Mom Unlocks the Shyness Enigma

Have you ever been eighteen? Of course, you have. But trust me, my journey into adulthood was anything but typical at that age. Picture me as the guy who used to hang out at the back of the line during the confidence distribution ceremony. You know, the awkward kid with his hands perpetually in his pockets, nervously avoiding the spotlight. That was me until today.

You see, I celebrated my eighteenth birthday four months ago. That milestone marked a perplexing transition into adulthood, according to my dad, who claimed it was when the training wheels of life came off. He'd said it as my mom lit the candles on the cake, a gleam of anticipation in her eyes. Since that day, both seemed determined to jolt me into full-fledged adulthood.

"Dude, it's high time you stepped up and took some real responsibility," my dad would remind me regularly. Meanwhile, my mom was on a mission to play matchmaker, and her attempts were relentless.

"Found a girl for the dance, Jimmy?" she'd prod, or, "That girl from the bus stop seems interested. Why not ask her out?" They even had employment suggestions, pushing me toward the Big Box Store for a part-time job that could, as they put it, "lead to a real career."

All this nudging was more than just annoying; it was like a storm of emotions crashing down on me. It felt as if I were that guy in the news, minding his own business at a bus stop when a drunk driver suddenly blindsided him. One moment, I was the poster child for teenage awkwardness, and the next... well, that changed today.

You see, my mom grew tired of waiting for me to take the reins of my life. So, she took matters into her own hands. Today's events were a whirlwind, a rollercoaster, and a curveball all rolled into one. But, seriously, what just happened?

As usual, Mom knocked at my door this morning. It seemed too early to crawl out of bed, especially realizing it was a Saturday morning; I could tell by the muffled sound of Mom's favorite Saturday show coming under the crack of my bedroom door.

"Too early," I mumbled, dropping my head back into the pillow.

"Up!" she chuckled, "Dad left you a job assignment. Money for it this time."

I dragged myself to the breakfast table and slumped over a plate of bacon, eggs, and an English muffin. Saturdays were muffin days--a change-of-pace breakfast day.

Mom ran her hand through my curly head of hair, "Haircut by next weekend," she announced.

"Yeah, -- yes, ma'am," I concurred. It didn't matter if I didn't want a haircut -- it would happen.

"So, Dad?" I muttered, half asleep, although the coffee aroma was working toward bringing me back to life.

"Lawn mowing across the street at the Johnson's old place. You remember you committed to Dad you'd keep it mowed? Dad says it looks like a hayfield. Well, the new owner moved in early yesterday. Dad promised it would be immaculate and ready for move-in today. A day late, it turns out ..."

"... and a dollar short," I finished one of Dad's many sayings. "Ah, yeah. I did," I sighed.

I fueled the riding mower, checked the oil, and checked the line on the weed-eater before driving across the road onto the one-acre lot. The old Johnson home sat in the middle of the lot. I had a divide-and-conquer plan. The front first, then mow from the back fence to the house and trim that. Dad would be proud of the course of action: efficient use of time, resources, and workforce, he would say.

The heat bore down on me. I'd neglected to take a hat. Returning would acknowledge my action plan had flaws, so I sweated it out.

As I rounded the house, heading to the backyard, I stopped. The Johnsons had left a worn-out picnic table. On it was a glass pitcher of iced lemonade. A note read: You look thirsty. The handwriting was flawless, calligraphy at its finest -- Hallmark grade.

I didn't see anyone, but obviously, the owners had seen me and were nice enough to take note. Mom and Dad would take that as a sign of a good neighbor. I was glad, too. I downed a glass in one continuous series of gulps. There was at least another one in the pitcher. I'd get that as I worked my way back toward the house.

On the way back was when my life-changing experience began. I pulled up to the table, intending to down the last glass of refreshment. Wiping the stinging, salty beads of sweat from my eyes, I looked up at the patio door, having caught a slight movement. I didn't mean to stare. I didn't mean to choke on that last swallow either, but I nearly drowned myself.

Time stood still. Damned nearly frozen for minutes, it seemed. Like an image out of a dream, she stood centered in the glass sliding doorway -- naked. Who in my wildest dreams would do that to a bashful, nervous, tongue-tied guy?

