Waking to a Burn

I never played sports much in high school, so I was fired up to discover that I had an instinct for pursuit angles, leverage, tackling, and knocking people around. I played mop-up duty mostly, but with the starter graduating, I had a shot at more playing time next fall. These were great guys, my teammates. After every game, the host team took the visitors out for drinks and partying. Too much fun.

Mom picked me up after my last final in December, and she surprised me. She didn't take the 55 exit out of Memphis to St. Louis; she took the 40 toward Nashville.

"Where are we going?"

"Stakeholder's Meeting is tomorrow," she replied.

"What Stakeholder's Meeting?"

"The Annual Stakeholder's Meeting--for Bonny Blue."

"Oh, yeah."

Mom bought a small interest in the company years back when they were expanding. It was just a fraction of a percent, but she was an owner. She used to go to the meetings every year, but after the divorce, she avoided Nashville and the possibility of seeing Gary. I guessed she felt enough time had passed.

A thought occurred to me. "Wait," I said. "Are you saying I have to go with you?"

She smiled. "There's a suit and tie for the meeting and a tux for the gala in the back."

I sighed.

"Oh, come on. It'll be fun. There'll be some people your age."

"Very few, I bet."

"A few," Mom offered hopefully with a glance at me. Then she did a double-take. "Heavens, sugar, you're bigger. I don't know if what I chose for you to wear is going to fit those broad shoulders you've got now."

"My stuff still fits me, Mom," I muttered, imagining the prospect of being a proper gentleman for interminable hours. First, it would be meeting after meeting about revenues, strategies, and markets. Then, I'd have to put on a tux and meet people who took sips of champagne with their pinky fingers flying. They didn't give a crud about me.

"It won't be so bad," Mom offered. "Besides, you wouldn't have me go by myself, would you? Doesn't your mother need a handsome date? Doesn't Bonny Blue's favorite model get to have a strapping young gentleman escort her?"

"Fine," I said. Then, after considering it, I asked, "What if I meet some girl? Do I have permission to abandon Bonny Blue's favorite model?"

"That," she replied, "would be ungentlemanly. You can get her phone number and save it for a more appropriate occasion."

***

In the hotel in downtown Nashville at five the next morning, a phone call awakened me in my room. It was not for my cell phone; it was the room's phone. I pushed myself up with a groan, thinking this had been some kind of wake-up call mistake--or prank.

I found the receiver, picked it up, and muttered, "Yeah?"

It was the front desk, but it was not a wake-up call. "Sir, we have to ask you to vacate your room immediately."

"Huh?"

"We regret that you must vacate your room; there's been a water malfunction in the room two floors above you."

I was awake now.

"What happened?"

"There's been a malfunction--a faulty valve or something two floors up. The room above you is now flooding, and we suspect your room will have water damage shortly."

I rose.

"Okay, so should I come down to the front desk?"

"Please do, and bring all your luggage and items, please."

When the call ended, I quickly packed my things and went to the front desk, turning in my card key.

"You will not be charged for your stay," the fella told me.

"For tomorrow, too?"

The man hesitated, and then said, "Did--didn't they tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

He sighed, shaking his head in disgust. "I'm sorry, sir, but we are booked solid. We don't have another room for you tonight or tomorrow night."

I stared at him.

He said, "We can offer you a free night's stay at any of our other hotels."

"I need to stay here."

"I'm sorry, sir, but it isn't an option."

I sighed. Then, raising a finger, I said, "Hang on." My phone read 5:27 am--a bit too early for a call, but this was an emergency. I called Mom.

She picked up, and I explained things. She insisted I stay in her room--on the couch. When I hung up, I told the fella I made other arrangements, took my things, and went to Mom's room. She groggily opened the door for me and climbed back into her king-sized bed.

There was a pillow and blanket on the sofa.

I heard Mom get up well before the alarm on my phone went off. Between spells of sleep, I heard her in the shower and drying her hair. I didn't even need the alarm on my phone; Mom woke me at 8:15 saying she wanted to get a bite to eat before the first meeting at nine.

I rose, stretched, and looked at her as she scrutinized her make-up and hair in the mirror over the small counter on the other side of the room. "Wow, Mom."

"What is it, sugar?"

"You look great."

