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Chapters fifteen, sixteen, seventeen & Afterword
We didn’t spend our entire honeymoon on the waterbed. We also found time for concerts, museums, long walks, and food from around the world. We did Manhattan.
We’d heard so much about street crime there, but had no problems. As irony would have it, right after we returned to Denver I got mugged.
My high school and the one next to it had a constant feud going. My school was in a middle-class neighborhood and was named after a US president. The other school was in a poor neighborhood and was named Manual Arts, as if the kids there could only work with their hands. They knew what their chances were in life, so many of them were bitter and had chips on their shoulders. If we came into their turf, they might beat us up. They usually beat us in football too. These were the only times in their lives they would have more power than we did.
I didn’t know them, didn’t like them; they felt the same way about me. The idea that we were divided into these separate neighborhoods and schools so we wouldn’t get to know and like one another and work together for change never occurred to me, until Diana explained it later. It probably occurred to some of them, but they couldn’t do anything about it. Except beat me up.
Four of them surrounded me as I was coming home from a friend’s one evening. They shoved me in the chest and bounced me back and forth among them like a basketball, then pinned my arms behind by back, hit me in the face, and took my money, three dollars. I staggered home, scared, hurt, humiliated.
I hadn’t cried, but as soon as I saw mom I burst into tears and told her the story. She knew exactly what I needed. Sitting on the couch, she stroked my sobs away, opened her blouse, and gave me her breasts. I nuzzled and sucked and snuffled there while she patted my head and whispered calm words of comfort. Her soothing balm rose from within and flowed into me through those nipples that had once kept me alive and now were easing the pain and trauma away. As I got hard, my strength and self-respect returned. I was a man again, and she reacted to me as that, lying back and letting me take charge. I took the rest of her clothes off, gazed gratefully at her naked splendor, and skinnied out of my jeans.
Mom gave my erection an awed, almost fearful look and turned away a little, as if to protect herself. I put my hand on her to claim her. Pulling her legs gently apart, I could see the desire drops shining on her labia. Her pelvis canted up in surrender. Her mouth was open, eyes closed, waiting. With a gasp of gratitude I entered her and my troubles were over.
This woman knew how to heal.
But she didn’t take any crap either. If I slacked off on chores, made a mess, or left dirty dishes, she became the dominant one and showed me her power. Once I carelessly washed my red sweatshirt with her laundry on hot and turned her clothes pink. Diana was righteously pissed.
Without saying a word, she pulled off my clothes, pushed me face down on the bed, and spanked my bottom. Her open hand made loud, stinging smacks on my buns and thighs, turning my rear end hot and red, almost hitting my scrotum. While spanking me, mom took off her own clothes. She rolled me over, sat on top of me, and drilled me right in the eye with a stern, no-nonsense stare. I felt very little but my rod was very big. She slid her crotch back and forth over it, then rose up and worked herself down onto it, her thick russet hair splashing across her breasts. When my pole was all the way in, she straddled me with her hips and rode me domineeringly until we both came. I had been duly punished.
Whenever I needed discipline, she ran some variation on this theme, and it always brought me back into line.
Our relationship couldn’t be all bliss—it was too complex. The husband-wife and child-parent roles sometimes clashed, and we’d fall apart in confusion. But most of the time things went smoothly. When problems did come up, we’d talk them over and try to change. Even if we were angry, we could always communicate.
Since we’d gotten rid of so much psychological and physical frustration, we both had more energy now. We were so fulfilled that we didn’t have much need of distractions. Compared to what we did with each other, most entertainment and socializing seemed just silly. Since there are limits on how often one can do it, we had lots of time left to work.
Diana became such a skilled defense attorney that she regularly got offers from private firms, but she declined them, saying she liked poor crooks better than rich crooks. She also became the co-director of Lawyers for Peace, doing what she could to ban war and the manufacture of weapons.
Although I was a bit of a loner at school, I had some good friends, more girls than boys, actually. Maybe the girls liked me because I didn’t hit on them. There was a lot of peer pressure to go to school dances. I discovered if I went with a different girl each time, pendik escort they didn’t get romantic ideas and mom didn’t get jealous.
