The Other Amsterdam

1

My mum's a writer of erotic romance novels and has been since she discovered that she was expecting me. At first she did it for the money. It was much needed. Regular work just couldn't give her all the security she needed. As it happened, she had more than a talent for it (she was already an accomplished writer in other respects). But we couldn't claim to have been comfortable, not until I was turning ten.

Only by then could drop her day job and concentrate fully on her writing and the rest was history. In the span of my lifetime, she has written over sixty novellas. For the empty-headed fool who always remarks that they wish they could get paid to daydream, that writing must be like a paid holiday, you probably know the real reason why you never accomplished what she did.

She's an artist, a painter of word pictures, and more. If the human brain really is the body's greatest erogenous zone then she is either a sorceress or a psychic, because she knows exactly how to rouse the imagination, the emotions and the libido with the power of her words.

We're of French blood. Her pen surname Lecher La Chatté is a kinky little play on words that hints to this. She's a very liberal and openly sexual woman, a trait intensified by her unapologetic charm and honesty. She is a mage if anything, but also a woman with boundless energy for life's joys and even its battles.

I suppose that's why I appear to be older than I really am. It's not that I grew up fast. She just filled my formative years to the brim with such profound lessons and experiences. I have her to thank for that and now I also have her to thank for my own career -- my whole life really.

Because I chose to pursue both fine arts and literature, she couldn't have been any more delighted as she had filled my childhood with so much art culture and writer's wisdom. She let me have the life that other kids had, because she knew I needed to be able to make friends and to adapt. But she also taught me more about society and sexuality than any teacher could and did.

There is however a darker side to my mother that doesn't get a mention -- a reason why she is the way she is. You could guess maybe that past events spurned her to live a full life and to spread the joy. She knows firsthand just how fleeting life can be. Do you notice the absence of a father yet?

I probably couldn't be more grateful for my mother if I tried, but I do try. I owe her everything that I have, if it isn't already hers anyway, because we do share everything from the day's events right down to our deepest secrets. So I am well and truly hers for life and she is my life companion, to put it simply. I don't care how that makes us look!

2

Julianne has had more than a flirtation with the seedier and darker side of erotica. She has written about everything there is to write about. It isn't all romantic. There is no avoiding the animalistic and the taboo for sensibility and safety, otherwise where is the excitement and where is the understanding of the human condition?

She has written romances and erotic crime thrillers. She has written of exotic adventures and steamy noir detective crime capers. She was also fond of lesbian erotica, being that she was openly bisexual, and you might guess that I enjoyed those immensely. I did indeed.

I read many of her erotic novellas and short stories and was happy enough to be so honest, to tell her what aroused me and what didn't. It was expected of me always. Believe me, it took me a while to get to that level of mature honesty where I didn't feel embarrassed sharing my feelings, but one of the greatest lessons she ever taught me was that the fear of rejection and ridicule was what kept minds small and unfulfilled.

But everything is subject in the end to personal preference. I showed an interest in some of her incest tales without thinking anything strange of that subject-- specifically those focused on mothers and sons which seemed to be her most passionate and emotionally charged of all.

She was pleased that I understood how close to her heart the subject was and that pleased me. Maybe I should have realised back then as to what was going through her mind, having opened up that intensely dark world of secrets. Now she was pulling me in with her.

Anything that touched on the subject on a mother's love was going to grab her attention because she could relate, yes. But in comparison to her other works, the sexually charged chemistry and her powers of description were much more clear-cut and deliberate. Her imagination was exquisite.

When I fantasised about her during that period in my life, the seeds planted, good lord the mind pictures stayed with me for long weeks, and some of them even years. When I finally lost my virginity it was disappointing that it didn't happen the way I had always imagined, because the way she delivered those experiences made them so electric and intensely satisfying.

Was it maybe that my mother's experiences of love and sex were more intense and emotional than I was capable of, or were my own first lovers just shit in bed? Maybe it was the lack of build-up in reality that I craved and didn't receive but I think that Julianne's talents may have spoiled me rotten.

