Quickie: Mother's Milk

It was all laughter and tears of joy when my mom, three months after my father's passing, discovered Dad had left samples of his sperm at a fertility clinic before his vasectomy many years ago.

"I regretted it so much in the years after I made him do it," she sobbed. "Now, I'm so happy!" Bursting, she leaped at me.

I caught her, asking, "But, why does it matter, Mom?"

"Because now," she cried, squeezing me tightly, "now I can have another one of his babies."

***

Never had there been a more joyful mother-to-be. Mom glowed for nine months. She walked on air despite the taxing discomfort that accompanies pregnancy. When she wasn't keeping house or making meals, she was reading books about giving birth, nursing, and infants.

When I asked her about it, she said, "It's been eighteen years since you were born, Ty. Things change. My body has changed, and there's a lot about being pregnant that I just don't remember."

This first-hand experience in having a pregnant mother taught me that there are women out there who totally immerse themselves in all of the experiences of motherhood. My mom was one of them. It wasn't just intellectual curiosity, I soon realized. This was different. This seemed like a hormonal calling.

While Mom never neglected me, it seemed like she turned inward and grew infatuated with her own body. She cradled her growing tummy almost constantly. She absentmindedly massaged her breasts--in front of me sometimes.

Nursing was a huge deal to my mom--both before and after Anna was born. I suppose I always viewed breastfeeding in utilitarian terms--feed the hungry baby. Check. Mom saw it as this once-in-a-lifetime, pivotal epoch between mother and child. The feeding aspect seemed secondary to the emotional-physical bonding.

My gosh, the nursing classes, videos, and books! The way these lactation consultants or "doulas" talked about breastfeeding! You would think that the success or failure to properly nurse the baby would be the difference between Harvard Law and a federal penitentiary.

Incidentally, "doula"? That's a fucking weird word. "I'm a doula." Sounds like you're a piece of medical equipment--you're something that goes up a ferret's asshole.

"This poor fella has a digestive tract infection, doctor."

"Very well. Hand me that fucking doula."

I hate to admit it, but I was off-put by it all. When Anna came along, I tried to be helpful. I volunteered to change diapers and so on--play with and read to my tiny sister to give Mom a break. But I stayed away from the breastfeeding. Anna's cries in the night usually awakened me, and I would cover my ears with a pillow. During the day, I left the room whenever Mom broke out the spit-up towels and got comfortable on the couch.

I wouldn't have admitted it, but I think I was jealous.

***

The first time, it was a joke.

Mom was sitting at the end of the big couch in our family room. Anna was resting in a bouncy chair at her feet. Across from Mom in the two recliners were her new maternity friends, Mrs. Bowman and Mrs. Yopp. The three women had met in a post-natal nursing support group, and they enjoyed each other's company enough to set up a weekly nursing get-together. On that day, it happened to be at our house.

The three ladies had been nursing their newborns and chatting when I got home from basketball practice. I wasn't surprised to find them sitting there when I came in the front door.

They were in the midst of conversation when, spent from practice, I shuffled to the threshold of the family room. Mrs. Bowman glanced at me and smiled. I smiled back weakly. Mrs. Yopp's baby girl slept comfortably in her mother's lap. My mom nodded at something Mrs. Yopp had said as she adjusted the blankets covering Anna.

Sitting back, Mom saw me, grinned in her shy way around company, and said, "Welcome home, Ty." The other women offered similar sentiments, and I acknowledged them with a wave. Mom's eyes scanned me and offered me a compassionate expression. "You must be exhausted from practice. Is there anything you need?"

The idea just kind of jumped into my brain. Without a word, I went over to the couch and laid across it, putting my head in Mom's lap as if waiting for my turn at the breast. All three women erupted in surprised laughter.

"Ty!" Mom cried, turning pink and grinning with surprise and shock. "I think you're a bit too old for that!"

Smiling, I rose, kissed Mom's cheek, and left for the kitchen. Meanwhile, the mirth from the family room subsided, and Mrs. Bowman speculated as to how old was too old for breastfeeding. A new conversation began.

***

The second time I laid in Mom's lap on the couch was no joke.

It had been a bad day. I played poorly in our game the previous evening, and at practice, the coach announced changes to the starting lineup that put me on the bench. That was in addition to another thing that sucked. Hurt a bit, actually.

