I Critique Mum

Mum: More...

Me: A perfect storm of perfections and features, conjuring vivid imagery. The image can't be decomposed. The substance coalesces seamlessly into form. The sum of the parts is larger than the whole.

Mum: You've a habit of quickly turning from a very literal subject to its metaphorical implications.

Me: And you're way too literal of the world around you.

Mum (skeptically): Are you weaseling out of critiquing my unflattering parts?

Me (with deep conviction): You wanted blazing furnace face honesty. I gave you just that. I stand unwaveringly by my critique.

Mum: Go on...

Me (poetically): You've a generosity of sensual spirit.

Mum (evidently pleased): So, your mum is a slut?

Me: I'm trying to be serious here.

Mum (appearing fulfilled): OK, I know what you mean.

My eyes returned to the photo again, lingering at her top, then drifting southerly to her feminine epicentre, endeavoring to decrypt her mystique. Then, my eyes drifted to mum. My knees felt curiously weak even though I was sitting down. I experienced a rush of blood force.

My hands had auto-piloted to my crotch. I sat on my hands just so that I could be sure of myself.

***

Photo number four.

Classic. Mum thrusting forward, her breasts hanging some.

Was there a hint of asymmetry? Or was that perception resulting from her angled pose? Her left breast appeared a little fuller than her right.

Me: I see medium pendulous breasts. Self-evidently all natural.

Mum (apologetically): They are a modest B.

Me: They are proportionally just right. They appear heavier than they look though.

Mum: They sag.

Me: Sagging a little from their weight. The definitive visual test of a bosom form is that it imparts a sense of weight to the beholder. Yours certainly do. A C or D-cup giving that sense is expected. But, a B imparting a sense of mass and weight is something sensual to be admired. Contrast this with the contrived inflated balloon orbs of plasticky models.

Mum (unabashedly): My nipples?

Me: What is that people say? See Naples and die. I say "see nipples and die".

Mum: Be serious...

Me: I see titillating perfection in three tiers. Firstly, an enticing contour arc of breast. Secondly, a fleshy swell of rise plateauing to an icing stage of denser and dusky flesh. Thirdly, a summit eruption of dainty nub, the colour of overripe peaches. Your nipples point down just so, yet perky. Contrast this with in-your-face bullet nipples on steroids. A dusting of freckles on your upper chest accentuates your cleavage.

I looked up to see mum's mouth cut wide from ear to ear.

Mum: I don't like my tan lines.

Me: I much prefer tan lines. Tan breasts look like they see the sun all the time. Breasts that are white from being covered all the time are way sexier. They make an enthralling silent sensuous statement. They are private, secret. Privy to the privileged. That is so much sexier!

Mum (pleased): Consider yourself privileged. White privilege to be precise.

Me: Well, yes and no... I am only looking at a photo.

I turned to look at mum longingly, then, lowered my gaze a little. Was that a fleeting conflicted ripple of indecision across mum's face?

Mum (decidedly): There are degrees of privilege. Your dad tops the pecking order.

I said nothing, and left a little silence.

Mum: Let's move on. Do you have any further commentary on my mammaries? Some imperfections?

Mum was fishing. Should I bring up her asymmetry? Would it be awkward? Would I be backed into an inconvenient corner?

I decided to be candid, as I had committed to her. Mum would worm whatever she willed out of me anyway. I would angle this to put mum on her backfoot, if that was at all possible.


Me: I detect a hint of asymmetry. Your left breast appears a little fuller than your right. But, this may be due to your angled posture. So, unless I conduct a live ocular visualization, I can't be sure.

I turned to mum, paused, then lowered my eyes yearningly to the twin objects of our discourse.

I must have stared at mum longer than I was conscious of, because when I looked up, she saw me staring at her, her lips pursed in a wry smile.

Mum: Hmmm... live ocular visualization, huh? If I'm a betting woman, I wouldn't bet on it.

Me (in mirthful regret): Aw, shucks!

Mum: You're sharp. There is indeed an asymmetry. But, your being uncertain about it is good enough for me. That means it's not so obvious.

Me: Symmetry is just a socially conditioned construct in aesthetics. And in our postmodernist age, there is a raging rebellion against it. Go take a photography course. The lecturer will tell you to offset the composition, and so on, to inject interest into the picture. Ditto modern architecture, contemporary furniture design. Symmetry is so passé.

Mum: Now, you're being exceedingly abstract and profound, to please your mum. I love you for that.

Me: I meant what I said.

Mum: Elaborate then...

Me: A slightly asymmetric top is sexy, alluring in the sense of the admirer experiencing two varietals on the same bloom of woman. And this is only visual. If physical... hmmm... a double bonus. Just imagine, on the one hand... And on the other hand...

Mum: Hmmm... we better move on.

***

Photo number five.

Mum was seated at the edge of the coffee table. Legs measuredly parted. Show, but tell subtly.

Mum was gazing intently to the left, away from camera, as if riveted on a distant captivating object.

The light and shadow play was counterintuitively devilish. Where the viewer expected shadow to cast on her lady part, it was illuminated, but only just so, to reveal, but not tell.

This was the one and only shot of mum's feminine charm in a revealed frontal rendition.

