Rewriting Us

Her smile opened wider as I spoke, and she chuckled "I don't know. Maybe. Haha."

She was a fair-haired friend taking the idea as a joke, and I smiled as though sharing in the fun. But my words derailed the game. "Then why did you turn down that guy at the mall?" I was talking about Bono, of course.

"What? What guy?" she asked before even trying to remember.

"You know. That goth/Emo guy. The one you said was only trying to score with you; not listening to you for its own sake."

Her face registered recognition. "Hmmm,"

"That guy wasn't good enough for you, and you know it. I want to make my guy worthy of you, someone you would want to be with." It was true at face value, and a razor's edge from the broader truth: I was talking about myself. "Don't you think you would fall hardest for a guy you know well?"

I forced myself to keep my breath even, but her answer to this question was crucial to me.

She smirked like she had when she'd read my first ten pages. All she said was, "Fair point."

I heard my throat click as I swallowed. That twist of the lips offered a meager flame of hope. I fanned it with the truth and the plan: "Now I just need you to help me understand what sort of guy that would be."

Her eyes twinkled at that, like the sun had flickered for a moment. Was she seeing through me? Was she impressed? Maybe she was just enjoying the process.

***

Then there was the debate about geography.

We were sitting in the living room, sharing the couch. She was reading my latest pages, and I was texting my buddy Rich about when I would be available to finish up some of our lab work for chem class. The television was off, as it always is when the sun is up. The only sound was a gurgling from the refrigerator in the kitchen. Mom put the pages on her lap and turned to me. She caught my eye, and I sent my text.

"I want to make sure I understand the setting here, Don. I mean, I think I can see it, but I'm having doubts."

"Okay."

"The houses stand back to back. Their back yards are one long shared strip separated in the middle by a small wire fence."

"Yep."

"And the houses are identical?"

"Yeah. Except, of course, they have different furniture. Both have double back porches; one on the ground floor and one up on the second floor above the first."

"Yeah. Okay, then I did understand."

"Some neighborhoods are like that, where all the houses are of a similar style. Sometimes they're identical in design."

Her eyebrows pulled together in a look of concern. She looked adorable. I know It's odd for a son to say that about his mother, but what part of my story isn't odd? I gripped my thighs to keep it to myself.

"But why? I mean, I guess architects do it to keep things efficient and easier. But why are you making it that way in the story? It seems like you are going to either make it hard for the reader to understand or easier for yourself; or maybe even harder for yourself. Why not make the houses completely different? Why not across the street from one another? You and the reader would have a clearer picture of where the scenes are taking place?"

I had reasons on top of reasons, but I needed to take care regarding which ones I shared with my mother.

"I don't want it to be so different from one place to the other. Going to the neighbor's house is - for him - kind of like going home."

"But, why? Is his real home with his mother bad?"

"No!"

"I mean," she picked up the pages and started sifting through them. "His mother does seem kind of standoffish. Distant. Is he going to the neighbor to get away from his stuffy old mom?"

"Look, if his mom was as cool as you, why would he bother going to see his neighbor?" Mom tilted her head sideways at me. "This is more of why there should be love first. Ken isn't just going over there looking for a piece of... action. He's not going to get away from anything either. He's going to someone he already knows and likes. It has begun to grow into something more. At least it has for him. In time it will for Jan too. None of that makes sense if his mom, Irene, is super awesome like you. But Irene is still a good and loving mother."

"But if she's a good and loving mother, then why is his home life so bad that he wants to go to someone he already knows and likes?" The papers were back on her thighs, and she focused on me again.

"Home is great, Mom. And I want to show that with the houses being mirror reflections: It shows how good and welcome he feels going to his neighbor. It's complemented by how good home is. It's not a contrast."

She scrutinized me and my words with intensity. When I finished speaking she took a sharp breath through her nose and said, "So, this woman is just a replacement for his mother?"

Going on automatic, I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Don't they say our lovers always are?"

"If that's what he needs why doesn't he just fuck his mother? Haha."

