Don't call me chicken

It's difficult to believe now that during high school, the power of the desperate, painful, crippling, yearning for sex, feeling of my virgin teenage self was over. I was not an unattractive guy by far, but I had no self-confidence, and was awkwardly shy.

The overwhelming strength of that desire set against what seemed like the total absence of any chance of it being satisfied. It almost became too much for me to bear. Frequent masturbation stopped me from losing my head, but it didn't even take the edge off my need to merge with warm, soft, female flesh.

Somehow, I developed an attraction toward older women with hair color, body type, and most importantly, breast size as my Mother. Upper C to lower D cup preferably. Appearance including, but not limited to: How big around and the color of the areolas, how long, big around the nipples are, and how the nipple looks when hard, if possible. This whole new reaction to my Mother worried me. I thought about it, and as I did my attitude towards her transformed.

For the first time I tried to imagine how she must look to the rest of the world. She had a few signs of wear and tear around her eyes, nose and lips; far fewer than most other women in their early forties. Her hair, cut shoulder length, rather than the long tresses that I remembered from childhood. She was still the lovely honey blonde I remembered. Her eyes were the same bright shade of blue. She worked hard to keep her body slim, firm, and nicely curved. She dressed proudly, in ways that showed off that body - apparently for nobody's benefit but her own.

It dawned on me why the men in town always seemed pleased to see her, but their wives never did. Because if she wasn't my Mother, if she was a stranger I'd seen in the street or on a bus, I would have wanted her. I had a thing for older women by then anyway, and yes - I most definitely would have wanted my Mother.

From that point on, I couldn't define her just as my Mother anymore. She was a real living, breathing, woman. And despite my guilt and shame at what I was feeling, I would never try to fend her off, never be the one who brought any physical contact to an end. I would just make sure that she didn't feel my hard cock pressed against her belly when she hugged me, and arrange my body and clothes to hide my erection when we curled up together to watch television.

Late one night, as we were sitting on the sofa watching a movie as we often did, my Mother's head was resting on my shoulder and her arm was linked through mine. We'd both had a few drinks and I dozed off. When I woke my Mother's hand was resting on the inside of my thigh. She had never put her hand there when I was sleeping.

I tried to cover up the bulge that grew in my jeans and we sat in silence until the movie's end credits rolled. My Mother turned off the TV, her hand still on my thigh. "Tom" she said "It's time we had a talk." My heart sank. "You do know you don't have to go away, don't you? You're so worried it's breaking my heart baby. There's no law that says you have to go away to college, or go to any college, if you don't want to. You can always stay here, to think, or look around for a place.

Something was wrong. A woman shouldn't look at her own son the way my Mother was looking at me. They shouldn't talk the way she was talking. The hand on my thigh started moving upwards very, very gradually. I couldn't hide my erection now – no matter how hard I wished it away, it just wouldn't go.

I couldn't do anything now, except stare back into my Mother's beautiful eyes until....I got so scared that I jumped up, ran to the bathroom as fast as I could, locking the door behind me.

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