For some time, I had my eyes on one of my fellow seniors, a girl named Roe. Cute. Fun. Anyway, that day I gave my friend the go-ahead to talk to one of Roe's friends. You know how it is--put out the feelers, see what's up. Anyway, after school and before practice, my friend came up to me with the report. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Sorry, man. The word is 'no chance.'"

Fuck.

When I trudged inside through the garage, I found Mom alone in the family room, resting on the couch. Anna was asleep in the second crib that Mom had me put up in what she called the "Baby Nook" of our kitchen. Mom was surrounded by nursing gear. She didn't open her eyes when she spoke. "Welcome home, Ty," she sighed.

I didn't say a word. I dropped my things on the floor, padded across the carpet, and put my head in her lap as I climbed onto the couch. She looked down at me. "Aw," she cooed, petting my head. "There's my Ty, my guy."

I sighed and closed my eyes. Her gentle touches slowly changed into a rub. Words fail to describe how deeply her fingers soothed me. My entire body relaxed. My head thrummed with buzzing warmth.

"Thanks, Mom," I whispered, opening my eyes.

She looked down at me between her breasts, and her eyes sent a message of love and sympathy.

"You're so beautiful, Mom," I murmured.

She was. Long white-blonde hair that was so perfectly brushed that it looked like a frozen glacial waterfall. Warm brown eyes. A dainty, pointy nose. Cheeks like little, silky pillows of soft goose-down. Her full lips parted to reveal an appreciative smile.

One of her breasts grazed my temple. Under normal circumstances, such contact would feel weird--probably to both of us. That day, I didn't mind the touch, and I suppose she didn't either.

Mom's breasts were large, slumping things, depleted at that moment from having just finished nursing Anna. Since Mom made me do laundry every other week, I knew her breasts had grown significantly with Anna's arrival. I also knew that nursing changed them from swollen, bulbous orbs to pendulous, cozy cushions.

I noticed something else, something I hadn't picked up the first time I put myself in Mom's lap: the scent of breastmilk.

I let the fragrance fill my nose as I lay there under her loving care. It was somehow fresh, yet organic and human just the same. Something in the aroma made me think of warm honey. Underlying all of these was a scent that was fundamentally, perfectly feminine and alluring.

"You smell good, too," I whispered.

Mom smiled. "That's the smell of babies. There's nothing else like it in the world."

I shook my head slowly. "I know how Anna smells. I'm talking about you."

Mom inhaled and considered what she took in for a moment. Then, she looked at me and shrugged. When she did, her left breast lifted from my head and returned like a second kiss. "Maybe it's my breastmilk," she offered.

Again, I should have been embarrassed by this--talk of breastmilk and a hefty Mom-tit resting against my head. I wasn't. I closed my eyes and enjoyed, never wanting her touches to end. But eventually, Mom's hand stopped, and when I looked up at her, there were tears in her eyes.

"Mom?" I said, rising.

"I'm sorry, Ty," she whispered, wiping the tears away.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She shook her head, and then she hesitated as if ashamed. Forlorn and hopeless, she looked at me and asked, "Would you do for me what I'm doing for you?"

I drew back and gestured to my lap. "You mean--?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, okay," I replied, positioning myself on the other end of the couch and finding Mom's head sliding into my lap as I settled in.

This was different. Nothing like this had ever happened in my life. I had never been her comforter until that moment. When I tentatively ran my fingers over her hair, she sighed and thanked me.

And she cried some more in silence.

I tried to do the things she would do for me. I gently shushed her and stroked her cool, smooth hair. I murmured that I loved her and told her things would be okay.

She didn't say a word, she let tears dribble out of her closed eyelids and let me gently rub her head. After ten minutes, the tears quit flowing. After twenty, she sat up.

"Thank you for comforting me," she quietly uttered.

I shrugged and smiled.

Mom drew close, cradled my face in her hands, and kissed me on the lips. Such a kiss wasn't unheard of, but it was rare.

***

The next day when I got home, Mom waved me into the family room. She pointed to the kitchen and whispered, "Anna's asleep." Then, she patted the sofa and opened her hand over her lap.

"Okay."

I took up my position, and Mom began rubbing my hair. "There's my Ty, my guy," she whispered.

"That feel's so incredibly good," I replied.

When her left breast touched my temple, I flinched, blinking open my eyes. Something was damp. Mom said, "Oh! Forgive me, Ty. There's just a little bit of breastmilk that seeped through my bra. Does it bother you?"

