Genetic Sexual Attraction

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Blake tracks down his biological mother.
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amyyum
amyyum
1,771 Followers

I was stupid as a teenager. I got pregnant as a result of only my second sexual experience a few days after I turned eighteen. The sex wasn't even that good – more of a slam, bam, thank you ma'am. At least the guy was a good looking smart jock — although not smart enough to ask if I was on birth control when he fucked me when we were both drunk.

It wasn't in the cards for many, many reasons, including economics, religion, geography, family (I was being raised by a single mom who had three kids younger than me), and accessibility, for me to do anything but have the baby and put it up for adoption. Like all new mothers after carrying a baby for almost nine months (in my case eight months, twenty days, and ten hours), I developed an attachment to my little boy – he was so cute – but the wisdom at the time (and probably still now) was to remove him from me as soon as possible, so I only got to hold him for a day, and never got to nurse him.

The boy's father and I did not repeat our stupid mistake regarding conception by either getting married or retaining parental rights. We both signed the rights away and stayed single.

That episode was a wake-up call in my life. I had the baby over the summer and when I returned for my senior year of High School I had a new outlook on life, and applied myself diligently in everything. Since I could no more afford college than I could keep my baby, I did extensive research on the types of scholarships available. I had had only decent grades up to that time and was not an outstanding athlete so I had to find some unusual scholarships; I couldn't rely on conventional academic or athletic ones.

I got a first scholarship of $10,000 just before my High School graduation by winning the national Create-A-Greeting Card Scholarship Contest, something that neither my counselor nor anyone else in the city that I lived in had ever heard of. I submitted a number of entries, including for Valentine's Day. My non-winning cards (surprise, surprise – ha-ha) V-Day card submissions included "Lay off the feed bag you big hunk of blubber, Those spare tires around your waist aren't made of rubber," and "You've got more curves that a roller coaster, Your clothes fit like a glove; There's only one thing wrong glamour-puss, You've got a face only a mother could love;" both with cartoonish representations, of a fat guy and ugly girl, respectively. My winning card was a birthday card with a series of drawings, some realistic, others fanciful, of both a guy and a girl doing all sorts of fun things with an interior message "Happy Birthday – this is going to be your best year ever, it's in the cards," followed by a depiction of a royal flush in hearts.

The $10,000 was enough to get me through two years of junior college, paying all of my expenses too, with only the need for part-time and summer employment. During junior college I applied for every weird scholarship I could think of. While I didn't get most, I did get two, both awarded just before I got my associate's degree in business. One – sponsored by a famous brand peanut butter company was for designing the most creative and appealing sandwich – and was for $25,000. The second for $2,000 was for an essay – based upon my real life experiences – in the Penny Hoarder's Frugal Student Contest; in my essay I described all of the things that I did to save money.

Also, by the time that I graduated junior college I actually had good grades, so I got a partial academic scholarship to a decent university for my last two years of study, which – combined with my $27,000 of other scholarships and my frugal ways – allowed me to graduate with honors, but without any debt, and a B. S. in business four years after my High School graduation.

Shortly after graduating college I got a good entry-level job with a big company that allowed me to use my degree, parlayed that after only two years into a junior management position with a mid-sized company, and by the time that I was twenty eight I owned my own business with four full-time and six part-time employees offering mailbox, secretarial, office space, and related business services to individual, or collections of a few, professionals like engineers, lawyers, accountants, and architects.

Despite my success, there was something missing in my life. Undoubtedly because of my pregnancy experience I was wary of relationships. I did do my fair share of fucking (with proper birth control at all times) during junior college and college, and actually enhanced my career possibilities by finding and regularly fucking a mentor in the mid-sized company I worked at (I was the aggressor, not him). But I didn't have a real relationship until I was twenty nine.

