My Son's ED Pt. 01

[1]

Well, this turned out be quite the tumultuous week for me, one, it's safe to say, that had changed my life forever.

Me, that is Veronika, yes, with a K, a 45 year old urologist practicing in London, but originally from Austria, Tyrol, a rather small town named Schwaz to be exact. Even though Tyrol is known for its rather conservative people who tend to be really devout to their faith and often get mocked for it by their fellow compatriots, my family wasn't quite like that.

Thank goodness.

Not that we were the opposite, a deviant family of sorts that had no inhibitions whatsoever, no, that wasn't the case. But given the time I was born and grew up in, my mother and father were really, and I mean really open minded and progressive with all kinds of things. Me and my younger brother, who is three years my junior, we could ask them anything, talk about anything, come to them for anything when we felt the need to do so.

My mother for example did not spend most of her time in the kitchen behind the stove as this then very patriarchic society demanded her to do and serve as a de facto maid for my father, no, she attended Innsbruck university, studied law there and became a really successful lawyer. She wasn't the first or the most accomplished woman studying and then practicing law, but if you would have counted them back then you wouldn't even need all ten fingers.

My father was of Jewish decent and during World War II he had to leave his beloved country in order to escape the Nazi rule and a looming deportation to a concentration camp. So he and his sister lived in Switzerland for a few years, where they stayed with a couple who both were artists and free spirits in every sense of these two words.

A couple months after my father passed I would stay with my mother during the summer months to keep her company and provide comfort she clearly needed. Both of my children were with me and every evening we would cook and have dinner together, always inviting additional family and friends to these gatherings, so my mother wouldn't feel alone. Our last week there we were joined by my father's sister who came down from Vienna and stayed with us for a couple days, and one evening, after having a glass of wine too many, she was quite in the mood and spilled some very saucy secrets about their years in Switzerland.

I didn't actually know a lot about this time of my father's life so I was eager to listen and take in all the memories she had of that period. Turned out this couple wasn't a fan of wearing clothes for instance or closing doors while engaging in rather private moments. She was a writer of erotic novels and he a painter, who seemed to be obsessed with large cocks penetrating tiny young girls, most likely not yet of legal age. I have to admit I almost peed myself when I heard my 80-something year old aunt use the word 'cocks', 'Schwänze' in German, while telling this story. It also turned out that both my aunt and my father had sex with the couple almost every day. Most of the times one on one, but sometimes they would all four get together and be frolicking in the house. My father and she may have touched once or twice, accidentally or not, but nothing more ever happened as she pointed out in a brief moment of seriousness.

But the raunchy stories continued right away, and she told us of her first time with the wife, or when the painter husband invited two friends over so she could enjoy all three of them at once. In the end my dear aunt spilled a little too much maybe and I found myself getting a little bit too uncomfortable.

Before I went to bed though I started rummaging in a cupboard, looking for a photo album I knew had pictures of my father, my aunt, and the couple from Switzerland in it. After five minutes or so I found it and I felt my heart racing a little now that I knew what happened back then. I sifted through the album with the photographs of various sizes glued to its pages and I finally got to that time and enjoyed all the photographic memories in time. My father always a handsome man really looked like a stunner back then. But so did my aunt. 60 years ago they were both more than just plain attractive and it's not surprising at all that people wanted to have sex with them. The painting husband on the other hand wasn't much of a looker, but his novelist wife seemed to be a beautiful woman with a Venus like figure and large breasts who were hidden away under a wide shirt of sorts.

I then put the album away and masturbated myself to sleep even though I wouldn't have needed to as I was more than a little tipsy from all the wine I poured down.

A couple days later on the flight home I had time to see the whole picture of my upbringing and why we were able to be so open about everything with my parents. I still remember school back then when the smallest hint of sexuality was frowned upon let alone having sex education as part of our curriculum. As far as I know my mother didn't have any of those experiences like my dad, but when it came to sex and educating us about it she was just as much ahead of that time. Of course my brother and I would tell our friends about things we learned which sometimes resulted in us being banned from that house because they told their parents about what they heard from us.