This was awkward. I reckoned that it would be best if I just made some arching commentary on the aesthetic merits of the photo composition without any commitment to particular details.

Me: This composition is so sensually calibrated. The viewer is drawn to the epicenter of the composition, and then redirected by your intense gaze into the distance.

Mum (reading me mercilessly as usual): Is this photo making you awkward?

Me: Yes. It's not everyday custom that a son views nude photos of his mum, sitting next to her in the flesh, discussing mommie dearest's most intimate attributes.

Mum: Don't be. Remember, we agreed that this is a man/woman worldview thingy. Here we are. You're the man. I'm the woman, and an incidental mum. We are both adults here. Now, tell me...

Me: If you don't mind my being a little forward here, your lady part is presented delicately. Where I had, perhaps, imagined a lurid flowering of petals, I see something else. Understated labia. An impish gash of cleft, incised low on your mound. The demeanor of a schoolgirl. Mum, you're a curious blend of woman and girl, buxom and pubescence, ballerina and go-go dancer.

Mum: Oh dear! A muddle. Is this a good or bad thing?

I stood up in pointed affirmation. Our eyes locked. With reckless optimism, I bent over and kissed mum. Mum the woman.

For the briefest of moments, we struggled to find the balance between moral duty and earthly pleasure, between obligation to our spirit and attention to our bodies.

Mum touched my hand. Squeezed it. Held it awhile with uncertain determination. Then, let it go.

Me (softly): You're pristine. Not a hint of pencil shading shadow. Like a newborn. It's surreal. I am piqued. Are you mown? Or is this your state of nature?

Mum: We are traipsing into uncharted topography. But, we had an agreement to respect candor.

Me: It's OK, mum. We don't have to go there. I'm being intrusive. We're supposed to discuss your body form, as input to your exercise regime, diet and such like planning.

Mum: We are in the zone. I will deal with it. Candor is a two-way street. I'll just intimate that I'm sparse down there to begin with. So, it's a small step to the state I am in.

Curiously, mum raised her right arm exposing her armpit.

Mum: This is representative of my state of nature.

It dawned on me that this was a part of mum I had never seen. It gave me a twitch. An armpit gave me a charge.

Me (emboldened): Do you look the same when you're deeply aroused?

Mum: Hmmm... we are skating on very thin ice now.

Me: Mum, I'm so sorry! I was carried away. This is insensitive and disrespectful of me.

Mum: My outers will hang down a little. My slit is prone to open, as your dad is privileged to testify. But, my inners are almost always jealousy concealed, never to see light of day. There, I said it.

Mum surprised me further.

Mum (matter-of-factly): Most women at my age get drier, especially around menopause. Dryness can make activity uncomfortable. I'm fortunate. I stay fairly wet down there despite being outwardly tight-lipped. That's not a problem for me.

Mum grinned, watching my reaction, her mischief taking years off her face. Her look, elfin, her smile, laughable.

Mum (conspiratorially): You must never tell anyone about this.

I slid my male finger sensuously across my moistening lips.

Me: My lips are hermetically sealed.

I gazed achingly at the woman. We had a bonding moment, although I didn't know of what precisely. It was as if mum had admitted me to her secret club, with its own code word and special sign, and degrees of initiation. But, it was a revolving membership that lasted a fleeting instant. But, like a newborn baby's smile, it doesn't have to last long to be meaningful forever.

***

And so we moved on with the next picture match-up. All too soon, we were done. The spell ended.

Mum had an air of light contentment, and a spring in her spirit. There was a kittenish fulfilled glow on her face.

Mum shutdown her PC. I got up to go.

Mum: Errr... have you forgotten something?

Me: What?

Mum: Your cellphone stash?

I passed my cellphone to mum. I preferred that she did the sanitising, to make a clean breast of the matter.

But, mum passed it back to me.

Mum (reconciliatory mood): It is your collection. You delete it. You are my son. I trust you implicitly. Unconditionally. There is nothing for me to verify.

I deleted, then trashed the offending album. I felt I deleted a part of myself away forever.

Me: Mum, at the risk of dissing you off, can I ask a rather personal question? You're not obliged to answer if you don't want to.

Mum: We've come so far. You've seen me in my native glory. Just shoot.

Me (hesitatingly): It's evident that you couldn't have self-managed this photo project with tripod and self-timer. And dad couldn't photograph a fruitcake in suspended animation, if his life depended on it. Who took the photos?

Mum appeared momentarily conflicted. Then, she flashed a fiendish grin.

Mum: Your bro is such a talented photographer, don't you think so?

And that was the fourth surprise of my morning.

***

Later...

I was at the cliff edge of our garden. The evening was now spread out against the sky as night.

It was a warm night. Free from mist. Full of moon. I had a desire to throw wide my arms and worship the moon like a pagan, for no particular reason.

This was the reality from which my dream emerged. The world seemed fuller and more spacious than I have ever imagined it could be.

***

Fast forward. A year on.

I was backpacking in a marginal corner of this lonely planet.

I was a travel writer. And more. I had always found my own education. And sometimes, education, me.

Ping!

An email. Ten attachments. I scrolled to the bottom. "Mum's the word"

That was my fifth and last surprise. We never spoke about this unstated bond. Ever.

The End