She did. Her hair was drawn back and braided at an angle in the back. What was left was curled into a kind of cinnamon roll bun and pinned beside the braid. She wore a gray skirt-suit over a light blue blouse. The skirt was knee-length and hugged her curves about as well as the jacket. She had on pantyhose and elegant black heels. She looked like she could be an attorney or the CEO of a company.

"Why, thank you. I'll be finished in a few minutes. If you hurry with your shower, we can grab a bite together, and I'd like that very much."

I took my clothes with me into the shower. I was swift. Fifteen minutes later, we stood together on the elevator, headed down.

Now, I refuse to bore with details of corporate meetings at an annual stakeholder's gathering. Suffice to say that I had to recharge my phone's battery over the lunch hour back in Mom's room, and I was glad I did.

What I will mention is Mom's skirt. It is difficult to describe its impact on me. Understand that it was conservative in design. The problem was that Mom's body was not conservative in design. On her, this skirt ought to have been banned. Her fanny filled that fabric where it needed to be filled and stretched it in ways that made men forget their wives and girlfriends.

If we were walking somewhere between meetings, I was behind her, and I was staring at her bottom. I knew what was under that skirt, and I couldn't help myself from leering. I felt elevated in other men's eyes simply by being the man she always chose to sit beside. Women, too. I think I got looks from ladies just because they saw I was with a beautiful, glamorous, and very professional-looking lady.

During one meeting, Mom's pen slipped from her hand and tumbled several feet away underneath the next row's chairs. I was sitting on the other side of her, and I offered to fetch it. She waved me off, and I'm glad she did.

Mom leaned over and crawled to reach the pen, and her fanny, already in the Hall of Fame because of that skirt, absolutely blossomed right there on the floor. My jaw fell open and I gazed at it. My heart felt a kind of yearning that was almost physically painful. As she reached under the chair, she had to lower her chest, making her fanny's curves accentuate and unfurl all the more. I groaned--out loud. What topped it off was that the act of reaching so far under the chair hiked up her jacket and pulled down her skirt, so when she drew back, the top of her bright orange panties--impossibly small thong panties--appeared before me for a fleeting instant.

It was the kind of spectacle that makes one glad to be a straight fella.

Lunch was a catered affair. When we finished, Mom went off to talk to some of her colleagues. I didn't feel like listening to more business chatter, so I meandered along the tables that had been set up showing pictures from the latest shoot. Mom was there--twice. Once selling blue jeans and a frilled vest, the other showed her in an above-the-knee black dress with sequins. There was a lot of cleavage in that second shot.

"You're looking at her like you know her," a voice nearby mentioned.

I turned and was met by a smiling young woman--about twenty-five--with dark brown hair and a cute smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose. I returned the smile and, gesturing to the photograph, I said, "My mom, actually."

The woman looked again. "Really?" She took in my face and the picture, then said, "I see it now. Yeah. Cool."

"I'm Ray," I offered, extending my hand.

"Wylie," she replied, shaking my hand.

I leaned closer. "Excuse me?"

"Wylie. Yeah, it's a different name."

"Wylie," I repeated. "Okay. Nice to meet you."

She was attractive in a kind of dirty way--maybe the freckles added to that impression. She had light blue eyes surrounded by thick, fake eyelashes and lots of make-up, but it worked. She was shorter than Mom by a few inches, making her above average. Thin like a runner, I noticed a small tattoo of a tiger on the prowl inked into her right forearm.

Like Mom, Wylie wore a skirt-suit, so I asked if she worked for Bonny Blue. She nodded. "Just got hired, like, three weeks ago."

"Awesome, congratulations," I replied. Then, because something excited me about her, I said, "If I ask if you were hired as a model, I suppose that would be too obvious a line, wouldn't it?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Not hired as a model, but not a terrible line, either."

I smiled at the friendly ease with which she handled my compliment.

"No," she said, "I'm a paralegal for the GC. What do you do?"

"Oh. Yeah, I'm at Memphis."

"U of M? That's where I got my degree. What are you studying?"

"Not sure, yet."

"Not male modeling?" she asked with a big smile.

I blinked. Wow. This was moving right along. I said, "They must have canceled that program. Now, I'm stuck."

Was that, I asked myself, snobbish or conceited--how I responded? Should I have aw-shucks-ma'am'ed her compliment?

Wylie didn't seem to mind it. She laughed.

We chatted and walked together, talking about where we were from and the U of Memphis. She asked how long I was in town. I asked if she was going to the gala. She was. Then, she asked if I was staying at the hotel.