I really got into learning. Every subject had its own fascination now, and I could focus on it without difficulty. I discovered that thinking was fun. Since mom and I had overthrown the rules and found them to be a sham, I began to see that many of the assumptions that run people’s lives are nonsense, so I particularly enjoyed challenging the conventional beliefs about an issue. I wasn’t always popular with the teachers, but my grades were high.
I could’ve gotten into an Ivy League school but decided on the University of Colorado, mom’s alma mater. They gave me a good scholarship, but I actually took it to be close to her. I came home on the weekends, riding the bus an hour on the Boulder turnpike, bringing my dirty clothes and clean cock back to get washed.
I grew a beard that I was quite proud of, but I really felt adult when I finally grew enough taller than mom so I could take her standing up from behind without having to stand on a cushion.
One of my first courses was anthropology, which had been Diana’s undergraduate major. I became fascinated by tribal and prehistoric cultures. Now when I gazed at mom’s nude body I felt like an ancient male worshipping at the shrine to the black, ruby-lipped cunt of Africa, humanity’s mother, or to the yoni of the Vedic Prakriti, consort of the Creator, the Divine Mother and female half of God, who holds us all in Her cosmic embrace, giving us life and taking it away.
Reading on my own, I learned that in the old matriarchal civilization it was the duty of opposite sex parents to initiate their offspring into sexuality at puberty, to prepare them for their mates by teaching them the skills of tender loving. This was a ceremonial rite, the final crowning of the parent-child relationship.
With the triumph of patriarchy, this incestuous energy was deemed subversive and was outlawed. Rather than sexual celebrations, initiation rites for young people became brutal ordeals. The warrior replaced the lover.
Religion and mythology took on a new cast. The oracles fell silent. With his invention of the Oedipus story, Sophocles propagated a message of fear that left a deep mark on Greek civilization, which eventually became ours.
Back then, though, this prohibition had a reason. Before birth control, the danger of familial sex was real: the offspring of such close unions can be unhealthy. More genetic variety is needed to keep the species fit.
Now that pregnancy is avoidable and reproduction a matter of choice, the danger is gone but the fear remains. This superstition is obsolete and irrational but still powerful, having been ingrained for thousands of years.
I was thinking about all this in the bloody years of the Vietnam War as the patriarchal males on both sides had built a death factory that was mass producing corpses. In Vietnam the Buddhists were opposing the war with self immolation, and in the US the women and new males were opposing it with music and hair and sex. To render the old males extinct, I foresaw a legion of mother-son lovers on an incest crusade to overthrow patriarchy. This would be more revolutionary than politics as usual. It would really change the culture—root and branch.
I burned my draft card, but rather than fleeing to Canada or going to jail, I stayed in college getting my master’s in computer science until the war was winding down. Mom and I were active in the peace movement; we attended and helped organize demonstrations and were immensely glad when the troops finally came home.
Without the war to unify it, the movement splintered into many factions: political, feminist, ecological, black power, gay and lesbian rights, mystic, artistic, back to nature. After this parting of the ways, some said the establishment had managed to divide and conquer us, others that it was just a blossoming of diversity. Diana focused her efforts now on opposing the death penalty, trying to have it declared unconstitutional as cruel and unusual punishment.
One night we saw Jacquot on TV. It turned out he’d been fighting the system in his own way. He’d taken part in the Attica uprising and was one of the few rebels who weren’t killed when Rockefeller’s troops stormed them. We saw him being led away in chains. “He’ll never get out now,” Diana said, and we both cried. Crying was all we could do, though. Neither one of us wanted him out and storming us.
As time wore on, the music and the drugs got harder, people stopped meditating, the mood slipped into retro, the big chill came on. Bumper stickers that read, “Peace begins within you” gave way to “The one who dies with the most toys, wins!” Many people gave up working for change and settled for making money. Guys started wearing not just suits but suits with suspenders like their grandfathers. Business was back in. Politics became a branch of corporate public relations.
Eventually Bill Gates replaced John Lennon as the escort pendik generational hero. Since I knew something of the world of computers, I was particularly disappointed by this.