From the time that I was twenty nine until I was forty two I had two long term relationships – and even got married for eight years. However, for whatever reason, I never really fell head-over-heels in love. I certainly respected and kind-of loved my husband and then my partner after I got divorced, but it wasn't the mushy tingling in my nether-regions and all-consuming attraction that is related in love stories (or in some of the more sappy anniversary cards that I submitted during the create-a-greeting-card scholarship contest). That concerned me – enough so that I actually went to see Martha Milner, a psychologist who specialized in male-female relationship issues from the female perspective.

My sessions with psychologist Martha weren't that productive. They did help a little, and got me close to being at peace with my situation. However, they didn't spark the type of passionate love that I was looking for. When I had my last session with her she – either philosophically or with intense bullshit – said "Maybe it has nothing to do with you, but is just a case of the right person not coming along." I needn't have spent $3,000 to get that pearl of wisdom – but hoped that Mr. Right would eventually cross my path.

Shortly before my 43rd birthday I got a call out-of-the-blue, with caller I. D. displaying a number that I wasn't familiar with. It completely flustered me, but I think that I can accurately recall most of what was initially said. At first I thought that it was a sales solicitation and was about to hang up after the first few seconds, but something caused me to hang on.

"Hi; uh...uh...is this Amy Brighton?"

"Yes...who's this?"

"Uh... let me ask you first. Did you put a baby boy up for adoption twenty five years ago?"

A cold chill came over me. I hadn't thought about that for a decade. "Isn't that a rather personal question from someone unexpectedly calling me?"

"I'm sorry...I don't mean to upset you but I've been anxiously looking for my birth mother for eighteen months and you are the best lead that I have uncovered. I...I...have this intense urge to find her, but all I want is a meeting. I'm not looking for an ongoing relationship if she doesn't want one. I...I really would like to establish whether or not you're her."

"What's your name?" I asked after a short pause.

"Blake Bronson; I believe that Blake was the first name that my birth mother gave to me, and my adoptive parents retained it."

I had named my baby boy "Blake." Now the chill encompassing me was overwhelming – like being pushed naked into a lake with floating chunks of ice. After a delay of enough time so that Blake asked "Are you there?" I finally responded.

"Yes, about twenty five years ago I did give up for adoption a baby boy that I called Blake. To be honest, though, I never expected you – if you are he – to contact me."

"I hope that this isn't a terribly anxious situation for you. I just have this zealousness that I can't adequately describe to find my birth mother – and like I said I only want the type of relationship from you that you are willing to give. I don't want to push anything on you."

There was something about his voice, and story, that was intriguing. If he was my son he had a passion about something – a feeling that I lacked in my personal life. I suddenly felt a need to respond.

"Well, if you are my baby boy, tell me about yourself," I replied in as pleasant a voice as I could conjure.

We talked for ninety minutes, terminated only when he had to go pick up his wife of two years. There was no doubt in my mind that he was my son.

I found out much about him in our first phone call: his adoptive parents were good to him, if not particularly loving; he had an older sister and brother both of whom had been adopted; his adoptive parents died in a car accident three years ago; he was a Division I lacrosse player in college; he was now a solar energy engineer; and lots of information about his goals in life.

When I hung up the phone I was emotionally drained. It was probably the most exciting and provocative phone call of my life. We made a promise to meet sometime in the not too distant future. There was a good possibility that within the next three months that Blake would be getting a new job in a town about ten minutes' drive from my house; even if he didn't we would hope to meet within three months anyway. At the time he lived about four hundred miles away.

I barely slept that night, but despite that fact I was a dynamo the next day. My excitement never waned between phone calls, which we had about once every three or four days, in addition to exchanging emails. We agreed to not send photos, but to wait until we actually met. I was the one who lobbied for that scenario since I wanted to look my best when I saw him. While I considered myself in good shape for someone about to turn forty three, I could stand to lose five pounds and tone some body parts.

I hired a personal trainer, watched my diet, got my hair and makeup redone, and in general put more effort into looking nice than at any other time of my life. The effort paid off; within two plus months I honestly thought that I looked ten years younger, and I was getting three times as many appreciative looks from males as a few months earlier.

