Incest/Taboo Studying the History of Families

I've worked on variations of this tale for years, finally simplifying it and eliminating a number of characters. I hope you enjoy.

I want to thank and acknowledge the Literotica reader who asked to be identified only as "Jim." The setting of the story's final scene is his invention.

Please take a look at Ricardo and Juliana, my submission to Literotica's 2018 National Nude Day contest.

As always, all story characters engaged in sexual activities are eighteen years of age or older.
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* * * * *​

By the time my phone started ringing I was cried out. My son and I had a fight, he'd stormed out of the house. I wasn't sure what we fought about, but that was our pattern. Four, five, six times a week we were in a screaming match over... I don't know what.

It was Julie.

"Hey," I said. My voice was weak, my exhaustion unmistakable.

"He's here. Scott's got him calm downed. They're upstairs."

Tears returned to my eyes. "He's got a plane to catch tomorrow."

Julie, voice warm and comforting, said, "I know baby. Scott will come by and pick up his luggage tonight. I'll take him to the airport. After that let's meet for lunch, Chia's at 11:30?"
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* * * * *​

Scott, well-groomed, polite, sweet and solicitous, came by, told me they'd get Christopher to the airport passport and tickets in hand, assured me things would be okay, gave me a hug.

Not too long ago he'd been as sloppy, disheveled, and disrespectful as Christopher; perhaps there was hope for my boy.
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* * * * *​

Exhausted and depressed, I'd stopped taking care of myself. For lunch I just pulled my red hair, my most striking feature, into a pony tail, and dabbed on some make-up. To the contrary Julie, already there and sipping from a cup of green tea, was radiant. She wore a sleeveless green silk dress, heels, and if I wasn't mistaken, stockings; her light brown hair, which she'd grown out, tumbled down her back. Her understated make-up was perfect, her nails carefully manicured. She'd also lost weight, trimmed up, had a nice muscle tone.

Greeting me with a sparkle in her green eyes, a kiss, and a hug, she said, "All's well, we got him to the airport in one piece, he's already in the air."

"Julie, I can't thank you enough."

"Glad to help."

I ordered a cup of coffee and a salad and then did what I'd told myself I wouldn't do, complain about my son, the fighting, the disrespect, not realizing how long I'd gone on until I noticed Julie's plate was clean and mine barely touched. I pushed it away; I'd lost my appetite. Julie asked for a refill on her tea. I ordered another cup of coffee and, a bit embarrassed, changed the subject.

"In all my complaining I neglected to tell you how good you look and how sweet Scott was last night. He really helped."

She smiled, said, "Thank you dear, I'll let him know." I knew what she was thinking but, unlike me, she was not a broken record; she'd not revisit the advice I'd repeatedly rejected.
​

* * * * *​

A year ago Julie complained about her son as much as I. Same fights, same issues, or non-issues. She and Scott, like Christopher and I, visited an array of therapists, been subject to a laundry list of counseling. It all sounded good, it all failed miserably.

Then she mentioned Dr. Vanessa Wilhelm, suggested I call her, but I dismissed it, assuming failure was, as it always was, right around the corner.

Still, obsessed with my own problems it took me awhile, but at some point I noticed Julie was taking care of herself and stopped complaining about her son, his name coming up when she'd mention the two of them had a lovely evening, had gone to dinner, caught a film. When I saw Scott he was polite, dressed nicely, and attentive and sweet to his mother.

I asked Julie about it, she credited Dr. Wilhelm. Thinking she might be on to something I visited Dr. Wilhem's web-site. She was certainly impressive: a history professor at Yale with a long list of publications focused on families and numerous academic awards, enough of which I'd heard of to be dazzled. Still, she wasn't, and didn't hold herself out to be a psychiatrist or a psychologist, or even a licensed counselor. I'd decided not to waste my time.

But that was then and, sitting before Julie, this was now.

"Julie, are you still happy with Dr. Wilhelm, do you still give her credit for the turnaround with Scott?"

"Yes, she worked wonders."

"How does she do it?"

Looking over the edge of her cup of tea, smiling with her perfect white teeth, she said, "I think it'd be best if she explained her own methods."

"Is she seeing people?"

"On referral from people she's helped. Want me to make a phone call?"

