was trying to burst out of my jeans, and from there to my study, although admittedly not to work. I lay back on the couch and read a novel for an hour and then feeling restless I went for a walk.
By the time I returned mother was busy preparing the evening meal and still had a look of repressed excitement. If we were not going out somewhere Saturday evenings they had become almost exclusively dance times. The abandoned television set that also lived in the lounge seemed to sit in its corner glowering angrily at us because of our neglect.
I think because Saturday nights had been the time that mother and father had gone ball room dancing mother and I had an extended dance time on those evenings. It was odd that although there were a few places that still held ballroom dances, neither of us ever suggested going to one of them; we seemed sufficient unto ourselves.
The pattern was that I took my shower first, dressed and then went to the lounge to prepare it for the upcoming gyrations. After that mother showered and dressed for the evening.
I had finished the furniture rearrangement and rolled up the carpet, and as mother had not appeared I lay back on the divan that ran along one wall and wondered what was keeping her so long.
When she did arrive she seemed to burst into the room saying, "Look what I found."
I looked and stayed looking.
"I found these right at the back of the wardrobe," she said, "It's what I used to wear when your father and I used to go dancing, I'd forgotten all about them."
I don't know why, but I'd always imaged mother wearing a long flowing dress on those occasions; what she was wearing was not a long flowing dress, far from it.
It was in two main parts: a sort of blouse that left bare her shoulders and exposed the top of her breasts and part of her cleavage, and it was clear that her breasts were unsupported since they jiggled voluptuously with her every movement.
The white mid-thigh skirt hung in pleats and seemed to emphasise her high tight buttocks as, like her breasts the pleats rippled and swung as she moved. In addition she was wearing dark green stockings and high heel shoes – normally mother was a low heel lady.
"What do you think?" she asked anxiously.
I thought, "My God, no wonder I got into her womb before they were married, but I said, "You look terrific mum, se... lovely."
"You really think so?"
"Yes...yes I do," I reassured her.
"Not too old fashioned?"
"No, not at all they make you look years younger."
She gave a funny quavering sort of laugh and said, "Then let's dance."
She set a CD going and we came into each other's arms.
I knew this was going to be a very hard evening, in at least two senses of that word.
Since we now didn't need to keep turning a record over every few minutes, we kept on dancing and as we did I could feel mother trembling in my arms.
For much of the time I seemed to be lost in her fragrance and the feel of her body close to mine. The band went into a series of waltzes and that was always the worst time as far as my erections were concerned.
Mother, jacked up on her high heels, instead of resting her head on my shoulder had it right beside my head.
She whispered, "We go beautifully together, don't we?"
My dancing had certainly improved so I said, "Yes we do."
I felt her trembling even more violently as she went on, "Then I think its tonight, don't you?"
"Yes, let's sit this one out, shall we?"
She guided me over to the divan and we sat.
There was a few seconds pause, and then suddenly she kissed me. Her tongue flickered over my lips and then pushed them apart. I felt her tongue exploring my mouth, not in the Mercy throat stabbing way, but slowly, deliciously, as her hand rested on my penis.
She stopped kissing me and said, "You've never been with a woman, have you?"
I gave the Mercy incident a miss and stammered, "Ner-no."
"Then I think it's time you did," she murmured as she unzipped my trousers. "We've waited long enough darling, but I had to be sure."
"That it was me you really wanted."
"But you m-must h-have known...must have felt..."
She drew out my penis and started to stroke its foreskin over the head. "I've taught you how to dance; now I'm going to teach you how to love. Lie back darling, it's the mating season and this one is all for you."
She pushed me back gently onto the divan and undid my belt and then drew off my trousers. She stroked my penis for a little longer saying, "I didn't realise you were so big, darling." I didn't know either because I'd never been in a position to make comparisons.
She pulled up her skirt and I saw she was not wearing panties so this is what she must have intended all along. As she sat astride me saying, "Just lie there my love and leave it all to me," I saw the little clump of pubic hair and the groove of her vulva.