Blake got the job in my metropolitan area, and ten weeks after our first contact he made provisions to make a trip to the area to find an apartment. I took off work to pick him up at the airport and show him around. I was never more nervous in my life.

Even though I had never before seen Blake, or even a photograph, I recognized him as soon as he came through security. He looked like his father, only larger and with my eyes and hair. He was six feet three inches tall, probably about 210 pounds, with muscular arms, a mega-handsome face, and a smile that lit up the entire airport. I got weak-kneed. There must have been something about me that he intuitively recognized – maybe it was the expression on my face or the tears unconsciously welling-up in my eyes – because after one glance around the waiting area he honed in on me.

"Hi Amy," Blake gushed as he gave me the longest and most zealous hug that I've ever received, as I sobbed "Blake, Blake, Blake," into his ear as I squeezed him tight.

We had talked so much on the phone that I felt that I already knew him – and he said the same thing to me. We walked arm-in-arm directly to my car since he just had a carry-on bag. We had lunch, I drove him around to apartments, after talking to his wife Melanie on the phone he signed a six month lease for one that was only ten minutes from my house, and I made him dinner at my place. He insisted on doing all of the cleanup while I merely watched and "supervised," with wine glass in hand.

I don't think that I had a better time in my life with my clothes on. We really hit it off. He stayed in one of my guest bedrooms, and we both turned in about midnight. I was the happiest I had been in years, maybe ever; that is until I recognized that my happiness was due in large part to fire in my loins.

I woke up three times that night in a sweat, with my hand on my pussy, thinking about fucking Blake. I tried my best to purge those thoughts from my mind, but I wasn't successful. I was horrified by the social unacceptability and taboo of my feelings, enough so that I was wary when I greeted Blake the next morning. When I saw him in just a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, however, my apprehension was replaced again by the vigor in my crotch.

I somehow got through a breakfast of blueberry pancakes, sausage and orange juice without staring at his midsection. When we parted at the airport he gave me a quick, though not innocent, kiss on the lips. My spine almost became a wet noodle.

I tried to justify/analyze/minimize my feelings toward Blake in the ensuing weeks, and did the best that I could not to immediately run a dildo up my pussy after each time that I talked to him on the phone. I was afraid that what I was feeling toward him was passionate romantic love, but never having experienced it before I was able to at least partially fool myself that it was just the excitement of reconnecting with the only person that I had given life to.

When Blake and Melanie moved to the apartment near my house, I helped them get things settled. Blake and I had decided that it was not right just yet to tell everyone that I was his biological mother, so we decided on a cover story that I was someone from his workplace who had been assigned to smooth his transition to the area.

I didn't like Melanie. She was snooty, pushy, and mean-spirited. I may have quickly come to that conclusion just because she didn't treat Blake the way that I thought he should be treated. Maybe I was jealous too because she was sleeping with Blake and I wasn't. Blake excused much of her behavior by indicating that she was not really happy about moving, and would have preferred to stay near her parents in their old location.

Since I was not enamored with Melanie, Blake and I usually got together without her. We talked on the phone regularly and met in person at least once during the week, often for lunch, and at least once on the weekend. Unfortunately, the stirring in my crotch never subsided, and our parting kisses seemed to me to be getting longer and were always more intense than any others in my life. I finally admitted to myself that I had a problem, and went to see my friend the female psychologist, Martha Milner.

I spent the first fifteen minutes of my appointment with Martha nervously beating around the bush, refusing to make eye contact, and wondering whether she'd call the cops and have me arrested if I told her my story. Finally she said "Alright, Amy; stop bullshitting; tell me what your problem is. If you don't, I can't help."

After a long pause I finally summoned the courage, looked her in the eye, and said "I think that I'm madly in love with my son."

"I didn't know that you had kids," was her first reaction.

"I have one – a son that I gave up for adoption as a baby twenty five years ago." I proceeded to tell Martha everything that I thought was relevant. When I finished, I heaved a sigh of relief.

With a contemplative look on her face Martha said "Sounds like GSA to me."

I was perplexed. "What does gunshot residue have to do with my situation?" I naively asked.