I fell into her laughter, too surprised by the comment to do anything else. But I recovered well. "Ha. Well, if that's the sort of story you're looking for I guess we could give it a try. I'd be interested to hear your ideas." She threw a small blue sofa pillow at me, but I batted it away. "Okay," I pressed. "Maybe you should write that one and I'll give you my input."

Her red lips fell open in mock outrage, and there was that glimmer in her eye again. Out of nowhere another sofa pillow, this one red, whopped me right in the face.

This could only mean war.

Mom was out of pillows, and tried to reach for the red one that had just beaned me. I grabbed it and twisted. I faked like I was going to peg her with it, and she backed off. Now with some distance between us I had a shot. The red only grazed her as she dodged out of the way. She curled herself around that one while I grabbed up the blue. We started clubbing each other, smiling and laughing the whole time. I was careful not to hit too hard, and I let her hit any part of me that wasn't my head. But she was sneaky, and got a few good shots on my left ear and the top of my head.

I reared back, planning to fake like I was going to bring my pillow down on her head then switch the angle to swat her rump. But she didn't cringe away when I raised the pillow over my head with both hands. Instead she seized the opportunity and gave me a fuzzy red wallop right on my nose.

It stung my pride, and I roared, "That's it! You don't play fair so you don't get to play!" I tackled her onto her side of the couch, and grabbed her wrists. She squirmed under my frame. It felt delightful. She laughed herself out of breath and gasped to declare that she had already dropped her pillow.

Pillow fights were not unusual in our family. More than once I'd come down from my bedroom to find my mother and father batting at one another. Depending on the time of night, they allowed me to join in the fun. I'd battled them each one on one, and both together. As long as I followed the rules, and never swung too hard, they'd always declare me the winner. Lying atop my giggling mother that afternoon, I realized that we hadn't had any pillow fights since the divorce. We may have even stopped the tradition a year or two before it.

Of course this time was different. For one thing, Mom refused to acknowledge my clear victory in this epic and nigh-resolved battle. She twisted and smiled, and her body ground against mine. Her breasts made a soft rubbing against my chest, and her thighs gripped and pulled at one of mine. She cried out for her pillow and a fair chance at revenge but never mercy. The other difference was my inevitable growing erection.

No bomb squad had ever struggled more to avert an explosion, and I don't mean in my pants. I mean the situation. The savage animal in me roared, deafening my ears. Her laughter and squeals were faint echoes, and my hunger for her made me want to tear her clothes to ribbons.

But I would not lie to myself about her feelings. The wolf within me said she was ripe; mine for the taking. But my mind held the truth: she was not ready to feel my imminent hard on.

Roaring in my thoughts against the craving for her bare skin, I got off of my mom and pulled away. I stood up from the couch, and held up my empty hands. "No more you big cheat." I stepped behind a lamp so she wouldn't dare throw the pillow she'd recovered.

"Come back here and fight like a man, you coward," she said through dying sniggers. The lamp was too narrow to hide the evidence of my manhood. I tried to make holding a pillow in front of my crotch look casual.

"Hey, that's pretty hot. Maybe I'll put a little pillow fight like that in the story." I tried.

Her whole body shivered for a second, but then recovered and ran her hands through her hair. Then she said, "Nah. too cliché. Besides, tickle fights are hotter."

Our eyes locked for a moment.

After a beat she turned away and started arranging the couch cushions.

"Yeah," I said. "Good idea."

I tossed the pillow onto the couch and headed to my room. I wondered if my mother saw the bulge in my shorts.

***

I locked the door behind me. I knew I was going to need to relieve the pressure my tussle with Mom had created. I lay back in my bed, and began to stroke and to think. I remembered the yielding pressure of her breasts against my chest. I pulled hard on myself remembering how tightly her muscular legs had gripped my thigh. If we'd been just some young man and some older woman, there is no way it would have ended where it did. In my mind I played it forward as I wished it had gone.

She wouldn't just be playing around with her son, but would feel the pressure of a man on her; covering her body with a promise of more. Her face would go from laughter to slack with surprise and confusion at what she was feeling. She would grunt at the paradigm shift. Her body would know it was no longer a game, nipples hardening and her hidden cleft moistening. Her mind catching up to how well matched our bodies had become over the years of working out and swimming. The smell of sex would fill our nostrils as her body lubricated itself for mine.

