Beyond the Borderline

"No way, Mom! He's not even that good-looking!"

"'Way', young man. Very 'way.'"

"Damn."

"Watch your mouth, Ricky! I thought that might get your attention. Now, I'm not saying this is what I think you should do with your life, but I do know you're smart, hardworking and creative," she smiled. "You've already made me very proud, you know." She gave me a big hug and kissed my forehead. "I suppose what I'm getting at here is that my client wakes up every morning looking forward to his day. When you get older, you'll understand how important that is."

"I'll bet he likes waking up every day, especially with Miss V.S. to look at in the morning."

"Hush, you naughty boy! You know very well that's not what I'm talking about! The point here is that if you're really good at something and have a passion for it, the material rewards will follow that too. Most importantly, you're very likely going to be happy in your life."

"Okay, Mom, I think I understand. Let's get to work. What are we cooking tonight?"

"That's my boy. We're going to have a good time, I just know it. You'll thank me for this later, I'm sure."

"How so, mom?"

"Well, as young man who is now beginning to notice the charms of the opposite sex, I'll let you in on a secret. Women are absolute suckers for men who can cook, myself included."

***

With that, we added a new ritual to our daily schedule. I didn't know it at the time, but this one change in our routine would have a profound effect on both of us.

While in the beginning I mostly went along with Mom to humor her and to just be with her, I gradually began to enjoy the actual process, becoming an able, efficient assistant. Our time in the kitchen became that respite from the rest of the world, like the days when Mom and I used to take a weekend day together to go to museums or the zoo when I was little. It became the highlight of my day. Being around Mom was somehow a bit more comfortable, although I still had my fantasies about her, but they seemed to be intermixed with the other erotic interests I had. She sort of became an occasional fixture in my "stable" of imaginary bed partners. It seemed as though what Mom and I talked about was coming true, and I was able to reestablish a more platonic, but still loving connection with her.

As our culinary collaboration progressed, I began to take on more responsibilities besides clean up and fetching. I became very adept at mis en place, to the point that Mom and I could fly through even rather complicated recipes in short order. Gradually, she entrusted more and more prep to me. Ironically, it was this increased trust in my capabilities that led to a fundamental change in how I thought about my Mom.

I can still remember the details with great clarity. We had been collaborating on our kitchen partnership for some time. We were working through one of Nana's heirloom recipes for Bolognese sauce. The air of the kitchen was redolent with the aroma simmering tomato sauce, fresh basil and oregano and sautéed ground beef and pancetta. Mom was dressed in an old white men's oxford shirt, tails tied off above her midriff, over a plain white bra and some fetchingly snug blue jeans. Her feet were bare. There was classical music playing in the background, one of Bach's solo violin partitas, a favorite of Mom's. In spite of our bustle in the kitchen, things felt very peaceful and relaxed. We chatted amiably about our day's events, joking and teasing as we worked.

It was the onions that did me in. I had been learning how to handle knives properly, with limited success, and Mom was ribbing me good-naturedly about it.

"I swear, Ricky, I don't know what to do about you! You seem determined to convert Herr Henckel's finest creations into axes or machetes. You are NOT hacking your way through the jungle or splitting firewood here, you are cooking! You take four times as long as I do for the same thing, and half of that ends up scattered on the table and floor."

"Sorry Mom, it's difficult to get the coordination down. I'm afraid I'll add fingertips to the carrots if I go as fast as you."

"Nonsense! Let me show you. We'll do this onion. With that, she came around behind me, her front to my back, reaching her hands around to cover mine as I held the knife. "First, know that the curve of the blade is there for a reason. It's your friend. You don't pick up the knife for each chop, you rock along the curve of the blade, maintaining tip contact with the cutting board, like this. You keep the blade in one place, you feed the food under it. Yes, that's it. Curl your fingertips to protect them as you push."

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I was acutely aware of her contact with me. I felt the heat of her hands on mine, her warm breath on my right ear as she spoke and the soft contact of her breasts against my back, the pressure of her pelvis against my buttocks. I could smell her shampoo and the faint, clean scent of plain soap and sandalwood from her favorite perfume.

