Self Comfort

Now my father was away looking for something to do, and on this night I woke from thirst. The hour was late and there was no traffic noise at all. The sound of crickets played against the conspicuously absent noises of the street. Strangely, there was a light on in the living room. I thought I heard whispering voices, a feminine giggle, could that be my mother? The voice was girlish and I wasn't sure it could belong to her for she usually had a voice that was both serious and soothing. My mother never giggled, but it sounded like her anyway.

I was 18 years old when I walked into the living room. My mother was there and I felt my heart expand as I always did when I saw her. But then I noticed that my mother was not alone, no she was with someone, a stranger I didn't know, a man, and she was sitting on this man's lap, with her pretty blonde head buried in the space above his shoulder.

This was impossible. I could not move from where I was, could not withdraw back into my room. I was suddenly numb, unable to speak or retreat or move forward.

My mother didn’t see me and she started to kiss the man’s face, lick his cheek.

The sight of my mother seated on this man's legs with her arms rapped around his neck and her lips pressed against his cheek, hiding the man's face, was unreal. Impossible. I was riveted to the spot and shocked voiceless, once again. Inside myself, something seemed to fall into a pit.

I stood there for an endless moment, which in my mind has remained engraved all my life, a stamp of shame. That is my mother and that is wrong, I felt it in my genes, something very wrong is happening. Then, the man upon whose lap my mother sat noticed me.

The man's voice was unpleasant in my ears and I instinctively hated him for presuming to take the place of my father. I had never seen my mother sitting on my father's lap. Never the less, this imposter in the living room had no right to be where he was, and this I knew for a fact.

" I think your son’s gotten up."

My mother jumped up from the man's legs and sat down on the sofa. The man's cock was sticking out of his zipper and he moved quickly to hide the throbbing red evidence of what was going on.He stuffed his swollen member back into his pants as if he was couphing and needed to twist around not to do it in my mother's face.

She called me to come over to her but I wouldn’t, couldn't move from where I was. Tears started overflowing from my eyes, but before I exposed this weakness in front of that man, I ran back into my room and closed the door.

My mother didn't follow me.

I was angry but I felt something in my groin glow with pleasurable heat. An orgasm was ready to burst out my young and as yet unstroked cock. It stuck up and made a little tent out of the blanket, and I couldn't get the growing itch out of my mind, but I didn't know to touch it yet.

After a while I heard my mothers door close and then something very strange, for I heard my mother ask the man to lock it. I heard this even though there were two closed doors between us, as distinctly as if I was standing besides her.

My mother never used to lock her door.

I started to stroke my cock, for the first time finding out that the skin is like a tongue, the flesh can taste so sweet.

I heard moans and groans and a humping and muffled pleadings to ram it in deeper and to stick it up her ass. "Fuck me ." My mother was begging and I heard her as I stroked my cock...but then she opened the door suddenly and burst into my room. " I told you. Stop playing with yourself. Leave that thing alone . You will go blind." and scared I let my meat alone and it withered. I already had glasses just from looking at her naked body when she washed herself in front of me, telling me all the time not to touch my cock as she rubbed her own pussy. She was wicked.

In the morning, everything seemed normal. I almost believed that the incident in the night had been a new type of nightmare, a strangely real bad dream. But the memory had the stamp of reality impressed on its fabric. There was no avoiding the truth of the experience. It was real, and I knew there must be some explanation for my mother's behavior. After all, she was otherwise mostly predictable in the things she did. This sudden break in the patterns of our life must somehow fit into things in a way that I didn't understand. I woke up with my cock hard and still in my fist, I was holding myself and it felt so right, so good. The pain of my discovery wasn't quite so sharp.

But like always, afraid of the consequences, I let my comfort go.

I almost succeeded in turning my hurt and bewilderment into curiosity. I knew somewhere in the back of my mind that I had discovered something frightful and threatening about my mother. This thought was so horrible that I negated it as improbable and tried to formulate a question, the right question. If I asked my mother the right question, her answer would put my mind to rest. This had happened so many times in the past, it was surely the case now, wasn’t it?