The memory of my narrow escape with Mercy flashed across my mind so I started to say, "I won't make you...you won't get pre..."
She smiled down at me and said, "Yes, I might get pregnant, I still can, and that makes it all the more exciting. You'd like to make me pregnant, wouldn't you?"
She gave me no chance to reply. She lowered herself onto me and I felt my penis enter its first vagina.
Nothing I had read or the erotic pictures and videos I had seen on the computer had prepared me for the real experience.
The softness, warmth, the wetness and the clenching of her vagina round my length made me feel as if I was entering paradise.
I watched with a sense of awe as my length came almost out of her and then slid into her depths again.
"Does that feel good, darling?"
"Yes...yes...my God yes."
Her long slow movements gave way to rapid, short sharp thrusts as she leaned over me, her hair brushing against my face.
The first warning tingles that grew in intensity, the release of sperm; "Mother...oh mum...oh..."
"Let it go darling...let it all go..."
I had yet to learn the art of withholding the moment of ejaculation; I felt the sperm surge up my shaft and then that first triumphant moment, the ejection of semen it into the vagina of the beloved; what in all of life can compare with that moment of ecstasy?
"I love you...I love you..." I didn't care if I made her pregnant a thousand times over.
The image of tiny sperms striving to reach the goal, struggling in the eternal race to fertilise and begin new life within the womb of the loved one; this is surely one of life's supreme experiences.
I longed for it to go on for ever, but inevitably comes the end; the last globules of semen, and then the peace as you lie in each others arms recovering from that wonderful and supreme gift of the gods, the act of procreation.
"Did you like that darling?"
There are no words that can ultimately describe the experience and I could only gasp, "It was beautiful...beautiful...I love you so much."
Still overwhelmed by the experience I asked hesitantly, "Was it good for you?"
"Yes darling, but there's going to be so much more...so much I want to teach you."
As I lay there, my penis still in her vagina, I wondered for a moment how my father, who'd had all this, could have taken the path he did. The moment passed as mother started to withdraw from me. As the head of my penis came out I gave a gasp as the still sensitive nerves sent pleasurable and painful little shocks through me.
Mother bent over and kissed me saying, "I think it's time for bed, don't you?"
Not sure what she meant I started to say, "Must we, so soon...?"
She laughed and said, "My bed of course." Then as she started to stroke my penis she said seductively, "You don't think you're going to get away from me that easily, do you?"
As I started to get another erection she looked thoughtfully at my penis, and then began to massage it more fiercely. I felt myself about to come and I clutched at her and she stopped.
"There, aren't I cruel?" she said smiling wickedly, "You were going to spurt that lovely sperm weren't you? Now that was to teach you a lesson; from now on it all belongs in me. Now let's have a shower, and afterwards, if you're good boy, I might let you come in me."
The shower was a mixture of heaven and hell. She made me insert my fingers into her vagina and wash out my semen as she washed my penis. Already made hard by her previous manipulation, it was now throbbing, its normally purple head now almost red as it became distended with bl**d.
Mother, in contradiction of her previous words said, "Mmm, I think you've got more stamina than I expected and I want our next penetration to take a long time, so perhaps I'll take pity on you."
She started to masturbate me, slowly at first and then speeding up as I prepared to ejaculate. The sperm shot out of my urethra splashing against the shower screen.
As I finished I clung on to her and she laughed and said, "A waste really, but it means you'll hang on a lot longer next time."
In the bedroom she continued to be in command of the situation and I felt as if I was a student being mentored.
I was commanded to lie on the bed on my back. Of course I knew quite a bit of theory concerning sex but after the Mercy experience I wasn't bold enough to put theory into practise. It was mother who took the initiative.
She began by deep kissing me and as she placed one of my hands on her breast she pressed my fingers over the soft yielding flesh.
"Just press my nipple a little," she said. It felt like a small firm raspberry. I squeezed gently and she said, "Harder darling, hurt me a little."
I obeyed and I heard her give a gasp; "Again...do it again," she sighed." I continued to alternately stroke her breast and press its nipple.