I whispered a prayer of thanks for the apron I was wearing, because I was suddenly sporting the hardest, most rampant erection of my young life. Her embrace of instruction had unintentionally, but lightly thrust me against the edge of the counter, multiplying my difficulties ten-fold. My member was positively throbbing. At the same time, I was afraid, very afraid. What if Mom noticed my hard on? As turned on as I was, I couldn't bear the thought of what she would think if she discovered my excitement. Things sure didn't feel like a "phase" I was going through. As much as I was aroused, I felt equally ashamed, guilty that I was still having such perverted thoughts about my own mother.

"Let's do one more together, I think you're starting to get the hang of it."

"Uhh, Mom, can we take a short break? I need to hit the head."

"Sure sweetie - don't be too long, we need to get this simmering pretty soon if we're going to stay on schedule."

Carefully turning to conceal my raging boner, I eased out of the kitchen to the adjacent half bathroom, locking the door behind me. Dropping my pants as soon as the door was secured, I crab walked to the sink and drew out my cock. There was no conscious decision on my part, but it seemed that suddenly, completely and inexplicably, Mom was the central and only point in my erotic universe. There was no rhyme or reason to it, it just was. With memory of her touch and smell still strong within me I began to stroke. I lasted maybe ten or fifteen seconds, spurting six or seven huge ropes of my seed into the sink.

"Ooohhhh, Mommmmmmmm," I groaned.

My spending was so intense I fell to my knees, visions of her bare midriff, the glow of her skin and the smell of her perfume forever imprinted in my memory. It was the most intense orgasm I had ever experienced to that point in my life. What I was totally unprepared for though, was how I felt after I came.

Up until that moment, I suppose I was really no different from any other teenage boy. Jerking off was like scratching an itch that needed relief, something you simply had to do to maintain your sanity. In the past, when I envisioned Mom in my fantasies, there was always a vague to sharp feeling of guilt associated with my thoughts. But this time was very, very different.

It seemed as though I had crossed some sort of event horizon of love and lust and was now being sucked inexorably into a black hole of incredibly intense emotions, which I was powerless to stop. It was exciting and amazingly erotic. It was tender, warm and comforting. It was also absolutely terrifying. Terrifying that I should feel this way about the one person in the whole world I was supposed to love wholly, unconditionally and above all, chastely.

As I braced myself against the vanity with shaking arms and legs, head hung down, breathing like a steam engine, I struggled mightily to make sense of what had just happened. This wasn't a "Gee, Mom, you've got really nice tits and a great ass, let's fuck" five-fingered fantasy. This wasn't a testosterone-driven libidinous itch. This wasn't a little boy crush like I had experienced over some of my classmates or teachers in middle school.

This was suddenly realizing that the most wonderful, beautiful, desirable creature God had ever put on the earth was living under the same roof as me. The answer was inescapable. I was truly, undeniably and hopelessly in love with my own mom! Sweet Jesus, how could this be? How could things have changed like this, in a matter of a few moments? And yet, for all of the guilt and shame that seemed to come along with those emotions, there was an inescapable feeling of rightness about it all. It was simply meant to be.

Mom was tapping on the door. "You okay in there, Ricky?"

"Uhhh, yeah Mom, be out in a second. I just dropped the hand soap container."

"If you made a mess, clean it up please."

"No problem Mom, nothing to clean up." I washed my hands quickly, checking the sink for any telltales, rinsing it thoroughly, then rejoining Mom in the kitchen.

"Ready for another go? There's still celery to chop."

"Okay Mom, let's try that again."

Once again she stepped behind me, repeating her earlier instructions as we worked through the celery. I didn't think at all about the chopping, which was why I probably did such a good job. I concentrated on every second of her innocent contact with me, totally focused on those sensations, her smell and her voice. Damn! I was hard again and it had been only a few minutes since I came! I was rising on a swell of euphoria that had as much to do with how I was feeling in my heart as the sensations my Mom's words, smell and touch were imparting to me.

"That was well done, Ricky. You're coming along so nicely now, I can hardly believe it. Pretty soon you're going to know as much as I do." Mom gave me a big kiss on my cheek, catching the corner of my mouth by mistake. I hugged her strongly to my chest, inhaling the lovely scent of her as I squeezed, reveling in the aroma of soap and sandalwood and the soft press of her breasts against my chest. "Thanks, Mom. You know, I love you."