I always tried to employ the same tactics of openness with my children even though my husband isn't quite the spitting image of my father, but since he's away often and for long periods of time, he works as a doctor with Médicins Sans Frontières, he basically let me handle all that stuff on my own. But these days, children learn a lot about sexuality in school which of course is a good thing, but even now some issues can fall under the table. So I told my kids they can always come talk to me or their father, because that much he complied to do, when they have questions about sex, sexual things or anything else for that matter.

I think they both turned out more than alright in the end.

My daughter Isabelle is 21 now. She doesn't live with us any longer and she's not even in the same country as she moved to Vienna two years ago to take up her studies at the famed Konservatorium. She always had this deep love for music, started playing piano aged three, the violin two years later and if that weren't enough she tried her hands in playing the drums. She was pretty good actually, had an all-girl band during her school years. They even played some gigs, as she called it, in some small clubs in London.

My husband has always been a big fan of classical music and he almost ardently refuses to listen to anything else, and our daughter has shared this passion from her very first days on this Earth, so I guess that way of her becoming a classical trained singer was paved 21 years ago.

My son Alan on the other hand is everything but a fan of classical music. He just turned 18 and he listens to all kind of crap I have to say. His music is loud and unmelodic and one cannot understand a word these bands are "singing". It's really awful. Good thing is though... I don't have to like it. But I always kept in touch with what my children were into so I could connect with them, and so I know this music is called Metalcore or Deathcore and his favorite bands are NEXILVA and OVID'S WITHERING.

I know all this because he showed me two videos on YouTube once. One was a song of NEXILVA called "Necromancer" and those guys are absolutely nuts. Just go and watch it... you'll see what I'm talking about.

The other one was by OVID'S WITHERING and that song took me quite by surprise as it was called "Oedipus Complex". As I mentioned before you can't understand a word those bands are growling, not so in this very case as it was a so called lyric video that had all the words running across the screen while the music played. Before we watched, my son was going on about how great this guys are and how he loved that song in particular. That was before I knew the title. But when I saw what it was called I got a little uncomfortable. My son obviously hadn't really given much thought to those lyrics, but sitting here with me in front of my laptop reading all the words of the song made him just as uncomfortable as I could sense his body stiffen next to me.

"Well... that was interesting" I said after the video ended.

"Ahm... yep... I know..." my son stuttered while standing up and going swiftly to his room.

"Thanks for showing me that!" I called out.

To be fair, the text was more brutal and gory than sexual, but since it's about Oedipus there's still the murder of his father to lay with his mother.

It was just a short episode in my relationship with my son and we didn't talk about it, at least not until that fateful day.

[2]

A couple weeks after his 18th birthday my son brought home a friend from school or so he declared. His father was away in Mali providing medical care for those poorest and most vulnerable in that region, and his sister was busy studying, so it was just me and him.

Well, during breakfast, our everyday morning ritual, he asked me if he could bring a friend over so they could learn together.

"And would you mind bringing her home afterwards?"

That was his way of telling me he would have a girl over.

A couple years back my husband and I bought this house a little outside of London and even though there is buses to take you into the city, it was quite a drag, especially when it got late, and since it was January the days are shorter as it is.

Of course I would take her home in my car, but I wanted to know a little bit more, because to my knowledge, if she was his girlfriend, she would be the first one. Like he always did when he couldn't really be bothered, he kept his answers to my inquiries to a minimum, one liners mostly, but I got some information out of him. Apparently she was called Trish, she was 16 and the sister of one of his mates. Not from school though, but a friend with whom he played football at the Fulham FC Academy.