I became a software engineer in Denver, and at work I’d often find myself daydreaming about new ways of engineering my hardware into mom’s software.
Silicon Valley was just getting started, and I could’ve made more money there, but Diana was running the Public Defender’s office by then and loved her job. She could decide which cases were worth fighting, which defendants had a chance of changing, and plea bargain the others. I loved to see her argue cases in court, so proud of her. She designed and taught a course, Criminal Defense of the Indigent, at the law school.
To keep the gossip factor down, I rented a small apartment near hers. Having two places also helped us to manage the right mix of intimacy and autonomy, closeness and independence. This bit of separation kept us from overwhelming each other and losing our individuality or getting burnt out with the relationship. We spent weekends together, then threw ourselves into our work. We often got together or chatted on the phone during the week. This was mature love, not always as exciting as young love, but deep and lasting.
Every time the Rolling Stones rolled back through the US, mom and I managed to catch at least one concert. They were grand affairs. No one does Dionysus better than the Stones—their music took us right back to our passionate beginnings.
One evening while I was taking off mom’s underpants, I saw a gray hair gleaming in her bush. It scared me, intruding like a ghost at the portal of my birth and the playpen of our pleasure. I even lost my erection—as mortality raised its ugly head, the head of my penis drooped. Diana was aging—all her hair would someday be gray. Later she would die. And I would be alone.
I was filled with tender sadness towards her. She was with me now, and I needed to cherish and protect her, to appreciate her while I had her.
Mom caressed my back, stroked my head, and, with her unerring intuition for my inner state, asked, “How’s my baby?”
“Just a little distracted. I need to focus more…on all of this…your beautiful naked body.” I spread open the twin columns of her legs, stroked her voluptuous thighs, and gazed adoringly at the red, hairy cleft. The gray strand had disappeared amid all its black companions, but I searched through and found it, hiding and insulted by my negative reaction. I apologized, gave it a kiss, and said it actually looked quite special. It forgave me.
I moved up a bit and rested my cheek against her tummy, listening to her digestion, heartbeat, and breath. This ticking bodily mechanism now seemed fragile and fleeting. Mom was more than her body, but without it she wouldn’t be here—and here was where I wanted her. Clinging to her perishable flesh, I kissed her belly button, the link in the ongoing chain, then embraced the whole round spread of her haunches.
She rubbed a hand over the hair on my chest, teased my nipples, tickled my tummy, tiptoed through my pubes, then seized my stem in eager fingers that tweaked it and stroked it until it raised and stiffened under her loving attention.
I dropped back down to her gates of life where the gray hair now shone boldly. Underneath the protective cap of kinky curls, her rosy lips lay brooding with impatience at having to wait so long for attention. The scent of freshly plowed earth, fertile and subterranean, wafted up. This was my native soil, and my root craved to be back in it. The aroma was so arousing, I began to tremble and pant, almost drooling with desire.
With the tip of my tongue I licked the ridges of mom’s labia, then watched them respond, stirring to alertness, swelling with pleasure. More, they pleaded. I slid my tongue between them and ran it along their moist length, pressing into both sides, then turned it wide and drove it deeper in to spread her petals, which squished as they opened. I pushed as far inside as I could and tongue-fucked her, thrusting in and out, then reamed around the rim, pressing hard and slurping up her nourishing juice as she stroked my head and moaned.
I loved splashing in her swampy garden, and she loved it too. It was our own Eden that we could return to whenever we wanted.
We were breathing with long in- and exhales, like experienced runners jogging at an easy pace, the ultimate low-impact aerobic sport.
I focused on the pert little pip of her clit, sucking it gently. “Yes…oh…how lovely,” mom’s voice floated over me.
The slower I sucked, the faster she breathed, until her whole trunk was heaving and quivering. “My son is sucking me and making me come. I love it!” Her voice became a wild cry as she twisted and fishtailed around the bed.
After her throes, I moved up on top of her and slipped my cock once again back into its snug fur glove. Diana stuck her nose into my armpit and sniffed, saying, “You’re such pendik escort bayan a fucking brute.” She wiggled her tits against my chest. We kissed avidly, joined above and below in a loop of pleasure, mom thrusting her tongue into my mouth while I thrust my prong into her lower mouth. I sang little songs in my mind to distract myself so I wouldn’t come too soon. I wanted to wait until she was ready again.
