My mother is the shyest person I know. She’s a lovely person with a beautiful heart but quiet is loud for her. It’s only in the last six months that she’s even taken to being called Beth; it was always Elizabeth. Probably a lot of it stems from her formal upbringing and domineering parents. They told her what to wear, what to say and even whom to marry.
That didn’t work out so well. He left her and me and my older brother Corey after four years. She loved us both but she spoiled me; she held on to me for all my eighteen years – literally. When I was younger I thought everybody’s mother sat with their arms around their daughters and held them all night long. I was her ‘baby doll’, her Jenna. It may have been strange but I always knew I was loved.
We lived a typical suburban life until I discovered the deep feelings that welled beneath my mother’s quiet exterior. I know when you tell a story the characters should change or grow to make it interesting but this isn’t about a ‘character’ it’s about my mother and she’s still shy and quiet even when we make love.
The handful of people in whom I’ve confided always ask how we first became intimate. That’s not what this is about but I’ll give you the short version. She loves to read and she instilled that love in me. She has a hundreds of books in her bedroom and one day I was flipping through the paperbacks when something behind them fell. I fished it out and it was a book on incest.
It was written by a Stanford researcher and I was intrigued and took it to my room where I spent most of the night caught in its spell. The book had three parts. I didn’t read any of the first part because I found it too upsetting. It dealt with abusers. I don’t believe in the death penalty but anyone who forces sex on a minor should be shot – but only after they suffer the tortures of the damned. The second part talked about consensual loving relationships between adults and the third was interviews with couples.
The interviews got to me. I was excited by them because they resonated in me. People were talking about thoughts and feelings that I was trying to come to grips with myself. This wasn’t fiction but real people who loved and wanted and acted despite societies prohibitions. That was the first night I ever masturbated with my mother’s picture in my mind: sucking her daughter and her daughter sucking her. I went out the next day and bought five books of incest erotica.
I debated with myself if I should tell Corey how I felt. Corey was everything an older brother should be. I could talk to him and I always knew that whatever he did or said was because he wanted the best for me. So it wasn’t a shock when I came home early one day and saw them kissing with his hand under her blouse – it was devastation. I couldn’t breathe for two days.
I don’t want to mislead you because I know that in most of the stories I read everyone ends up fucking happily ever after. We don’t all end up in bed together and Corey and I kiss on the cheek once a year on our birthdays. I did talk to him though – about everything.
Corey lived in the next town and I just couldn’t say these things face to face so I called him. We talked for two hours the first time. I can still remember almost every word. I said, “Corey, what’s up with you and mom and please don’t say ‘what do you mean’?”
He hesitated and asked me, “What do you know?”
“I saw you Monday at the house.”
“Ok Jen…look, it’s not a big thing anymore. About a year ago we sort of got involved and now it’s a very ‘once in a while’ thing.”