When I was seven I wrote a story about a space ship landing in our back yard. The aliens were friendly and, at some point, they ate purple ice cream. As mothers do, mine told me it was brilliant. A year later, I thought it was dumb. A year after that, I wished I could write like that again. The next year, I burned it. My mom spanked me for playing with matches. The next day I wrote a story about a mean old mother and her reign of terror. As mothers do, she said it was cruel. The next day, I burned it.
I was always a writer. Only, I was never very good once my age hit double digits. And I’ve only gotten worse with age. Last year, I published “The Angel Walks at Dawn,” my third short story, as well as “Booker Dane and the Case of the Copper Box,” my second failed attempt at a novel. Tim Zachary, my publisher, loved it. I wanted to trash all copies of it. He said it was gold. I wanted to go back to purple ice cream. He published it. And it sold. Four copies. Two of them to Zach. The Dane story had been out a few weeks and had tanked so badly that Zachary wanted a sequel. Go figure. The cruel mother was creeping back into my thoughts. Zach suggested that I consider bringing in a youthful detective for Booker to train. He thought it would grab a larger audience. I considered his words.…youthful…train…. I took a train back to where I was when I was youthful.
I needed to clear my thoughts. I wanted to write something fresh.
I went back to my college for inspiration. I never had any while I was here, and the muses decided I would find it just as fleeting. Hell, I don’t know what I was expecting. I had only graduated two years before. I needed to dig deeper. Go a little farther back.
In high school, I wrote for the school paper. Twice. The first time was a travesty. My article on dropouts among the football players, “Varsity Team Perfects Incomplete Pass,” went over like caviar at a trailer park. My second article was a mistake. Suffice it to say, the storm after the football story was paradise. No one ever signed my yearbooks.
Mom had kept my room the way it had always been. You couldn’t see the walls for the posters, couldn’t see the floor for the toys. The desk was blue, the bed sheets were Star Wars. She thought it was nostalgic. I thought it was revolting. A week of cleaning later and the desk was mahogany, the bed sheets were white, the floor was spotless, and the posters were history. The globe on my desk was replaced by my laptop. I began. Page 1…
The days passed.
I continued. Page 1. Line 8.
I tried to tell myself to face facts, that I was no good and should have been a gossip columnist. I didn’t listen and suggested I go fuck myself. About 2AM, I reasoned that I should get piss drunk. I did. It worked. I churned out what my drunken self considered Shakespeare. The next morning, well, afternoon, my hung-over self recognized it as Much Ado About Nothing, Act III. No more booze.
Mom saw what I was going through. Hell, she had seen it coming years ago. I had no talent. No gift. Just desire. Desire doesn’t pay the bills. Once, after another day of writing attempts, she called me into the living room to take a break from my blank pages. She was spread out on the couch in her green robe, watching some old black and white flick. She was short and trim, but still managed to take up the whole sofa. I sat in the recliner and tried to get into the movie. No dice. A half hour of uncomfortable silence and I began to fidget. She glanced over at me. She asked:
“What’s wrong, don’t like the classics?”
“The film is fine,” I replied.
We watched a bit more.
“You don’t seem to be into it,” she said.
“Yeah, well. It does kinda suck.”
“You coulda said something, we do get more than one channel, believe it or not. What would you rather watch?”
“Look,” she said, sitting up, “come over here, and let’s pick something from the listings.” She fished into a pile of newspapers on the floor and came up with the TV schedule. I moped over and sat next to her. We looked. Not a damn thing interested me. I sat back. She dropped the paper and leaned back against my shoulder. She flipped through the channels looking for anything. Somewhere along the line, she passed some film noir flick. It was about a veteran detective training a youthful rookie. Heh. I bet the writer was a millionaire. Life bites. I closed my eyes and put my head back. Eventually, I passed out. I was unconsciously aware of her shifting positions until her head was on my thigh. She stayed there until the flick ended.
Now, for a quick sexual resume: my first was in college. My latest was in college. Here endeth the rundown.