Well practiced by now, we moved entwined with fluid grace, tandem swimmers in a sea of each other. As the tempo of her breathing quickened, we rocked and pushed and tugged together, our tenderest parts pressed together, each inflaming the other higher and higher, fuller and fuller, billowing with waves, streaming with nature’s current until we peaked and burst and merged our joy in mutual orgasm.
All was right with the world once again—life doesn’t get any better than this.
Afterwards, curled up together, I told her about her new pube. “There too?” Diana asked, chagrined. “I have to admit I found a few already on my head…pulled them out.”
“But that’s mean. You should make friends with them.”
“I guess you’re right. Can’t pull them all out…or else I’ll be bald before long.” Mom gave a sigh of resignation. “And I won’t be able to henna it anymore. Henna turns gray hair orange…and I’m not ready for the punk look.” She turned away from me and covered her face. “Oh, but I hate it…I hate being so much older than you. You won’t want me. You’ll want somebody pretty.”
I pulled her hands away from her face. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I’ll never want anybody but you.” It was true. The skin around her eyes was wrinkled and puffy, the skin under her chin was droopy, the skin on her hands had spots—and she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
“But I won’t be your chestnut mare anymore. What’s it called when it’s mixed with gray—roan! Will you mind having a roan mare?”
I stroked her mane, then her back. “Not as long as it’s you, pony…and you still let me ride you.”
As the years trotted by, I never failed to be awed each time I uncovered my mother’s glorious body. In her fifties she was in some ways her most beautiful, all lush and open and soft. Wrinkles aren’t ugly: they make the surface of the skin more complex and interesting. Her skin, like her mind, had more to it now, the imprint of experience. Fading roses smell the sweetest—petals open soft and fragrant, exposing inner delicacies, gradually yielding to time and gravity.
When her tissues became drier, we used ointments, and she would swathe my sword in lotion before I slid it into her sheath. We discovered the pleasures of taking it easy. By then we were both slowing down a bit, and my own hair was streaked with gray.
Occasionally we would see other mother-son and father-daughter couples. A certain spark came from them that let us know they were enjoying each other too. Sometimes a code of recognition would pass between us—a nod, a half smile—but it couldn’t be discussed openly. Our kind of love was still deep in the closet. But at least we knew we weren’t alone.
Last year Diana was diagnosed with cancer. The surgeons removed a breast and a kidney, but it was too far advanced. She tried various alternative cures, from sleeping on magnets, to eating apricot kernels, to Filipino touch healers. With each one we had a burst of optimism, then a slump back into despair. Finally she came to accept that she had only a few months to put her life in order.
So began the terminal time, a countdown to a death that seemed to be as much mine as hers. She had aged rapidly under the disease and treatments and had less energy. She grew smaller, more birdlike.
I had to force myself to breathe normally rather than in rapid gasps; the air seemed to drain from whatever room I was in. I felt a panicky need to hold on to her. After having given me life, she had become life to me. One part of me was convinced I couldn’t live without her, another part knew I could learn to but it would be agonizing.
Diana’s agony was severe until she found a doctor liberal with morphine. “I never thought I’d end up a junkie,” she said, “but what the hell—it’s better than climbing these green hospital walls.”
Her anxiety was also severe until she had a vision of afterlife. “I was meditating, and I saw all these glowing forms…like people but made of light. Their bodies had died, but they were alive, lying still…floating…but alert. And the light was their divine energy…they were healing themselves with it. All the pain and suffering of their past were dark blotches on them…stains. They moved the light in…and just shone them away…until they were clear again. I knew…deep down I knew that when they were all shining and ready, they’d be born again in a new body. They’d come back for another cycle…a fresh start…until all their desires are fulfilled…and then they’re enlightened. It’s a great circle, a beautiful round we all go on.” Her arthritic fingers stroked my hand. “And I could tell that in our next life our love will draw us together again. We’ll be about the same age…and have children.” Tears rolled out of her eyes. “I’d love to have your baby.”
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