My Shooting Star

What was happening between us was unspoken -- our secret.

* * *

The wedding was quite the soiree, at an old Virginia country estate, turned into an event center. We gathered for the ceremony on the front five-acre carpet lawn, meticulously kept, beside a fountain spraying rose tinted water and mist. Everyone dressed to the nines. Dinner was under a white tent the size of a basketball court. The after-party, with more than two hundred guests and musicians, was inside the main building. We would sleep in the nearly 30 bedrooms available in the upper floors of the mansion.

Mom and Dad mingled during the party, separately of course. A young woman, Anita, a friend of the bride, sat at the bar with me, both of us downing martinis and flirting. Another guy honed in on the conversation. I let him. They both flitted away. I caught sight of Mom in the crowd behind me, both of us glancing simultaneously at each other.

The band slowed the music, started playing Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night," her all-time favorite. I waited to see if Dad would ask her to dance. Not a chance. How could he be so stupid? I tapped her on the shoulder from behind.

"Mrs. Armstrong, may I have this dance?"

"But of course, Mr. Armstrong. You're my favorite partner."

We talked as we moved slowly to the music. I held her closer than I should have. She didn't object.

"I was sure by now you'd be dancing with that blonde at the bar," she said.

"She wasn't my type. And I know I'm not hers."

"What about all these other young women in the room?" she asked. "Some of them are pretty hot. I've never seen so many low-cut dresses at a wedding."

"Done that. Checked them all out," I said. "None have your looks. Or your sex appeal. Besides. Who better to dance with than the woman who taught me how."

And that may be true. It was in our living room, on the carpet, when I was 10. Mom put on Sinatra and gave me my first lesson. We took our shoes off. I'll never forget that feeling of having my hand on her waist.

After a few dances on this night, Dad came up, asked if Mom wanted to head to their room with him. He winked. All of the sudden, he's my rival for her time and attention.

"I'd like to have one more dance with Mom, if that's okay with you, Dad?"

"I'd like that too," Mom said.

"I'll personally escort her to your room when we're done," I promised. He winked again, walked away.

"I think he's got an itch that he wants you to scratch," I told her as the next song began.

"It's only because he's drunk. He'll be asleep in 10 minutes."

"Sorry," I said. "So, you're not getting any action from him tonight?"

"I count my blessings," she said.

Then Mom looked at me, did that intense eye contact once again. Flirting if you will. My face turned red. But I loved it.

"Mrs. Armstrong," I said. "Has anyone ever told you that you exude more lust with one glance of your eyes than most women do with their entire body, low-cut dress or not?"

"A good dose of lust every once in a while can't be such a bad thing, can it?" she asked.

The song ended. We stopped dancing, moved toward a serving table for fresh flutes of champagne.

I leaned into her ear and whispered, "Maybe you need a lover."

"My standards are high, Mr. Armstrong. Exceptionally high," she retorted, faking a little arrogance in her voice and mannerism.

"I see. Guess I wouldn't qualify, Mrs. Armstrong."

"Now, now. We're family. I suspect that would be a crime in this state," she said.

I lifted my champagne, clinked it to hers in a toast.

"Then here's to crime," I said.

We danced on and on, all slow moving, lights-down-low dances. My hand holding hers. My arm around her waist. The smell of her perfume. The wetness of her lipstick. My senses were charged. We talked some, sometimes not. Sometimes just looking into each other's eyes. Between songs, she would lean in to say something, the tips of her breasts brushing against my dress shirt. An old girlfriend once told me that whenever a woman lets her breasts brush against you, in a seemingly innocent fashion, it's not innocent. She knows exactly what she's doing. As each song ended, for some reason our thighs brushed against each other too, only for a second.

As one song ended, Mom turned around to applaud the orchestra, her back to me. As she clapped, she lost her balance, just slightly, taking a half step backward before regaining it. Her buttocks, with that tight black cocktail dress stretched across them, were now brushing lightly against me. My semi-erection grew hard in seconds, pushing a little against the back of her hips. As the applause ended, Mom stood still, just a second or two longer than necessary, before turning back around to me. Again, that seductive, yet innocent smile.

She led me, her arm draped through mine, around the room, introducing me to friends, all the while both of us drinking champagne, flute after flute, until nearly midnight.