"I'm not guaranteeing anything, but yes, I'd like to at least talk to her, hear what she has to say."
​

* * * * *​

Julie texted later that afternoon. Dr. Wilhelm could meet me, but I should first complete some forms on her web-site.
​

* * * * *​

Dr. Wilhelm met me at the door of her office, the side entrance to a lovely Victorian home. The foyer was flooded with light from several large windows; the interior office, in contrast, had smaller windows, affording its occupants privacy. The furniture was comfortable and feminine and on the credenza were photographs of a gorgeous young man in his late twenties and three adorable Children. I'd noticed Dr. Wilhelm wore a wedding ring, but saw no photograph of a husband.

When I visited her web-site I'd wondered if her photograph was old or photoshopped. It wasn't. For any women, and certainly for a woman who, based on her background, was in her early fifties she was strikingly attractive with high-cheek bones and intelligent eyes that, along with her measured tone when speaking, provided instant gravitas. Moreover, based on the photograph I'd have said she was black. Now, in person, her light skin, blue eyes, and straight hair made evident the rainbow of her ancestry.

She handed me a cup of tea, thanked me for the thorough job I'd done with the on-line forms, and asked a series of questions whose detail made evident she'd carefully studied my responses. I felt like I was chatting with a friend.

After I answered her questions Dr. Wilhem settled back in her chair and said, "I think I can help. First let me explain what I do here, see if it fits your needs, and I apologize if I get long-winded. I get very passionate about this.

"I need to be clear, I am not a counselor, I have no training as a counselor, I do not have a license. If we need to give me a title, think of me as a life-coach. I'm not sure what that means, but it seems broad enough to cover most anything."

She turned and gestured to the photographs on the credenza. "That is my son and his children. He's thirty-one, a successful engineer. He lives here with me, we raise the children together.

"When he was a teenager he and I, like you and Christopher, like Julie and Scott, were at each other's throats. We visited an array of family therapists."

She shifted her position and, as she crossed her legs, I caught site of the strap of a garter, confirming my guess she was wearing stockings.

"Each had a different approach, all sounded good, none worked."

I knew that experience.

Catching the look on my face she said, "I see you made the same rounds," then continued, "Unhappy and disappointed, the academic in me started digging into what I was being told. What I found surprised me. While these therapies made sense, while they incorporated logical noble-sounding concepts, not only hadn't they been subject to rigorous testing, they hadn't been subjected to any testing. I dug some more and discovered that none of the therapies had been in place for more than three years. They were introduced to a big fan fare then, after not helping anyone were assigned to the trash bin and replaced by a hot new, equally untested, and soon to be interred therapy."

I leaned forward. Maybe there was something here.

"My academic career has been devoted to the history of families, I wondered, could the answer be there? In all cultures, for all of recorded time, humans have existed in families. Maybe how it worked in the past could guide the present.

"Today we treat the eighteen year old male as a barely functional child, but fifty thousand years ago an eighteen year old, husband and father, would, after consulting with the elders, lead the hunting expeditions that fed the tribe. Five thousand years ago an eighteen year old, having learned to farm from his parents, settled in the next valley over with wife and children and built a life. Five hundred years ago the eighteen year old son of a craftsman, having mastered a trade from his father and other guild members, already married and a father himself, set up his own shop. Heck, seventy-five years ago an eighteen year old married his pregnant high school sweetheart and took a factory job next to his father and his friends.

"Today's eighteen year old? He's incapable of holding a job or being in a mature relationship so we ship him to a college to live on our money, where he drinks beer, chases girls who must sign consent forms before sex, learns nothing, then comes home to live with a single parent or blended family. We say an eighteen year old is an incompetent who needs to be protected from the world, but history says they're not and I doubt they devolved that quickly."

Dr. Wilhelm was right, that's how I thought about Christopher, unmotivated, immature, inarticulate, incompetent.

"Thus, while my research shows an eighteen year old male is perfectly capable of being an adult, in today's world he's not.

"The reason? Think how different today's families are from what I described. In the past children lived in close physical proximity with a single set of parents on whom they modeled their behavior and who expected them to contribute their labor to the family. Fathers and especially mothers, who were constantly pregnant, were worn out by their late thirties; the boys had to become men.

