Airport Musings Pt. 02: Wanting

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Chapter 3: Wanting Waters

As I approached the bar, which had emptied some in the twenty-or-so minutes I had been in the lounge, the corners of Diana’s mouth turned up into a subtle grin. She immediately filled another glass with liquid gold, and then placed it on the bar with a small paper coaster underneath.

“Ready for another, I see.” She sighed wistfully and then added, “I wish I could have a few with you. It’s been a long day. Two hours to go!” For perhaps the first time in our brief interactions, I noticed a slight accent when she spoke these few short phrases.

“It would be even better if we were sitting in a bit of shade on the edge of Lago de Chapala.” A small gamble, but if my guess was correct she would understand.

Her entire being lit up with excitement. Bingo. “Really?! You know that place? Most Americans only know Rocky Point and Cancun.” She beamed, “Seriously. I’m impressed. How do you know it?”

I couldn’t help but smile back at her, “My mother was born in Ajijic, and I’ve made the trip a few times. I liked it better before it became an expat haven.”

“Wow, I couldn’t even tell based on your looks. Are you sure?” She playfully squinted at me, as if searching for something. “Just messing with you. Anyway, I’ve never been to Ajijic, but I know it. I was born in Guadalajara. I’ve been in the U.S. since I was five years old, though.” I wasn’t surprised by her reaction. For most of my life, people have struggled to discern my ethnicity. I guess, to my parents’ credit, their genes mashed up pretty well.

At any rate, having guessed correctly, I felt a bit smug. “I thought so! You give off that Jalisco kind of vibe.” Whatever that means. Idiot.

She let me off the hook, and just smiled softly as she said, “My parents would be glad to hear that. I would really—” She paused for a moment to acknowledge two new customers who were approaching the bar. During this conversational lull, the beer in front of me expressed feelings of neglect and I was forced to take a swig. Diana again sighed, “Let’s continue this a little later?”

I nodded and we both smiled. While she tended to the next wave of patrons, I sauntered back to my lounge sanctuary. Once again, I considered how similar she was to my mother. Of course, there were the physical similarities: olive skin, soft features, full lips and intelligent eyes. But the less tangible aspects of their personalities and the incredible energy they exuded—a hint of spiciness always just beneath the surface—made them truly beautiful women.

Speaking of my mother, let’s get back to the reminiscing.

My grandmother stayed at our house for about two weeks. During the first half of this hostile occupation, my mother seemed to be dodging me. As you’d expect, the longer this went on the more awkward things became for me. I kept asking myself: Had it all ended before it even began? Making things worse, without access to my room there had been zero opportunity to pursue further voyeuristic adventures with my beautiful neighbor, Amanda. My burgeoning hopes had fallen to a near lifetime low in the span of ten days.

But, all things must come to an end, and I left the figurative doldrums on the morning of that tenth day.

“Grandma, since dad won’t be back for another week, can you take me out to get a birthday present?” My little brother pleaded, sounding every bit the relentless opportunist that he was and still is. He knew exactly which buttons to push and levers to pull, and my father’s unexpected business trip to the east coast had put an entire new control panel at his disposal.

My grandmother had selected my brother as her favorite even before he was conceived, I think. “Of course, sweetie.” She looked across the kitchen table to my mother, “As long as your mom doesn’t mind.”

Conveying deep disapproval, my mother wrinkled her brow and frowned at my brother. “You shouldn’t beg, Joshua.” She turned to my grandmother. “Really, mom, you don’t have to. He’s spoiled already.”

“It’s no problem at all. I’d love to. Little boys are supposed to be a bit spoiled.”

With a resigned sigh, my mother said, “Okay, if you’re sure. You should take the Lexus, since Mike won’t be needing it until he’s back.” She walked across the kitchen to the small coat closet situated to the right of the door leading into the garage. She pulled open the folding door, and the sound of rattling keys and a zipper were audible. Without closing the door, she extended a hand and quietly deposited a set of car keys and several folded bills into the older woman’s open palm. “Do you want me to come with you?”

My grandmother took a quick glance at the little beggar, who scrunched up his face in the preliminary stages of a whine. He knew that if my mom went along, his chances of exploiting the situation would be severely diminished. “I think we can manage,” my grandmother said, “As long as you can give me directions to a few stores.”

