The Year Was...

Edited by TheOracle

[ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER 18. In my writing I use an informal tone, slang, and sometimes improper punctuation to reflect the casual closeness such an illicit and forbidden relationship would require. If this offends you, DO NOT READ. I am sure there are plenty of incest-based submissions with the perfect grammar you seek. Please forgive any historical inaccuracies.]

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This is a tale of Love and Romance that chronicles the courtship of David and his mother. Although it depicts the lust and passion such an illicit relationship possesses, it is not a story of spontaneous combustion but the narrative of one's plan to seduce the woman he loves.

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There are times in your life that you look back and realize the point when a new chapter in your life begins. Although I don't remember the exact date, I can pinpoint it pretty darn close. The year was 1988. In fact it was March 1988 and I had just turned 18 a month before. This is why I remember the approximate time and I remember the event clearly even though at the time I didn't realize its significance.

Nonetheless like all recounting of events I must give some background to explain things. So please bear with me as I meander through the murkiness of history.

It was a different world back in 1988. There were no cellphones, no laptop computers and there was no Internet with its unlimited access to porn. Sure there were DVD's and VHS tapes but you had to buy them at a sex shop and they cost about thirty to forty bucks a piece. If you wanted some stroke material you'd buy the girlie mags that the stationery stores sold hidden up on the top shelf. Costing about five dollars they were called 'short eyes', for some reason, and there was a wide assortment ranging from Playboy, Penthouse to Cheri, Swank, Hustler and my favorites Gent, Juggs and 40+.

The reason the last were my favorites was because they had my kinda women in them and often had models that closely resembled my dream girl. In the late 1980's, breast implants hadn't become common and so the natural models still ruled. I can still remember the names of some of my favorite models. There was Millie Minchen, Christy Canyon, Lisa Phillips and Jeannine Oldfield. Oh, do I love Jeannine Oldfield, for she most closely resembled a younger version of my dream girl. I always tried to get issues of whatever magazine may have had my favorites in them.

Near the grocery store I worked at there was a hole in the wall stationary store. Having started working at the grocery store at 14, by the time I was 16 the owners of the stationary store would look the other way and allow me to buy short eyes. Without the aid of the Internet it was often a crap-shoot who was in which magazines that month; and to make things worse some magazines would put a girl on the cover that wasn't even in the issue! The stores didn't let you peruse through the mags to see what was what and with me being under 18 I had to be even more circumspect.

And so by March of 1988, I had developed an extensive collection of short eyes that I thought I had hidden pretty well. I kept most of them stacked in a plain box on a shelf in my closet with a few stashed under my bed ready at a moment's notice. Basically meaning not hidden at all!

That fateful March day I was home alone. My parents had divorced four years earlier with my father moving out. My older sister was away at college. Since it was the early afternoon, my mom was still at work. After getting home from school, I had a few hours to kill before I had to go to work at the grocery store. So I decided to do what every 18-year old boy does when he has a few minutes to himself.

Having decided to get to know myself better, I knew exactly which magazine I wanted to use. It was a Hustler with the cover a close-up of a woman's chest. She had her hands over her breasts and a seashell hanging down from her necklace. I looked under my bed where I kept three or four relaxation aids. It wasn't there. That was odd.

I looked through the box in my closet. It wasn't there. Hmm? I looked again in case a gremlin had returned it while I wasn't looking. Going through over 50 magazines and nope, it wasn't there. Strange. I was determined it would be and could be only that magazine I would use.

I looked through the rest of my closet, no luck. I looked under my mattress, under my sheets, all around my bed -- no deal. I checked my dresser and my desk because there was nowhere else in my room it could be. It wasn't in my room. Now not only was I horny as hell, I was curious as to where the hell that magazine could be. My frustration made me even hornier for that specific magazine.

I checked my sister's bedroom, which basically hadn't been used in a couple of years. During the Christmas break, she had stayed with friends and I knew I had that magazine since then anyway. But still I looked and came up empty.

