Mommy's Boy

CHAPTER 1

My mother was special. Because she was American. None of the other kids had an American parent. I called her Mommy, and later Mom. Yes, she did make apple pies! And I took sandwiches with peanut butter in them to school. I called jam jelly, and jelly jello; and I had the Stars and Stripes in my bedroom! Every summer she took me to a theme park called The American Adventure which had a log flume called Cherokee Falls, a Ferris Wheel and a Pirate Ship along with lots of cowboy things and a diner. Later on they had things about space travel.

And when a McDonald's opened near us, I had my first proper burger and fries, and other wonderful American food.

I wasn't that bothered when Mom and Dad divorced. I supposed I expected her to marry a movie star in a while, like the Americans in the media did.

Seriously, she was a wonderful mother.

Actually, Dad was great too, but he was just an ordinary Dad, not even something good like a fireman. He still sent me cash for birthdays and Christmas. Apart from that, I hardly ever thought about him.

I later found out (or eventually understood) she had come to England to study at Oxford as a Rhodes scholar, which means she was very clever. And being very clever she got a good job as a business executive in a British company owned by an American one. We didn't live in Oxford, though, but in Boston. (What Dad called the Real Boston, not the one in America that Mom came from.)

When I told the other kids this, instead of being impressed, they called me Mommy's boy. I had to stop boasting about her, but the name-calling continued for quite a while.

Actually, I had been very happy to be Mommy's boy. When I had done something well or managed for myself, she called me Mommy's good boy or Mommy's big boy. It stopped when I started calling her Mom, but I slightly missed it.

CHAPTER 2

"Don't be such a Mommy's boy!" she said, which shocked me.

"You're an adult now. I'm going back to the US to live with Curt. Of course you can't come. Grow some balls! Get your own place. Get another woman to look after you. I've done my bit!"

When I heard she was going back to America, I assumed that I was also going to this wonderland, and she would show me all the fabulous things. We would have a big car and drive on the right, go and eat hot dogs at ball games and holiday at Disneyland. Would we live in a ranch house or a skyscraper? There would be proper Fourth of July and Thanksgiving! She would get me a job where I would earn big bucks.

I was twenty years old, earning a living (in a job she had got me) but I couldn't imagine life without my Mom.

I was a Trainee Manager at a supermarket. Which basically meant I filled shelves. She earned more than enough, so my income was just spent on whatever I liked. Most of it had gone on a car. I realised from my co-workers that actually living on it would be hard.

Then I got an idea.

"Why don't I live with Dad?"

He still sent me birthday and Christmas cards.

"But he's in Middlesbrough! What about your job?"

I hadn't known that. He just wasn't around, so I never thought of him. Why had we never visited him?

"I'm sure they have the same shops in Middlesbrough. I'll ask to transfer there!" I said triumphantly. Of course I could make my own decisions!

She looked worried.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said, hesitantly.

"I'll help you find a place here, and give you some money to start off. I wouldn't just abandon you. You're still my boy."

She gave a nervous smile. I'd never seen her like this.

"Why isn't it a good idea? What's wrong with Dad? Why did he move away? Has he married again? Why do we never see him?"

She told me to sit down.

"I didn't want to tell you, but I guess I have to."

She drew a big breath.

"He's a pervert. A sexual deviant. I didn't know till he started to, well, sorry I can't talk about it. That's why we divorced, and I got an order keeping away from you till you were eighteen. That's passed now, so he's allowed to see you. See him, if you must, but don't move there."

I was shocked, but she wouldn't tell me anything more.

Instead, she started to look at finding and funding a flat for me.

Which was great, but I felt a bit inferior still having to rely on my Mom, instead of making my own way in the world,

And I wondered about Dad.

I didn't have a phone number, so I wrote to the address on the last birthday card. I now understood why we had not sent him any cards.

He wrote back, giving his phone number, and saying he'd be delighted to see me.

Mom told me to be careful, but I was old enough to look after myself, so I confirmed I was coming and drove off.

I hadn't seen Dad for a dozen years and was a bit shocked he was so different. Older (of course) and fatter, with less hair. He was living in what had been his parents' house, but they had both died. I realised I never really knew my grandparents, British or American, though his parents had seen me as a baby and toddler. He told me his side of the story.