"Ooof! Don't squeeze your old mom to death! I love you too, son." She held me out to arm's length, looking at me directly. I had recently grown taller than her, so she had to look up slightly to see my face. She smiled gently and then released me, her eyes glistening for a moment, a small shadow of a troubled look briefly appearing on her face.

"What's wrong Mom?"

"Oh, nothing important Ricky. Moms just get a bit sentimental sometimes. You're growing up so fast I can hardly believe it. You're already turning into such a handsome young man. I'm sure you're going to leave a trail of broken hearts in your path before very long," she sighed, a little misty-eyed.

"Maybe, Mom, maybe - but I'm only concerned about yours. You're starting to act like I'm running away to join the circus or something. I've still got a long way to go before I graduate, you know."

"I know, hotshot, but like I said, mothers are pretty emotional creatures sometimes." She sighed and smiled with some effort. "Let's finish up here. It's time to start boiling the water for the pasta."

With that, we returned to the mundane tasks at hand, but I was forever changed. A large part of me knew how sick, how wrong, how evil these new thoughts were, but there was another small, persistent voice I could hear whispering in the deepest recesses of my mind, calling out like a perverse siren, luring me towards the deadly rocks of lust and desire.

Outwardly, I was composed and cheerful, but that was all a glad façade. My head and loins were locked in mortal conflict as I struggled within. I would rather be pulled limb from limb than hurt my beloved mother, but oh, how I wanted her. How I wanted her, not just her body, but her heart as well. I wanted her to desire me as I yearned for her, showing her my love in all ways a man can do for his woman.

As I silently struggled to master this conflict, a very troubling notion intruded on my thoughts.

"You can't hide this from her," I realized in desperation. "She'll figure things out very quickly, with very little to go on. Then what will you do?"

I thrust these musings to the back of my mind, concentrating on the tasks at hand. Our repartee and partnership continued until dinner, but my thoughts and emotions were in absolute chaos.

Over the succeeding weeks, I was able to keep things pretty well contained, but I absolutely lived for the slightest touch from her. Anything - a peck on the cheek, kind, affectionate words, a casual touch to the arm but most especially the hugs.

I was still wrestling with incredible guilt on another front, though. Mom now consumed all of my solitary fantasies, excluding all others. I sought out pictures of women with similar features and appearance through the length and breadth of Internet porndom. Any woman whose appearance met my standards eventually found her way onto my hard drive. When I discovered the wealth of amateur incest videos on the web, it became much, much worse, the unsteady camera work, disjointed web cams and grainy, low light atmospherics lending a twisted sort of reality and solidity to my fevered imaginings. Every boy was me, every woman my gorgeous, sexy mother.

I became totally paranoid about discovery. I downloaded everything though an anonymous FTP client, religiously purging my browsing history constantly. I went so far as to regularly reformat my hard drive to insure removal of all traces of my obsession. I transferred all of my downloads to a high capacity thumb drive and secreted it into a crack in the floorboards in the back of my closet. I could not chance even the slightest possibility of discovery. I was now past feeling bad about what my desires and fantasies were, but I was dreadfully afraid of how much Mom would be hurt by my secret, were she to discover it. It was this fear of hurting my true love that allowed me to develop some degree of control. It was often impossibly difficult, but I managed to ward off the temptation to escalate my obsession into more overt acts like peeping in her bathroom or going into her room at night. Often those urges were nearly overwhelming.

As I continued to lead my daily and secret lives, the year turned over and my skills in the kitchen continued to grow. I was now the line chef as often as I was the preparer, becoming adept at all manners of braising, searing, poaching and roasting. I also got a summer job working in the kitchen of Agostino's, a well-regarded local restaurant. I mostly did menial work but was gradually learning the ropes of station cooking and food preparation.

Mom was impressed with my development, now often asking my advice on preparation or new recipes. Looking back, I can say that my enthusiasm grew from two sources. I really did love the process and creative aspects of cooking, but I think subconsciously, I was also ardently courting my mother through my efforts, seeking her approval, her respect and most of all, her pleasure at eating my creations. I never forgot her earliest words on the subject. "Women are absolute suckers for men who can cook, myself included."