“Okay,” said my mother, returning to the poker oyna coat closet where she always had a Post-It pad and pen tucked away on the small shelf. “And you better behave yourself, young man.” My brother looked back at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about, and my grandmother laughed and ruffled his hair.

About twenty minutes later, I watched out the front window as my father’s silver Lexus disappeared down the street. Behind me, I could hear my mother clearing the breakfast table and running water for the dishes.

“Ryan, you can help me dry.”

My legs were a bit rubbery and my mouth dry as I turned towards the kitchen. “Alright,” I said, eying my mother from behind as she bent down to grab the dish soap from the cupboard under the sink. Having given birth to two children, her hips were wider than the photo album versions of her younger self I had etched into memory. But her round butt was firm and shapely as a result of near daily treadmill work, floor exercises, and yoga. A pair of tightfitting, denim cross dyed Bengaline pants held themselves to her body in a way that I envied.

She must have felt my eyes on her, because she turned slightly to glance back at me as she stood up. Her simple white t-shirt had pulled up slightly, revealing the small of her back. The outline of her bra clasp was plainly visible. A pity that.

“Hurry up and start rinsing,” she ordered.

I grabbed the flour sack cloth towel, slung it over my shoulder, and began rinsing the dishes that were already piling up on my side of the divided basin.

My mother cleared her throat and quietly said, “So, have you made any friends yet?”

I felt a wave of irritation surge up, but knowing it would lead nowhere good pushed it back down. “No. But I’m not really interested, to be honest. I just want to finish out this year and move on.”

“I see. But,” she turned to look me fully in the eyes, “You seem a little lonely. It might be good for you to find a girlfriend, as long as you stay out of trouble.” For my Catholic-raised mother, that last phrase carried a bundle of unstated meanings.

The irritation welled up again, and I took a breath before replying. “Why? At the end of this year, who knows where I’ll be? It’s not worth it.”

She nodded, and turned her focus away from me and back to the dishes. “I’m just… You’re my son, and I want you to be happy.” Once again, she turned her eyes towards mine, and this time her cheeks were flushed. “The other morning was shocking to me. And what you said. I don’t think that—”

From this side of events, I’m not really sure what made me say what I did next. Maybe my frustration with life in general boiled over or maybe my desire for her was that real. Either way, the proverbial floodgates opened and I interrupted her before she could finish the thought I didn’t want to hear.

“I don’t care if it’s normal or whatever. I meant what I said. I love you more than anyone in the world, and you’re so beautiful. I know that I’m weird, but I want to be with you so bad. I want you to be my first.” I’m not sure how I survived, because I don’t recall breathing for the next ten minutes. My entire body was in shock, and all I could do was keep my eyes locked on my mom’s.

She seemed just as stunned, and stood silently for what felt like a year before looking down and muttering, “I love you, too. But you’re my son—my firstborn. And I’m with your father.”

Some of you might hate me for saying this, but I quickly collected the guilt that washed over me in this moment and emptied it into the expanding pool of my desire. The wrongness made me even more aroused. “I know it’s wrong, but no one else has to know. I want you. I need…”

Her eyes came back to mine, and in them I saw a combination of fear, seriousness, and very real passion. My heartbeat pounded so loudly it almost drowned out her voice. “I won’t tell you I’m not attracted to you, too. I… I am. I didn’t realize it until seeing you like that.” Her chest rose as she drew a deep breath. “But we can’t act on it. It’s wrong.”

I was opening my mouth to argue when she stepped forward and hugged me. We had hugged before, but this was obviously not the same. I was keenly aware of her breasts as she pressed herself against me, and the warmth of her body caused me to swell. We stayed like that for no more than thirty seconds, but I felt a little colder as she broke the embrace, looked up at me and said, “I can take care of the dishes. I think we need a little time to clear our heads.”

Knowing that nothing I could say was going to help right now—and admittedly trembling from head to toe—I set the dish towel down, nodded, and headed up the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower.”

Closing the bathroom door behind me, I stripped down, stepped into the tub, drew the semi-transparent curtain, and turned the knobs. As the hot water fell over me, I began piecing my thoughts together. Among all of my emotions, desire spoke loudest in this process. In canlı poker oyna spite of everything else that was said, my most prominent memory was of my mom saying she was attracted to me.