I wasn't sure. It was strange, I knew that much. But, I didn't want to upset Mom, so I shook my head.

"Good," she murmured, continuing with the massage.

"Did you breastfeed me, Mom?"

She quit rubbing and looked down. All sorrow in her eyes, she said, "It is a long story, but the quick version is I tried to make it work but couldn't. You were bottle-fed."

"Baby formula, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Oh," I muttered. "What happened?"

She sighed. "It's one of my biggest regrets, Ty, so please forgive me, but we just couldn't make a bond, you and I. I was so young and you--you just wouldn't latch onto me properly. I was scared. You were hungry. Neither of us was getting any sleep, and I just gave up."

I nodded.

"Are you upset with me?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"Why not, Ty? Please tell me."

I shrugged. "I know breastfeeding is important for bonding or whatever, but I've never felt like we weren't close or you never loved me. Plus, I know how young you were when you and Dad had me. I get it, and I don't mind."

Mom resumed stroking my head. "That is so generous of you," she cooed, smiling down at me. "And I agree: it doesn't change how much I love you, but I admit it is a terrible regret, especially since Anna has been so easy to nurse. If I could do it all over again, I would never have quit so easily."

"I know," I said, once again noticing the damp spot against my head where her breast nestled. Curious, but not daring to offend her, I tilted my head slightly toward the wetness and as silently as I could, took in the aroma.

The fragrance was like Mom's massage--gentle and comfortingly sweet. I wanted another whiff, and as I bent toward the breast, I stopped.

Mom had noticed. "Does my milk interest you?" she asked.

"Yeah--the smell, I mean."

"Tell me about it," she said. "I'm surrounded by it all the time, so it's lost on me."

I told her my observations.

"That's very kind of you to say," she replied. Then, I felt her hand leave my crown and slide underneath the wet breast. I watched her lift it and crane her face toward the dampness. My gosh, it was big--bigger than I thought. Mom whiffed a few times before letting the breast sag against my head again. "Nothing," she said, shrugging.

I moved before I had any chance to reconsider. I turned toward Mom's breast, letting my nose touch the wetness. Mom watched me with interest.

Drawing a long breath through my nostrils, I nodded, murmuring, "Yeah, it's really nice." Then I resumed my spot, feeling blood rush to my face.

After a beat, Mom bent down and wrapped her arms around me, squeezing. "You're so good to me, Ty," she sighed, and her breasts cuddled my head. Releasing me, she sat up and resumed the rub.

It was all a bit embarrassing, but her massage relaxed me, and in that soothing place, I wondered if I could further explore this new openness and intimacy between us. I had questions, but the last thing I wanted was to offend her.

My curiosity outweighed my doubts. "Have you tasted it, Mom?"

She laughed airily, saying, "Hard not to when there's so much of it, leaking and squirting and--."

"It squirts?"

"Oh my, yes."

"Even when you're not even trying to make it come out?"

"'Expressing,' that's called, and yes, even without expressing, they can squirt when they're full."

"Like a lot?"

"No," she replied, shaking her head. "The streams are very thin."

"Streams? Plural?"

"Yes," she said, laughing again. "It can come out in two or even three jets, going all sorts of directions."

"Far?" I asked. "Do they shoot far?"

More giggling. "I don't know what constitutes 'far' to a young man who can probably put out a fire from fifteen feet with his penis, but my milk can go a few feet."

It was kind of amazing to imagine. I shook my head, so awed by the image of squirting nipples that I barely registered how she'd brought up my dick.

Mom said, "Anyways, you asked about the taste, and what I meant to tell you was yes. Many nursing mothers not only taste their own breastmilk through incidental contact but some regularly sample it."

I blinked, staring up at her.

"Have you ever heard," she asked, "of the let-down reflex?"

I shook my head.

Mom explained, "It's what causes the milk to begin flowing. So, some nursing mothers--particularly ones with high-demand babies and large breasts--induce the let-down reflex by self-nursing. With smaller breasts, a pump or a generous massage will accomplish the same thing."

"Self-nursing?" I asked, already knowing full well what she meant; I just wanted her to say the words.

Mom nodded, "When engorged breasts are large enough, the mother can draw the nipple to her own lips and trigger the let-down."

"And you can--you do that?"

She nodded.

"And you taste it?"

"Yes."

"And swallow it down?"