A photographer, not the one assigned to shoot the wedding itself, was on hand to take photos of couples and families, since we all were decked out in black tie and party dresses. Mom, Dad and I had one taken early in the evening. But now, after our dancing, Mom led me back over to the photographer for a photo of just the two of us. The woman took several. The one she seemed to like the most had Mom and I cheek to cheek, a close-up of just our faces.

I walked Mom to my parents' room, though after the champagne and a few straight bourbons, neither was sure who was escorting whom. I may have been holding on to her, rather than the other way around. Somehow, I made it to my room, five doors down from theirs. My clothes off, I fell onto the bed in my boxers, staring at the ceiling. The room really does spin around when you're drunk.

At some point my mother knocked quietly. I let her in, stumbled back to bed to lie down. She sat on the edge of the bed next to me in the dark. A silk robe covered her silk pajamas. Very pretty. Very proper. I had an enormous erection, though I'm not sure why. I knew she could tell. I wondered if she would ignore it.

"I know you're drunk," she said in that quiet voice. "Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?" "I'm fine," I told her. Even though I wasn't.

"I took up too much of your time tonight," she said. "I think I ruined it between you and that pretty blond. You two looked good together."

"I couldn't care less about her," I said.

"So, Mr. Dancing Partner, who then do you care about?" she asked. "You haven't mentioned anyone recently. What girl is in your life these days?"

"You, my dear Mrs. Armstrong. You will always be first and foremost in my heart."

She put her hand on my bare chest, curled her fingers through my chest hair, not that I have a lot. Stroked my face again. I used to love the softness of her fingers on me. So comforting as a kid. Now so erotic. In the darkness, I still could make out the smouldering look of her eyes, penetrating into my soul. They seemed to want me to confide in her, to tell her everything.

"I'm glad we're close again," she whispered. "I've missed our time together."

She leaned over to kiss me on the lips, then stood up to leave. I refused to let go of her hand. Pulled her hard toward me. Overpowered her. She had no choice but to fall on top of me on the bed. Her mid-section pressed against mine. I could feel the warmth between her legs. She could feel my rock-hard erection. No attempt from her to move.

She lay her head on my shoulder, wrapped her arms around my neck. I think the champagne had gotten to her a little, too. I could feel her breath on my skin. Reaching behind her, I put my hands on her hips, began feeling them. Maneuvered my hand under her robe, onto her pajamas. The silk so thin that I could feel everything. She might as well have been naked. I could tell she had no panties on.

My hands groped, kneaded, caressed her soft hips through the silk, first one side, then the other. It was blatant and boorish of me. But I was drunk. And Mom knew it. Worse yet, I slid my middle finger down the crevice between her hips, running my finger directly over her anus, feeling the small opening through the silk. Rubbing her there. Then pushing my finger and the silk in just a little. So obscene on my part. Worthy of nothing but shame.

Yet, I could hear, very vaguely as if in the distance, ragged breathing as her face was now almost against mine, buried in my neck. My fingers felt hot between her hips. I wanted to tear the pajamas off. My erection was getting harder, beginning to hurt. I was leaking. Mom could feel my wetness, I'm sure.

She let me get away with this for a few minutes. Then raised up. "I'm afraid you've discovered my weakness," she said as she sat on the side of the bed. Again, running fingers back and forth over my chest in the darkness, touching my nipples. Then, as quietly and stealthily as she came, she let herself out the door and back to her room.

* * *

If your mother is a physicist, you likely know something of the Perseid meteor shower, perhaps the best spectacle of shooting stars all year long in the U.S. It comes every year, in late July and early August, lasting several weeks.

Each year as I was growing up, the three of us would pick the most opportune night to view it, loading up our car with food, wine, blankets, pillows and heading to Blackburn State Park, 10 miles south of town. We'd park by the lake, lay the blanket on the hood and lean back against the windshield with pillows behind us. Without trees or city lights interfering, the night sky became a brilliant canvas of constellations and twinkling lights. Mom and I could count up to 150 shooting stars in one evening.

By the time I was seven, I was really into it. And that particular evening became one of my most vivid, now a part of my very DNA.