Woah, I thought, this is actually looking really good. I told her the story of losing my room and having to sleep on the couch in my mother's room.

Wylie said, "I hope something opens up for you tonight so that you can sleep in a real bed."

"Yeah. Me, too."

We smiled at each other for a half-second longer than would be natural.

Then, Mom arrived.

I introduced her to Wylie, and they chatted about working for Bonny Blue. It was cordial until Wylie mentioned that she thought, at first, I might be a model, too.

Mom turned to me and said, "Well, isn't that a sweet thing to say?" Her eyes said something different, something like, "You need to get away from this woman." When Mom turned back to Wylie, she excused us, saying we had to get to the next meeting.

"See you later, Wylie?" I posed.

"I'm sure you will," she replied.

Mom marched off. I asked what she thought of Wylie. She changed the subject.

***

The meetings ended at four. An hour break ensued, and then the reception commenced. The Chairman spoke, followed by the CEO, who gave out annual awards. While those events went on, hors d'oeuvres were brought in, and two bartenders occupied separate mobile serving areas on the wings of the reception hall.

When we adjourned, Mom went off to mingle, inviting me. Declining, I instead found Wylie, got us both drinks--the bartenders weren't carding--and we hung out at a tall table near the back.

Wylie was not beautiful, but she was alluring and engaging. Something about her exuded sensuality. Maybe it was the raspiness of her voice or the wintry blue of her eyes. I liked her skinny frame--her tiny breasts and high bottom. Most of all, I liked how near to me she preferred to be.

Inside what I would call my personal space, Wylie spent all of her time right there, close to me. At first, I was off-put by it, but the longer she spent there, the better I could smell her perfume, see her eyes, and listen to her voice--even feel the heat of her body. She sipped her drink and chatted a little over a foot away from my face.

She liked to touch, too. The first time, she casually dragged her fingers over my hand as she excused herself for the ladies' room. Next, she touched my arm and shoulder after I made her laugh. Three drinks in, she was beside me, totally inside my space, and her fingers sampled the fabric of my suit jackets and tie. Her leg rubbed against mine.

With a winning smile, she told me she had an idea where I might be able to sleep in a bed that night.

"Hey, you two," a familiar voice called. Wylie's hands drew back and she pivoted away as my mother approached. "Having fun?" Mom asked.

"Sure," I said, grinning widely.

Mom noted my wolfish smile before turning to Wylie.

"Having a great time, Maureen," Wylie added. "What did you think of the awards?" she asked, and it felt like a clever diversion.

"They were perfectly chosen. Everyone was deserving," Mom replied. The two women looked at each other for a beat. "Raymond," Mom began, turning to me, "will you fetch me a fresh drink?" She handed her glass to me. "Jack and Coke."

I took the glass. "You good?" I asked Wylie.

She nodded.

Mom said, "Don't worry. I'll keep this handsome young lady company."

Something was definitely up. I left, setting Mom's empty on a beverage tray and weaving through the minglers to the nearest bar. I had to wait for two others, and during that time, I glanced back at Mom and Wylie.

They were both smiling. Okay, I thought, maybe I was wrong.

I made my order and peeked again.

"Oh, no," I whispered. Neither smiled. Wylie had stepped back from Mom; Mom was leaning toward her, speaking in a very direct way.

"Sir?" the bartender said. I pulled out my wallet and paid for it, adding a cash tip to the jar. By the time I'd turned back, Wylie had vanished without taking her drink, and Mom stood at the table triumphantly.

I sighed angrily and walked to her. "Okay," I said, "where's Wylie?"

"I don't know where she's run off to."

I handed her the drink and she thanked me. "Mom," I said. "Come on. What did you say to her?"

She took a sip. "Nothing that would drive off a lady, I can assure you."

"I looked over here. Everything seemed fine, and then everything didn't. What happened? And be honest," I added. "Ladies are not afraid to tell the truth."

Mom took a long, long sip, set down her drink, and replied, "No, you're right. They're not. I told that temptress that she was inappropriate, that I disapproved of her, and that I didn't raise my son my to spend time with floozies."

My jaw fell open. "Mom--." I couldn't finish. A clear thought knifed through my mind, and I stated, "So, you were jealous."

"That's preposterous, and I won't hear another word from you," Mom replied, turning from me and looking out at the revelers.