I did not pay any attention to what went on in school that day.

This was the third school I had started the last grade in. During the last year we had moved twice. Each time into an apartment with cheaper rent. My mother was spending the money my father had left for the family’s needs while he was away, very quickly. She was making herself into a woman he could easily divorce.

I spent the day at school wondering how to ask my mother about the man she had spent the night with.And rubbing my self through my pants as the teacher walked by me.

What was the reason she was doing something like that? There must be a reason. But no suitable question came to mind. I didn't want to blame my mother. She was almost never angry, but when she was, her anger was devastating and violent. The few beatings I had received, had been systematically cruel. She would strip me naked and rub my ass cheeks together round in circles till they were red and my cock would get hard between her knees, but she never let me come, no, not me. Though I loved her with all my adolescent heart, I was not unafraid of her. I thought that to ask the wrong question would evoke my mother's anger. This had something to do with the fact that she chose not to follow me to my room. She had ignored my pain. Just like the times she had beat me. She did nothing to ease the aching member that glowed in the dark almost from the heat she put in it. But no, she wouldn't deliver the goods, she never let me come and I was afraid to come alone.

When I got home, the door was open but my mother was not in the house. This was not unusual for she often went to the neighbors, where she had a friend, a divorced woman with a young girl my age. I played with myself a while but never daring to let more than a few drops of semen hang from my piece of heavan.

I sat down at the table in the dining area, an extension of the living room. There was a glass of milk and some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into perfect triangles on a white plate .

Underneath the plate was a note from my mother saying she would be home in a short while. I stared at the note and without understanding why, I started to cry. Silently.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and I treasured the sensation for there was something sweet about it . What I didn't like was the lump in my throat and the ache in my chest, an ache that seemed to be nowhere in particular but everywhere at once.

From where I sat, I could see the sofa. Now it was empty, but in my mind's eye, I imagined my mother and that man sitting together, very close, touching.I saw her rubbing the penis sticking up out of his lap. I saw her sucking on it like it was a nipple with love juice saturating her throat. I felt very curious about it all, and also very sad.

The pencil with which my mother had written her note was on top of a pad of paper in the middle of the table. The pencil was very sharp for the few lines my mother had written in her light fluid script were not enough to blunt its point.

I reached across the table and pulled the pad of paper towards me. I picked up the pencil and pressed the point into my thumb. I did this until I felt the beginning of the pain and then I held the pencil like that against my thumb, pressing slowly harder to see how much pain I could feel before relenting. When the tip of the pencil broke through the first layer of skin, the pain suddenly increased and I pulled the pencil away from my finger and scribbled out the following note :

“ I don't understand why you like to sit on some man's lap who isn't my father. “

That's all I wrote. But I was not conscious of wanting my mother to read the note. It was not the right thing to write her. It just came out that way. The simplest truths are impervious to rationalizations no matter how sophisticated these are. So I crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it on the floor where my mother was sure to find it. I just couldn't think of the right question. I ate my sandwiches and drank my milk and then determined that I would go outside and look at neighbors windows, hoping to see some female bodies moving around in the nude. I would go out until late in the afternoon, when my mother was sure to be home. I had decided to forget all about the incident, never to mention it to my mother, just forget about it and hope I would never have to see that man again, the man with that unpleasant voice. I knew my mother well enough to know she would not mention anything if I didn't. Let it be like that.While I was out I watched two dogs fucking like it was the end of the world. Maybe it was.