If all goes as planned my daughter could become a famous singer and my son a professional footballer, but even if they won't, I'm still mighty proud of both of them,

Anyhow, when I got home from a long day at my medical practice it was already dark outside and no lights were on in our house, but my son's room faced to the other side. I drove my Jaguar into the garage and watched the door close behind me. I entered the house and turned on some lights, slipped out of my boots and put my coat, laptop and briefcase on the living room table.

As I did so I could hear the faintest sounds of music coming from the direction of where our son's room is. I've always respected his privacy but of course I had to investigate a little. So I tiptoed my way to his room and came to a halt right in front of it immediately pressing my ear on the wooden door.

'Hahaha... Michael Bolton' I thought to myself as I heard his signature voice coming from the speakers of my son's computer. I have always loved Michael Bolton and it was quite funny that my son would actually chose him as a musical background for lovemaking, so I assumed, with his girlfriend.

The music wasn't too loud but I couldn't hear anything else so I guessed they were making out but dropped the whole subject, turned around and went to my bedroom where I started to undress and got ready to take a much deserved bath. Then I realized I had to drive my son's girlfriend home and decided against the soothing relaxation of warm, soapy water.

I walked back to the living room, took my laptop out of its case, opened it and started surfing through some online newspapers, Austrian mostly, because I liked to stay in touch with what's going on in my home country and I did that also to stay in touch with my mother tongue. I got a few German speaking friends here, but I don't get to use it very often.

My husband is a French citizen and we decided to raise our children trilingual and for a while it worked quite well, but as such things happen to go, our best intentions were thrown out of the window once we realized that we lacked a certain kind of stamina this project would have required. Since my daughter's living in Vienna now she brushed up on her German though and when we phone each other we do that in German and I'm loving it, because it gives me a whole new connection with her.

My son on the other hand has grown into a proper English lad who cannot be bothered with either German or French. But that's quite alright, and right now he's got other things on his mind.

I looked up from my computer as I thought I heard movement coming from his room and a few seconds later a girl and my son came around the corner from the hallway holding hands. When they saw me looking at them they broke off instantly and looked rather startled.

"Hi there!" I said and Trish came straight up to me and we shook hands.

"Hello Mrs. Chaval, I'm Trish" she said.

In general I love how English people pronounce my French surname, but this girl's cockney accent was just too much and I started to burst into laughter.

I could see Alan was quite embarrassed by my reaction, but Trish took the whole thing in good humor and smiled broadly at me, maybe not knowing why I did what I did.

After a few pleasantries were exchanged, I got up and put my boots back on while Trish and Alan kissed goodbye.

"You're not coming with?" I asked my son.

"No mum... I still got stuff to do for school."

"I see" I answered with a broad smile, first looking at him then at Trish, who a little embarrassed now turned away and I could see her face reddening in an instant.

I've never been too blunt about these things, not with me, my daughter or my son now, but I'm not shying away from bringing up a subject like this.

While driving Trish home we had a really nice conversation and I absolutely approved of her being my son's girlfriend. Though the whole time I sensed that there's something she's distracted by. Not that she wasn't in this conversation with me, but somehow I got the feeling she got something on her mind.

When I got back home I wanted to talk to my son, quizzing him a little about his afternoon with Trish. When I walked to his room I could see that his room already lied in darkness and no music was playing, like it usually does. Again I got a little closer to the door wondering if he's already asleep. I looked at my watch and saw that it was half past nine. When I couldn't hear a thing I was about to turn on my heels and finally get into the bathtub. But there it was. A sob. Loud and clear.

I pressed my ear against the door and now I could heard him cry.

"Wow!" I thought.

My son isn't one to cry easily. The only times I actually saw him do exactly that was when England got crushed by Germany during World Cup 2010 and when Andy Murray lost his first Wimbledon final to Roger Federer and cried his own eyes out during the speech the players have to give during the ceremony.

So this was a rare and also strange occurrence, one that got my mom instincts on high alert. For a while I pondered what to do. Should I bother him with my presence or should I leave him be for now and talk to him the morning.