We were in our usual place atop the hood. Dad had fallen asleep on us. At some point, Mom let me scoot up between her open legs, both of us sitting up, my back against her breasts. She wrapped her arms around me, and we looked up, deep into the overhead night sky, searching for streaking meteors. As we did, in that very soft voice of hers, she whispered in my ear a little anonymous poem she had found:

You must be my shooting star . . . everything I've wished for, is everything you are.

I will always be her shooting star, she would tell me, kissing my cheek. I told her she was mine, too. Each year we repeated this little act of love -- until I grew into that insufferable teenager.

So it was that time of year again. We had been home from the wedding only a few days when Mom suggested we pack up for our annual drive to the park. Dad reluctantly agreed to come along. "Seen enough shooting stars for a lifetime," he grumbled.

Pulling up to the lake, we pretty much had the place to ourselves. Nighttime at Blackburn State Park, to me at least, seemed darker, blacker than anywhere else. Since we were in Dad's mini-van, we climbed atop the roof to spread the blanket and pillows. Opened a bottle of chilled white wine. Mom lay in the middle, Dad on her right side, me to her left. Our heads resting on pillows so we could look straight up for optimal star gazing.

The high-pitched mating calls of cicadas, hundreds of them in the nearby trees, enveloped us, blending in with the chirping of just as many crickets. At times it was deafening.

We had been there an hour, logging in more than 30 shooting stars already. Dad and Mom talked a little, mostly she just listening to him. Eventually, I felt Mom's left hand move over a few inches and slowly take hold of mine in the dark. I held it lovingly, then loosened my grip, began using my fingers to trace lines on her hand, fingers, knuckles. I loved caressing her fingernails, too. They had a smoothness that fascinated me, even as a child.

I turned on my side toward her, propping my head on my elbow. Dad was rattling on about The Big Bang Theory, Mom gently correcting him when he had his facts wrong. I quietly, and very slowly, let my left hand creep onto her bare left leg, just below her shorts. Began slowly caressing the outside of her thigh, which Dad couldn't see. I suppose her legs are like any other woman's. But to me her skin was more velvety and luscious than any other woman's could possibly be. I started inching my hand up a little. Not too much at once or Dad might notice.

The two of them kept talking. Once in awhile, I joined in as I gradually slid my fingers under her shorts. Fortunately, they were very baggy. Mom all the while looking at Dad, or staring into the sky. I stopped for a few moments, with my fingers drew little circles around on her skin, very lightly. Then figure eights. Spreading my fingers, I squeezed a little, just to feel the top of her thigh.

I let my hand creep farther up, then more. Finally, at the edge of her panties. Used my finger to lift up the material, sliding several fingers underneath. Began figure eights again. Up another inch. I was on the side of her hip. Extending my fingers straight out, I began caressing the entire side of her leg and hip. Slowly of course. Loved the feel of her hip bone jutting out just slightly. So womanly. She didn't stop me.

Now, in this sacred place I had never been, I was desperate to touch more. Dad raised his arm straight up, pointing out a faint constellation. My hand moved slowly, still an inch at a time, laterally toward her abdomen. My index finger touched her belly button. She moved her hand to my arm, gently held it, squeezed. She wanted me to stop. I did. But kept my hand on her abdomen, under her shorts and panties. My other arm and elbow still propping me up. Dad still talking. Mom still listening. All of us with eyes on the night sky.

Mom asked Dad about his work, some issue I wasn't paying attention to. Her voice a little halting. Nervous. Her breathing a little uneasy. I slowly began pressing my hand, pushing in on her abdomen, just a fraction. I heard Mom take a slow, deep breath. She looked my way. Could hardly see each other. But she didn't say or do anything to stop me. I kept pressing.

Determined, I slid my hand down, just a fraction. Then some more. And more. Finally, soft fleece under my fingers. Her pubic hair. And could feel her abdomen curving slightly downward. It was her mons. Her skin was warmer than the night air. Then, fingernails digging into my arm, painfully. Even in the dark I could tell she was glaring at me. Her silent message was unmistakable: No!

Easing my hand out, I turned on my back, kept to myself. Dad eventually wound down. The talking stopped. We counted more shooting stars. Dad began snoring.

