30 comments/ 53659 views/ 92 favorites Rewriting Us By: onlyfiction This is a long one, folks. My previous offering, "Finding Our Way," was an effort to rush through the build-up that is typical in the mom-son genre and focus on the budding relationship that resulted. If you are looking to get to the nookie in a hurry, I would humbly offer that story over this one. This piece is the opposite. "Rewriting Us" is an attempt at a good steady build-up, leading to a payout that should make the whole journey worthwhile. To get there I enlisted the generous help of NateBlack, Marie AB and DirtyMindedMom. The stuff you like here was probably thanks to their suggestions. The stuff you don't is all on me. My heartfelt thanks to them. Last, for now, please accept my apologies for the extensive and frequent delays. Usual disclaimers (OnlyFiction, not for real life people to do, characters are slightly too fabulous for real life, yadda yadda yadda.) Please enjoy! ***** Rewriting Us MAKING PART I CHAPTER 1 I was thinking about changing the workout schedule for our home gym in the basement when I heard the side door attached to the kitchen open. I heard her voice. "Hi! I'm ho-ome!" "Hey! I'm in the living room," I called back. She walked through the kitchen, past the basement door and into the living room. "Hey sweetie," she said. I just smiled at her. She stood there with sunlight from the kitchen bouncing off her honey blond hair. She had tied it back into a loose ponytail, so I could appreciate the hard lines of her shoulders. Her smooth taut legs flexed thanks to the high heels. Her tight waistline and the swell of her chest impressed in that flower print dress. "Hey," I echoed back at her. "How was lunch with Lucy at the mall?" She looked up and to the left with a smirk on her lips. "Lunch with Lucy was...uneventful." I kept a passive face, but I felt my stomach ache. Maybe it was Antonio's pizza, but it was more likely the fact that Mom had never hidden anything from me before as far as I knew. Was she keeping the encounter at the mall a secret? Had Bono ratted me out like a sore fucking looser? Mom bounced to the couch, and flopped down next to me as she opened up a 1000 watt grin at me. I could've gotten a tan from her perfect smile. Her eyes twinkled with mischief, and she said, "But waiting for Lucy was interesting!" I felt my stomach uncoil, and warmth flooded my whole body. I felt the beginnings of an erection in the glow of her smile and the realization that she wasn't going to hide anything from me. "A guy hit on me near Forever Yogurt. A young guy!" "Young like he was walking around in a little league outfit or like born two days after you or what?" "Like...well...like your age about. He could have been one of your friends." "Wow. One of my friends needs a black eye. Who did it look like?" "Well, he didn't look like you or your friends. He wasn't in good shape like you guys. He dressed in these dark clothes...Kind of a Goth or whatever...you guys call them Emos or emus or something?" "Emo and Goth aren't exactly the same, but I get the picture. Should I be expecting the phone to ring with a pissed off or depressed voice on the other end of the line?" Mom was one of the last hold outs on land lines. We didn't use it often. There was a yellowing digital answering machine attached to it. We used it as a last ditch backup. It served when cell phones died or if we had to give a number to someone not ready for our "inner circle" as she calls it. "No! I didn't give him a number." "Not even the land line?" She looked at her hands in her lap. "No. That wasn't happening." Bono had failed, and hadn't been able to give me the magic keys to my secret future; the future I'd been dreaming of since my late teens. But he'd given me something, I was sure. Somehow this stunt would open the way to my deepest secret dream. "Not into the Goth thing? Or was he too out of shape?" She looked at me like I'd farted at the opera. "I'm not that shallow! No. There wasn't anything wrong with him. I don't need a guy to be a fitness freak like our family has become, and his clothes were just another fashion style." "Okay. Sorry," I said, softening my tone. "What was wrong, then? Was he an overbearing jerk?" She tilted her head, remembering the afternoon. "No." "Was it his age?" I asked even quieter still, trying to hide my dread that this could be it. The skin between her eyebrows crinkled as she processed the idea. "No. I mean, now that you mention it, I suppose it would be hard bringing a guy home to meet you when he's the same age as you. But I can't say that I'm disturbed by the idea of a spring/autumn relationship." "Then what? Why didn't this guy rate high enough to even score the land line from the hot momma by the yogurt stand?" Smiling, she slapped at my arm, but failed to even make contact. "Pshh. I don't know, Don. I guess we weren't on the same wavelength." What the fuck does that even mean? She stared up at where one of the walls met the ceiling. Prompting was called for here. "What do you mean? How were your...uh...wavelengths different? Did he approach you in some kind of creepy way" "He approached me just fine; friendly and funny. He said he needed my help settling a bet between him and a friend who disappeared on him while he came to ask me a question; something about appearing on a talk show. I can't remember the details anymore, but he was warm and charming. Not threatening or pushy or overbearing or anything like that. Nothing creepy about him. He was just..." "Not on your wavelength." "Yeah! I mean, I wasn't worried that he was trying to lure me into a dungeon or anything like that, but I didn't trust him either." She mulled it over for another beat. "What I mean is that he seemed interested in me, but just for the chance to tell a joke or talk about himself. He asked about me and my thoughts, but...he only seemed to be looking to use my answers to keep on being charming. He didn't seem interested in getting to know me for the sake of knowing me better. Does that make sense?" I sat frozen, processing what my mother had told me. I'd heard her question, but was digging deep for answers. She smiled, watching me struggle to digest what I'd learned there on the couch. As the pause stretched, I shook my head. "I think it makes sense, Mom. Yeah. You've given me a lot to think about. Thanks." What I needed to think about was the path to a future I was desperate to achieve. I acted from day to day like a cocky ex-jock. But it was the best way I could think of to cover the desire that had been growing over the last three years. It had become so powerful that I could no longer debate with myself about the moral bombshells. I wanted a more adult, intimate and sexual relationship with my mother. I know it sounds sick and crazy, but I couldn't argue the pros and cons of it any more. We will get to how I arrived at such a strange yearning. For now let it be enough that I was burning with a sense of urgency that had finally propelled me into action a few days ago. At a subconscious level I sensed a window of opportunity when I met Bono. Mom nodded at my thanks. She reached for the day's mail, lying on the coffee table. "Besides," she, she added shuffling the envelopes under close inspection, "I could just tell that he wouldn't have stood a chance keeping up with me in the bedroom." "What?" I