"Today teenaged boys' lives are centered on friends and electronic gizmos; they don't model themselves on their parents, but on each other. The single mother is ubiquitous; married couples don't endure. Mothers and fathers in their thirties are in their physical prime and if they take care of themselves will be for decades after that. So while the 'typical' historical family offers a blueprint for raising men, we can't recreate that family in the present.

"So I started to look for untypical historical families that paralleled the modern world and found them in the families of the well-off: merchants, bankers, nobility.

"Women in this class married older men chosen by their parents to cement family alliances. They'd have two or three children, too many heirs fighting over the family fortune could lead to disaster, and, as in modern families, husbands and wives drifted apart, not divorcing, but living parallel lives, rarely seeing each other.

"The boys born of these relationships did not work side-by-side with their fathers, they rarely saw their fathers, whose time was consumed by their occupations, be it prince or merchant. Child rearing was women's work.

"The mothers? Here the research was harder; historians don't write about women. But we know these women formed close social networks with the other women in the same social position and that their sons were raised in this network. The boy's socialization came not from their fathers, but from his mother and her friends and, most importantly, when he became a teenager a mistress drawn from these women.

"Don't think of this mistress in modern terms, secretive and tawdry. She was older, in her mid to late thirties when it started, and it was the mistress that readied a young man to be an adult, provided wisdom and guidance, inculcated him in the ways of society. These relationships lasted a lifetime; the mistress was the love of the young man's life. The mistress knew there'd be a marriage - she understood that woman's role, it was a role she once filled - and knew this woman would become part, as she had, of the mistress' social network.

"I want to be clear: these women were powerful, they raised, were the confidants, provided the lovers of the most powerful men of their age, but lived in a throughly feminine world. They took care of themselves, dressed beautifully, thrived in a strong long-lasting networks of female friends, and it was in this world, under the guidance of these women, that boys became men.

"And in that age of short life spans, with fathers rarely making it to their fifties, these young men were ready to assume their place in the world as adults."

While her story, her research, were fascinating, I didn't know what it meant for me. She saw it in my face.

"Your wondering what I'm suggesting for you?"

"Yes."

"History shows that an eighteen year old male is ready to be a man. So why aren't they? The reason, we don't treat them as men, don't, as these women did, give them a role model of mature femininity, but instead become their nursemaids. I'm suggesting we act like mature woman and expect our sons to act like men. They're ready to be adults, they want to be adults, let's be adults and invite them to join us.

"While Christopher is overseas take the opportunity to reclaim your strength and femininity. Get to the gym, get strong; pamper yourself, dress up. Julie's a wonderful woman, strengthen your friendship with her and her friends. Reset your default. When your son returns you'll be a strong woman supported by others like you. Don't take care of him, don't mollycoddle him, don't nag him. Instead let him see you as an adult and treat him as an adult. Your son knows he's flopping around. When he returns, weaned of his dependence on mommy, be a powerful presence, a woman he'll respect. He wants to be an adult. When you present yourself as an adult you'll be amazed by how he responds, he'll want to join you."
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* * * * *​

I wasn't sure about Dr. Wilhelm's advice, but who could argue with Scott and Julie, so I followed it, found I loved it.

I ate right, went to the gym, got my five foot four inch body back down to 120 pounds, 36-24-35, dug out a college dress - size two - looked good in it.

I paid attention to my hair, which regained its fiery red luster, and make-up, grew out my nails, painted them pretty sexy colors, wore clothes frilly and sexy, chose underwear that matched.

I took bubble baths, made weekly visits to the spa, luxuriated with massages and facials, manicures and pedicures.

I decluttered, redecorated.

My sex drive returned, I dated, found no man who thrilled me, invested in several vibrators.

Most importantly, I spent time with Julie and her friends and in them found a network of women unlike any I'd know. Smart and assertive, trim and fit, confident, they respected and supported each other and welcomed me without vetting or question. They also eschewed traditional romance. Even the women with small children, even the several who were pregnant, were not in steady relationships. They hadn't rejected men, all had men to call on as escorts when necessary, but talked about them as if they were fashion accessories.

And then there were the two things that struck me most powerfully.