She would look at my face in shock at the sudden turn, her eyes wide with doubts and questions: Was this real? Did I feel it too? Did I understand what her body was telling my body? Was my body replying? Then she'd feel my erection, eager to take up the offer. She'd look down where our groins were meeting and then back up to meet my gaze again. Her eyes would ask more questions: My body's reply was clear, but what was I going to do? We'd both hold still, gripping to one another. Her thighs would loosen their grip on mine. Her eyes fixed on mine, she would watch my every reaction. Would I draw away? Did she want me to? She didn't even know what she wanted me to do. Could I read her mind?

Even in that wet day dream I wasn't a telepath, so I would stroke her cheek while holding her fast between myself and the couch. She would give me a tiny nod, one that I could detect only because I was so locked onto her sweet face. She would still look, wondering, at me. I'd press my groin down on hers hard, forcing her deeper into the cushions of the sofa. Her mouth would open just enough to see the tips of her teeth. A tiny, "Unh." Then a soft and husky, "Yeah."

And the barrier of doubt would shatter, and we would share a plunging kiss.

In my bed, I felt my cock moisten with precum. My heart was rabbiting.

In the fantasy, out tongues would reach into one another's throat. We would cling so tight that stripping is impossible. She would break the kiss long enough to cry out, "Oh my god," and then to fall back into the fever with me. As long as I was fantasizing, the clothes would disappear. She would be stroking and squeezing my cock at the entrance of her womanhood. I would be pinching a blushing nipple and begging, "Please?"

And she would say yes, and guide me to where her nether lips gaped in anticipation, and release me to thrust deep into her cunt. My mother's cunt. And she would scream in pleasure and shock and I would cry out in ecstasy. and...

I came all over myself with only a hissing sound from deep in my throat.

When my pulse returned to the neighborhood of normal, I could hear the sounds of dinner preparation downstairs. With a clear head, I considered starting a tickle fight with my mother in the kitchen. I decided it would be too obvious; moving too fast. If she suspected, then let her wonder. If she didn't suspect let the story build with the next set of pages and the next. Like I said before, pillow fights were not out of the norm for us. In that house at that time I was sure that starting a tickle fight would be a misstep.

***

At dinner she was affectionate. She rubbed my arms once and my shoulders twice. It was affectionate, of course, but it was not flirtatious.

At least not as far as I could tell.

Chapter 5

It was early afternoon by the time I got home from my morning classes and barreled up to my room to pound out a few more pages. I hadn't shared any of my new writing in days.

An hour later I came into the kitchen where my mom was mixing up some egg salad for lunch. I walked up to her and poked her in the ribs. She yelped, and swung a wooden mixing spoon in my general direction. "Don't be a pest, Don," she said with a smile. We weren't having tickle fights, but I was giving her little zaps like that every now and then.

"Sorry," I said to be polite. "Here is a peace offering." I held up the new pages.

Her smile opened to show her white teeth. "Great! I can't wait to read it! Put it on the table, and hand me the bread from the cupboard." She used the wooden spoon to spread globs of egg salad onto thick slices of whole grain bread. She served them with lemon water in huge glasses.

She read in silence as we ate lunch. When she finished her sandwich she ate the half I'd left uneaten. I had grabbed a burger with my friend Rich before heading home. Mom was extra hungry from a workout in the basement and a swim in the pool behind our house.

I watched her crystal blues, focused on my pages. Her face was smooth in calm concentration. She was so still and glowing with health that she may as well have been posing for a portrait. Her hair hung in juicy ringlets, grazing the shoulders of the cornflower blue t-shirt. The shirt complemented her eyes. It held tight to her chest and clung to her narrow waist. Beneath the waistline was a frilly white cotton skirt. It was loose fitting, but revealed a lot of her strong legs when she was sitting. Her bare feet bore pastel pink painted toe nails that added character to the overall look. She was a marvel just sitting there and reading my pages.

"I like how the male character is coming to help out around the house," she said when she finished. "It seems practical and sweet. Plausible even."