***

Under these circumstances, I contemplated the arrival of Mom's birthday. I think in her own mind, Mom had reached the "whose counting" stage, but if anything, she was looking better and better to me with each passing year. I knew I wanted to do something extra special for her, and I wanted to do it in the kitchen (I really wanted to do much more than cook in the kitchen with her, but I was still managing to keep up some semblance of a barrier between my waking and nocturnal lives.) I approached Nana with my idea.

"Nan - can you help me out? I want to do something special for Mom's birthday, but I don't have enough money. I'm about forty bucks short of what I need," I explained, outlining my plan. As I laid out the details, Nana broke out into a huge grin.

"Ricky! What a wonderful and thoughtful idea. Jen will be absolutely thrilled. You can count on me. We'll make sure to have your mom out of the house for the day for your preparations. Don't you worry about your budget - I've got your back on this one. I do have one suggestion, though," she paused. I listened attentively. Nana was the best chef of all of us and I knew that Mom's own considerable abilities were due in large measure to her mother's tutelage.

"I have two words for you, young chef: 'St. Emilion.' Yes," she mused, "Preferably a '95 or '98, since this is a special occasion."

I was still very early in my knowledge of cooking and knew even less about wines. "Isn't that pretty expensive, Nan?"

"Yes indeed, but with your permission, I'd like to make it our contribution to the celebration. Besides," she teased, "If you slip up on the dinner, we'll have a great bottle of wine to fall back on for distraction!"

"Nana!" I protested. "No way I'm going to mess this up."

She laughed and pinched my cheek as only a grandmother can do. "I know, grandson mine. I can tell you have been getting ready for this for some time. A noble effort in the kitchen deserves a noble wine to accompany it."

With that, Nana and I set our plans into motion.

That year, Mom's birthday fell on a Saturday, which worked well for our conspiracy. Nana and Gramps got Mom out the door before noon, leaving me to my devices. My planning and preparations went off without a hitch, leaving me a bit of extra time to prepare our setting for the repast. I had Nana's permission to use her best Wedgewood china and the family silverware. I lit the dining room with candles and went back to my room to print out the menu for the evening.

When Gramps and Nana returned with Mom, I was waiting at the front door.

I took Mom's arm in mine and guided her to the dining room. "If Madame will step this way, her table is ready." Her favorite CD was already playing, Glenn Gould's peerless rendition of Bach's Goldberg Variations.

"Ricky, what's all this? What are you doing?"

I escorted her to her chair and presented her with the menu.

"Happy birthday, Mom."

Mom scanned the menu, her hand jumping to her mouth, covering it in her surprise.

"Ricky! This is wonderful, so thoughtful, so special! How did you manage this?"

"Well Mom, I had some planning help from Gramps and Nana, but the cooking is all mine," I said with pride. "I wanted to show you how much I love and appreciate you."

"My god, I'm so impressed! Look at this - it must have taken hours! She showed her copy of the menu to Nana and Gramps. "Soup, salad, lamb, risotto, there's even an amuse-bouche!" she gushed.

"I had some help in intelligence gathering," I said, nodding to Gramps.

Mom's eyes narrowed when she saw the Bordeaux named. "Ricky, where did you get the money for this? That wine, it' s nearly $300 a bottle!"

"Easy there, Jen" Gramps interjected. "That's our contribution to the celebration. This is an occasion, after all."

"It most certainly is. That being the case, I want to thank all of you - it's simply wonderful. I can't wait to start!"

The wine flowed and the courses came out smoothly. I was actually able to sit at table a little bit and savor their enjoyment of the meal. It was one of my proudest and most cherished memories.

When the table had been cleared and everyone's chairs pushed back, Gramps cleared his throat and spoke. I stood at Mom's side. Her hand found mine.

"Rick, I've been following what you've been doing in the kitchen with your mother for some time now. At first I wasn't sure whether I approved or not. I didn't want your mom turning my only grandson into some kind of wimpy nancy-boy. I have to say I'm very impressed. I've paid a lot of money in the City for meals which weren't half as good - this was a real mature, fully realized effort and I'm very proud of you, especially since you did it for your mother. You have a true talent."