The first was, of course, the thing I was looking for. These women had close, near intimate, relationships with their sons. Whether teenagers finishing high school, college students, or young men in an assortment of jobs - stockbroker, plumber, firefighter, nurse, lawyer - their sons were trim, well-dressed, and treated and were treated by their mothers with a mature respect a universe away from my son and his goof-ball pals. The sons seemed to provide their mothers the companionship the absent boyfriends would have.

The second thing? As I said my sex drive had returned, and for the first time in my life I found myself attracted to women.

And then one day in the sauna with Julie - we'd joined a women-only gym - wearing towels, sitting close together, talking, I leaned into her. Julie turned, offering me the more comfortable flat of her shoulder, and placed a hand on my thigh. We were sharing space, it was wonderful, and then she leaned into me and kissed me. Her thin lips were soft and my lips, as if powered by their own intelligence, moved against hers and our tongues entwined and I was groaning into Julie's mouth. She closed the space remaining between us and wrapped her arms around me, kissed my jaw line, moved down my neck to my breasts, to my nipples. I reached for her, thumbed the thick hard nipples of her breasts.

We covered each other's sex, slipped fingers inside, thumbs found clits. When we came our groans echoed in the small room and afterwards I was in Julie's arms and she kissed me and said, "Perhaps we should go back to my place."
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* * * * *​

"I'm glad you felt free to tell me, it shows I've earned your trust. Julie will be a wonderful lover ."

"Dr. Wilhelm, I don't understand, I've never been attracted to women, never seriously imagined making love to a woman before, this comes out of left field."

"Well, over the past months you've begun to see women in a new way, haven't you, appreciating for the first time how truly attractive and beautiful they are?"

It was like she'd read my diary (if I kept a diary).

"Yes."

"And you don't feel like you're about to change teams, become a lesbian."

"Not at all, I still like men, though I'm having trouble finding the right one. How do you know all this?"

"Jessica, what you're going through is perfectly normal."

Waiting for an explanation, I said nothing. Dr. Wihelm understood.

"As we've discussed, historically women have been ignored. We know all about the Athenian male of 350 B.C., we know almost nothing about the Athenian female. Luckily, the women I've been studying were devoted correspondents, many of whose letters, uncataloged and unread, are in museum archives. They provide a historian an intimate glimpse into their world.

"While these women lived out of the public eye, they were powerful, which drew the attention of competing power groups, the church, universities, others, who condemned them, often with ranting strings of vitriol. Among the most common accusation was that they were dens of lesbian activity. At first I dismissed the accusation, what man hasn't called a woman who rejected his overtures a lesbian? But when I read these women's letters it was clear the attacks were not wholly imaginary. While the claims that these women were engaged in ongoing lesbian orgies was an invention - it says more about the men who made them than it does about the women - it is clear that many, and I suspect most were involved with each other, and why not? These women, fit and active with sex drives to match, had built intimate personal supportive relationships with each other. Who wouldn't want a lover like that?

"What I'm saying is that as you reclaim your strength and femininity, a desire for like-minded women is the norm. With Julie, with the women you've met through her, have you ever felt more comfortable, more cared for?"

The truth was I hadn't, and I told her so.

"As to the right man, I've found as women adopt the practices I've suggested their tastes and priorities evolve, for a time no guy seems right. When you're done he'll be standing right in front of you."
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* * * * *​

When Christopher first got to Europe our Skype chats were, at best, short and unspecific. I was happy to get a grunt from him, overjoyed by words, flabbergasted by sentences, paragraphs unimaginable. But that changed. I dressed nicely, did my hair and make-up, found a private place where I'd not be interrupted, thought about what I wanted to talk about, listened to what he said instead of focusing on what I'd say next, and when he said something I agreed with I told him so. No nagging, no complaining, no prying. Responding much faster than I'd have imagined, Christopher was soon opening up, sharing the details of his life, seeking my advice.

We started texting daily, talking several times a week, our calls occasionally interrupted by a friend who'd stick his head in to say "hi" - Christopher told me word had gotten around about his good-looking Mom.
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* * * * *​

Dressed in stockings, a dark blue dress that nicely accented my emerald eyes and bright red hair, and heels that showed off my legs, my make-up, hair, and nails perfect, I waited for Christopher at the international terminal - no hanging in the cell phone lot to welcome my man home. I saw him come down the concourse. The time away had done wonders; the teen-age shuffle was gone, he moved with strength and confidence.