We both had our lovers here and there over the years. They weren't ever to last though because some people just can't get their heads around a mother and son being best friends and as close as we are. We really did leave little room for anybody else outside of the bedroom, though, and so no lover could hope to prise us apart.

Every year further into adulthood it felt as though I was less her son and more her companion or her accomplice; like I was actually replacing all of the things that she decided she no longer needed!

3

The day the publisher accepted my debut novel I went straight to her to tell her the news. Mum was over the moon for me. That made two of us. But whereas I just wanted to take her out on a date to celebrate, she had other plans; an idea she had put away for a special occasion such as this.

That evening she announced that she was taking me to Amsterdam. I was genuinely surprised. Of all the places we had been together, I never expected her to want to take me somewhere so low brow. But she insisted that no matter what I thought of it from the outside, that I should experience these places just as much.

Well, there was that and also the fact that I had yet to get legally stoned. It had been a while for her too apparently and so that was my only guarantee that I wouldn't end up in a brothel and then mugged in an alleyway because I was too baked to know what was happening.

Mum booked a room with a king-sized bed, which we would be sharing, no doubt so I wouldn't be able to hide any midnight snacks from her when we got back to the hotel. We weren't there long before she was pinpointing all the cafes where we could indulge in the herbal delicacies in the form of cake or cookies etc.

What began as a feeling of utter dubiousness soon turned into utterly delightful childishness. We wandered through a few art galleries and saw the sights for a short while before mum dragged me into one of the cafes, as if on a dare, because all of a sudden we were both chickening out now that the reality was right in front of us.

That's essentially what it came down to, anyway. How did one simply stroll into an establishment with a straight face, out of one's element and utterly baffled, and demand to sample the legal drugs?

She was red-faced, blushing like crazy and trying not to burst out into giddy laughter at every opportunity and this was before we'd even reached the counter where one of the staff bore the most jaded expression. And we settled for a slice of cake each with a cup of tea, scrutinising the strange taste and using the tea to swill down the persistent herbal aftertaste.

It was an hour later, when we were out wandering the streets of the Red Light District when the weed began to take hold. I had never felt such a warm, fuzzy silliness in my life. I finally understood what it was to be a shameless idiot. It also proved hard not to feel paranoid and close-guarded, as though my personality had been split in two and was battling with itself.

It was when I lifted my shirt to press my nipple against the window behind which a prostitute attempted to offer me her tantalising services that my mother had to drag me away -- well, that and the bald heavies now following us with looks of intimidation. Julianne was pretty sure I was about to get bopped right in the eye if not worse.

4

We were lying in bed later that night, talking about our experiences and laughing off the prospect of having the shit kicked out of us down a dark alley, solely for the excuse that we were British, we supposed.

I marvelled about how there were places such as these in the world that claimed to be so liberal but were clearly so dangerous beneath the surface. After all, Amsterdam was notorious for its crime because this was where common people came to get their kicks. It was a holiday destination for people who wanted to get fucked and get fucked up, or vice versa.

'But if you didn't experience it then you'd never know firsthand,' mum told me. 'Are you glad you tried, though?'

'I'm enjoying myself. I still feel a little odd, but not in a bad way,' I said and leaned in to cuddle her. It just felt so nice in that lazy, happy state the weed caused me. 'I'm still taking you on that date though. Where shall we go?'

'You're serious about that date!'

'I just thought it was time that I thanked you by actually doing something for you,' I explained and kissed her on the cheek. She had such high cheekbones and such a defined but soft face beneath her long, dark red hair. The coolness of her skin against my hot lips was comforting and I knew it made her feel good too.

'You thanked me by achieving such a wonderful thing,' she said in earnest. 'I'm so proud of you, more than you may ever know.'

She might have been right about that, but I had a pretty good idea. I made us more fresh tea while she hogged the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling dreamily. I was thinking, oddly enough, how I wished I could gaze into those eyes and see what she was thinking when something occurred to her out loud.

'God I miss sex,' she trailed. Then she looked at me thoughtfully. I blushed, wondering why.

'It's not like it's been forever.'

'Well it fucking feels like it,' she reacted. I was convinced. A woman's needs became greater the longer they went unfulfilled, and especially when left half-sated only. I had a feeling that many a man failed to truly touch her.