Having a female head in your lap after a multiyear dry spell tends to stir up certain muscles that don’t get much exercise. One in particular was trying to make itself the center of attention. If it could have, it would have tapped the female figure before it on the shoulder. As much fun as it may be to have that capability, it could not make it. It did, however, make it to her ear. In my defense, it was working alone, I was still asleep. But she was not. I was aware of her shifting position. I think she may have looked to see that I was still asleep. I was aware of her shifting position back. Though not exactly back, as there was no contact with the third party. A bit later, she must have dozed off, because she went to roll over and rolled towards me. The back of her head was now laying exactly where a mother’s head should not be. I awoke. I saw. I freaked. I steadied. I looked. I watched. I watched her breathe quietly. I watched her dream. I placed my hand on her robed shoulder. She awoke. She saw. She did not freak. She watched. I watched. She sat up and turned toward me. We sat in silence for quite some time. Then she laid back down. On her side. Head where it was. Eyes on mine.
She reached up and held my cheek. My hand found her side. Her hand moved to my shoulder. Mine went to her back. She rubbed her head into her pillow, and it formed itself into a very accurate likeness of a steel rod. Her hand left my shoulder and found my waist. My hand pressed her back, moving her a bit closer. Her hand found the steel. And it moved. Slowly. Rhythmically. My hand journeyed into her loose robe and found the waistband of her unmentionables, which were hardly enough to mention. My fingertips eased their way under the elastic, but didn’t stop. Her hand stopped moving. She stood, closed her robe and ran into the bathroom. I realized what had happened and found myself to be very much in shock. We hadn’t said a word. Through a simple series of small movements, we had come very close to doing something I had never thought about. Not as a horny young teenager. Not as a horny college student. Not even as a horny member of the literary industry.
I ran to my room and began to write.
Two hours later, I reread the twenty six pages I had written. It was good. I went and knocked on the bathroom door. No reply. I listened, and heard a light whimper. I didn’t know what to do, I had nothing prepared to say for this situation. I went back to my room.
Two hours later…
She walked into my room, long legs reflecting moonlight and the belt of her robe trailing behind. Without a word, she knelt beside my chair and reached into my lap. What she found only encouraged her. A short rub and we were thinking the same thoughts. I touched her lightly on the collarbone, traveled my hand lower, my fingers dancing across the acres of tanned skin. She seemed ticklish. Her eyes closed briefly as my palm found a home on her naked breast. She placed her hand on top of mine to remind herself that it was real. She spun my chair towards her, stood just long enough to shed the robe, and sat across my lap, a leg on either side. I rested my hands on her thighs and leaned back to observe the artwork in front of me. I began to say something, but she shook her head slightly to cut me off. My hand found its way to the small of her back and she inched her way closer. Years later, when she reached me, she leaned in, I leaned back, and the chair leaned with us. It was as close as the three of us could get: her, me, and the mighty oak between us. My mother closed her eyes and kissed me.
She began to rock into me. It was a slow grind that shook the foundation of my world. My mother sat back and looked into my eyes. We said nothing. She went for my belt, I went for her panties. She stood and I worked them down off around her bare feet. I raised my head to the sight I had uncovered. Our eyes met, and, without a word, she seemed to be asking for approval of her fully naked form. I stood, pulled her in close, and washed her neck in kisses. She unbuttoned my pants and lowered the zipper. She dropped to her knees and pulled them down. By the time I had my shirt off, my boxers were laying with the robe. Mom looked at what she had rested her head on earlier. Our eyes met, and she swallowed me whole. Once. Down to my base, then back and off. She kissed my tip. I pulled her up, and we kissed. Her hand fell to my cock and stroked me gently. I picked up her small form and set her on the edge of my desk.
My mother pulled me between her legs and guided me to her pussy. With my mouth on hers, I inched my way inside. I kissed her on the forehead. Then, with one hand under her knee, the other around her back, I pushed until our bodies met. I pulled back until I was just barely inside of her. I pushed back in. She put an arm around my neck for support, and we quickened pace. I pounded, and she received. Our skin slapped. Her sweat glistened. My mind swam.
Her breath shortened, matching the rhythm of our dance. Her hands grasped at my body. Her muscles tightened. And she orgasmed. And put me over the edge. I exploded, jetting semen into my mother. But we did not stop moving. She rode it out like a champion.
We regained control, and I pulled out of her. She slid off of the desk and to her knees, catching her breath. She looked up at me. I looked down at her. And she swallowed me whole. Once. To the base, then back, and off. She picked up her clothing and walked out of my room, closing the door behind her.
I sat at me desk, my mother’s scent still in the air, and opened my laptop. I wrote nineteen more pages before drifting off to sleep.