I smiled, hugged him, said, "Welcome home darling." He said, "It's good to be home," stepped back and said, "Wow, do you look great."

"I've been going to the gym, eating better, taking care of myself," and slipping my hand in his added, "It's good to have my man back."

We stopped at his favorite Thai restaurant. I scanned the menu, laid it aside, asked him to order for me. His choice was excellent, the conversation better. After unpacking we sat up late talking over coffee.
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* * * * *​

The next morning, after his long flight, he was sleeping in. I fixed lunch, chicken soup, his favorite, the odor wafting through the house. When he appeared in the kitchen, clothes neat and pressed, he said, "Chicken soup? Hope so, I've missed it."

"Sure is honey."

He kissed me, said thanks, and we sat and we ate and we talked; then his phone pinged. He glanced at it, frowned, said nothing. We continued our conversation, but something was bothering him. I was tempted to dig it out of him, but I could hear Dr. Wilhelm's voice in my head. I was respectful, there was no prying mother here.

Finally, as we cleaned up, Christopher, in a plaintive voice, asking permission, said, "That was Arthur, hem Sammie, and John wanna come over and play video games, then go to a party tonight, is that okay?"

Arthur, Sammie, and John, a/k/a Moe, Larry, and Curly, the Three Stooges, the Goofball Patrol. Christopher knew my opinion of them. In the past, when making excuses for my son's poor behavior, I'd blame the influence of these three, but then again, I'm sure each of their mothers blamed the other three.

I knew what I would have said six months ago, but we had a new program here.

"Christopher, you're the man of the house, you don't need my permission to have your friends over, but thank you for letting me know."

The look on his face was one of puzzlement. Unsure of what to make of make of my unexpected response he said, "Sure," then helped me load the dishwasher.
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* * * * *​

When I got home from Julie's that night my son and his buddies were gone, but I was glad to see the den, usually a mess after they spent the afternoon playing video games, was relatively neat and clean.

I watched Christopher slide back into old habits: mismatched clothes, barely shaven, going out at night, sleeping late, laying around the house. I considered putting my foot down, but recalling Dr. Wilhelm's advice stayed the course, let him make his own mistakes, no nagging, no condemning, no fixing. It was his hangover, his problem.

I was also encouraged, for it wasn't a total reversion. He talked to me as an adult and accepted adult responsibilities. The first time I asked him to mow and rake there was sulking, although not as much as there used to be. The second time no sulking. After that he did it on his own. His room might be a mess, but he didn't leave his stuff scattered around the house and when I'd head for the kitchen to ready a hot nutritious meal he'd help get it ready, eat with lusty gusto, help clean up, and through it all we'd talk and laugh like adults.

Then one day, dressed in my work-out clothes, I was making coffee when I heard him get into the shower. He hadn't gotten up this early since he got back. He came downstairs hair in place, wearing slacks and a button down shirt. I mentioned how good he looked; he told me I did also. He said he was going to make a smoothie, asked if I'd eaten. I hadn't, he made two, and as we talked he mentioned he'd gotten bored and bailed on his friends last night, that they'd be coming over later for video games.

I ran some errands, then Julie and I hit the gym, made plans to get together that night. When I got home there were several cars parked outside. Inside the boys were jabbering incoherently in the den; I went to my room and showered.

I'd just pulled my boots over my jeans when there was a knock on my door.

"Hey Mom, it's me. Can I come in?"

Six months ago he'd have just walked in.

"Yes, I'm decent."

Opening the door he smiled appreciatively and said, "More than decent I'd say. I just noticed your car, how long have you been home?"

"Half an hour or so. You having fun?"

"Not really. One of the guys ordered pizza. It should be here any minute. In fact I thought I heard the delivery guy pull up, which is why I looked outside and saw your car. Want to join us?"

"I don't want to butt in."

"I'd enjoy the company."

