Practical Insanity Ch. 01

"Another case of practical insanity," thought Susan Helmand as the door closed behind the patient who had just passed through it. She shook her head and thought about how many of them she had seen over the years. The Psychology textbooks didn't have a name or description of it, but she had become more and more convinced that it was a specific condition, and one with many sufferers.

Practical insanity was her term for people who, particularly when it comes to relationships, do things that any rational person could easily see would lead to trouble. These patients led otherwise normal lives, showing up for work on time, doing an adequate job, engaging in hobbies or other pursuits, and yet seemed utterly clueless when it came to relating to another human being on intimate terms. Not only were they deficient in the ability to choose a prospective partner and to make good decisions on how to conduct the relationship, but they seemed incapable of learning or improving their skills in this area.

A woman she'd seen earlier that morning was having difficulty breaking off a relationship with a man who apparently had a drinking problem, a gambling problem, and a truth problem. But somehow, in spite of his on-again, off-again attentions and the fact that every single 2 hour trip so they could be together had been made by her, not him, she had convinced herself that she loved him and that the two of them "had something special." No word yet on what exactly was special about it, but whatever it was kept her making a fool of herself over and over again. A normal woman would have long since tired of that nonsense and been on to greener pastures.

The one who had just left the office wasn't much better off. She was dating a man she'd met online who lived four hours away. Difficult, but not unheard of, and not always unsuccessful. This one though was a Wiccan. Hearing that, she decided that she too was a Wiccan. Compatibility, or at least the willingness to take on the other person's interests – fine. Unfortunately, in this case, it opened her to charges, by the girls in his coven, of putting him under a spell and sending hexes and bad mojo against them. And her prince charming believed it and she fought valiantly to hold onto him, even after learning that he was susceptible to such nonsense, even after learning he was screwing everything he could catch, and even after finding out that just about everything he'd told her about his life was a lie and that his parents were still supporting him in his 40s. She was in love too. In love with what? A version of a person that she knew didn't even exist. Practical insanity.

There was probably a best seller in here somewhere if she could find the time to write it, but that time wouldn't be today. Her son, Jim, was going to swing by and give her a ride to the dealer where her car would, hopefully, be ready for pickup. Assuming it was, perhaps they'd have a bite to eat and catch a movie. She hadn't seen a lot of him since he'd moved out. Not that he'd gone far, he was finishing up grad school across town, but he had a life of his own and pursuing it took time.

Besides, it's not as though she'd been the most attentive of mothers, certainly no June Cleaver. During his formative years, she'd been busy forming other, more troubled minds. Her practice had flourished and she'd written successfully in several journals of psychiatry before hitting the best seller list with a work in the self-help genre. She was respected in her field, accomplished in her practice, and a published author who had achieved modest commercial success.

She was also alone since the divorce. Jim's father had also been a psychiatrist. He'd never had quite the same drive she did and in time he grew to resent her achievements. There were probably a lot of other reasons, but she didn't spend a lot of time analyzing herself or her marriage. There's no money in that and it tends to make a person a little too introspective for her taste. At any rate, Frank was gone. She and her Italian Mastiff, Sig were the only inhabitants of the house her book deal had paid for.

It was a nice enough house in a nice enough neighborhood. It wasn't pretentious, didn't make her look like a climber, but at the same time had all the comforts one might expect at a level of affluence that fell just short of having a live-in maid. Isabelle came twice a week and that was plenty, thank you. How much help could one person living alone really need anyway?

Sunlight glinted off a moving windshield outside her window and she saw that Jim had arrived a few minutes early. That was a pleasant surprise. Usually he was running late, arriving with some excuse about having been busy or having lost track of time. She didn't really mind. He'd inherited her urge to get things done and his father's inattention to detail. There didn't seem to be much remedy for it, but she was pleased not to have to listen to the song and dance today.

Stepping out onto the curb she felt a whisper of breeze under her skirt, caressing her naked thighs and reminding her she'd left her underwear at home today. It wasn't an everyday thing, just occasional, and the occasion was usually a need to be reminded she was a woman. She chuckled wryly. Was she flirting with herself? She certainly didn't flirt with anyone else. Better jot some notes on this, might make a chapter, or at least a paragraph or two, in the next book.

"Hey mom. I finished a paper earlier than expected so I came on over. Thought I'd surprise you by being early for once."

"Indeed you did. Thank you for doing this for me. The dealer was great about coming to pick it up¸ but said he wouldn't be able to deliver it back until tomorrow. I guess half-service is still better than none though."

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"She looked good, sounded good, seemed to be saying all the right things," Jim thought as he followed her Mercedes coupe back to her house. But she still seemed lonely. Maybe she was. She wasn't much for sharing details of her personal life now that dad was gone. She might be dating, might not. He thought maybe he should ask, but the question seemed so far out of context for them.