"You know that song 'Common People' they were playing last year?"

"Pulp," I responded.

"Yeah, whoever. But the thing is, that was your Mum, I mean Mom. Anyway the Americans can be very snobbish, or at least her family was. Something to do with their Boston - I don't understand it."

"She had it all. She was beautiful, smart, wealthy and from a good family. She was looking for excitement with a bit of rough, and I met the bill. She was amused by me and I was amazed by her. I couldn't believe my luck: she was just so out of my league in every way. I loved her, I still do, but it was something different for her, just an experience away from her family."

"She had a two-year scholarship, with the possibility of extension to three. Something very prestigious."

"Rhodes scholarship," I said.

"Yeah, that's the one. Only we mucked it up, of course. But she was the one who knew about periods and told me when it would be all right, and I never argued. Except she didn't know as much as she thought she did, and got pregnant. Nobody wanted an abortion - not her, not me, not her parents - so we got married. And my parents were over the Moon."

"Her parents were just the opposite. A posh Oxford student would have been OK, but not a working-class lout like me. They came over and fixed up a fancy wedding, but didn't attend. My parents loved it, apart from being snubbed by hers. I'm sorry to say she was a bit cold to my Mum and Dad. Blamed them for me, I suppose."

"We moved away from Oxford, because she couldn't bear to be reminded of what she had lost. We went to Middlesbrough, with my parents. We both loved you, of course, and my Mum was glad to look after you so Mom could get a job. Nothing special at first, but then some pal from Oxford tipped her off about the job she's got now, so we moved to Boston, just in time for you to start school. I guess you know the rest."

We had a beer together and looked at some photographs of me in some situations I remembered, and some I didn't. Then I had to ask him.

"Dad, about the divorce.... Mom says you were a pervert."

He snorted angrily.

"Yes, she did. Honestly it was a nothing. Just a bit of dressing up. Started in Oxford, actually, at a fancy-dress ball. I quite liked it and she did too, if she'd only admit it. Then she started accusing me of being serious about it. Yes, I fancied her dressed as a schoolgirl, and played it up, but I wasn't actually chasing after real schoolgirls, and I never would."

"Really it was just because she wanted to get shot of me. She didn't need my wages anymore, and I think she wanted to find some men who were more her type. As she obviously did with this Curt feller. Some Ivy League Yank from a good family, I expect. I hope her bloody parents are fucking well pleased!"

Then he hugged me.

"Still, if I get my only son, then I only wish them both the best. You will come back to your old Dad, won't you?"

He was crying.

"Yes, of course Dad. I just wanted to see if you'd have me."

We had rather too many beers before staggering off to our beds.

CHAPTER 3

When I got back, I told Mom what Dad had said about the divorce and his 'perversion'.

"Oh yes, just a bit of fun. That's what he said to me. I don't want to talk about it, but he was a bit too keen to put on a dress himself, and if I'd had a daughter I'd have worried he might do something he shouldn't with her."

"He wore a dress sometimes?" I said in amazement.

"Yes, once was a laugh, but it started to get very creepy. I don't know what he's been up to since, and if you find out, don't tell me. It's just good that we parted when we did."

Perhaps it was, I thought. It was bad enough being called Mommy's Boy, but "Your dad's a perve!" would have been worse.

I hesitated. Were either of my parents telling me the whole truth? Was Mom just overreacting, or was he really a pervert? Still, I asked the manager about transferring to Middlesbrough, and was told it would be possible but they would like me to move (or not) before the Christmas rush, so one or other would take on a replacement.

Well, I decided he probably wouldn't be living in his parents' house where everyone knew him if he had a criminal conviction for some sexual crime, and if he fancied schoolgirls that wouldn't affect me. Would it matter if he wore a dress at home, sometimes?

Mom said I was old enough to make my own decisions and my own mistakes, but if things went wrong, I should contact her and she'd try and fix me up. I said thanks, but determined I didn't need my Mommy any more.

Dad's home was a typical Victorian two-bedroom terrace, about a hundred years old. He slept in his old room, which he'd once shared with his two brothers, so I went into grandma's room. Grandad had died six years earlier, but Grandma only about eighteen months before, so he apologised that he had not yet cleared her things out, though there were fresh sheets in the bed.