My son insisted the guys eat in the kitchen and not make a mess in the den. He and I chatted while the boys continued the inane conversation I'd overheard earlier; the contrast between my son, dressed nicely and smelling good (he'd taken to cologne), and his disheveled friends was striking. When the final slice was consumed Christopher announced he was done with video games for the day and then, as the boys got up to leave, said, "Hey, in this house we clean after ourselves."

I expected to hear the casual, "Fuck that man," but instead they picked up the kitchen and den. They, like I, sensed a new maturity in my son. As they drove off Christopher placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "Mom, why don't you and I go to a movie tonight."

I kissed his cheek and said, "Julie and I have plans. How about tomorrow?"

"Perfect. I'll call Scott, see if he wants to hang. There's something else Mom."

"What it is?"

"Since I got back, you've treated me like a man and I've acted like a child. I appreciate your not pointing it out."
​

* * * * *​

The next night, at the movies, when Christopher took my hand in his, I liked it.
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* * * * *​

Christopher leaned over and kissed the top of my head, "Morning gorgeous, need a re-fill on the coffee?"

"Thank you darling, that would be sweet."

He took my cup, returned seconds later, handed it to me, sat and said, "The last couple of days I got serious and filled out my college applications. I was wondering if you could carve out some time after your work-out with Ms. Julie and go over them with me. I'd like to borrow some wisdom."

"Thank you son. I'm sure you did fine, but I'd love to help."

"Something else. Ms. Julie and Scott are going to a play tonight. Let's join them, my treat? My way of saying thanks."

He kissed my cheek. I felt a stirring in my loins I knew I shouldn't. I'd felt it a lot lately.
​

* * * * *​

Later, when we reviewed the applications, there were a few instances where we disagreed. I told him my point of view, listened to his, knew it was his decision.
​

* * * * *​

The band playing in the park finished its set, Christopher was off buying us drinks, and I recognized the two approaching boys. Muscle-heads, they'd been regulars at the old gym. Their crude comments and over-the-top leering were among the reasons Julie and I switched to a women-only facility.

"Haven't see you around the gym baby, been missing you and your good looking friend."

Before Dr. Wilhelm I would have sounded weak and frightened, but now, in a tone confident and assertive, I said, "Not interested guys, I'm here with someone."

Surprised by my response they looked at me, trying to think of something to say, when Christopher, standing behind them, said, "You heard the lady guys, she's with me."

I held out my hand for him, kissed his lips, the boys drifted off. The rest of the evening, when I felt their eyes on me, I'd cuddle deeper in my son's arms. Here I felt safe, secure, cherished, loved.

In my bed that night I finally surrendered to the urge I'd been fighting for weeks. I masturbated, images of my son in my head.
​

* * * * *​

It'd been a particularly brutal work-out that day and the boys were happy to let Julie and I sit back as they manned the grill, cleaned up, gave us neck and shoulder rubs, then Christopher, who had found Clue, his favorite childhood board game, while cleaning the garage a few days ago, suggested we play. We did, had a ball.
​

* * * * *​

While Scott and Christopher were playing hoops, Julie and I made love. Afterwards, as I lay with her, enjoying her warm body and sweet smell, I said, "I don't know what's gotten into me lately, since Christopher came home I'm aroused all the time."

Julie said, "It sounds perfectly normal to me. You, like I, are at sexual peak, as are our handsome sons. The pheromones in your house must be overpowering. They are in mine."

Julie was getting uncomfortably close to something I'd told no one, so redirecting the conversation I said, "I've wondered about that. I'm surprised Christopher doesn't date. You'd think the young ladies would be lining up."

Julie said, "That, I fear, is a weakness in Dr. Wilhelm's approach. Scott has the same problem. While our boys have become adults, the women their age remain girls. They can't satisfy our son's needs for companionship, among other things. That's up to us mothers to provide. Speaking of which, can you two come over tomorrow night for dinner?"

"I'd love to, I'll ask Christopher."

"Not a problem, Scott already has."
​

* * * * *​

We parked in front of Julie's. When Christopher opened the passenger door I handed him the wine, took his proffered hand, stood, kissed his cheek.

Julie, wearing an apron, met us at the door. Scott was in the kitchen chopping garlic, onions, and ginger. I flashed back to a year ago, when our sons were grungy and inarticulate, garbed in ill-fitting mismatched dirty clothes. Now, in place of those awkward angry teenagers, were mature, funny, self-possessed, charming young men. Dr. Wilhelm was a genius.