She watched me, not a hint of embarrassment at being immodestly exposed in such a manner. She smiled finally, cupping her hand under her chin and pushing upward, motioning to me with the other hand. I realized that she was telling me to close my jaw-dropped-open mouth. Damn embarrassing -- me -- not her one bit.

I took another swallow as I continued to stare. I had no idea what to do. Act like this was natural, or pretend it was all a dream and go back to mowing. Was this a gift or a prank? The situation flowed quickly into my mind. How was I supposed to respond, or was I not to?

Doing what eighteen-year-old guys that stand at the back of the line in bashfulness do, I went back to cutting the grass. That didn't stop the thoughts or the uncomfortable bulge in my shorts from making itself known. 'Fuck her,' Thor cried, 'Just stop and get it done!'

The trimming could have been better. My hands shook too much to keep a smooth swinging arc as I cut the grass against the foundation. It became more uneven when I got to the water faucet and glanced back into the patio window. She was still there. Pressing her breasts against the glass, they mushed outward, flattening her nipples against the glass. God, that looked unbelievable; her rose-hued nipples looked twice as large. Her eyes followed me until she planted her lips on the glass, opened her mouth, and licked it with her tongue in small circles. Crazy how my cock jumped and hardened at that scene; the image in my mind was of that mouth swirling around my cock. I could tell she saw my cock harden in my shorts; her eyes were fixated on its protrusion.

If that were not bad enough, the weed-wacker motor died out as I stood there. The only thing running was a line of moisture on the glass as she pressed her pubic region onto it. Her cunt blossomed. This was incredible, times two hundred, for a guy who had never seen a naked girl up close. What a sight!

The anxiety level of being a voyeur so close, grew from there. She opened the door in the quietness and stepped out into the heat. She tilted her head upward to let the sun's rays catch her throat. Her lengthy hair swirled backward as she did, and I saw a small tattoo on her neck, just behind the center of her ear. I suspected it was typically out of sight, given that long hair.

"You have a tattoo," I stated the obvious. It was ridiculous, given I could have said anything else -- even, "Hello, beautiful naked girl." That wouldn't have been inappropriate, given she was beautiful, naked, and a not shy girl.

"It's a keyhole symbol. Do you know its meaning?" she asked, as her hands brushed back her hair for a better view as she stepped forward on the deck.

I hadn't a damn clue. Keyholes implied some things were kept under lock to keep people out. I knew that much.

"Ah, not exactly," I sputtered, with one of my best classroom answers when faced with a question I couldn't answer.

"Um, I see. Well, that's too bad," she said. Then, as if holding some mental conversation with herself, she added, "Why don't you step inside out of the heat, and I can give you a history lesson on the keyhole symbol and what that holds for anyone embracing its philosophy."

How could I say no? She already had my sweaty hand in her delicate fingers and was walking me through that glass entry door before I could respond. It felt like that feeling of the nursery rhyme: Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

The inside was comfortable, out of the heat. She walked me to the living room, now lined neatly with boxes yet unpacked, though everything seemed well organized amidst it all. Organized chaos, Dad would call it. Mom would approve of how things were labeled by room and content. The girl had skills, or her family did. I looked about for someone else.

"Ah, your folks here?" I asked, expecting the worst. A guy in a house with a naked girl. Who wouldn't expect something to happen, right?

"No," she smiled, "I live alone."

"All by yourself in this big place?" I gawked, looking around at all the stuff in boxes. 'Who has this much shit?' I thought.

"Well, sometimes I have guests," came her retort with a smile.

"Sit," she said, "I'll get you a towel." With that, she left me sweaty, dripping on her leather couch. When she returned, it was with a towel and several washcloths. I expected she would hand them to me, but that didn't happen.

"Up," she said. She then proceeded to treat me like a small child. Rubbing my front and back to erase the vestiges of sweat, she toweled me off and handed me a washcloth for my face. I obediently cleaned off the grass clinging to me and looked more like a teen than a shaggy bush needing a clipping.

"You're cute," she remarked, looking me over again, "I'm Teresa Ann."

"James," is all I could muster, still struck by her nudity and how it didn't phase her. I still didn't know what to do. Thor, my pet name for my cock, wanted to bang her. My shyness held the reins and balked at the idea. God, though, I wanted to.