He had told Mom when Grandma died, but I was annoyed she had not told me, nor gone to the funeral. He showed me a family album including me as a toddler with my grandparents at the seaside - Saltburn, he said it was. The next fine weekend we went there, and I convinced myself I remembered the cliff tramway. Looking at the pictures, I was sorry I had not got to know her.

He eventually told me a bit more about what caused the divorce, but I remembered Mom warning me it was only his version.

"It was the fucking Oxford students who started it!" he told me.

"The Hooray Henries her parents would have approved of! There was a thing then, in clubs and parties, called Vicars and Tarts. The lads would put on black t-shirts and a white collar somehow to be vicars, and the girls would dress up as slutty as they could. Pretty easy, but not good enough for her posh academic friends. They made it a priests and schoolgirls party."

"Your Mom actually got me to put on a maroon dress to be like a bishop's robe, and made a silly hat, like a bishop's mitre. She, of course, was a very sexy schoolgirl. Without going into details, we both found it very exciting, and played a game of being a lustful bishop seducing an innocent schoolgirl."

He hesitated.

"You know, getting her to do various things," he added, blushing.

"Sorry, I know it's your Mum, but you wanted to know..."

I noticed he'd forgotten to say Mom, and also that I was both embarrassed and a bit stiff.

Of course my parents had had sex, or I wouldn't be here.

"Yeah, carry on," I told him, shifting my position. He squirmed a bit as well, before continuing.

"I suppose that's why she wasn't so careful. Honestly I never forced her, and we used protection most of the time, but, you know, she missed a period and then another and the trouble started."

"Fancy a cup of tea?" he suddenly said, and got up a bit awkwardly. While he made the tea, I went to the toilet, and forced my cock down for a piss. He served the tea, then went to the toilet himself.

"So you came along, of course, and the three of us lived here with my parents. My older brother had married and gone, but younger brother had to sleep downstairs, till I got us a little flat nearby. I think you were nearly two before we had sex again. She still resented me, but she was really horny. And when your grandma was looking after you we were free to do anything we wanted. So we tried everything."

"Of course the schoolgirl again, and me some sort of lecher. Then there was a period she put me in a dress again, but this time gave me makeup. We even did a sort of role reversal for a while, with a couple more outfits. It was actually quite fun, playing at being a woman."

I was intrigued to think of my dad in a dress, so asked him "Do you still have the clothes?"

"No," he said. "I got rid of them long ago. Anyway they wouldn't fit me now. You could try some of your gran's if you like. You're about her size."

Now I was embarrassed again.

"That wasn't what I meant," I said, blushing.

"Sorry, no. Of course not."

"Anyway, I was saying. We even tried anal, and I admit I liked it, but she was willing, and we did it more than once. I never forced her with anything. But you have to say something to get a divorce, and it was my unreasonable behaviour that got it, as well as the fact that we were living apart."

"So that's the evil monster your dad is. What do you think? Are you going to leave or stay?"

I said I'd stay. Which meant, of course going back home to change jobs and arrange for my stuff to be moved. I took most of what I wanted in the first car load. For the second car load it was surprising how much I decided to leave behind. Mom was a bit upset that I left the US Flag in my bedroom. I guess she thought it was a rejection of her, which it was in way, I suppose.

The work transfer was easy enough. I was pleasantly surprised to find I'd been bumped up a grade.

"It actually is a management training scheme for those that have the ability," my new boss told me.

"Your old manager was quite pleased with you, and they were thinking of promoting you anyway. We thought we could give you a bit of responsibility for the temporary staff over Christmas. But for now we'll put you on the tills, while you get used to us."

Of course I insisted in giving Dad some money from my pay packet, feeling a bit like a responsible adult at last. He also showed me how to use the washing machine and dryer, though we dried clothes on the line whenever the weather allowed. He showed me how to iron a shirt for work, but we didn't iron much else.

Mom had a dishwasher, though they were quite unusual then: now I took my turn at washing the dishes with Dad. I also learned to cook a bit. Because of shifts, I was sometimes home when Dad was at work, and I started tidying a bit. Mom had had a woman come in each week, and I was used to the place being spick and span. It wasn't hard, but nice to see the results.

