Waking to a Burn

On a Thursday afternoon on the first hot day in May, my mom fell asleep on her tummy in the lounger beside our still-closed pool. I don't know how long she was out there. I saw her out the back window after I got home from school.

Her top was unhooked. I saw the straps dangling over both sides of the lounger. Her bottoms were neatly folded and laid on top of a book beside the chair.

I saw her fanny and turned away. "Ah, shoot, come on, Mom!" I hissed to myself. About to head to my room, I stopped. I went back to the window and took another look--not because I liked what I saw. I didn't. I could happily live the rest of my life without seeing my mother's bottom ever again.

There were two matters. First, she looked badly sunburned. Second, there was something inside the cleft of her fanny. I squinted, muttering, "What the heck?"

I stepped into the kitchen, opened the door to the deck, and stepped out to get a better look.

Yes. That was a bad burn. And, yes, something pried her fanny apart. Ugh. I turned away.

"Mom?" I hollered.

Nothing.

"Mom!"

She sucked in a surprised breath, and then she groaned.

I yelled, "You're sunburned! You fell asleep!"

"Oh! Oh-oh-oh. Ow!" she cried. "Don't look, sugar! I'm indecent! Oh, ouch."

"I'm not looking. You okay? Need anything?"

"Oh. Oh, my goodness," she muttered before calling back to me, "No, thank you!"

I went upstairs. Shortly after, I heard the sliding glass door beneath me open and close. I thought about the burn, whispering, "Ouch."

I heard the water running in her bedroom a few minutes later--cold shower, I assumed. She hollered for me when she finished, and I went to her room.

She had wrapped herself in a dark blue bedsheet. The fabric was pulled tight over her head, and she looked like an old beggar woman. "Mom," I laughed, "look at you."

"Everything hurts to have against my skin but this." She even sounded like an old beggar woman, too, wincing and groaning. "So stupid. So, so foolish," she muttered. "The tiniest movement hurts."

"It looked pretty bad," I offered. "That sucks."

"Please don't say 'sucks.' It's coarse," she groaned. "I called you in here to let you know you're going to have to handle our supper tonight. Now, please help me to bed."

I did. She laid on her tummy and groaned. Less than an hour later, she texted me with instructions to pick up some sunburn ointment.

"Back in a few," I wrote and sent. I picked up a "Soothing Gel Cream" from the nearby pharmacy and returned home. When I showed her the container, she weakly uttered, "You're going to have to do it for me, sugar--everywhere I got burned."

I sighed--maybe a little too loudly.

"Am I so repulsive to you, or is it too much of an inconvenience to help your mother when she's in terrible pain? Which one is it?"

"Mom, I'm--I didn't mean it to sound that way. You're not--. It's fine. I'm happy to help."

"Thank you. You may pull the sheet down over my feet, but I don't want to hear any comments about what you see."

I reached for the sheet, and before I had the chance to draw it off her body, Mom added, "And please never tell anyone about this."

"I won't," I said. Then, I pulled the sheet off, revealing a human lobster. I snatched a breath of air. "Mom, are you sure you don't need to go to the emergency room for this?"

"No. I will not be paying an emergency room fee for a sunburn. Sit down and help me."

There was plenty of space beside her. I sat and unscrewed the lid from the jar of ointment.

Dipping my fingers into the white goo, Mom warned, "Whatever you do, do not--I repeat: do not--scratch me with your fingernails. Be very gentle. Light, soft touches."

"Okay."

Mom models for Bonny Blue--a women's clothing outfit that only sells online or through their quarterly magazine. Bonny Blue's main market is the American South, and its clothes are designed for taller and larger women.

Though we don't live in the south anymore, Mom definitely has something about her that screams southern woman in the sense of a Dolly Parton or a Jessica Simpson. She's got big, curly blond hair--piles of it. She's got super-blue eyes--blue like a summer sky. She's got the kind of face that doesn't require make-up, but one that can take a lot of it well. She's often quite overdone in her photoshoots that way. Mom is tall and not skinny, and at 41 years old, she carries her fat well--not in thick pockets, but evenly distributed through her thighs, arms, and belly.

That's not completely accurate, though. She has a big fanny and large breasts. So, maybe there are some pockets, but I try not to think about her body; she's my Mom.