asked, shocked. Her eyes shot open, realizing what she'd said and to whom. She blushed and covered her mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry, Don. It must be totally gross to hear your mom saying something like that." "No, it's..." "I promise I won't talk like that around you again. I guess I've just got the conversation with Lisa on my mind. You know, girls talk." "Don't worry about it, Mom." I could feel things shifting in my head. The path was still unclear, but it was near. I could sense it out there and yet inside myself. Some creative - imaginative - energy was bubbling inside me, and I just needed to direct it to create what I willed. *** Three days ago: I can't say Bono was a friend. We never made it past friend-of-a-friend status. He never knew the whole truth about what I wanted, but he helped me achieve it; more than anyone else in real life. His help was less a matter of generosity and more one of his ego. It started out as a bet after all. He wasn't ugly, but no modeling agency would pick him up either. His nose was too big for his balloon shaped face, and his jaw receded, forcing you to search for his chin. His hair hung almost to his shoulders, a bit lank and styleless for our neighborhood. He nicknamed himself after the old guy from U2, and he had a chip on his shoulder about his looks even though he was always dating the hottest girls on our community college campus. I saw a buddy of mine, Rich, talking to Bono. A scorching hot brunette was hanging on Bono's arm. As I passed the trio, I slapped Rich on the shoulder and double checked that he would be at Chem class in a quarter of an hour. He agreed to see me there. Bono gave me a 'sup chin tilt when we made brief eye contact. The brunette only had eyes for the unlikely stud. In class, I pressed Rich to connect me with Bono so I could find out how he does what he does. "Tell you what, Don. You focus and get us through this lab work, and you can tag along with me after class. I need to stop by my apartment to pick up some weed, and then I'm meeting up with Bono to sell it to him. Then, while I'm smoking some of his fresh-delivered pot, you can sit at his feet and ask for some wisdom. Deal?" We did just that, and once I'd gotten Bono talking about his pick-up skills his sales pitch started up. There are strategies. Techniques. Methods. Anyone could learn them, and once you'd learned them any woman could be yours. He insisted it was true. And he could teach me the ways he had learned from studying the masters. The true Pick Up Artists. I felt a pain in my chest. Maybe it was the smoke, but I felt it at that moment; how desperate I was to find a way into Mom's heart. That one specific - impossible - woman. I got lost in the thought for just a moment and the word "Impossible," escaped me. "No! It's true! I'm proof!" He had the light of a true believer in his eyes. Something bitter touched the back of my throat. This shadow of hopelessness shamed me, but I spoke it aloud anyway. "I'll bet you fifty bucks you can't pick up the woman I have in mind." "I don't pick up married chicks," he backpedaled. His response was so immediate, I realized that I wasn't the first person to raise this objection. "Not even to win a bet. I'm not interested in breaking up any couple." I nodded. "A man of honor. I like that. I can live with those terms." We would settle the remaining terms over the next three days. *** So at about noon today, Bono and I stood together by a giant palm frond. "Show me the fifty bucks," Bono said. "I'll use it on my date with the target." "Only if she gives you the digits," I reminded him, flashing the twenty and three tens. "But you'd better have your own money ready for when you lose." Since he was taking the risk (and because I expected to learn a thing or two no matter what the outcome) Bono's end was smaller. If he lost he had to buy me lunch and give me a free run down of what he'd learned from the pickup community. If he won, he'd take my $50 and offer to teach me everything he knew for another $150. If he could manage this I'd pay him for his success. I'd pay him for his wisdom. I'd pay him extra to never call the "target's" phone number. I think he was looking for students or acolytes. But I wasn't interested in his techniques. I only wanted the woman at the other end of this bet. Two hundred dollars was a significant amount of money to a poor college student like me, but I had some meager savings I was willing to touch. I'd thought about this for a long long time. She was more than worth the risk. Sooner or later I was going to risk everything. Bono and I stood there, an odd couple among the glossy passersby, in the food court of the high end Courtiers Place Mall. The big name shops and exclusive boutiques were all that could bear the rent of the neighborhood. The clientele were there to be seen celebrating spring's arrival. They strutted the mall with short skirts and expansive necklines. It was the catwalk for moneyed people and their children. Bono and I would only be there for jobs. He would've been shorter than my 6 feet even if he weren't stooped over. His black hair hung long where my sandy brown hair looked rich and full cut short. I had a lean build from the high school swim team. I wore newish clothes that showed my bare arms and indicated the lean musculature of my body. My companion hid his build with a loose T-shirt under a dark fall jacket and wide legged pants and black boots. He stuck out more than me in these surroundings. Standing close to him I could see that the ensemble was clean, ironed and arranged with care. He called it "peacocking," and I wanted to do the exact opposite today. I couldn't afford to be noticed when Bono went to work. "So which one will it be?" he asked. I could see excitement in his face. I couldn't help but like the guy as his breathing picked up, and I could see some vulnerability there. I looked around and then at my watch. "Give me a minute now." I knew she liked to get to the mall about half an hour before her friend's lunch break just in case she got out early. "Look, if you chicken shit out of this I'm still gonna want that fifty bucks, so you might as well pick someone and watch how I do what I do. Don't waste either of our time." That is when I saw her enter the mall. She was not a particularly tall woman, but her cream colored heels would have brought her forehead up even to my nose. Her legs were shining, lean, bare and tan all the way up to mid-thigh where the hem of her dress stopped. The pastel floral print on the white dress fluttered to the scissoring of her thighs. She walked in like she owned the place, chin high and smiling. The dress pinched in at her narrow waistline and then spread as it rose to cup her chest. It was an admirable chest. There was nothing artificial or gargantuan, but it formed a respectable cleavage at the neckline. (I knew that I was looking at a pair of 36-Cs, but I wasn't going to invite questions about how I knew such a thing.) Shiny golden blond hair puddled on her bronze shoulders and spilled over the collar bones. Her arms swung as she walked with purpose. Their shape and smoothness showed a familiarity with swimming as much as my own build did. She used the swimming pool in the backyard, I knew, almost every day. Her jaw line was broad, and her cheekbones were like ping pong