The profile of her fanny in that skirt sprang into view. Wylie was, I admitted while I admired Mom's breasts and bottom in profile, a floozy compared to this woman--this lady.

"Come on," I said, taking her hand. "I need to talk to you in private."

"If this is about her, then I won't be joining you."

I stopped and said, "If you don't join me, you'll be attending the gala alone."

She set down her drink, and we walked to the elevator in cold silence.

***

Back in her hotel room, Mom immediately went to the vanity countertop and mirror beside her bed, checking on her make-up.

"I had a chance with her. She was nice."

"Of course you had a chance. Every man at the reception had a chance with that young woman."

"You don't know she was like that."

"A lady knows," Mom replied decisively.

"She was hot, Mom."

"No, she was not--and I don't like that term. It's coarse. She was homely and had no sense of decorum, behaving like that at a business reception. She was not a lady."

"Maybe I'm not interested in a lady, maybe I want a girl without any decorum."

"I certainly hope not," she declared, bending over the counter for a closer look at her eyes in the mirror. "Sugar, if you only looked around you would have seen several available women of a dating age who were much lovelier than that trash."

"Maybe I want trash," I said, glancing at the prominence of her bottom.

"Sugar!"

"What's wrong with a trashy girl?" I said, feeling an annoying ache well-up inside me at the sight of Mom's lovely bottom.

"Women like that have no manners, no propriety," she explained forcefully. "They dress like prostitutes and eat like sows. They drink too much alcohol, and then they look for a young gentleman like you to virtually hurl their bodies at. And if you fall for their ploys, you don't pull them up; they don't suddenly become ladylike. They drag you down and turn the gentleman into a brute."

"Maybe sometimes I need a trashy girl. Maybe I want a girl to hurl her body at me," I argued, now angry. The feeling made me reckless, wanting to tease and torment Mom. I said, "Maybe I could have taken her into the men's room, sat her in a stall, and unzipped my pants."

Astonished, Mom replied, "Are you deliberately trying to get a rise out of me? That was lewd and graphic, and you ought to apologize."

"Trash like her? I bet she would be really, really good at it, too. Sucked hundreds of them." I mimicked receiving oral sex. "All of it, baby. Every inch. Yeah."

"Is this what they're teaching you at Memphis? How to make your own mother wretch? How to be a--a depraved rogue?"

I didn't respond. I slid out of my suit jacket, loosened my tie, and pulled it over my head. Finally, I said, "That suit looks amazing on you, Mom."

"Why, there's my gentleman again. He's back. And thank you."

I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it on the chair across from the bed while Mom scrutinized her face in the mirror. She took out the lipstick and began fixing her lips.

Behind her and in view of the mirror, I unbuckled my belt and slid out of my pants. Mom was no longer moving; she held the lipstick as if frozen.

I slid out of my underwear.

"Sugar, what are you--?"

I walked toward her.

She resumed with her lipstick, saying, "I see. I was wrong. The gentleman who used to be my son is still gone, but I won't be provoked. You know what you ought to do right now."

Directly behind her, I slid my hand down the jacket's fabric in the middle of her back. She flinched and looked at me in the mirror.

"Don't take this off," I said.

Mom drew her eyeliner away from her face and held it in the air. "The gala is a black-tie affair. Of course I'm going to put on my gown."

"Not yet, though."

"No, not yet," she replied exasperatedly. "I need to finish touching up my--."

I held her waist with both hands for a moment, and then I ran my hands up and down her back.

Mom said, "What are you doing?"

"A gentleman can't give you a back rub?"

"If that's what you're doing, then I thank you for it, but I don't think it's appropriate that you don't have anything on. Put on some clothes, sugar."

"Putting on clothes won't change how I rub your back." My hands gripped the flesh beside her neck. My thumbs pressed down and dragged up to her nape.

Mom sighed. "No," she murmured. "No, it won't. I just think--oh."

My hands scooped and kneaded under her shoulder blades. They moved down her sides to her lower back and alternately mashed and twisted back up to her neck.

"Oh, sweet potato pie, that does feel good after all those interminable meetings." Mom set down her make-up brush.

Being out of those stuffy clothes helped, but it was standing so close behind her that made me hard. My penis was just inches from her bottom, from that absolute perfection.

"Put your glasses back on," I said.

Enjoying the rub, it took Mom several seconds before she found her voice. "I'm going to wear my contact lenses," she murmured, "to the gala."