Once I caught a friend of mine tearing out a page from one of the many Bonny Blue magazines we kept in a haphazard stack on a shelf beneath the coffee table. It was a full-page shot of Mom in a stars and stripes bikini, smiling and with one of her thumbs hooked under the waistband of that bikini bottom. We weren't friends after that.

Though it was late spring, the magazine remained seasonally three shoots ahead. Mom had just finished her winter shoot in April. Her next photo session would be in July for the following year's spring issue with all the new swimwear. I knew she would take every opportunity between April and July to get her body tanned before the next shoot.

With a nasty sunburn, she'd put herself in a bit of a fix. "Will this heal," I asked, "before your next shoot?"

"Let's make sure it does. Go on and start."

I dipped my fingers in the creamy gel, rubbed my hands together, and very tenderly placed them on Mom's back.

"Oh. Oh. Gently," she urged.

"I will, Mom."

When I started rubbing it in, she stopped me with a flinching gasp. "Don't rub it in. Just--just leave it."

"There's globs and streaks," I pointed out.

"Yes, put a lot on and just leave it. Don't rub. It hurts."

"Okay." So, instead of kneading it into her skin, I ended up gingerly wiping it on her back.

"Yes," she said. "I think it helps. You're helping."

"The pain?"

"Bad, but better, sugar."

Scooting further down the bed, I glanced over her big fanny. "Mom, I've got to--got to do this part now."

"Go ahead, and don't comment. I don't want to hear it."

"Hear what?"

"Just shush up and be a gentleman. Don't make fun."

"I won't."

I commenced, wiping the ointment over her fanny and trying to paint the entire burned surface with the goop. Covering her skin this way was better, I decided, because I didn't have to feel her bottom, really--just kind of gloss over it. My technique improved, so I moved on to the backs of her thighs in no time.

Thankfully, her legs were tightly pinched together. There was no worry about inadvertently glimpsing her special place. I finished her calves a minute or two later. "Done," I said.

Her back looked as if an incompetent dry-waller had put a thin, haphazard coat of joint compound all over it and then quit the job.

"Don't put the sheet back on me," Mom instructed. "It'll get all greasy and stick to me."

"Leave you like this?" I asked.

She nodded. "But, can you bring me something to eat? What are you making for supper?"

"Frozen pizza, I guess."

"Bring me a couple-three slices?"

"I will."

"And some tea--no. Not tea. Bring me a beer and a straw."

I did.

When I came up to clear her dishes, the beer can was empty and she was asleep. I brought her a big cup of ice water and a straw. Before I left, I noticed that her body heat was melting the ointment into a lustrous, clear sheen. Laughing to myself, it looked like someone had painted her back barn-red and then put a thick coat of varnish on her.

I left her alone for the night.

***

She hollered for me at about three in the morning.

I ran to her room and opened the door.

"You may turn on the light," she said. "I'm decent."

I flicked the switch. The sheet covered her body. "What's up, Mom?"

"Pain," she said. "Hurry up and put on more cream."

I took the jar from her nightstand and looked inside. We had used a ton on the first application. "Probably enough for one more coat," I warned, "and then it'll be empty, Mom."

"Get some more in the morning. Hurry, now."

I lubed up her back again, from her neck to her calves. It was so bizarre, having to douse Mom's fanny in the stuff. I couldn't help but notice how much bottom she actually had. It bubbled out from her back in a sharp, swooping curve. It was the first time in my life that I realized it could be a part of her that other men found exciting.

When I rinsed off my hands and climbed back into bed, I remembered something. Mom's bottom, when she was asleep and sunbathing--there had been that thing in there. The heck was that? I tried to remember what I saw.

It had been a small, clear bit of plastic, and it was wedged sideways between the cheeks of her big fanny. From what I had seen, the thing made it look like--it looked like her bottom had been pushed open.

I looked it up on my laptop when I woke up in the morning. It was called a "Thong Tanning Assist." The description indicated it was for people who enjoyed wearing thongs to the beach or the pool. Its purpose was to keep the cheeks apart while tanning in the nude.

I shrugged. Models, I decided, had some strange occupational equipment.

I peeked in Mom's room. She had rolled onto her side, but since she appeared to be sleeping peacefully, I left for the pharmacy.

I needed to hurry. It was Friday, and I had school. I was an eighteen-year-old senior, and in just over two weeks, I would be graduating.