Immobile, I stood still, staring, held that way by that invisible lasso called by multiple names: insecurity, shyness, modesty, manners -- I could go on, but you get the idea. She grinned at my uncomfortable state.

"Know why I invited you inside?"

"Ah, you said something about opening a keyhole symbol?" I stuttered.

She brushed her hair back again to expose another glance at the keyhole slot. It was smallish, discreet, and unmistakable -- like an old-fashioned skeleton key lock opening.

"This is something I'm sharing with you because you seem -- a bit insecure. I don't want you to share it with others, understood? Do I have your word?"

"Yeah, okay, I can keep a secret," I responded, knowing no girl ever shared a secret to test that premise. I wondered what I was getting myself into.

"At its base level, James, this is a secret message to those I show it to, meaning I am open to them. At its extreme, a woman who wears this symbol takes it to mean anyone, crudely speaking, can use her cunt whenever and however the viewer chooses." With that said, she sat back on the couch next to me, crossed her hands in her lap, and watched the gears in my mind spin. My face gave her a window into those gears as they whirled; she could read them as quickly as if I were an open book without a lock or the need for a key.

"Anyone? Um, just their cunt?" I wound up blathering and staring in disbelief.

Teresa Ann's look remained expressionless for about thirty seconds, and then she smiled. "You are timid, aren't you, James? It's every part, anyway, anytime. Is that clear enough for you?"

My heart pounded as I watched that petite but chesty wisp inches from me. Her hands crossed in her lap like Becky Thatcher does in chemistry class while pressing her dress downward to form a perfect camel-toe -- though, Teresa Ann didn't have any clothes to press. Teresa Ann waited expectantly for everything she said to register in my nervous, inexperienced eighteen-year-old body.

I reached out, touched her knee, slid my hand between her legs, and landed at the apex between her thighs, the source of a virgin's wildest dreams. Her eyes closed as she slid back onto that leather couch and breathed deeply. There wasn't a hint of 'no' as she raised her arms and tucked her hands behind her head to watch me.

"Remember, anything you want, any way you want it ..." she whispered.

I wanted it all.

The following two hours of my life gave me more of an education than four years of high school. I left Teresa Ann's place with a new respect for the amount of strength, stamina, and endurance a woman's body can take beneath a man unleashing his pent-up, first sexual cravings. God damn, she was terrific!

Putting away the tools, I felt drained, physically and emotionally. It wasn't the heat that sapped my energy from mowing. It was the sex -- anyway, every way I wanted it, that drained me physically. As to the emotional moments, what can I say? I'd gone over there a mild and meek virgin lawnmower guy. I came back wondering why I hadn't been pounding someone like Becky Thatcher for months in the backseat of my dad's car. Clearly, after the workout and frank conversation with Teresa Ann, I found out every girl wants it -- though, like me, they are not always eager to let that desire get around. I entertained a twisted thought about that. I knew from now on, I would be checking out every woman I met to see if she had a keyhole. I damn sure was going to enjoy that. After final exams, I will be mowing a lot of lawn at Teresa Ann's home this summer.

Stepping into the mudroom, I felt the air change. Though not as cool inside as when I left. "What's up, Mom? Air conditioning on the fritz?" I asked, stepping into the kitchen.

"Nope, Dad called and said the electrical grid wants us to conserve energy, so I turned it up a few degrees. You'll be all right after you cool down."

"Phew," she scolded as I walked by, "Shower! You smell ... like ... well, just hit the shower. We'll talk about that after you get out."

Stepping into the bathroom, I quickly caught the smell Mom had detected. It wasn't my customary sweaty socks odor. It was different. It was a new smell -- rutting with Teresa Ann permeating the air. A shower took care of that.

How the hell was I going to explain this? A hair-raising thought gripped the back of my neck as I slipped on a fresh tee shirt and shorts. On the way to the laundry room, I had to make the same trip past Mom again with my sex-odor-tainted lawnmowing clothes.

"Shit."

As I passed the table, I noticed Mom had also changed. In shorts now, I surmised that she had her hair up due to the heat. I tried to slip by as she set the table for dinner. Dad would be home in two hours. She had started early. I froze as she turned and reached for glasses. On the nape of her exposed neck was -- a keyhole. Oh, double shit.