balls. She resembled a model I'd found on the internet called Melissa Giraldo aged to 35 or so, and this woman was in her 40's. Her sex appeal was beyond dispute, but she exuded confidence and friendliness most models have to fake. "That's her. In the floral dress. That's her." I said, almost to myself. Bono looked at her, but he didn't seem to see her. Most guys' jaws drop when they first see this woman. Their eyes bug out. The idea of hitting on her seems out of the question. She was so far beyond Bono's league that I expected him to crap his pants and pay me fifty bucks as an apology. But...nothing. He just watched her walk to the frozen yogurt place and get in line. "Well?" I said. "Yeah," he said turning to look at me. "She's pretty." "No shit, she's pretty Bono. Are you going to make your move or are you buying me lunch? Though, I'm not so sure I'll want your advice if you're afraid to even try." He smiled at me, a master in his element...at least in his own mind. "Afraid, Donny?" "Don't call me that," I growled. "Donald?" "No," you fucking idiot my face must have read. "My name is not Donald or Donny. Don. Just Don." "Sorry, man. Ease up!" He slapped my right shoulder. I looked over and saw the floral dress second in line. She would place her order in a few dozen seconds, and Bono was smirking at me like he had all the time in the world. "Relax, Don. I'm not afraid of pretty girls. You've seen the last few girls I've dated." I had. They were stunning, but... "That's no girl over there." The supposed pick up artist just rolled his eyes. Then he gave me a warm smile, and said, "Yeah, I can see that. She's a hot cougar. Hot females stopped scaring me a long time ago." I looked over to the Yogurt place. She was placing her order. Bono was still talking. "You can beat your fear of them too. I can show you how for just..." "Skip the infomercial. Are you going in or are you bailing?" He glanced at the woman. It was like he was watching children playing in the park. "Don. Have some decency, man. Let the woman at least get her yogurt first." "She's getting it right now." "Let's see if she's going to sit down at a table to enjoy her sweet treat or if she's taking it on the go." Then Bono began strolling in her direction. He looked around at everyone there, not just the swimsuit model look-alike. I could have told him that she would sit, that she was meeting a friend who ran one of the boutiques at the mall. But I wasn't going to let him know that I knew so much about her. He didn't want that sort of information anyway. He took his time when he saw her cruising the eating area, looking for an empty table. She sat down at a two-seater. He waited for her to have a spoonful of her treat before moving in. I ducked down behind the broad leaves of a tropical plant. I could see her looking at him, but heard nothing of his patter. He positioned his body turned 45 degrees away from her and gesturing back to where we had been standing. She looked around him to our original lookout, and back at him. He looked over, and saw I was gone. He shrugged, and said something that made her laugh. He turned away from her and back towards her again. She was smiling and nodding. Her luminous smile never faded. After a few minutes, Bono squatted down to be at her eye level, but refrained from sitting in the empty second seat. She laughed again. I couldn't believe my eyes. He moved his hands quite a bit in small slow motions. She spoke to him with a calm expression, and seemed to ponder questions before answering. His hand was on the empty chair, but he still did not sit. He touched her hand to make some point, and if she noticed she didn't show it. She looked around, maybe for her friend or an escape. He stood up, and took a half step away from her. He looked over his shoulder, but then turned to her again. She smiled as he spoke, but at the end her lips pressed together and she shook her head. He said something, and she replied with a polite smile. He clowned a bit like something had struck him, hand on forehead and staggering back a little bit. This elicited a real laugh from her. She nodded smiled and said something; a single word or two at most. He stood near her for a little while longer. He pointed at the empty chair with one hand and back in my approximate direction at the same time. She shook her head with hesitation. Her smile never left her face, but as he continued to speak, she shook her head three more times. He was done. He said some kind of friendly goodbye. She smiled as she sent him on his way. This exchange left me both disappointed and thrilled. I would have loved it if Bono had shown that he could do it because that would mean he might just be able to show me how. But then it might have gotten sticky convincing him to leave her the hell alone. His failure said good things about her that I'd already assumed, but it also meant that he wouldn't be able to teach me everything I needed to know. Then again, I knew that I could use this incident to serve my own ends. Lunch time was coming, and I knew that useful information would follow either from Bono or from my mother at home. Rewriting Us He strolled back to where we'd been standing, and spotted me behind the plant. "I feel like pizza," I said with a smile. "But not here. Antonio's Pizza is the best. Let's get out of here." *** Bono already knew Antonios. Two gorgeous waitresses and a third who was "only" hot greeted him. They spoke to him with a familiarity that was unmistakable. He ordered two large pizzas for the two of us. As the smiling waitress took our orders to the kitchen, I said, "You do know you're paying for those pies, right? I mean you got no digits. You're getting no money." He nodded and waved off the question. "It's all a numbers game, man. I'm telling you, a few nights out sarging with me and you'll see that it is fucking inevitable. You will be bringing a new hottie home every night. You're a good looking guy. I mean, looks aren't everything, but they sure won't hurt for you." "Sarging" was a pick-up-artist industry term for going out to practice hitting on women. "That's not going to happen, Bono. The bet wasn't about numbers. It was about you picking up the woman I chose. You lost." There was only one woman who interested me. He made a sour face, like I was the one who had lost and was still losing. "Typical Nice Guy mentality, Don. It's never about the one woman. It's about women, and that's where your problem is. That woman was a hottie, no doubt. But you've got to let her go." He saw something in my face that spelled out: not an option for me. He rolled his eyes, and added, "At least until we get your head straight about women." I had to admire his confidence, his certainty that he had found the way even though it had not gotten him what he insisted it would get him. When the food came he ate with great care to stay neat and clean. But he just kept eating and eating and eating, only pausing to drink. I managed half a pie plus one slice. All the rest went to Bono. You'd almost think he'd won the bet. As he dabbed the last crumbs and moisture from his face I said, "Look, I see that you're on to something, Bono, but I'm not buying. I'm not looking to get involved in being a pick up artist. Maybe you don't have the sort of information I was looking for." "Alright!" He slapped the table. "Fine. You don't want to get involved in my program, but since you won I'll share some basic tips, okay? Use 'em. Ignore 'em. Whatever. If they make some sense and can help you, great. One day, maybe, I'll see you locking lips with the hot momma in the flower dress. That would be cool for both of us." And he laid out his top five tips. 1. Don't be a fucking liar, but it is not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. Play a little. Give her the pleasure of learning new things about you gradually. Leave some room for mystery. 