It was time to venture into my parent's bedroom, or essentially my mother's but the furniture was still for two people. With trepidation I entered. Going around the king-side bed to what would've been my father's side, I felt safer looking first in my father's old nightstand, where he used to occasionally keep a girlie mag (and as kid, where I discovered their magic!) There was some assorted junk, nothing interesting and no mag.

I checked what would've been his dresser if he still lived in the house. Besides the top drawer having some this and that, like assorted paper and crap it was empty.

Consumed with a needy lust that overruled caution, I next checked my mother's nightstand. This meant having to move the stuff on top of the lift up, hinged lid. Voila! There it was, face-up on top of whatever crap she kept in there. I was so horny for that magazine that I grabbed it, ran into my room and jacked-off to some model; I don't remember exactly who but it may've been Christy Canyon. After cleaning up, I hurriedly returned the magazine to my mother's nightstand.

It wasn't until later on while at work that my mind started replaying the scene from earlier in the day. I was 'dummying' the shelves -- where you pull the stock to the front to fill the voids. It's pretty mind numbing work that can be done on autopilot, allowing the nervous Nellie part of my brain to kick into gear. Suddenly I realized that I hadn't paid close attention to how I had returned my magazine back to her nightstand.

Did I return it cover-side up? No idea.

Did I at least put it kinda in the same spot? No clue.

What about the stuff on top of the hinged lid? Stuff like the heavy corded bedroom phone, her alarm clock, the pumice stone, hand & body lotion? I tried to think and couldn't even recall all the crap that was up there. The harder I tried to think and recall, the more it eluded me. I thought I recalled a bottle of nail polish remover, but wasn't that on the small fixed shelf above? There were bottles of nail polish also, weren't there?

I realized and feared I may have a VERY awkward situation at home.

This is a good point to explain how things were in my house. There was only my 37-year old mom and I living there. I was aware that I was in love with my mom; in fact I was infatuated with her. I knew I was sexually attracted to her and desired her. The women I'd jerk off to would have enough features in common with my mom for me to imagine that they were her. I would fantasize about ways I would seduce her and become her lover. Some were quite complex and others I had carried for so many years that they had evolved past the initial seduction and beyond.

I consciously knew my last girlfriend vaguely resembled my mom, where Alison was a little shorter and heavier. But she was easy and that was good enough for me, even when after a few weeks I realized she was annoying as hell, even when after a few months I couldn't stand her, even after a year and I knew I hated her. We broke up after New Year's Eve. I went to a concert with my friends and heard she was hanging out with some guy at a party. To save face with my friends (who hated her annoying ass) I had to kick her to the curb.

The reason for my infatuation with my mom was because even at 37, she was still friggin' hot. (Remember when eighteen, 37 seems really old and in 1988 we didn't talk about MILF's and cougars. I even recall there was even a controversy when Wheel of Fortune was considering replacing Vanna White because she was getting old!)

Of English and Germanic descent, my mother's skin tone and features showed it. I guess you'd describe her face as an easy rectangular oval that worked to perfectly frame her soft, gentle facial features. While none stood out, they all blended together to create a beautiful picture. She had a soft smooth chin that led to her full luscious lips. Her nose wasn't aquiline or too big, it was simply a soft triangle resting between her lush plump cheeks. Her eyes were wide and alert; they were an entrancing dark chocolate, with her eyebrows complimenting them divinely. All together they announced her supple femininity.

I mentioned some of the models my mother had a resemblance to and if you were to look at them you'd notice an obvious trend. They are all attractive brunettes with a slim yet soft body and big heavy hangers.

My mom, whose actual birth name was Cookie, was no different. She was 5'5 and probably weighed about 160 pounds which was pleasantly and delightfully smoothly spread over her body. As an obsessed son I, of course, knew her measurements, 36-30-38. Her cup size varied depending on the bra ranging from DD, E, EE or F [supposedly DD and E are the same size as is EE and F; yet there were times when I'd play with her bras I couldn't notice any difference between a DD and an F, while one DD seemed much bigger than another DD -- you figure it out.]