She was a love-maker! Most men were generally fuckers who were afraid of intimacy. She required to be as emotionally satisfied as she was physically and if even one of those requirements couldn't be met, that was a terrible thing indeed.

'It's just such a pain going through all the crap to find the right guy and then having to cut it off when he starts fooling himself, thinking that he suddenly has strong feelings for me. And it's not like I don't care but it's not what I feel so that ruins it for me.'

'Why do you do that though?' I begged. 'Don't you want someone to love you?'

'I have all the love I need right here,' she affirmed. 'I don't want other men staying in my life and causing clutter. Everything is perfect as it is. I just miss the sex.'

Stirring that tea suddenly became a storm of heavy concentration. The silence was growing. She would know that I was stalling or feel that I was leaving her hanging. I watched the whirlpool of steaming beige even out and disappear in one of the cups and then decided to just bite the bullet.

'I never had good sex without the feelings though...'

'Touché,' she said back. 'Tis a double edged sword, isn't it?'

'Tis,' I agreed mockingly. 'Tis, tis...'

'You haven't been with anyone in a while,' she noted and waited for a reaction. 'Haven't turned gay I hope. It would be a terrible waste.'

'In all honesty, mum, I'm starting to feel like you do,' I admitted. 'I'm happy with what I have and I'm happy with the peace and quiet otherwise. Besides, no girl holds a candle to the real woman in my life. And cuddles can be just as good as sex.'

'But only half as good as cuddle sex...'

I threw her a wink with that. I didn't quite know why but it did the trick. She looked like a most content kitten, stretching across the bed and purring to herself.

'Do you remember when you used to read the mother-son novellas I wrote?' she asked out of the blue and a curious smile overcame her. It seemed infectious. Whatever could she be getting at?

'Do you mean the incest stories?' I enquired.

'I prefer to say consanguineous love stories...'

'Of course you do, it sounds less illegal,' I noted. 'I certainly do remember. Why do you ask?'

'If I confessed something to you right now on that subject, what are the chances you would run away and never speak to me again for the rest of my life?'

'Hmm...' I thought long and hard. Or at least I gave her the terribly unconvincing impression. 'Well I might just notify the authorities instead and have you thrown in the tower.'

'Oh I do love it when you take charge,' Julianne purred sardonically.

'Mum you can tell me anything. We're intelligent people. I'm sure that if there was any issue we could talk through it and come away better for it,' I engaged. 'Tell me. I love a good darkly criminal and shocking confession!'

'Nice,' she blinked.

'I try!'

'When I wrote those, I wasn't thinking about you. That much I must be clear about, because after all you were only young -- and still my son...'

'Yes, go on,' I pressed with caution.

'But it's funny how as you bloomed into adulthood-

'Oh, lovely wording,' I teased. 'I'm just a pretty flower-

'Stop,' she scolded. 'It's funny, how as you grew, you became much like the man that I had in mind when I wrote them. Can you imagine how that could be and what went through my mind when I realised that?'

I smiled at her, nodding and trying to make logic out of her observations. It was a lot to take on board and I still didn't know where she was going with it. 'Maybe because you raised me to be as ideal as you felt I could be? But I wouldn't worry if you ever did. I wish there was a woman like you for me.'

'Both such wonderful compliments to pay your mother,' she beamed. 'I was re-reading them lately. Bloody hell I didn't hold back when I wrote them, did I? I was borderline addicted to writing mother-son sex stories for a long while after that and I still don't know why.'

'Well I suppose taboo is the operative word,' I offered. 'It's the excitement of uncertainty, of doing the things that we shouldn't no matter how wrong they're supposed to be. What do you actually feel on the subject incest, mum; or consanguineous love?' I asked, putting down my tea so that I could lie down and join her in gazing at the ceiling.

'Honestly?'

'What's said in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam,' I assured with a dry chuckle.

'I think it could be...'

And I hung off her words, waiting, anticipating... 'A wondrous, unique, profound and intensely loving experience,' she said and let out a baited sigh ten seconds later. 'Not to mention incredibly exciting -- like such a daring turn-on!'