Mom and I saw a huge meteor streak halfway across the sky, one of the biggest ever. Lighting up the night, as bright as day, for maybe three seconds. We both sat up at the same time, in awe.

"You're mad, aren't you." I whispered.

She shook her head, no.

She scooted behind me, spread her legs, wrapped them around me, so I was sitting between them. She leaned in, pressing her breasts against my back, as she had when I was a boy. And just like then, she brought her lips to my ear. And whispered.

You must be my shooting star... everything I've wished for, is everything you are

My mother never was one to cry much. She looked at life matter-of-factly. But when I turned my head back, her eyes were watery. I wiped away a single tear about to make its way down her face. I told her she was also my shooting star.

"I want you," I whispered.

"I know," she said.

Dad began waking up. It was time to drive home.

* * *

"If we do this, it would change everything between us."

Mom said this, eyes on mine, sitting in our wooden porch swing on the back patio, three days after our night of the shooting stars. There had been no privacy since that time. And it seemed to me, anyway, that she had kept a distance, had been deep in her own thoughts these past few days. But now, it was Saturday. Dad had left to play golf.

I came downstairs in the afternoon, after spending hours sending more resumes, calling friends who might have connections to good jobs.

When I saw Mom, I headed to the patio. It was a familiar place. As a kid, she and I consumed untold hours, side by side, swinging gently back and forth, talking the evenings away. She with a glass of wine in hand, me a soft drink.

"You know that, don't you?" she said as I sat down in the swing. "It would change our whole relationship. We could wind up not even speaking to each other." She had two glasses of white wine on a table beside us. She handed me one.

Though alone, for some reason we kept our voices low, almost to a whisper.

"It won't change anything," I said.

"You're my mother. You're my best friend. I can't help it if I also see you as a woman. An absolutely incredible woman. I need to be with you. I feel things for you that I've never felt for anyone else. Why does that have to be so wrong? You'll still be my mother. Still my best friend. That won't change."

"Besides," I said. "You've said yourself that lust can be a good thing."

"Not lust with your own mother," she said.

"Why do you want this?" she asked. "There are scads of young women out there to be had for the taking. Fresh, young women, really beautiful ones."

"You ask hard questions," I answered. "How do I put that into words?" I tried.

"No one is more important to me than you," I said. "I know so much about you, but parts of your life you've kept from me over the years. All parents keep aspects of their life from their kids. I want to know who you really are. And I don't think it's possible to truly know someone -- to know who they are at their very core -- unless you know who they are sexually. It's an important part of anyone's life, yet few people are ever really invited in to see it. I would give anything if you wanted to share that with me. I guess, in the end, I just want to understand you, better than anyone else does."

"That may sound stupid," I said. "But that's the best I can do to explain it."

She looked out at the flowers in her garden.

"Everyone -- and I mean everyone -- would say what we're thinking about is an abomination."

"That's their problem," I said.

"Still, they would think it," she said, looking straight at me for reaction.

"This is private between you and me," I said. "No one else is invited."

"And what if you're disappointed?" she asked. "What then? I'm 54 years old and it shows. I don't have fresh, young skin. I like my own breasts, but they aren't pert and perky anymore. Not like all those girls at the wedding."

"Doesn't matter," I said. "I'm addicted to your skin, no one else's."

"We have to face it," I told her. "No one understands us like we understand each other. You and me -- we're kindred souls."

"We need each other," I said. "Or, at least, I know I need you."

She was quiet. For a good three, maybe five minutes. Just barely rocking in the swing. Then scooted right up next to me, did the fingers through my hair, closing her eyes to ponder. Then looked at me.

"I know it goes without saying, but I want to be very careful that no one finds out, ever. Especially your father. I don't want to hurt him. We can't hurt anyone."

I know, I told her. I know.

Now, if you'd expected her to lean over and kiss me, you'd be wrong. Because I knew, after seeing a little gleam in her eye, that she would do something offbeat. Mischievous. She has that in her. And so she did.

She extended her right hand.

"Well, Mr. Armstrong, do we have a deal?"

"Deal," I said, shaking her hand. Both of us laughing.

I turned serious. "Are you sure this is what you want, Mom?"

"If Hell exists," she said, "There will surely be a place waiting for me in it."

"But do you want this?" I asked her again.