She wore her dark chestnut hued hair long, about midway down her back. The 80's was the era of 'Big Hair' and she would stylishly tease her hair into an erection producing mane. There was many a time she stood at her dresser applying her make-up doing her hair and putting on her jewelry. I'd watch this production and would have to go to the bathroom or my bedroom to express myself.

There were just two major problems. The first was because of her beauty and my sexual attraction I was totally intimidated by her. This meant that as an awkward teenager I was all mumble-mouthed around her and embarrassed easily.

The second was that even before my parent's divorce she had a snarl that hadn't lightened up at all. In fact with me being the only one in the house it seemed like I caught all of the snarl and its accompanying growl that used to be spread out over three people.

Instead of growing closer together we were growing further apart and some of that was conscious on my part. I had been working at the grocery store for almost four years [and before WalMart it was common to have a mid-sized local grocery store in the neighborhood.] Starting as a stock-boy, I had few months ago become the night shift manager. This meant I was in charge of closing the registers, the store and making the nightly deposit. I worked four days a week from 4 PM - 11:30 PM, plus usually picking up a shift on the weekends. This meant I'd get home from school around 1:30 PM, do this an' that and then be gone before my mother got home from her job. When I got home after midnight she was usually asleep, if not I bolted for my room anyway.

What this means is I was pretty independent. Since I was a good student I was allowed to do my own thing and live my own life. This helps explain my nonchalant attitude towards my short eyes collection. I never figured my mother would inspect my bedroom looking to see if her son had girlie mags. Of course I also never thought my mom might get horny enough she'd need or want one to help her relax!

That night I dilly-dallied and dawdled, taking my time locking up the store and getting to the bank. The result was that I got home closer to 1 AM and Mom was thankfully asleep. The next morning I was up an' out the door, off to school without seeing her.

After enduring one tedious class after another, my school day was finally over. I jumped in my car and raced home. This time I made certain to pay particular attention to the location of every item on top of her night-stand. Lifting the lid there was my magazine. It was about ¾'s into the back, not shoved or stuffed back but casually lying there -- cover-side down!

Just seeing it there made me so uncontrollably horny that I pulled it open and flipping it open to any page it landed on 2 pages littered with 1-900 numbers. That was good enough for me. Sitting on the edge of her bed, I quickly and thoroughly got familiar with myself. Sated, I was able to think a bit clearer and was curious. Looking through the issue, it had the usual assortment of girls and one layout of a male/female performing simulated sex. (Back then they didn't even come close to showing penetration.)

There was nothing spectacular or anything stand-out about the male/female spread. I just seemed to know that was the one my mother must've been looking at. I carefully replaced the magazine exactly where I found it, along with everything above it and smoothing her bedspread, left her room undisturbed. (If you are wondering why I didn't look to see if she happened to have any personal toys in her night-stand, back then an 18-year old boy didn't think his mom would have a vibrator!)

That night while dummying the shelves I began formulating my new plan. All of my past ideas, plans and schemes wouldn't work. I needed a new strategy. However, having spent years fantasizing about how this would happen I was more comfortable with a slow subtle plan that had the option to bail before things turned completely sour. I'll admit that I wasn't especially bold, brash or adventuresome. When it came to dealing with women I was even more hesitant and even sometimes tongue-tied. When it came to my mother I was borderline scared stiff.

For the next few days, I checked my mother's nightstand waiting to see when (or if) my magazine was moved. Finally on Tuesday afternoon, I discovered it was in a new place. Still face down, it was shifted over to the right of its previous location. This was perfect for two reasons. First, Tuesday was the first night of my four night work schedule and I could conveniently avoid my mother. Second it had given me time to pick out a new magazine for her pleasure with a similar non-descript couple. This time it was a Swank, that I left face up for her.

That night I deliberately got home late again. For the next few days I trembled inside, but if she had noticed the switch she didn't say anything. Again, I checked daily and it didn't move until Tuesday afternoon. I daringly gave her a new magazine. The second week progressed the same as the first. The third was the same; as were the fourth and fifth. On the fifth week I dared to be a little bolder. I left for her reading pleasure a Hustler Busty issue where two of the models had a passing resemblance to her.