It had been decided that he would come for a "home cooked meal" just like he grew up with. What that meant was that she'd order something to be delivered while they sat and talked or had a swim in the pool. It happened at home. It was a meal, and it was cooked. That was a home cooked meal in the Helmand household.

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Out by the pool, they waited for the curry shrimp to be delivered from the nearby Thai place. The conversation was starting to pick up, eased by the beginning of the second beer and the effect of the first. She told him a little about the Practial Insanity idea and how she might be able to work it into another book, and he volunteered that his studies were going particularly well since breaking up with Jill or Jenny or Judy or whatever her name had been.

Susan didn't pay that much attention to the girls that came and went through Jim's life. They had always seemed so interchangeable. She was happy to see that he wasn't hung up on one particular "type" as she always thought that was the mark of an immature man. He'd shown a preference for blondes over the years, no doubt because she was blonde, but it wasn't a rule and he'd varied from it many times.

"Mom, is that the same swimsuit you used to wear when I lived here?" He knew it wasn't, but it may as well have been. She'd worn the same pattern all his life. It was a one-piece, always patterned, usually black and white, but sometimes in bright colors. The cut was medium on the hips and medium in the front. On most women it would have been a bit bland, maybe even boring, but her figure let her wear it well. She was busty, with strong legs, and a waist. He'd noticed as he became more aware of women rather than girls, that if a woman had a small waist, everything else usually sorted itself out.

"You know it isn't the same suit. Yes, it's another version of my mom-suit, but I just got it a few weeks ago when the weather turned warm. Do you hate it?"

"Don't be silly. Of course I don't hate it. You look nice."

"Nice," she thought. Well, if she ever did start dating again, she'd need to do better than "nice." She made a mental note of it and heard the doorbell. "Sounds like food, hon. Would you get it? I'm feeling a little buzzy from the beer. There's some money on that table near the door."

She realized as soon as he'd gone, that buzzy or not, she had to go to the bathroom. Pulling a wrap around her so the delivery boy wouldn't see anything he shouldn't, she went to the hall bath. Sitting down, she noticed that in her haste she hadn't fully shut the door and as she shot a hard stream into the toilet, she hoped they couldn't hear it as they exchanged food and cash at the front door. Surely not. She got up, wiped, and shut the door securely before letting her suit slip to the floor. Studying herself in the mirror she decided, as she did every single day, that she was still an attractive woman, even if she had recently turned fifty-eight.

The trouble that Jim had put her body through some twenty-six years ago was nowhere to be found. Her stomach was flat and unmarked. Her tits hung a lot lower than they did back then, but they were still heavy and full. Legs were solid, and always had been thanks to good genes. She shaved her pussy, as was the current fashion, but it was more for herself, more for these appraisals, than anything else. It wasn't as though anyone else ever saw it. She was softer than she used to be, but the shape was pretty consistent and all in all she was pleased with herself.

"How does it look?" she called as she came back out onto the patio.

"The food looks great. I was thinking maybe we could eat a bit, swim a bit, eat a bit, so I put the food and drinks at the edge. I didn't plan on coming over today, so I didn't bring a suit, but I figured my boxers will do, and I'll have my shorts dry for when I go home. Ok?"

"Sure," she answered, not because she wasn't enthusiastic, but because the beer was really going to her head and it was a lot to process. "This is really nice, Jim. I've never done this myself, never even thought of it. Thank you."

The water, the beer, and the spicy food were all working together to produce an all-over, body and mind pleasure sensation. People went on vacation for this and she was getting it in her own backyard. Amazing. She'd caught herself looking at Jim a couple of times, a little too long, a little too studiously, and she hoped he hadn't noticed. He reminded her a lot of his father, but better. Young men his age worked out a lot more today than they did when she was his age. Jim wasn't an athlete or a bodybuilder, but he was still hard and muscular.

Her inner mother kicked in and she worried that he might have taken steroids. She'd read a lot about that lately, and before she knew it, she heard words coming out of her own mouth, "Jim, you haven't been using steroids have you?"

"No! Mom! What are you talking about?"

"Well, you look so strong, and I've seen so many articles lately, and I worry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse."

"It's ok, mom. I have been working out more lately since I broke up with Jane. Good to know it shows!

Again she heard odd words coming from her mouth, "Oh, it does honey. It does."

She really needed to lay off the beer for a few minutes. Maybe a swim would clear her head. She turned her back to the wall, silently ducked under the water, and pushed off with her feet, gliding as far as she could before starting smooth, effortless strokes.

Jim felt the end of his cock push out through the hole in his boxers. He was getting hard. What the hell? It was mom. A little drunk, but still mom. She seemed like she was almost flirting with him. She must be lonelier than he thought. Maybe it was time to head back to his apartment for the evening.