2. Don't apologize or lie about what you want. The nice guys who never get the girl pretend that they're not into her and apologize if they ever get up the nerve. You wanting her isn't offensive. It doesn't mean she has to feel the same way, but seeing your open interest will improve your chances of her getting into you. And no matter what, it's not something to say you're sorry for. Would you want to hear that someone is sorry that they want you? 3. If she says "No," you can accept it without giving up on your own pursuits and desires. "No" only means "No for now." Keep being someone she'd want and keep the door open, and she'll come to you when the time is right. Don't take that to mean you should be some kind of fucking stalker. 4. When she starts to show that she wants it to happen, pull back a little bit so she knows it's her choice. Pulling back from time to time can be key. The tension can be your friend whether it's short-game or long-game. 5. Use your head enough to know when to follow the rules and when to ignore them. If you don't have a head for that, develop one by going out and sarging with me. I was never going to have a night out with Bono. By and large I found his pronouncements off putting. I didn't want to learn his tricks. They'd failed him for one thing! But also, the whole bet and conversation had made me realize that I really didn't know much about seducing women. Dating had come to me with ease because I'd always just paid enough attention to understand what the girl wanted. I didn't really know what my mom wanted in a man let alone how I could persuade her to see me as a man in the first place. That was something I needed to learn! But how? Hitting on random women with Bono wasn't going to help me with that. In fact, the next time I'd see him I would be in daylight. Avoiding him then would trip me into real turbulence. Maybe his top five points would come in handy. I mulled them over as I drove home. When I entered the house it was empty. I expected that my mother would be home sometime around now, give or take an hour. I spent the time looking over the twin bookcases we kept in the living room. It had always been loaded with thick, hard covered books I'd always been too intimidated to read. Philosophy books, some of the great classic English and American writers and a few self-help titles. The dictionary was the only one I'd ever dared to really read out of the bookshelves as a kid. But now I noticed that a lot of the old books were missing. The empty spaces had been filled by paperbacks (that I have to admit looked pretty trashy) Most of them were so-called romance novels; "Hollywood Wives," "Lace," "The Temptress," "Scandal in Spring" and many more. Most of the covers sported bare muscled chests of men and women in flowing dresses. The trashier the title the more dog-eared the book was. When had Mom gotten these? When had she put them in the bookshelf? I assumed the missing books were with my dad. He had been out of the picture since I was 15. He'd made some halfhearted gestures at visiting and staying in contact the first few years after the divorce. Over time, though, he decided that the court-ordered financial support would be enough. We talked about twice a year; on my birthday if he remembered it and around New Years. It was always cordial. I didn't hate him like a lot of sons of divorced fathers. He'd chosen work over us while married to Mom. This was just more of the same. Mom said he'd always had some weird issues with money. He hadn't neglected her out of a lack of loyalty or love. He just couldn't break free of the idea that success at work and money would answer all his problems, and the massive settlement of their divorce was just another manifestation of that idea. He was using money to soothe his grief at losing us. She had tried to reach out to him about it many times during their marriage and even once after the divorce, but she had to let him go his own way. "I don't hate him, Don," she'd told me. "Never tell him I said this, but I pity him. I always admired how focused he could be. In fact I hope that one day you will also find a passion and chase it down with the same intense focus your father has always had. But make sure that you are chasing what you love, what will make you happy. He always chases success to cover his unhappiness. But happiness brings success, not the other way around." A few years later I found a passion for her, but I never gave a hint about it. I was bound to chase it down, but it was so audacious that I knew I had to tread lightly. I'd been treading so lightly for so long by now that it felt more like treading water. So she had this house, and she had plenty of money; all courtesy of the divorce which was a move to improve her happiness...which it did. She'd opened up and become much happier in her years as a free woman. Some of the married couples she'd known had drifted away. She'd reestablished connection with some of her old friends. She dated a little, but none of the guys ever managed to get invited back to the house. When I joined the high school swim team she agreed to convert the basement into a workout room. Then she surprised me when she'd insisted on a schedule that would allow her to work out down there three days a week. I got the other four, and we both developed leaner and harder bodies over the same period of time, but never together. With her books on my fingertips I was thinking about changing the workout schedule when she came home. She told me about Bono's approach, and I learned more about what she wants and looks for. I saw hope there, but it was all muddled together. *** That night, I headed to bed early. I flipped through a book of quotes my father had given me when I was in middle school. He told me to put some of those quotes in my papers at school to bolster my grades. I'd flipped through it from time to time over the years. It was helpful because the publishers had arranged the index by theme. My brain was boiling with the input from Bono and my mother. I knew it added up to something, but I was too close to the trees to see whatever it was. I looked for quotes about inspiration that might help me break through. I found a good one by Jack London: "You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club." I stuck the book back on the shelf, and plopped onto my bed. I went over the afternoon in my head again and again, trying to add it all up. I wrote down an abbreviated version of Bono's tips and details that had stuck out from my conversation with Mom. I felt an inexplicable certainty that the paper offered some kind of solution to the impossibility of my desires. I imagined it held a road sign or two to guide me along the way. It was in there somewhere. I just knew it had to be! After about an hour of staring at that damned piece of paper my eyes