There was a funny thing. Dad had put some wank mags by my bed. It was very kind and thoughtful, really. I couldn't imagine Mom doing that! They were more explicit than the topless pictures I had used, mainly from page 3 of a newspaper, so I was glad to have them.

I had never thought about my parents having sex (only about myself not getting it.) Now I had been told of my wonderful mother doing kinky things. And I had magazines that my dad had wanked to!

Actually, thinking of him wanking was quite arousing in itself! Weird, but exciting. I never told him, of course.

CHAPTER 4

Living with Dad was great!

Every morning he cooked us bacon and egg and fried bread for breakfast instead of that stupid Shredded Wheat Mom made me eat. And we could go to a Mac for dinner as often as I fancied, instead of a once a month treat. We usually tried the specials, and always went large, which Mom would never do. We usually went to the chip shop twice a week: once for fish and chips, once for steak and kidney pie and chips, both with mushy peas. We often had a pizza - a ready-made one from the supermarket or delivered.

I usually got a sausage sandwich for lunch from a nearby café, the sort of place Mom would call a 'greasy spoon'. I still liked my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (Dad didn't take to them.) What was also good at the supermarket was that at the end of the day items with that sell-by date were marked down, and staff could take them home for pennies. Sometimes it would be donuts or cakes, sometimes ready meals for the pan or oven.

Some months later, when I had to get a larger size of uniform slacks I realised what was happening. I was also spending more time on the toilet and it was often messy and uncomfortable. When I ate what Mom supplied me I had been fine - regular and easy dumps with no problem for the rest of the day.

Maybe I was becoming an adult, but I went back to Shredded Wheat in the morning, and meals like Mom provided. Dad refused Shredded Wheat, but accepted Weetabix. He had only done fry-ups for me, and didn't think I was worth it for one. Wholemeal bread instead of white, more salad, fruit and vegetables. There had been a regular pattern during the week, so it was easy to remember. Dad went along with it to some extent, providing I did the cooking. He only did frying or heating up in an oven. As I worked at a supermarket, I did the shopping, and let others get the penny donuts and cakes. We had salmon with broccoli and mash instead of fried fish and chips on a Friday. Dad had never bought fruit, but liked it when I did.

We both lost a bit of weight, my toilet troubles vanished and I felt better. Mom had been pretty good, actually.

While I was about it, I cleaned the fridge and defrosted the freezer, neither of which had been done since Grandma died. They had been done by Mom's weekly cleaner, but I had been taught at the supermarket, and had done it sometimes there, so it was easy.

Tidying up generally, I realised that the place had probably not been vacuumed for years, so tried Grandma's old one, which wasn't very good. In a fit of enthusiasm, I bought one of the new cyclone ones from the store next to the supermarket. It was expensive, but Dad went halves, and we were both impressed. As I was going to get rid of the old one it came apart, and I found the paper dustbag was full. When it was replaced it vacuumed OK, so we just kept it, but never used it.

"Proper little housewife!" Dad said.

"While you're at it, we really ought to clear out your grandma's clothes. I couldn't really face it because, you know, she was my mum. What I thought we would do would be to sort them out. Anything that's too worn, obviously to be chucked. Anything decent should be washed and given to charity. Look at the labels. Anything that needs dry-cleaning we'll look at later to see if it's worth it."

I realised that 'we' probably meant me, but didn't mind.

I suppose thinking about an old grandma, I was expecting dark and dowdy clothes, but they were anything but. Mom had always dressed tastefully and elegantly. She mostly wore tailored suits (skirt or pants) in muted colours for work; casual but still elegant slacks at home over the weekend; and a black dress for formal. In later years I had occasionally glimpsed some sexy underwear in the washing basket, obviously for her meetings with Curt.

Grandma showed me a different kind of woman. There were dresses in cheerful floral or animal prints, blouses with frills and lace, and underwear which was pretty rather than sexy. She liked pink as well - a dressing gown, cardigan, nightdress and undies. I couldn't remember ever seeing pink in Mom's clothes.

Dad told me she had spent the War and a bit after in trousers doing farm work in what they called the Women's Land Army, replacing men who had gone to fight. From her teens to mid- twenties she had missed the life of a young woman, so he guessed she appreciated feminine clothes more.