"Not GSR," she lightly chuckled, "GSA; genetic sexual attraction."

"What the hell is that? I never heard of it."

"It's a condition where two related people, brother-sister, father-daughter, mother-son, sometimes even first cousins, meet for the first time in adulthood and have a strong romantic and/or sexual allure. I'm not an expert on it – actually probably no one is. However, I have a colleague that knows as much about it as anyone and I'll send you to him."

Before I could even protest she was on the phone talking directly with Dr. Milton Strong who was a professor of psychology at the local university. "Can you meet with Dr. Strong tomorrow at noon for an hour or so," Martha asked me while still on the phone with Strong.

"Uh...I guess...uh...sure," I stammered in reply. And so the next day around lunch I found myself in Dr. Strong's office, greeted by a man that would clearly be cast as a Professor of Psychology in a Hollywood movie, complete with Freudian facial hair and receding hairline and wearing a tweed jacket and holding a pipe in his left hand.

After initial pleasantries I got right to the point, as uncomfortable as it was. At least Martha had taken the edge off by being able to name my condition (or whatever you want to call it), leading me to hope that I wasn't a total freak. After repeating what Martha said, I then got a lecture on GSA from Dr. Strong.

"GSA was first identified as a real 'condition' in the 1980s by Barbara Gonyo, the founder of Truth Seekers In Adoption, a Chicago-based support group for adoptees and their new-found relatives. While she was not a trained psychologist she was a very perceptive woman and had to deal with the real life situation of falling madly in love with her son. Gonyo struggled for thirteen years to break off feelings for him before writing about it."

"Was she successful?" I asked.

"Not really – but since her son didn't have as intense of a reaction they supposedly never engaged in sex. Since then there hasn't been much legitimate research on the subject likely because no one wants to get a PhD in what many people would call 'Incest,' however that does not mean that the condition is not real. In fact, evidence from the Post-Adoption Centre and University College London suggests that GSA happens in 50 percent of reunion cases. With some people, like you, it is almost overpowering."

"Why does it occur? I mean there is very little real incest in families, so why under these circumstances?" I provocatively inquired.

"The rationale is – and of course it is just a hypothesis at this stage – is that an effect in infancy protects against GSA. When families live closely together, they become desensitized to each other as sexual prospects. This desensitization effect is believed to happen between birth and age six. Without it, and when relatives meet later in life, GSA can occur."

We proceeded to talk more. Dr. Strong was non-judgmental and assured me that it was his philosophy that although a relationship as a result of GSA probably met the definition of "incest" that he didn't consider it as such as long as children were not in the equation. He also assured me that there was virtually zero chance of legal repercussions, and in fact zero if no one else knew that I was Blake's biological mother.

I left Dr. Strong's office with a better grasp on my situation, but still not sure what to do about my uniquely intense feelings for Blake. "Maybe like Barbara Gonyo's son he doesn't have the same feelings for me," I mused, although from the way that Blake looked at, held, and kissed me I was afraid that that was not the case.

Things came to a head just ten days after my meeting with Dr. Strong. Melanie and Blake had had an argument which caused her to leave for the weekend and go visit her parents. I suspected that I had something to do with the argument since I had seen Blake twice the preceding weekend and Melanie didn't like it. Anyway, Blake invited me to go to a Saturday afternoon baseball game, which I happily agreed to.

Blake was very handsy and solicitous at the game. Since it was hot I was wearing shorts and a tank top, but with the proper undergarments. At one point he whispered to me "You're causing quite a stir in our section."

"What do you mean?" I chuckled.

"With your short shorts on all the men are ogling your world class thighs – making me quite jealous," he chortled. Then he stroked my thigh, and left his hand on my knee. My pussy quickly became a waterworks probably because it was the first time that he had been so blatantly appreciative of my appearance.

"You're dreaming," I replied, trying to sound flippant. Then he laid a short duration but intense kiss on my lips and went back to watching the game – but with his hand still on my knee.

amyyum
amyyum
1,771 Followers
12