I was in my early 50’s then. My son was 18.
I have a fulsome body. I have my complement of obligatory flabs and sags par for my age. My husband told me that I have an appealing English rose coquettish demeanour that nature has calibrated just about on song, short of provocative buxomness.
My son and I have a trusting and open relationship. We have a lovely secluded garden which I like to potter around. One day, when I had some alone tranquil time with my son sipping tea at the bottom of our garden, I intimated that I have observed that he has been checking me out. I asked him what he thought of me honestly because I couldn’t quite fathom what a strapping teen would see in a woman in her 50’s.
He reflected philosophically, and mused that he saw me in two dimensions. One, as a mum he respected, trusted and loved. Two, as an appealing mature woman who gave him twitches, and shudders on occasions. Reactions which were natural, which he could not deny.
He told me that he had tried to reconcile the mum-woman views, and have concluded that the views just were what they were, beyond sensible reconciliation. Any reconciliation would simply be suppressing one view, self-evidently, the ‘woman’ view, in deference to hardwired social conditioning. It was questionable if this was reconciliation at all. Being at peace with the mum-woman view was the philosophical equivalent of the Nietzschean peace of the Apollonian and the Dionysian. Hah! My son the philosopher.
I pondered over what he philosophised.
Me: Do you mind if I ask you if you’ve have any fantasies?
Son: To be honest, just one. Seeing you in your full glory.
Me: This old body?
Son: This very manifestation.
Me: But why?
Son: I just appreciate mature bodies where mother nature has averaged out the perfections and lesser perfections, to a mellowed contoured whole. I find the impossibly perfect bodies that assail my senses over public media inauthentic and plasticky.
Me: You know when there is no one home, I go native, and do a spot of gardening, to soak in the rays, enjoying the outdoors, in our garden. I don’t consider myself a nudist though. There has been some heavy heaving grunt work that I have been postponing. I could do with some help there.
Son: I’ll be happy to help. When?
Me: My, my, we have an eager beaver here. This Saturday will be fine. Your Dad is away on business travel.
And so we did.
I chose an outdoors setting so that there was a natural aura to it all. There would have been a degree of contrived nudity awkwardness if it had been indoors.
After the gardening, we had tea at the bottom of our garden. It would have been a curious sight for anyone who chanced upon this mum-son ensemble.
A mature woman in native glory, seated with legs crossed, conserving her secret feminine cache, but only just so, sipping tea nonchalantly, juxtaposed against a bare chested teen in bermuda shorts. Cool as the cucumber sandwiches we were pecking.
Me: Thanks for your help!
Son: Happy to help, mum!
Me: So, what do you think of your old mum?
Son: Lovely! Comely! A sight to behold!
Me: Be brutally honest. As I have been with you.
My son surprised me. He stood up demonstratively in muted answer.
Me: Thank you. This is the most pointed validation ever that a woman can hope for.
This was the only time my son saw me naked. We never talked about this after that day.
There is a sort of epilogue to this.
Fast forward. I was with my husband in our bedroom. Bedtime banter. Just as I do with my son, I have an open and trusting relationship with my husband.