"Yeah. He's showing that he can handle some aspects of partnership while having an excuse to be around her." I said, collecting our plates from the table. "But he's also showing that he's not a little boy anymore and showing off his bod a bit." I brought the plates to the sink and started rinsing them off before sticking them in the dishwasher.

Mom smiled to herself. Then she took a joking tone, "Are you trying to seduce me by doing the dishes now?"

Often in our discussions of the story she'd looked skeptical. The question had seemed on the tip of her tongue, but before this moment she'd never said it aloud. Not even as a joke. It felt like a small victory and a danger at once, like locating the Ark of the Covenant and finding it covered with snakes.

Keeping my eyes on the dish under the tap, I shrugged. "If I know it's meaningful for you that I help out, why wouldn't I? I love you, Mom. Besides, of course I want to show you I'm not a kid anymore. I want you to be happy at the man I've become."

Without a sound she was behind me. She lay her palms on my upper back. I heard her voice close to my left ear. "You are growing into a wonderful man. I am thrilled with you." And then she kissed the nape of my neck. "Thrilled!"

I froze. Maybe I should have turned, grabbed and kissed her, but it didn't feel right. With my hands still in the sink, I turned my neck and shoulders to show her a smile.

She pecked me on the cheek and left the kitchen, clutching the pages in her hand like it was crucial evidence.

***

Not every debate and discussion went my way. Two days later my mother came up from the basement in her workout clothes. She wore loose green soccer shorts with double white piping and a spaghetti-strap top with three multicolored flowers across the chest. She told me, "I'm sorry, honey, but this red shirt scene makes no sense."

"No? Why not?"

"He buys himself a red shirt, and struts around in front of her." She shook her head in incredulity. "And this somehow titillates her? What is sexy or seductive about a guy wearing a red shirt? Is it supposed to be a magic shirt?"

"Red is the color of sexual attraction. I just read about it a few days ago. A 2010 study showed that women in four different countries ranked a man more attractive when he was presented with a red shirt."

"Skip the studies. It's a story, not a real seduction, right?"

"Uhhm..."

"Besides, that's not the point. It isn't seductive that he bought himself a shirt. That isn't about her. It's just an excuse to show himself off like a peacock." Her word choice reminded me of something Bono had told me. It stuck in my mind because he'd used the word "peacock" as a verb. "Peacocking." I shook it from my mind to address my mother.

"I worried that if he bought something for her it would look like he was buying her." Mom crossed her arms and made her patented give-me-a-fucking-break face. "Or else buying her affection."

"It isn't buying her if it is a small and personal gift that is about her. A young guy can't buy her diamonds anyway."

"Still, Mom," I persisted. "doesn't a gift imply that he expects something in return?"

Her hands flew out to her sides, down level with her hip-curved soccer shorts, like she was making an offering. But her tone was high with agitation. "So write him expecting nothing in return! That's a guy I want to be with."

***

"I'd like to return this shirt," I told the teenage girl behind the department store desk. "Here's the receipt. The tags are still on. I don't need cash back, just store credit." She smiled at me because I'd made her job easier.

The smile said I was doing it right.

***

"It's a Thanks-for-your-help gift," I explained. I held the small red box out to my dripping wet mother beside the pool.

She raised her hands like it was a stick-up. "Let me dry off first, sweetie. She grabbed a fluffy towel from a nearby deck chair, and began dabbing at her lean form. Her bikini was dark blue, and the sport cut style was not the most flattering shape for a body like hers. But that much skin was hard to ignore.

She hung the towel over her shoulders where it could absorb any water that fell from her hair. Then she sat down on the deck chair from whence the towel came. Only then did she accept the red box. It was light so she placed it with care on her lean muscled thighs. She removed the lid, and her hair fell in front of her face as she tipped down to look inside.

She held so still, that it was clear that her reaction would be extreme. Would it be joy or rage? She lifted her head, eyes closed. She took a deep calming breath. But then the smile exploded, beyond her control, and her eyes opened to beam at me. She lifted the floral print scarf from the box, and let it unfold in front of her.

"Oh my God, I love it sooo much, Don!" She always loved floral prints. She stuffed the gift back into the box, and then put the box on the broad arm of the deck chair. "I love it! I just LOVE it!"