My mother is an expert at facial reading. The look on mine must have been like looking at the transparency of a teenager's freaked-out brain with all its electrons ablaze. If Teresa Ann hadn't already alerted me to my jaw hanging open when I saw her naked in the window, Mom would have also been signaling me to close my jaw. I swallowed instead, jeans in one hand and sex-tainted underwear in the other.

"By the smell when you walked in, I know what you did," she said evenly, as we stared at one another.

I would have stammered and denied it vehemently if it hadn't been for Teresa Ann's counseling. Instead, I answered, "Okay, yes. I ... fucked her. She has the same tattoo as you. So, I know what that means."

Her hands instinctively rose to the nape of her neck; too late, she realized her mistake in putting up her hair as she did today. Her demeanor changed almost instantly from a motherly inquisition mode to a quiet, passive one.

"Does Dad know?"

She answered meekly, looking down at the table, "Not -- yet."

"James ... What do you intend to do now that you know about it?"

"Ever been butt fucked?" I asked, not caring. "Put your hands on the sink and assume the position."

Earlier, I had excused myself from the dinner table. Guilt seemed to seep out of my pores. I was sure it smelled like Mom's secretions and, perhaps, some of Teresa Ann's sex juices, too. I half-expected Dad to turn to me any second now, sniff, and ask if I enjoyed fucking my mother's ass. So, I gave him a lame-ass excuse for leaving -- to study for the end-of-the-year finals. It was getting hard to sit next to him as though I hadn't just had sex with my mother as he drove home for dinner. I headed down the hallway, catching Mom's remark about mowing the neighbor's yard. At that, my dad made a sardonic comment about the hottie across the street being a college student working on her Ph.D. Well, really? I'd fucked a college chick who just moved in across the street. The magazine model image to whom I lost my virginity was in school, too.

This morning began with Mom cajoling my sleep-laden body out of bed and prompting me to mow the unattended yard. Lying here, now, as I think about it, when-in-the-fuck-ever, does a naked woman press her pussy against her window while a stranger cuts her grass? When-the-fuck-ever, does she unlock her door and invite a guy inside while undressed like that? And then proceeds to tell him that a keyhole symbol is a magical entry to a world of sexplicit adventures for anyone who understands that a cock is a key to unlocking that mysterious realm. Even more astonishing, I learned my mom is a fraternal member of that order of the keyhole.

Do you remember how, back in the beginning, I told you about how my self-esteem changed today? Was I starting to grow up? Well, my world just turned upside down, so yeah, I guess you could say I was beginning to feel my oat-sowing needs kicking in, as Dad would say. After all, I went from being a bonafide virgin to a cunt-fucker, an ass-fucker, and a mother-fucker all in the same afternoon! 'What the hell happened today?' Part of that answer is that I was starting to grow up; maybe that is the best answer to that question I can give today. But it sure as hell was a very confusing day!

Rolling over onto my side, I reached into my dresser drawer and took out one of the ornate, embossed business cards Teresa Ann had given me. I could still hear her telling me she ran a business as she coaxed my flagging cock back to stiffness over and over in those two hours. But then Dad just said she was a college kid. So which is it: a business lady or a college kid? I'd read the front of the card earlier, but now, studying it again, I flipped it over.

The reverse side said: 'Board Certified Sexologist' -- 'Phallic Training -- Tantric Sex Certified -- Conjugal Fealty Training - Allosexual Determinate Assessment -- Other 'Sexpert' Services --

I stared at the card for a seriously long time. I reread it. I might as well have read it once and let it go because no matter how many times I read the words, they held no meaning. It could have been in Latin or Greek -- none of the terms made sense.

"What is Phallic Training?" I spit the unfamiliar word out as I read it.

"What the fuck is Tantric Sex?" I snorted, stumbling on how to pronounce it.

"What the mother-fuck, is Allosaurus Determinate Assessment?" I was pissed at that point, thinking that Teresa Ann claimed to be some dinosaur trainer! That's when, on the second read, I realized it didn't have anything to do with dinosaurs -- I just misread the damned card! It said 'Allosexual,' not 'Allosaurus' like the dinosaur. Still, that didn't mean a goddamned thing to me.