With her beautiful body in my mind’s eye, I began stroking my soapy cock. Confident that the running water would mask any low level sounds, I let my inhibitions go slightly. With a bit more than a whisper, I called out to her. “Oh mom. Give me your pussy. I want to fuck you so bad.” My balls were swollen after the difficulties of the past ten days. I hadn’t felt like masturbating, and opportunities had been limited besides. I set the showerhead to a limited flow, and held it with my left hand so that the soft spray massaged my balls as I stroked with my right. Everything was hyper sensitive due to my arousal from the morning’s events, and I soon felt an orgasm building. “Oh God, mom. Take my cum. Fuck.” Normally I’m quiet when I come, but I audibly moaned as I climaxed.

I carefully washed down the white fluid, making sure to use soap and take multiple passes. Only a total scumbag would do less. Or so I say. As I look back, I think it’s in a way poetic that my little guys were swept away by a flood, because that was also absolutely the case for me at the time.

Chapter 4: Riesling Rules

Three days later, I breathed a sigh of relief as my grandmother punched her ticket for the return trip. Our journey to the airport was quiet. My mom drove and my brother and I rode along in the backseat of the Lexus. This was just after 9/11, so we dropped her off curbside at departures, said our goodbyes, and made our way home.

On the way back, we made a brief stop at a nearby house. My brother and some of his new friends had planned a two-day sleepover, and my mom wanted to drop him off so that she could scope things out before giving final approval. She parked on the street in front of this friend’s house, and with my brother in tow crossed their front yard. Even though it was only a little more than a mile from ours, it was situated in a much nicer part of the neighborhood. Basically, if you juxtaposed our domiciles, you would plainly see the difference between lower and upper middle class.

Their yard was nicely landscaped with carefully shaped hedges, numerous trees, a long driveway bordered with decorative plants and rocks… you get the picture. The house itself was two-story and, relative to others in the area, expansive. From my vantage point in the Lexus, I saw my brother ring the doorbell at my mother’s insistence. Within seconds, two boys my brother’s age opened the door and excitedly dragged my brother inside. A few more seconds passed before a tall, chubby blonde woman became visible. The two women chatted briefly, gesturing with their hands and laughing. Seemingly satisfied, my mom waved goodbye and made her way back to the car.

“They seem nice,” she said as she buckled herself in, set the car to drive, and pulled away from the curb. Still looking at the road, she asked, “So what do you want to do tonight, since it’s just the two of us?”

My father was not set to return for another four days, so my mom and I were going to have some alone time. You can probably imagine what I was thinking. I wanted so badly to take her in my arms the second we arrived home, kiss her soft lips, remove her clothes, and take her to bed. But I had to play this slowly and carefully. Anything that happened had to be on her terms.

I shrugged. “Maybe we can just order a pizza, sit on the sofa and watch some movies?”

“Sure. Casual is good.”

Remember that this was the heyday of physical storage media—streaming was years away, and Netflix would not become commonplace even in its original mail-based format for some time. So, it was off to the now rare and wonderful destination: the video store. We rented at least five movies, but the only ones I remember are: The Count of Monte Cristo, Scooby-Doo, and Unfaithful.

About an hour after we had returned home, things were set. I was dressed in casual shorts and a white t-shirt (I prefer not to wear underwear when lounging), and my mom was dressed in thin floral pajama bottoms and a loose fitting shirt. What I didn’t know then that I’ve learned since: Most women prefer not to wear bras while around the house, especially in the evening when relaxing. My mother was definitely among that segment of the female population.

The pizza hadn’t arrived yet, but we decided to start our movie marathon anyway. Even though it was summertime, the house was a little chilly because I begged her to crank up the air conditioning. I’m more or less a walking furnace.

We were on opposite ends of the sofa—me sitting with one knee pulled to my chest and the other bent under me, and my mother with her legs stretched across the two remaining cushions and a blanket covering them.

The consensus had been to start with something light, so we put on Scooby-Doo. To this day, I think they did a great job with that film. It’s one internet casino of the few cartoon-to-live-action adaptations I can say that about.