When I came home it was already getting dark and my mother was sitting on the sofa waiting for me when I walked in. I somewhat expected to be scolded for my being away for so long without telling her where I was. I walked into the room, my cheeks red from the cool spring air, and looked up at my mother who seemed very perplexed. She was sitting with her knees crossed, wearing the slacks and sweater she usually wore for housework. Her blond hair was kept in the hairdo of the times, and her red finger- nails were long and drew one's attention to the length of her narrowing fingers. When one had gotten over the striking beauty of her face, one might have noticed her poise and elegance, successfully affected with much intelligence. She was a very attractive woman and she was 36 years old. Her husband had been away for five months and he was twenty years older than she was. He was failing in business, losing all the riches he had acquired to buy her what would ensure her continued presence in his life. He was very much in love with her. They had four children together. She loved them dearly for as long as she had help caring for them. She could no longer afford such help. Afraid of her own lack of warmth, she felt nothing but desperation and a desire to run away. She had a very wild streak in her, successfully hidden from husband and children, until I caught her. She was losing her battle to rein herself in. No, she was at this point actively blowing her life apart, escaping the trap.

She held my crumpled note in her hand. When I walked into the room , my mother looked up at me with a strange unfamiliar smile.

" Where have you been, Johnny. I worried about you.” she looked at me, and she had an odd look on her face. I did not at once recognize that my mother pitied me. She had never looked at me that way before.

" Oh, just outside. " My cryptic answer sufficed. I was glad she just nodded. She wasn't going to scold me. But then, looking at that new expression on her face, I thought that maybe a scolding would be better. At least then I knew what to expect. Now everything seemed so new and unpredictable. I saw my note in my mother's hand and gulped.

"Come here, Johnny. " I walked to her without fear, though I was afraid of something else that I couldn't identify. I was afraid of my mother's explanations, I was afraid that she would try to explain and make right what could never be right. My trouble in writing the note stemmed from the un-childish knowledge that there are things that do not become less painful once explained.

" You know, your father has been away a long time now and sometimes I get lonely.”

She did not look at me as she talked, but stared into space as if the right words were written in the air. She was reciting a script she had prepared to handle the situation.

" The man you saw here last night, his name is Mr. O' Neil. He is a friend of mine and he keeps me company while Daddy is away. Here, he bought you a present and asked me to give it to you.”

She took the GIRLIE MAGAZINE she had bought that morning out of her purse, which was next to her on the couch. It was not wrapped and I looked at it indifferently. I wanted nothing at all from that man, but I didn't want to hurt my mother’s feelings either.

" Next time you see him be sure to thank him for it." While mother made a mental note to tell her lover to expect my thank you, I made a mental note to ignore forever the existence of Mr. O' Neil.

I could not at that age express to myself in words how insulted I was, that she would think I could be bribed into feeling gratitude towards someone who was destroying my childhood, my family, my respect for her and somehow even my respect for my father whose absence made this possible. But the insult was there, and with it the self doubt that maybe I was of no better character than she presumed, she had always seemed to know me so well, better than I knew myself. She often seemed able to guess my thoughts, the ones I couldn’t express. Her attempt to bribe me into liking her lover was more damaging then her betrayal for it weakened the foundations of my own self respect.

The next afternoon, my decision to ignore this enemy was put to the test. When I came home from school, Mr. O ' Neil was sitting on the couch looking very much at home. I walked into the house and on seeing my enemy complacently sitting at the scene of his crime, I walked silently into my room and started rubbing my cock while looking at the magazine. I did this void of emotion, moving myself like I thought a robot would. The jerking off did send a subtle feeling of satisfaction through my mind. Maybe now my mom wouldn't get angry if I came?

I walked out of my room with what would become later in my life, a wicked smile. Then I ran outside, before my mother or her friend could talk to me. I felt strangely triumphant.

Outside, I walked down to Ginger's house. Ginger was the daughter of my mother's friend, the divorced woman. Ginger liked to do things that while annoying, also fascinated me. The little bodied girl would take off her clothes and try to get me to look at her. This I did, though always from between my fingers as I pretended to be disgusted and covered my eyes with my hands. Ginger, unabashed by my reluctance, would pull at me and dare me to touch her.