Back in my bedroom as I started to unbutton the blouse I was wearing, I turned right back and went to my son's room again.

I knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again this time accompanied by calling his name in a very gentle way.

"Alan! Honey!"

Still nothing.

But now I couldn't let it go. So I knocked again, called his name one more time and announced my entering his room.

It was filled with darkness. The only source of light was the moon that had to take up a fight with wintery clouds so that he could shine down on Earth.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see my son lying belly up on his bed, with one arm over his face, the other by his side. He was wearing the red Lacoste polo and jeans he put on in the morning.

Also he still hadn't said a word or even acknowledged my presence.

"What's wrong?" I asked gently.

After another minute of utter silence he finally answered me.

"Nothing" he said.

I still wasn't sure if I should pursue this and dig deeper, but I couldn't help myself. As a mother seeing my son lie there in obvious pain I had to do something and try to help him.

But I didn't push it, so I kept standing there, looking at him in the dark. He still had his face and therefore his eyes covered with one arm, so he wasn't looking at me. After a while I could feel my feet starting to hurt, so I took two steps to my son's desk and sat down in his swivel armchair waiting for him to say something.

We sat like that for a while when he suddenly spoke.

"Mom?!" it was questioning but also demanding.

"Yes?"

"I can talk to you about anything, right?"

"Right!"

I thought we were getting somewhere, but he took a long pause before speaking again.

"It's alright for me to have sex, isn't it?"

"What?! Ahm... yes... of course it is honey. You've turned 18 in" a couple weeks ago. I'd say it would be out of the norm if you didn't have sex."

"Fockin'ell, mum!" he shouted.

To be honest, I still hadn't got a clue what's going on.

"What is it, Alan? What's going on?"

The whole time he was lying in that one position, but when I asked him those questions he suddenly turned to his side, so that I was facing his back.

"Nothing mum. Just get out, please"

I was sitting there in his chair, looking at him, well, at his back, and I couldn't stand it. I hate it when my children are in pain. Every mother want to help their offspring in any way they can, but sometimes it's best to let them come to you. I still didn't want to leave so I kept sitting there, waiting for my son to talk.

"Please!" he muttered after a while.

So I got up, walked to his bed, bent down and tried to kiss him on the head, but he moved away the second I came close.

It almost broke my heart. But I obeyed and left the room closing the door behind me.

Of course I couldn't enjoy my bath, even though it was a soothing treat that relaxed me quite beautifully.

When I got out of the tub I grabbed a towel and started drying me off when I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

We got two bathrooms in the house and this one is embedded within the master bedroom so to speak, only accessible through one door which connects both bed- and bathroom.

I quickly wrapped the big white towel above my 40DD breasts so that it reached right down to my knees.

"Mom?" I heard my son say.

"Just got out of the tub! Be there in a minute!"

I grabbed another towel, smaller as the one already in use, and started quick drying my hair that shimmered in its natural red while still being wet, then wrapping it around my head.

I walked to the door, opened it and saw my son standing there, leaning casually with his back on the opposite wall in the hallway. He was barefoot and still wearing his jeans and the red Lacoste polo.

"Ready to talk?" I asked.

"Yeah" he mumbled without looking at me.

"Come in" I said and gestured for him to sit down on the edge of the bed.

He walked by me and did just that. I let the door stay open, walked back and sat down beside him.

"So?" I started slowly.

He still wasn't looking at me but kept his eyes steadily on his toes.

"Promise not to laugh?"

"What? Honey... I would never do that, no matter what you're telling me."

I put extra weight on the 'what'. I tried to wrap my right arm around him but again my impending touch seemed toxic to my son as he shrugged his shoulder.

"Promise?"

Oh hey, he could still look at me. So I locked in on his eyes and said "I promise!"

"First off" he began, "I don't wanna talk about this with you, but since dad isn't here, and..."

He paused.

"Yes? And?" I supported him.

"...aaand... given your profession and things..."