were closing on their own. Even under closed lids I could still remember every detail of the paper. I ripped the sheet into tiny unremarkable bits, and stuffed them into the waste basket next to my desk. I went to brush my teeth. Don't apologize or lie about what you want said Bono's pizza stuffed mouth at my ear. Understanding for its own sake, said Mom's wondering voice. Then Bono again: ...not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. And again, Mom: I hope that one day you will also find a passion and chase it down with the same intense focus your father always had. I spat out the toothpaste and shook my head. How did it all fit together? I stripped down and pulled on some flannel pajamas. I lay down in bed, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I thought and remembered and stirred it all around in my mind. It all became a kind of bizarre conversation between the three of us. I was beginning to doze, and in the half-dream Bono was telling us of his conquests. At the same time that I was telling how I'd come to desire my mother. Mom, not wanting to be left out was telling bed time stories. The stories were mixing. Our voices and our words were overlapping. And then my eyes popped open. I had it! Jack London would have been proud! Chapter 2 Back in high school, Rich and I had a buddy from the swim team named Sonny. In our sophomore year Sonny's dad remarried; a gorgon of a woman. The new step-mom, for reasons I was never told, insisted that Sonny get rid of his porn. This, of course, included any pornographic materials he may have accumulated over the years. Maybe she was religious, or maybe she felt all porn degraded women or maybe she felt threatened by it. At any rate, I was hanging out with Sonny in his room, and we were looking through his massive (at least to my eyes) comic book collection. Hundreds of comics were individually bagged and stuffed into four long boxes. The new dark queen of the castle strutted into Sonny's room and stared at us like we should already be apologizing for something. She was neither fat nor thin, but kind of lumpy; like someone had put her together in a sloppy and haphazard way. She wore a short dark purple dress that rode high enough on her thigh to show cottage cheese. Again, she wasn't obese. Her body was just neglected. One could imagine someone had flattened her face with a frying pan. The lips were beginning to swell from the impact and the eyes had never stopped bugging out in surprise. She feigned polite inquisitiveness, catching a glance at each of our titles. Sonny was rereading an X-Men title, and I was trying to get my head around the West Coast Avengers. With nothing in our hands to snarl about, Step-Mommy-Dearest looked into one of the closed long boxes. At first there was only the sound of turning pages and thin plastic bags shifting in their cardboard boxes. Then Sonny's step-mother cried out, "What is this?" She pulled from the front of the box a copy of Penthouse Letters. "It's just stories, Franchesca!" Sonny sounded like Oliver Twist with an empty bowl in his hands. She flipped through the pages. "No, there are pictures in here! You know that this stuff isn't allowed under this roof, Sonny." "Look, I can block out the pictures with a marker. I just like the stories. Please, Fran..." "No! It will still be filth, and you will still know what those pictures were. And it doesn't matter anyway, because it is pornography no matter how you slice it." "Okay," said Sonny. The war had long ago been lost. There was no point in a battle here and now. "I'm throwing this away right now. Next time I find something like this, we'll have to have a talk with your father." She click-click-clicked away, and Sonny got off the bed and closed the bedroom door. He reached into the other end of the same box and pulled out a similar looking magazine. "Here, Don. Take this. Hide it in your backpack, and get it out of here." I took the proffered magazine, and read the title. Family Affair. It was the first time I had ever seen incest themed porn. "Kinky Moms and their Oversexed Sons" read one of the sub titles. "Is this...?" "Fran will flip right the fuck out if she sees that one." "You want me to stash it somewhere for you?" "No. It's yours now. Keep it, or throw it away if you're not into it. Just not in our garbage cans, okay?" That event started a domino effect. It all lead me here, fronting as a know-it-all twenty-something without a care in the world. But behind the front I was struggling. I craved a different life with my mother; something the world would be sure to deny I had any business pursuing. My mother looked at me and could only see the boy. I flashed a cocky grin, but inside needed her to see that I had become a man - one who could be more to her than polite society could imagine. I acted cool, but inside I burned. But how would I get her to see without demolishing the love and friendship we already shared? Bono had been a flop, but had led to useful information and a few insights. His attempts had even led to my mother shedding light on the key elements of what she would need to see. And now last night's inspiration drew a clear picture for me of how to finally chase my most secret dream. I trotted down the steps into the living room. The mixture of eggs and cheese and toast wafted in from the kitchen. It smelled like heaven. I walked in and saw my mother's sweet bubble bouncing under her pajama bottomss to an imagined tune. Her back was to me as she prepared our breakfast. "Peeyoo! What stinks in here!?" I said to her golden locks. She didn't miss a beat. "Eggs, baby doll, which are breath mints compared to your garbage breath in the morning." I poked her in the ribs, and got a shout and a giggle. "I'll have you know I brushed my teeth before coming down here." "Good." She pretended to sniff in my direction. "You may want to brush them again, handsome, unless you think you could stomach eating my foul smelling eggs." I plopped into my seat at the table where plates, silverware, napkins and glasses were waiting. "I guess I'll try. Maybe the foul eggs will mix well with my garbage breath, and it'll taste good to me." "Ooookay," she said, as she scraped cheddar scrambled eggs onto the plate. "Enough, okay, bud?" "Sure." "I would like to enjoy my breakfast without the disgusting talk." She scraped the rest of the eggs onto her plate, and headed back to the stove to return the pan and get toast from the toaster. "Okay, Mom. It smells great," I said, picking up my fork, and stabbing at my eggs. "and I've got some news that you may like." She placed a small plate of toast and the butter dish between our places. "Yeah? Since last night?" "Yeah, I had an epiphany as I was dozing off." "What about? "Okay. You know how you've said that you wished that I would find a passion and chase it down with intensity like Dad?" My mother held still for a moment, a glob of egg on her fork hovered over her plate. "Yes." "Well, I know what I'm going to do." She looked apprehensive, but she put the egg in her mouth and raised her eyebrows at me. "I am going to write a book." She chewed, and studied me like a crossword problem. "A book?" "Yeah! I have an idea for a story and everything. This afternoon is my American Lit class. I'm going to hit up the professor for tips and ideas and useful information after class. He's