Until that day, I had never dared. But now I felt a strange new freedom, an urge to break old patterns. Today I thought I would do anything Ginger wanted. True, I had not the faintest idea why Ginger wanted me to look at her private parts, why she asked me to touch her. But I would do it anyway because people do things that can't be understood. Especially grown ups. I knew that I would have to grow up quickly now for my child hood was ending. My father was away, and my mother couldn’t be trusted. Growing up meant doing things that were incomprehensible. I decided that I would do things that were grown up.

I knocked on Ginger's door. I heard Ginger's mother call out for Ginger to open it because she was on the telephone. Ginger's mother was always on the telephone.

Ginger opened the door. Whenever she saw me, she would break out in a wide smile and become excited. She grabbed me by the hand and pulled me back into the house. I followed her into her bedroom, where she said she had new things she wanted to show me. On the bed in her room was an Indian outfit, in brown leather and it even had an Indian headpiece with a red and orange feather.

" Isn't it wonderful? My mother bought it for me so I could wear it at the costume party we're going to Saturday night at the Church. "

I was not easily impressed by clothes, but out of politeness I said it was neat. Ginger held the outfit up against her body and looked at me for approval. And then she put the Indian outfit back on her bed and started to take off her clothes. This was a little quick for me. While I knew she would do what she always did when I came over, I nevertheless felt somewhat unreal when Ginger started to undress in front of me. Ginger did not just take her clothes off.

She stripped slowly and far more enticingly than my inexperienced sexuality could begin to appreciate. She was only a virgin herself.

Once, when she had been sick with the mumps, she had secretly watched her mother doing the same in front of a man who had come to visit one morning when Ginger was usually at school. Ginger's mother had been sure Ginger was fast asleep in her room, but Ginger was very awake and from the vantage point of the hall, while on her way to the bathroom, she had seen her mother taking off her clothes in the living room. This was strange. So Ginger watched and saw her mother's visitor sitting on the rocking chair, smilingly and admiring her mother's motions. Seeing how the man had started to hug and kiss her mother, she was sure I would be delighted if she did the same for me. But I was shy.

This didn't stop Ginger. She stood on the bed, now dressed in only her pink underwear. She twisted and turned her little body, this way and that, encouraged by the fact that I wasn't hiding my eyes behind widely spread fingers, this time.

" You know what this dance is called, Johnny? "

I was struggling with the fear that Ginger's mother would come into the room and blame me for Ginger's state of undress. Yet determined to experience grown up things, I ignored my growing anxiety and pretended to be interested in Ginger's gyrations.

" It's called a striptease." and Ginger removed her little panties and stood stark naked on the bed. By this time, despite my previous resolve, I was feeling a strange mixture of waning determination and growing anxiety. I wanted to run away, but dimly aware that Ginger was trying hard to please me, I felt reluctant to express my feelings and besides, I thought with increasing dismay, this is what grownups do, isn't it? My cock at this point bagan to guide me on natures course.

Ginger jumped off the bed and took my hand. I was frozen by confusion and couldn't have moved with any self -determination. Ginger misinterpreted my wide-eyed expression as one of fascination, when in actuality it was a look of stark fear with but a hint of anticipation that I was about to be freed from inhibitions. She started to help me take my clothes off. This is what her mother had done for her visitor after he finished kissing her all over. It was only when the man was totally undressed that Ginger's mother shrieked out at Ginger to get back into her room. Ginger hadn't minded her mother's shrieking, her mother shrieked often and besides, somehow she understood that people don't usually like to be seen without clothes, so her mother was embarrassed on account of her naked guest. Ginger had gone back into her room and played with her self, pulling and pulling on the lips of her vagina till she came.

Now, Ginger had barely opened three buttons on my flannel shirt when her mother could be heard flushing the toilet. As she walked out of the bathroom she yelled

" Ginger, I've told you two thousand and seventy five times, not to forget to flush the toilet after you finish in there, I'm tired of having to do it for you every time you take a pooh."