After a while she took my hand from her breast; she put her hand under it and leaned over me, brushing her nipple against my lips.
"Suck me darling," she said.
I took the sweet pink morsel into my mouth and suckled her. She took my hand and drew it down to her groin, and pressed it against her vulva, I felt its warm moistness and even managed to slip a finger into her tunnel, but she guided my hand to her clitoris.
I could feel the little nub and she said, "Just a little tickle there, darling."
I began to stimulate her clitoris as I continued to suck her nipple.
There now ensued what for a novice in the game of sexual love was a time of confusion. I'd read about the female orgasm and even seen on computer videos some women allegedly having them, but when mother started to orgasm it came as a bit of a shock.
She began quietly, "Oh no...no...you're making me come...no...no...I don't want to... don't make me..."
Startled I stopped suckling her and began to withdraw my hand for her genitals.
She clutched my head to her breast and grabbing my hand made me continue to stimulate her moaning, "Don't stop...don't stop...for God's sake don't stop."
I felt her whole body starting to shake and she cried out, "More....more...oh God...I'm coming...oha...oha...aaaah."
Her whole body was writhing and my hand was becoming soaked with her fluid. She started to make little weepy mewling sounds.
Suddenly she sat astride me, her vulva poised over my mouth; she used her fingers to open the outer lips; for a moment I saw the pink inner lips and a hint of the dark tunnel beyond, and saying, "Lick me...suck me there," I felt my lower face enveloped in a warm wetness as she writhed her cunt over it.
For the first time I smelt and tasted a woman as she completed her orgasm, and as it subsided she made little whimpering sounds, "Oh...oh...lovely...oh darling...ah...oh..."
When she had finished she moved away from me briefly, and then started to kiss her way down my body, her lips lingering on my nipples and navel, until finally she grasped my penis, looked at it for a few moments, and then took it into her mouth.
She sucked and licked along it, occasionally giving little bites, until she sensed I was about to ejaculate. Then she sat astride me and lowered herself onto my shaft.
As she rode me she cried out, "Make me come again...make me come..."
I fear I disappointed her. I couldn't hold back; sperm pumped up my shaft and burst into her. She screamed out as she felt it entering her, "Oh yes...yes...deep...in deep..."
She pressed down hard on me with each new spurt of my semen and when I had finished she drooped over me and oddly, she used my own simile when she said softly, "Yes, I think we'll make beautiful music together."
Then she smiled and said, "Sunday tomorrow, we can stay in bed all day."
It's a strange thing, but we can repress some aspects of our bodily and emotional needs for a long time, but then some event unleashes what has been lurking in us. Over the following days I was to learn, not only what had been lurking in me, but what had been lying low in mother.
A seemingly insatiable rapacious monster seemed to have been unleashed. We barely got any sl**p that night, and throughout Sunday she was constant in her demands for me to satisfy her. It was easy at first since our lovemaking was making love, but I have to confess she eventually wore me out.
Even then she begged me to use my fingers and tongue to bring her to seemingly non-stop orgasms.
By Monday she had run me ragged and even she seemed to have finally exhausted her libido.
How we both got through Monday I don't know. I certainly felt physically frail, but mentally and emotionally I felt elated, and by Monday evening we both seemed to have recovered sufficiently to, as mother had said, "Make beautiful music together," and I don't mean for dancing.
Fortunately that first outburst of passion had subsided. I suppose we had both been like starving people suddenly confronted by a rich banquet and we'd over eaten.
Gradually I learned to hold back my ejaculations, and one of our favourite positions was to lie facing each other unmoving, with my penis in her vagina; it still is a great favourite with us. I think it is simply there physical union we enjoy, and even after we've both orgasmed we still stay united until sl**p comes.
Of course, the inevitable happened and mother did become pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl, but perhaps that is another story.
To some extent the goddess image has returned, mother is a sacred being again, her breasts and vagina the holy of holies. I still engage in frequent acts of worship with her.