a published author, and also teaches some of the creative writing courses. At the least he should be able to direct me to some useful books and web sites on the subject." As I spoke, her posture relaxed. "Sounds like a plan." "Well it isn't much of a plan yet, but it's a plan on how to build a plan. I'm not messing around about this, Mom. I'm going to do this. I'm going to chase this down like a...one of those dogs that..." "a bloodhound?" "Yeah!" "I'm not an author, but it may be useful for you to download a thesaurus app to your phone." "Not necessary. There are dozens of sites like that online." "Wow, Don. I haven't seen you this excited about a project since you were in grade school." "And focused, Mom. I'm going to make you proud of me. I will get this done, and I will make it a good one. I might even try to make a career out of it." "I'm already proud of you sweetie, but I'm glad that you seem to have found a passion." "I have found my passion." But I held the true passion between my teeth. Bono was again in my thoughts, it is not cool to dump all your cards on the table on hour one. "I know that this will be hard, but I'm ready for this marathon." Mom's eggs were getting cold as she stared at me. I was a whole new animal sitting in front of her. It was an animal she was glad to see, but it wasn't enough for me by half. She didn't know it, but the marathon had already begun. "Okay, honey! I'm so thrilled for you. That's great! Let me know if there's some way I can help you. What kind of book will it be? What will it be about?" "It's going to be a romance." "A wha...You? I mean, Don, are you...are you sure? You want to write a romance novel?" I shrugged, and looked her dead in the eye. Don't apologize or lie about what you want. "Yeah, why not?" She seemed taken aback for a second. She looked down at the table, as if gathering her words from her plate. "Uh... I guess, no reason. It's just that, well, sweetheart...you know I love you, but to be honest, I've seen the way you are around your friends. You've never kept a girlfriend longer than a month or two, and there has been no shortage of them. I know you're a well-built young guy, and, well, it seems like you can be sweet and loving. And the girls seem happy for the short time you give them. But romance doesn't seem to be your thing...Yet! I mean you're bound to learn it as you get older." She didn't want to hurt me, but I knew the image I'd been projecting the last few years. If it hurt, I had no one to blame but myself. "Well, maybe you can help me out with that." Rewriting Us "What do you mean?" "You said to let you know if you can help me. You can help me make sure that it is believable and romantic." Her eyes went flat. "I'm not going to write your book for you Donovan." I confess that, back in my middle school and early high school days I got my mother to shoulder the lion's share of the burden on a few projects. So her response was understandable. "No! Of course not! I'll write some chapters, and you just advise me. You don't need to write a word of it. I mean if you think of some dialogue that you think you would like, that's cool." "Oh. Okay. But can I just ask you: Why romance, anyway? Why not a story about sports? Swimming was always a big love of yours, even if you were never as serious about it as your coach wanted. You already know a lot about that subject." Though I am weak in other areas, I have always excelled in areas of math and logic. Same goes for any subject requiring memorization, like history. The two combined always made me strong in a debate, and I've learned to write pretty well too thanks to having so much to write for school. With a practiced ease I dumped the info. "In North America, romance novels are the most popular literary genre, comprising almost 55% of all paperback books sold some years ago. The genre is also popular in Europe and Australia, and romance novels appear in 90 languages. Most of the books, however, are written by authors from English-speaking countries, leading to an Anglo-Saxon perspective in the fiction." My mother bit into her toast as she watched my recitation, chewed and shook her head. "Where'd you get that from?" "That was from a wiki about books." I had googled "romance novel Wikipedia" before coming downstairs. "So, since it is the most popular genre' it seems reasonable to try aiming there first." She smirked at me before tossing the rest of her toast onto her plate. "Well it was well said, but it still doesn't tell me what you're hoping to write." "Oh," I said. "That's easy. I want to write a romance that would seem impossible." Chapter 3 I needed this to be good; or at least good enough. Mom would help me at some point. That was fundamental to the whole idea, but I couldn't bring her something half-assed to start. It needed to be a serious beginning to serious effort. I talked to a few girls in my American Lit class about romances. They started off high in the intellectual stratosphere, talking about The Romantics. Woah! That was a style from a few hundred years ago. I'm not trying to make history (or study it.) I'm talking about the sort of stuff you see in the book shop in the Romance section (or in our living room book shelf nowadays.) Two of the girls said they hadn't read anything like that since middle school. The third young woman had a dog-eared copy of a title with a half stripped woman and a shirtless man on the cover. I bought her lunch in exchange for any insights she could share. She had a lot to share. I didn't retain the specifics, but as the meal progressed, the beginning shape of the narrative took form in my mind. She got herself so excited that she offered to co-author the piece with me. "Thanks Gina, but I need to do this one on my own." She acted cool, but color rose to her cheeks. I realized that she was hoping for more than a writing partner. I looked at her as a woman. She had straight brown hair; not a single curl or twist on her head. Her eyes were such a dark brown that they looked black. She had smooth skin, and a soft and generous figure. I liked what I saw, but it wasn't what I wanted. I headed to my professor's office, and I thought at first that he was interested in helping me. But when he realized that I was looking for advice on writing a romance novel, he became still. He seemed to be struggling with what to do about a jock with romance writing ambitions. There was a lot of shuffling and, "That's not the sort of thing I write." "Maybe you should read some of the sort of books you're looking to write." "The best authors always say the top three things are to write, write, write!" When I couldn't take his discomfort any more, I offered to leave with the final tip, "Woody Allen always said to write what you know." I'd bedded more than my share of girls in high school (I am pretty sure I could've fucked Gina,) but I didn't know much about romance. That was okay, though. Guidance for the romance was already arranged. "Okay. Thanks Dr. Watts." It wasn't much, but it was enough to start. I went home, up the stairs and straight to my room. I didn't screw around. I sat down at my computer and I began to write. It was hard to get started, but once the first few paragraphs were down, I began to feel the flow. I sat and pushed, and after an hour and a half, I had two pages written. I felt elated. I saved the file, and got