It had been my first year at this new school. Mom and I moved from our little townhouse in Nashville to this farm-style acreage outside of St. Louis just last summer. I hated leaving all my friends behind, but Mom needed to get away from her second husband. Plus, Mom always wanted to live in a farmhouse.

Of course, we didn't own an actual farm; Mom and I didn't know the first thing about agriculture. We had two acres, a long gravel driveway, and the two-story home with a pool that sat upon the land. Surrounding our property was a wall of pines, beyond that lay a square mile of cornfield that belonged to someone else.

Mom and that--pardon me--that bastard, Gary, were separated now, and the divorce was near-finalized. I never blamed Mom for the move away from all my friends in Nashville; I blamed Gary for driving her away. He never hurt Mom physically, but he was an over-possessive and extremely controlling son-of-a-you-know-what.

Gary hated my guts. He even told me so once. He explained I was a walking reminder of Mom's first husband, my pop. Gary said he wanted to forget there was anyone before him. He said I was a permanent pebble in his shoe.

My pop passed away when I was eleven. I don't remember him as well as I used to, and it bothers me. He and Mom were high-school sweethearts. My pop grew up on a farm, and I suppose Mom had good memories of the place, seeing as she fell in love with a farmer's boy.

So, we moved to our farmhouse once things between Gary and Mom started getting ugly. Mom apologized quite a bit for moving me before my senior year.

It hadn't been a terrific year. I got good grades, but everyone in a smaller, rural school knows one another--has known one another for years. Not a lot of move-ins, like me. Plus, in the fall someone started a rumor that my Mom was a former dirty-movie star. It got back to me, but my denials didn't count for much.

The story took root when someone shared a picture from the Internet of a naked woman with three erections in her body who happened to bear a tiny resemblance to my mother. It wasn't Mom, of course. Didn't matter. My classmates avoided me, and I was always a quiet fella. Maybe I didn't deny the lie with enough anger. Maybe I didn't try to figure out who started the rumor with enough relentlessness. I tried to be polite, mind my own business, and work hard.

It's too bad that we didn't move here a year earlier. By early spring, the rumor had faded and gone. I was starting to make progress with friends. Fellas didn't mind sitting beside me at lunch. Girls smiled at me sometimes. In April, I got invited to a party, but I had to miss it because Mom made me come with her on the photoshoot trip. She was worried Gary might appear, and she wanted me close.

While I was at the pharmacy, picking up a couple of new jars of sunburn ointment, Mom texted me. "Where U?"

I told her in my reply.

She responded, "Hurry."

I returned, and it was almost seven-thirty. Before heading upstairs, I heated up a sausage biscuit in the microwave and poured her a glass of iced tea.

"Oh, thank you, sugar," she said when she saw the food. "You bring me a straw?"

I nodded.

"Perfect. Any trouble finding more of that gel cream?"

I held up the new jars.

"Good."

"You need me to stay home today, Mom?"

"Absolutely not. You will not be missing a minute of school on my account."

I nodded.

Mom was belly-down on her bed. Her sheet had been pushed down to leave her back exposed while still covering her bottom and legs. A round bulge of side-breast peeked out from under her body.

"How does it look?" she asked.

"Like it hurts."

"Worse or better than yesterday?"

"Worse."

"Oh, poo," she muttered, head sinking onto the pillow. "I was such a fool, sugar."

I took the jar and unscrewed the lid. "Like before, Mom? Grease up everything and don't rub it in?"

"Yes, but--."

"What?"

"Nothing, yet. I'll tell you when you're done with my back."

I sat beside her and knocked out a coating on her back.

Mom sighed, "Okay, you'll do my fanny and my legs like before only--only I need you to get that ointment between--inside--my bottom. I'm burned in there, too, and it really hurts."

I blinked and didn't speak for a few seconds. "You mean inside your--inside the crack there?"

"Don't be coarse, sugar, and I am very, very sorry to ask this of you. But, yes. The sun got in there, too."

I remembered the tanning assist, and it made some sense.

Mom added, "I'd do it, myself, but reaching back is just too painful right now."

I sighed.

"Oh, don't comment," Mom said. "And don't make fun of my fanny. I know boys think their mommas are gross, and I know this isn't how you want to spend the moments before a school day, but please help me with this."

"You're not gross. It's just--you're my mom."

"Please, sugar. I won't expose myself to you. I've thought about how I want this done--for both of us. I want you to just put some of that cream along the side of your hand where your pinky finger is. Cover that side, and just knife your hand through."