Years later there would be a movie called Groundhog's Day, with Bill Murray, where every day was the same as yesterday. During those five weeks it seemed that nothing changed besides the magazine I would leave in her nightstand, yet I now realize that the items atop her nightstand may have simplified. Then on that sixth Monday there was a change-up.

Getting home from school I found a note on the kitchen table. It read, "David, tonight let's go out for dinner. Love, Mom. P.S. Thank you." I held that piece of paper in my hand, read her note and interpreted it fifty different ways. This wasn't an unusual way for us to pass messages to each other. However, it was the last two lines that confounded me. First was her signing it "Love, Mom." That was a first! Since it was only the two of us in the house, there wasn't a reason to say who it was from. Often I'd find a note saying, "Get Milk" or if she was being pleasant it might say "Please vacuum."

I tried to think of the last time my mother said the word Love and couldn't recall anytime that it wasn't in the sentence, "I would love to kill..." My family being a blend of English, German and Russian aren't the type to verbally express affection so it wasn't a surprise that I couldn't recall my mother ever saying, "I love you" to anyone. So did her signing "Love, Mom" have significance?

And what did she mean by "P.S. Thank you"? I tried to think if I had done anything that would prompt her to say "Thank you" and came up empty. Sure I had mown the lawn this weekend but I did that every weekend and never got any acknowledgement except for when I may've been behind on it. Along with my other household chores, they were basically expected to be done and weren't commented on except when not done or done unsatisfactorily. (As I say this I realize it makes my mother sound like a cold bitch, which she wasn't, just in my house you weren't rewarded for cleaning your room since you were supposed to keep your room clean, you understand?)

So I pondered these two lines and wanted to believe it was because of my providing her with reading material. Since it was Monday she wasn't due a new mag until tomorrow and I had one planned out for her. It was a Gent that had the requisite couple and simulated sex scene but also had both Jeannine Oldfield and also Lisa Phillips. I was sorta stuck. Do I give it to her? Do I dare? Do I dare not?

Looking in her nightstand it was obvious that last week's mag was moved as it was lying sideways against the front edge. Seeing that and Mom's note, I grabbed the Gent magazine and turning to the Jeannine Oldfield, I laid on her bed and jerked off like the crazed 18 year old I was. After cumming like the space shuttle on lift-off, I figured 'Fuck it' and gave Mom the mag.

When Mom got home that night she suggested going out to Tommie's, a local steak house, for dinner and I readily agreed. Dinner was a very pleasant event. First was the fact that instead of changing out of her work clothes into her frumpy home or mom clothes she was still dressed to the nines. In fact as I looked at her over the table I thought Mom may've been dressed even nicer than usual. She was wearing a black satin blouse that shimmered; except for the built-in shoulder pads, it fit her snugly and molded around her ample bosom in front. She had on dark slacks that had grey pinstripes and she wore black heels. It was a very sultry look that I enjoyed, especially since the light played off the sheen of her blouse.

I also couldn't help but notice she had refreshed her perfume along with a fresh puffing up of her hair. Her lips shimmered a tantalizing red from a fresh application of lipstick. I could smell her hair spray and enjoyed the shine it left. Mom was also surprisingly chatty, asking me about my up-coming graduation and plans for the summer. As we ate our salads she asked, "So are you excited about graduation?"

"Umm, yeah I guess," I answered all mumble-mouth. I wasn't used to having conversations with my mother in general -- and I suddenly realized her tone wasn't that of a parent talking AT her kid but instead it was one adult casually talking with another adult.

"What do you mean 'I guess'?" she laughed at my awkwardness. Giving me another chance she continued, "It's something you've been working hard for, right?"

"Umm, yeah I guess," was about the best I could say even though it was true. I was an excellent student and had been accepted into the local State college, which has one of the best engineering programs in the region and is often ranked in the top 50 nationwide. I quickly realized I didn't know how to hold a conversation with her; and her looking and smelling fantastic didn't help.

"Well, what do you have planned for after graduation?" she asked, perhaps throwing me a life-preserver or a third pitch strike. I knew she didn't mean what were my college plans or my party plans.