busy with the usual distractions of my life: homework, computer games, dinner and my mother. "I've started writing." I said with a smile over Mom's noodles in a mushroom cream sauce; a dish my father's mother had taught her. "That's great, hon!" she said before easing a forkful between her lips. "Yeah. It's good. I think I may be cut out to be a writer." She chewed and nodded and beamed at me. She sipped her glass of red, and then said, "You are really chasing this down. Can I see what you've written?" "Not yet. Give me a little more time." She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing more. Even in silence, she was like a song at the table. The next day, after my classes, I booted up my computer, and opened the file. I thought I'd read the two pages I already had to get the creative juices flowing. It was two pages of the worst writing I'd ever seen. How had I thought this was good? It was riddled with grammar errors, and sentence fragments. It had all made sense to me when I'd composed them but would make no sense to an outsider reading it. Ernest Hemingway from Dad's book of quotes growled in my mind, The first draft of anything is shit. I gritted my teeth. I wanted this too much to give up. She was in this house every day, and couldn't see me; how much I desired her. What we could be. "Okay, Ernesto," I said to the bookshelf above the monitor. "That's two pages of shit. Time for page-of-shit number three." I kept writing. Two hours later, I was approaching the end of page three when I heard my mother calling that she was home. "Heeeey!" I called over my shoulder to my closed door, and went back to typing. A minute later there was a pecking at my door. A gorgeous blonde came in my room. "Hey, sweetie, watcha up to?" I minimized the document and rotated my chair to face the intruder, my mother. Her hair was pulled back, and I could see traces of sweat on her graceful neck. She wore a loose white blouse with lace decorations of the exact same color across the chest. A loose pair of tan slacks hinted at the shape of her lower body but refused to tell. I didn't want to just look, and I didn't dare to stare. "Hey," I said with a glued on smile. "I'm working on the book. Yesterday's pages weren't as great as I'd remembered them, and today's aren't flowing like I want." She walked up to me, and put a hand on my shoulder. She meant to be reassuring, but it placed the arc of her hip less than a foot from my beating heart. The curve of her breast was level with my eyes and mouth. I tilted back to look up into the clear skies of her face. "How long have you been working at it?" I swallowed, looked at my watch then back up into her personal space. "About two hours. And I've managed less than a single page." She ran two fingers through my hair and offered, "D'you want to take a break? Ham and cheese sandwiches? A little lemonade?" My mouth watered, but I wanted no food. "Thanks, Mom." I turned my face away from her, in the direction of the computer. "But I need to keep at this. I'm close to some real progress. I can feel it." She stepped away from me with an even brighter smile. There was no more sympathy, only pleased surprise. "It's great how you are sinking your teeth into this. You're going to be a published writer in no time if you keep it up." "Heh. Maybe. I don't know if this one will ever see the light of day, but I..." I reached for the mouse, and hovered over the tab of my hidden document. "I'm not going to let this slip past me. I feel like I've got to do this or I'll explode." I may explode anyway I thought. She put her hands behind her back, and seemed to be standing on the balls of her feet. "I'm sure it'll be great, honey. I'll get out of here and let you work...unless you want me to stay and help?" I turned back to the computer, and spoke to the screen. "No thanks. Just close the door behind you, okay?" "Okay," It could have been the beauty agreeing in the doorway or the squeak of a mouse. In any event the door clicked, and I opened the file. I pressed on. I didn't feel anything while I wrote. Only a moment later there was another light knock at my door. I looked at the clock on my computer, and realized that the moment had been 45 minutes. I was near the end of page four. Again without my permission, the door opened. She brought in a tray with a ham and cheese sandwich and a tall glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. "No need to stop." she trilled in a sing-song voice. "I'll just leave this here on the side of your desk. You can eat whenever you're ready, and you don't have to stop if you don't want to." Her smile was broad and generous, but her eyes were on the screen. I reached over, and turned the monitor off. "Thanks Mom. Next time you knock, could you wait until I say, 'come in'?" She blinked hard when the screen went black, and gave me a pout. "Why did you do that? Are you writing something you don't want me to see?" I took a deep breath before responding. "No. It's just not ready yet. I promise, I will show you some pages soon. I do want your help. Just give me a little more time." "You promise you'll show me?" "I promise. Without you there is no book." *** Three days later I had 10 pages that I was willing to let my mother read. I had already corrected for errors and content twice. You could say it was the second draft of the first half of the first chapter. It didn't need to be perfect for Mom to read it (and it was NOT perfect by any stretch of the imagination,) but it needed to be good enough. Mom grinned like a cartoon character and rubbed her hands together when I offered her the sheaf of papers. She took them to the bay windows attached to the kitchen. The view looked out over the swimming pool in our back yard. Spring was starting to boil into summer by then. She was wearing cream colored shorts and a red halter top with a big yellow sunflower in the middle of the chest. Her hair was up, allowing a clear view of her glowing neck, shoulders and trim bare arms. Profiled in the windows with her feet up, her legs looked long and lean. I could see the sex appeal there, but more than just that. I knew how tight her arms could squeeze; how warm she felt against my chest. Watching her, I reminded myself to breathe. As she made her way through the introductory pages, her face began to redden. I had anticipated this. I braced myself for whatever response she might have. After reading the last word on the tenth page, she placed the document with care on the sill beneath her bent knees. She knew I was watching her from the doorway that connects the living room and the kitchen. "I need a minute here Donovan." She swallowed hard. "I'm not sure how to respond to this, and I'd like a moment to organize my thoughts." She had used the full version of my name. The phrase "organize my thoughts" was, in my mother's parlance, a sign of serious distress. It was usually reserved for failed final exams or drastic curfew violations. "Sure," I said in my softest voice. "I'll wait in the living room." *** I checked my watch (not for the first time since sitting down) when she came to the doorway I'd occupied before. Who knew five minutes could take so long? Don't apologize for it I reminded myself. Deep breath. Stay calm no matter what. She leaned her left shoulder against the inside of the doorway, her left bare leg bent at the knee. The