Scott said, "Hello Ms. Jessica," and kissed my cheek.

He'd called me Ms. Jessica for years, but now he was a man.

"Scott, it's time you called me Jessica."

Julie said, "Christopher, your Mom's got a point, please call me Julie."

I handed Julie the wine, she poured four glasses. We ate in the kitchen, talking over the excellent food, then adjourned to the living room where Julie and Scott sat together, her leaning her body into his. Taking Christopher's hand in mine I did the same.

You could have baked bed in my sex. Later I set my vibrator on high; the orgasm was blinding.
​

* * * * *​

Christopher and I were on the couch, watching Game of Thrones. I was curled up in his arms, loving his smell, the way he breathed, the warmth of his body, his beating heart, and tried to attribute his erection to the show's array of sexy women. Earlier that day, after Julie and I made love I'd confessed my feelings about Christopher. Julie suggested I talk to Dr. Wilhelm.

When the show ended I said good night, kissed my son, my lips, seemingly on their own volition, lingering on his, tasting him, wanting him. Hurrying to my room I texted Dr. Wilhelm asking for an appointment. She replied immediately; she was available first thing in the morning.

I laid aside the phone and, my hand between my legs, imagined going to Christopher's room, crawling into his bed.
​

* * * * *​

"Two nights ago Christopher and I went to Julie and Scott's for dinner. Afterwards we sat in her living room, enjoying an excellent wine. As we talked I saw, I've been seeing, Julie and Scott as a couple, a romantic couple, a sexual couple. Dr. Wilhem they're perfect together. I've started imagining Christopher and I the same way. I thought it would pass, but it's only getting stronger."

Dr. Wilhelm said, "When you got home did you masturbate while thinking about him?"

Taken aback by the directness, and insight, of the question, it took me a moment, then not looking her in the eye I said, "Yes."

"Honey," she said, "Believe me, it's okay. It wasn't the first time, was it?"

I turned back to face her. "No Dr. Wilhelm, it wasn't, it's every day. I've never been this aroused, my body's never been this sensitive, my orgasms have never been this powerful."

"You are at your sexual peak, as is your handsome son. We've talked a lot about you, but little about Christopher. Have you noticed similar behavior in him?"

Protective of my son, not wanting Dr. Wilhelm to think less of him, I'd avoided this subject, but the question was on the floor and this was therapy. It could do no good if I wasn't honest and I trusted Dr. Wilhelm. So far she'd done nothing but help.

"We spend a lot of time together, cook, eat out, go to movies. He is always touching me, putting his arm around me. And every night it seems we end up on the couch together, talking about the day, holding each other, cuddling really."

She leaned forward, touched my leg, reassuring me, then moving back said, "Isn't this what you wanted, to end the fighting, for your son to grow up? It sounds like he has, he's someone you can depend on, the man of the house."

"Yeah, but last night..."

I stopped. Dr. Wilhelm said, "Jessica, take all the time you need, but sometimes its best to just say it."

"Dr. Wilhelm, he's hard, a lot. Last night we were watching television and I was leaning into him and I felt it. He was erect, and he stayed erect. I tried to tell myself it wasn't me, but the way he was holding me, the way he's bee holding me, it sure felt like me. He wasn't the least bit uncomfortable that I was aware of it."

"Like he wanted you to know."

"Exactly."

"Does that bother you?"

"I know this sounds crazy Dr. Wilhelm, but I don't know."

"I think you do. You've told me you've imagined him as your lover. Why would it surprise you if he felt the same way, you're a beautiful woman. Does that feel wrong?"

"But it is wrong, isn't it."

"That's not what I asked."

"No it isn't. No Vanessa, it doesn't feel wrong."

"Jessica, do you want your son?"

The question was direct. We both knew the answer. "Yes."

She deliberately looked at the pictures on her mantle, then turned back, smiled, a warm wise smile, and said, "It's not wrong, in fact it's the most natural thing in the world. I have permission to tell you this: Julie and Scott are lovers, as are the mothers and sons you've met among her friends over the last months, as are my son and I."

I looked at the pictures of the children noting, as I had before, the resemblance.