"Mm-hmm," she said. "I don't mind it. It lets me know how I taste. It's perfectly natural, and the let-down reflex is tingly. It's quite pleasant."

The image of my mom with one cup of her nursing bra open, raising her own heavy breast to her lips and drawing upon the nipple, stirred me in a way I couldn't have anticipated. The gentle flow of her fingertips over my head added to this new awakening.

I swallowed nervously; I was beginning to grow hard. Clearing my throat, I pushed myself up. "Thanks, Mom."

"Of course, Ty," she replied. "Now, would you mind comforting me again?"

I hesitated, but not for long. "Sure," I said, wondering how to hide the burgeoning erection in my sweatpants.

Mom did not give me time to adjust. The second I settled in, her head fell in my lap. Fortunately for me, I was nowhere near fully hard. Thickened, I was. Sturdier. Moving quickly to draw any attention away from what she may have felt on the back of her head, I stroked and petted her hair.

Mom's nipples were obvious even through her bra and shirt, especially under the cup of the left breast--the one that had absorbed her milky leaks. I needed a redirect. I needed a diversion.

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Why were you so sad yesterday?"

She sighed. "Maybe it's something I shouldn't discuss with you."

I nodded and began kneading her scalp through her hair with my fingertips. It was a sufficient distraction; my cock began returning to normal.

Mom hummed sweetly. "That feels heavenly."

I didn't speak. I focused all of my concentration on making her feel relaxed and comfortable.

Five minutes into the rub, Mom broke the silence, saying, "Please don't misunderstand me. I wouldn't trade Anna for all the world, but it may have been foolish--forgivable, but foolish--for me to have a new baby without a husband."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, I was so caught up in grieving for your father that when I found out I could bring another one of his children into the world, I wasn't thinking it through completely. I wasn't remembering how challenging it can be to raise a child with a partner, much less doing it alone."

"If I'm not helping enough--," I began.

"Oh, Ty, no," she insisted. Then more calmly, she continued, "No. You've been wonderful. I couldn't ask for a better helper. It's just--I'm so angry that your father's gone sometimes. And so sad other times. Mostly, I'm lonely--without my husband to share our new baby together." The words brought sudden tears to Mom's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said.

"I need to be someone's baby, too," she burst, now sobbing. "I've--I've only got so much love to give without getting anything back."

I raised her body into my arms and hugged her. She cried into my chest, and I rubbed her back. It took a minute or so before she'd let it all out.

Her voice cracking, she uttered, "I'm sorry, Ty. I should never have said a word about it."

"No," I said, putting her in my lap again. "Mom, no. I'm glad you told me." I caressed her head soothingly, adding, "I want to know what's going on. And you're my Mom, and I love you."

Sniffling, she nodded and whispered, "And I love you, too, my Ty, my guy."

That afternoon, I caressed her for a long time before Anna stirred and began crying out for attention. When Mom sat up, she smiled, curled her fingers behind my head, and kissed my lips for the second time in as many days. Then, she rested her forehead against mine for a few seconds. She murmured her gratitude and left for Anna.

That night, I was ashamed of myself.

If you've ever been lured into doing something extremely risky or illegal for the first time, then you'll know how I felt that night in bed as I pondered the possibility of being sexually attracted to my own mother. You'll know how hard my heart thudded against what felt like an empty ribcage, how my nervous system seemed wired to a low-voltage electrical current, and how my mind struggled with shame. Though my body had done nothing wrong, my mind had already found it guilty.

***

The next day, I cut out of basketball practice thirty minutes early, telling coach I felt sick. I showered, threw on my sweats, and went home. Guilt tore at me because I wasn't sick at all; I just wanted to be near Mom.

When I saw her on the couch, she smiled and welcomed me. Anna was there, nursing underneath a blanket. "You're home early," Mom remarked.

"Yeah," I muttered, "basketball ended early."

"I'd invite you to join me on the couch, but I'm a little bit busy with Anna right now."

"It's okay, Mom."

"Well, come sit down and tell me about your day."

I set down my things and plopped into the recliner across from her. We chatted about my day and hers.

"How is Anna doing?" I asked, nodding at the lump of her tiny body under the baby blanket.

Mom glanced down, grinning. "She's a hungry little one."

"What does she do--while she's nursing, I mean."

"Not much," Mom replied. "She usually holds the breast in one or both hands, closes her eyes, and goes for it."

"Want me to burp her when she's finished?" I asked.

"Oh, would you, Ty?"