About thirty minutes in, the Pizza Hutt delivery person knocked on our door. I jumped up, handed her the cash (tip included), and set the pizzas on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I also set a two-liter bottle of Coke and a few paper plates and napkins next to the pizzas, and brought us both a coffee mug. Everything was set, I thought. But my mom suggested we have wine instead.

“Just don’t drink too much and throw up. And don’t tell anyone. I think you’re old enough, and soon you’ll be off to college and doing it anyway.”

So, I grabbed a bottle of Riesling (mom’s favorite) from the refrigerator, removed the metal wrapping, and pulled the cork. I poured us both some wine, handed her one of the mugs, and sat down to continue the movie. “Do you like this?” I asked her, concerned she might be bored.

“Yeah, it’s funny. I don’t mind Scooby.” We didn’t really say much as the movie went on. I filled our cups two more times before it finished, and was starting to feel a little buzzed since up to that point in my life I hadn’t had much to drink. My mom seemed fine by comparison, so I silently stuck with it.

We teamed up to put away the pizza and throw away the trash, and then my mom popped the cork on another bottle of wine. “Do you care which one we watch next?” I asked.

“Not really. I don’t know anything about any of them, really.”

Without thinking about it, I picked up the disc that was at the top of the pile and swapped it out with Scooby-Doo. I pushed play and sat back down.

I think the alcohol was doing funny things to me, because my feet got cold. So, I slid them under the blanket and, with my knees bent, rested my back against the arm of the sofa.

The intro to Unfaithful appeared on the screen, and neither of us knew exactly what to expect. The title should have beeen something of a giveaway, but the word unfaithful can be taken in many different directions by a storyteller. Still, as the early scenes unfolded it became fairly clear what the premise was. I was turned on from about the ten-minute mark, but it took me a little longer to realize it.

As Diane Lane slipped further and further into her web of infidelity, my legs subconsciously stretched further and further until my right foot bumped into something. I heard a small intake of breath, and I came a bit to my senses. Without noticeably taking my eyes off of the television, I assessed the situation. My legs were about three-quarters straight and resting between my mom’s legs, which were now slightly bent.

My foot was squarely between her thighs and touching her crotch, and if I hadn’t been slightly drunk I might have instantly straightened up. But I was drunk, and the film was nearing the first sex scene. Still looking at the screen, I tried my best to subtly rub her pussy with my foot. Although I wasn’t very experienced, I made up for it with much research and dedication!

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if it would work, but I was very young, horny, and extremely desirous for my mom. She made no effort to stop me, but instead slid her hips towards me and tilted her pelvis slightly upwards. So, with a slightly increased pressure, I made small pulsating movements with the ball of my foot around her labia majora, vaginal entry and then her clitoris. As the actors made adulterous love for the first time, I felt her grow hot under my steady movements.

When the scene ended, she muttered that she had to pee and asked me to pause the film. I ran upstairs to do the same, and had just returned to the sofa when she appeared from the bathroom. When she came back, instead of assuming her earlier position opposite me, she sat between my legs with her back towards me. As she pulled the blanket over herself, she asked, “Is this okay? Are you uncomfortable? I’m a little cold.”

I assured her it was fine with me, and used the remote to continue playing the film. Even though this was exactly the closeness I had been hoping for, the newness of it and my limited experience gave me pause. My cock was rock hard and pressing into her ass, and there was absolutely no way she could not notice. I was leaning against the left sofa arm, and she was leaning against me with her right knee bent and propped against the back of the sofa, and her left leg slightly bent and resting atop my left leg.

Her head was on my chest, and I could smell the fruity conditioner she used. My heart skipped a beat as she adjusted herself slightly and rubbed her bottom against the head of my cock.

For several minutes, I sat stalk still as though any movement might break whatever spell had been placed on my mom. But when the second sex scene came on the screen, I became so aroused that I had to take a chance. Slowly, I drew my right hand near to her stomach and then inched my way towards her left breast. I could feel her diaphragm lift with each breath, and soon I was at the precipice. Gently, but with the shaking hands of a novice, I cupped her breast and slowly began to knead it. I found her nipple and softly rubbed it through the cotton cloth of her shirt.

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