'Your stories definitely had that feel to them,' I admitted.

'What do you think about it?' she then asked me. 'Does it turn you on to think about?'

'Oh mum,' I protested, laughing defensively.

'Really,' she insisted.

'You do have a way of making everything sound beautiful and exciting,' I defended furthermore, for both of us, I imagine. 'Reality could be disappointing in comparison to your sexual fantasies and sometimes it was.'

'Oh darling, really?'

I nodded as I looked back. 'Sex has rarely been better, or equal to the scenes you wrote.'

'Did reading those stories ever make you want to?'

'Want to what?'

'You know,' she pressed carefully. 'Did you ever fantasise about me because of them?'

'Yes,' I admitted, shocked at my own sudden frankness. What had I just done?

'Dirty sod,' she whispered. And I could even hear, without looking, that she had said that with the widest grin. She rolled over carefully onto her side then, so that her mouth was close to my ear. Her hand propping up her head, she studied my face and I found myself reading her eyes like I had only just told myself how I wished I could.

'You started it,' I dove in for the save, albeit foolishly. It was too late to deny now. 'And while I was drugged and open to attack, you brazen opportunist!'

She laughed freely and loudly at those last words, then fell silent again, eyeing me intensely.

'What are you thinking, now?' I begged. She just kept looking at me like she had caught me committing the greatest crime of all time, but also as though she couldn't have been happier. She kept a stiff lip, refusing to speak, and gazed at me wondrously as I battled simply not to fall to pieces in the resulting silence.

'When was the last time you did?'

'I refuse to answer that,' I said sternly.

'Spoilsport,' she chided and sat up to drink her tea. After a minute's silence she returned to the middle of the bed to cuddle with me. I couldn't deny that feeling, even if she was being strange with me. It was one of life's greatest pleasures.

'Did you know there are two places in Europe where incest is actually legal? Do you believe that?'

'No, I don't,' I declined. 'Where?'

'Portugal and France...'

'You are shitting me. How come I didn't know that?'

'Who'd advertise?'

'Point taken, but why are YOU telling me this?'

She paused for thought, maybe reluctant to push the boat out for fear that we may never come back. But my mother Julianne was always bold and confident enough to be able to pull back from the worst of anything. She was just too smart to fall flat.

'Imagine if we were in a French hotel right now. It was completely legal for you to have sex with your own consenting mother and nobody had to know. And go!'

'Go what?'

'That was your cue to tell me what you would do. Are you going to make me say it?'

'Yes,' I blurted followed by an abrupt laugh. 'Yes I am.'

'Would you or wouldn't you, if you could, have sex with your mother?'

'No,' I replied curtly and immediately resorted to defensive laughter. She couldn't help herself either then. She had gone out on a limb after all. What could she expect for putting me on the spot with such a question?

'No, it wouldn't just be sex,' I explained and felt my mouth dry up immediately.

'Oh, really -- please explain!'

I dared to look her in the eyes when I thought and carefully spoke my next words. 'Given that opportunity, I would want to make love to her, for as long and as many times as possible, as though my mother was the only woman for me.'

She gasped. It was barely audible, but her red lips had fallen apart to let her breath escape and I wanted to kiss her there and then. But this was hypothetical, was it not?

'It's all coming out now,' she teased in a whisper.

'But would you?' I whispered back, giving in to her game.

'Would I?'

'Oh you're going to make ME say it?' I begged. She grinned unapologetically.

'I want to hear you say it...'

'If we were there, right now, would you have sex with your son?'

'I'm actually thinking about it,' she confessed.

'You're killing me, mum,' I blushed fiercely and covered my eyes.

'I'm serious,' she insisted delicately. 'If I could I would. And now that I know that you would too...'

'Wow,' I finished her sentence.

'Wow indeed,' she agreed. 'Would you maybe like to experience that sometime?'

I couldn't believe my ears. Now she was resting her chin in the palm of her hand and smiling at me like some happy teenager. I couldn't hide the fact that the idea was turning me on rather than chasing me off. 'Are you actually serious?' I begged.