"Just once?"

"Well," she said, "maybe you ought to saw it back and forth a couple of times to make sure you cover the area."

"Okay."

I coated Mom's bottom pretty well.

She watched me carefully while I greased up my hand for the knife-through. She told me to add some more here. More there. Then, she nodded, saying, "Gently."

I slid my hand through the dark line like swiping an old credit card. Then I went back through the other way.

Mom winced and gasped. "Again," she groaned.

I did it again.

"Deeper, sugar. You're not getting it in there enough. I'm so sorry."

Adding some pressure I went back and forth again. I heard Mom moan, and then I almost gasped. The side of my hand slid over her anus. My pinky finger touched it. I rapidly drew my hand out.

Mom flinched, saying, "That'll do. Finish my legs, please."

I did, and then I washed up and went to school.

***

It was during second period that I began finding it difficult to concentrate. The phrase "I touched my mom's anus" kept popping into my mind. It was insane, knowing I had felt that part of her body.

I couldn't speak intelligently about other sons, but I didn't spend much time considering my mother's body, especially her anus. In fact, it was probably the place on her body I considered the least.

On those rare occasions, for example, when I thought of Mom's breasts, I knew I'd been nursed by them, and the idea made me cringe. The only other time I considered them was when she decided to wear something that showed them off a bit. It annoyed me.

When I considered her special woman's place--a singularly uncommon event--it was either in terms of my birth or when I could not prevent from zipping across my mind the idea of my mother coupling with my pop or Gary. On those occasions, I remember shaking my head as if to dislodge the thought. That part of my mom's body was inviolable; one best not ever dwelled upon.

But, her anus? Did I ever think about it?

I supposed it had happened--once or twice in my life. Maybe because of that rarity it seemed like the most intimate part of her. Certainly, it was the most guarded part of her, hidden not only by the usual layers of clothing but also buried by the natural contours of the body. The same could not be said of her other womanly parts.

I decided that I was more likely in life to see my mother's bare breasts or even her secret place before I ever saw her anus. If she considered the same thing--what parts of hers might accidentally be exposed to her son--I imagined she might draw the same conclusion. How strange it was that I had touched her there.

I had kissed one girl, but I had never touched one in an intimate place. Now, I had, and it was my Mom's anus. It was all wrong, I told myself. It was a nightmare scenario for a son.

Plus, I reminded myself, a woman's anus was not really a loving place. On a girl's body, that spot was a business address; other places on women were more like vacation resorts.

Was that accurate, though? I asked myself. Didn't I hear or read somewhere that certain women enjoyed touches on that part of the body? What if Mom did?

Oh, gosh.

Not long ago, the subject of the anus came up during one of the late-night talk shows. I was with Mom in the family room, watching tv. She always liked to hear the opening monologues. I was on my phone, texting with a friend back in Nashville when I overheard the joke.

I turned toward the television when I heard the phrase "anal loving." Mom blurted, "Goodness gracious!" and instantly changed the channel.

That had been expected.

What was unexpected was her brief comment on the subject afterward. She intoned, "Good girls don't do such things, sugar, and gentlemen don't even ask."

I nodded to her. Advice from my mom, I wondered, about that?

Back in my classroom, I decided a woman's anus was a curious place--a mysterious and guarded one.

What made it even more fascinating was that it was taboo in my household. My mom was a very proper woman. We didn't say "butt" or something worse; we said "fanny" or words similarly benign. Mom did not tolerate toilet humor, teenage slang, and especially foul language. She expected excellent manners. She did not discuss private, personal issues. In fact, rather than addressing human sexuality with me directly, she sent me to a summer school class offered by one of the big churches in Nashville.

On those few, extremely rare occasions when Mom had to address the issue of sex, she used words like "couple" or "mate." I grew used to her language preferences, and I tried to use the words that would have met with her approval, even when most of the kids at school used the big baddies. Mom appreciated it. She thanked me when she heard me talk like a gentleman.

Now, I had touched her anus.

In a way, that part of my mother was a dangerous, illicit thing, maybe more so than anywhere else on her body except for her special place.

I wondered what she felt--not on her body, but in her mind--when my pinky finger dragged across it. Was she embarrassed that she had to allow her only child to touch her there? Was she angry about it? Was she excited?