"Those are your children?"

She looked at the picture of her son and said, "Our children.

"It happened quickly, as it happened to you. After I made the changes I described to you, the one's you've effected, as he responded to them, I found myself desiring my son and felt the same vibe from him."

I knew what she meant.

"Then I had my epiphany. I recalled the groups that opposed the influence of the older women on younger men, the ones that asserted the women were lesbians, also accused them of incest. I'd dismissed it as baseless pejorative it, but now I took it seriously. I read the letters between mothers and sons; they were a goldmine. The mothers described their sons as beautiful, called them 'my most darling' and 'beloved.' The sons were equally affectionate but more graphic, talking about returning to their mother's embrace, her bosom, her bed, stating they missed their mothers' warm kisses and caresses, that they could not wait until they again were naked in her arms. The few scholars that looked at the letters dismissed this as stylistic convention, but it doesn't appear in other contemporary letters. Sometimes a cigar is a cigar. These were love letters, written by new found lovers in the throes of passion, by lovers in long established relationships. The older women we've discussed, the mistresses that taught young men to be men, were their mothers."

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

She smiled, knowing I knew the answer.

"Because if you told me I wouldn't have let things develop naturally and you did tell me. You said when I was ready the right man would be standing in front of me."

"Yes dear. If I told you what other's have experienced it would have influenced your behavior. You needed your own experience, needed to make your own choice, come to this, or not come to this realization, on your own."

"Has anyone not come to this realization?"

Here she smiled, a bit guiltily, and said, "No dear, it appears universal."

"Dr. Wilhelm, is this natural?"

"I can't say for certain, I'm not a biologist, but I don't think it's a coincidence that healthy mothers and healthy sons reach their sexual peak at the same time. Think about it, women spend their lives focused on their sons. We know no one better, our sons know no one better; there's no one we love more, no one they love more. We spend decades molding each other to each other. Our husbands, our romances, they're secondary to our sons. Mother and son is the most powerful relationship in the world. Why should it end?"

"Then why is it condemned?"

"The combination of a young man at the height of his physical powers, his mind youthful, alert, and open, at its most creative, teamed with a woman decades older with experience and wisdom, and both completely loyal to each other. They'd rule the world; I suspect they once did.

"The earliest penal codes condemn incest. But these laws were written before there were doctors, before these were biologists, before we understood genes, before we had the tools or sufficient sample size to determine if incest was harmful. In other words, there was no reason, no basis, to condemn it.

"In order to take power the moral authorities, mostly motherless men - after all the mortality rate in childbirth was astronomical - had to find a way to break the natural bond between mother and son. So they wrote moral and legal codes that condemned it, criminalized it. The result: men deprived of the natural unbounded life-long love and guidance of their mothers have spent the last 10,000 years in ceaseless pointless conflict."

I looked at the photographs of her son and their children. What she said made perfect sense. Still, I wanted her reassurance.

"Have you ever regretted your decision?"

"Not for a moment."
​

* * * * *​

On the way home I texted Christopher, made some heated promises. Fifteen minutes later he responded, said he'd been playing basketball, that he'd be home in twenty minutes.

I stripped, combed out my hair, checked my make-up, put on a perfume I knew he liked, selected a beige gown which reached my upper thigh and in which my erect nipples would be nicely outlined. In the kitchen I fixed a pitcher of ice water. When I heard his car door shut I headed for the front door.

It had been seventeen minutes. He ran a few stop signs.

Still sweaty from the game he stepped through the door, stopped, and, hand still on the door knob, said, "Wooo, Mom."

"You like?"

"Yep."

"I was hoping you would. Thirsty? There's water in the kitchen."

I got another, "Yep," although Im not sure he heard the question.

I said, "Why don't you close the front door, I didn't dress this way for the neighbors."

With a good natured grin he said, "Oh sorry," and swung the door shut.

Holding hands we walked to the kitchen where I leaned over, enjoying his eyes on my rump, filled two glasses with water, handed him a glass, sat, and running my nail on his arm said, "It's nice having a man in the house again. It lets me be a woman."

"Mom, I don't think you needed my help to be a woman. It's more like I needed yours to be a man."

"Well, are you ready, ready to be my man?"​