smooth right leg locked to support her weight. My papers were in her left hand at her side, and she was pinching the bridge of her nose with the other. "Okay," she said to herself before looking up at me. "The main character is Ken, right?" "Yes." I kept my tone as even as I could. I imagined my face made of stone. "And this neighbor, Jane..." "Jan." The correction escaped my mouth before I could reconsider. Did I want to interrupt with a random detail? The name could be anything. I almost apologized for the interruption, but just clenched my jaw to let my mother continue. "Fine. Whatever. Jan. She's the love interest?" "Yes." "And she's not the neighbor's daughter. She's the neighbor. A grown woman; owner of the house." Her face was stern, bordering on angry. "Yes. When we talked some days ago, you used this phrase: Autumn/Spring relationship. That's not a problem for you, right? You said..." "No, Don. That's not what concerns me. You said that you wanted it to be a romance that would seem impossible. A young guy seducing an older woman... his neighbor... can be a steep climb, but it's not a problem for me." I held silent this time. "Umm. This Jan, though." She gave me a hard look, and her cheeks started turning red. "About five foot six? Around 125 to 130 pounds? Blond hair? Blue eyes? Swimmer's build?" "Too sexy sounding?" I ventured. She cleared her throat. "No, Don. Not at all. The way you describe this woman...Is it my imagination or does it sound like... like she looks a lot like me?" I put on a look of relief that was the opposite of how I felt. "Oh! That. Yeah. Of course she looks like you, Mom." "You... You did it on purpose?" "Sure! I wanted the character to look beautiful. You're beautiful! You know that. You are my ideal of how a woman should be. Heck, you told me once that your attraction to Dad may have been because he resembled your father. Ask anyone, they'll tell you that a loving parent forms the son or daughter's ideals of manhood and womanhood. You're awesome, Mom! Who else would I model her from? Skinny-Alise down the street? No way I could write her and make it believable. As soon as I had the idea of making her like you I knew it would be perfect!" I delivered it with full-on sincerity. Every word was true after all. I didn't flinch. I could see surprise and a kind of transitioning in her face. "Well, thank you sweetheart. I... I hadn't thought...It's kind of sweet when you put it that way. You really think I'm so beautiful? I mean the way you describe her..." "I've been telling you since I was a little kid. You're the most beautiful lady in the world." I had said that as a little boy, and I heaped on the innocence as I reminded her. The praise of her beauty had dropped off over the last few years, right around the time I realized that my feelings bent beyond the pale. "Okay. But..." Her expression turned serious again. "Ken, your hero... well... he resembles you. He sounds almost exactly like you, Don. What is this supposed to...?" her words died off, but the question hung there. No denial. "Yeah, well my English Lit professor, Dr. Watts, said to write what you know. That's part of why I knew to make Jan look like you. As for the main character, I know what it's like to be a 20-something guy. I know what yearning for a woman is like." Mom opened her mouth to respond, but I pressed on, "It's the woman and the seduction I know nothing about. That's where I will need your help." She turned a few degrees away from me but kept her eyes fixed on my face. Her chin tilted up and her nostrils flared; just a tiny bit, but I saw it. It was like she smelled something in that room that most modern men couldn't detect. Was it the truth within the truth? Was it the promise the story held? Was it the danger? Whatever it was, it passed. She looked at me with a smirk, and said, "You've had more girlfriends than your whole swim team combined. What do you know about 'yearning' as you put it Don Juan?" "Just because I've dated a lot of girls doesn't mean that I've always been with the one I want. Besides, yearning for a woman doesn't have to mean you never get to be with her. It only means you haven't captured her heart yet. Help me write a book where Ken can seduce Jan. Help me make it at least kind of reasonable and believable. Not only will it make a great story, but maybe I'll learn how to enchant the woman of my dreams one day." She laughed, and I had to look away so she wouldn't see how much her laugh affected me. "Okay, Don. You win. I'll help you. What mother could refuse a pitch like that?" I smiled at her, looking happy and proud of my clever argument. But in my heart I was also smiling because I couldn't believe that I'd said it out loud. I'd just told her my plan in a nutshell: My mother would give me guidance on how to seduce my mother. Chapter 4 She was true to her word. I produced an average of two pages every day, and she was always eager to read them. For several days she gave me style tips or pointed out sentences that didn't make sense to her. Most of the time I took her suggestions and applied them. On matters of the greater structure, however, I would argue and debate. These were the most interesting conversations. I learned so much from my mother. The discussion we had about the backstory, for example, really helped me become much clearer of what I wanted to say. Mom knocked. I said, "Come in." The door opened, and Mom walked in waving two day-old pages in her hand. "I've finally figured out what was bugging me about their history, Don." I spun my desk chair to face the beauty and her music. "You've got a problem with their backstory?" "It seemed too easy or too hard, but I could never explain how or why." "But you've got it now?" "Yeah." She slapped her taut thigh with the pages. "She shouldn't know him since childhood. She's known him since he was a tiny boy. She saw him be an annoying teenager. It's sexier if they're strangers." I linked my fingers, palm to palm, and pressed my lips against the knuckles. "Mmmm." Then I released my hands to say, "Sexy is definitely good. And cutting their history would make things easier. Getting-to-know-you chats could deliver a lot of information in big chunks." She smiled, and I wished that I could stop there, but... She saw it on my face, and said, "But...?" "But, well, then you've got lust instead of love. Don't get me wrong. I understand what you mean. Their longstanding familiarity is an obstacle, but I think it will serve the love in the long run of the story." "Lust can be romantic," she pressed. "And lust can grow into love." She tilted her head, popped her eyebrows and made a sideways smile at me. In any other woman I would have taken it as an invitation. Even knowing it wasn't, I felt a hard thump in my chest. I wanted to take her face in my hands and put my tongue in her mouth. I wondered if I could make it through this whole process. I loved her now. I wanted her now. Without hope of flirtation, I let the truth bubble up from that drum in my chest. "Love turning into lust is even more romantic. Sure, this way is tougher, but harder earned love and lust can be more rewarding. More satisfying. More gratifying. I want this to be a love story, not just some young guy nailing his sexy older neighbor. You wouldn't tolerate some new stranger sniffing around just to seduce you, would you Mom?"