My Bobby really began attracting the girls in his late teens. Socially, he had been very shy and a late bloomer. That changed, and in a 6 year period he had brought by as many exceptionally pretty girls. He was proud as could be. Alas, over that same period, all 6 had slipped through his hands. One evening he stopped by in obvious need for consoling. He said he felt clueless as to how to "handle women"  - is the expression he used. The girls always mistook his easy-going manner for weakness. We sat alongside each other on the sofa. I felt so badly for him. He is such a handsome and earnest guy. I recall telling him that women are like plants. You can't water them too much and you can't water them too little. He had a sort of blank puzzled look in his eyes as they searched mine.  

"Well, how are you supposed to water them then, Mom?", he said almost timidly. My hand reached up to touch his cheek as I formed my answer. "You want to water them just right, Bobby". As soon as the words left my mouth I realized how inadequate was this information I was giving him. But our eyes stayed connected. Remarkable, and something that had seldom happened since he was very, very young.

He was 25, big and handsome as the devil. He had it all, and just didn't know it. I leaned forward and kissed his cheek where my hand had been. Without conscious thought or intent, my lips had slid over to his, to where I would "normally" place a short mother's greeting smacker. Except this time my son's mouth was slack, his jaw lowered. I was as taken a-back as he must have been when our open mouths found an instinctive adjustment to the other's and sealed out the outside world..momentarily.

It would be six years later before we were to kiss that "inappropriately" again. A full three weeks after that "incident" in my bed where, drunk and together with him, my hand awkwardly on his erect penis had caused him to ejaculate on my stomach. (That is all told below in Entry 2. Better read that now if you haven't yet.) Now, my concern why he hadn't called me since that incident mounted by the day. Insecure and without a man, I had a low anxiety threshhold.

Every night as I prepared for bed, I found myself barefoot, contemplating my naked reflection in the tall corner mirror. As vain as I am (don't judge me!), I had not evaluated my figure in months. I had passed 50, and now, on a warm night, what I saw of my au naturelle self stirred some pleasant feelings. Dr Al, hubby #2, had inflicted much emotional abuse with his criticism of my body. This, he always tied in to my excessive drinking. He would regularly remind me of the used vodka bottles he put in the top kitchen cabinet. Good riddance to him. 

Each evening of this posing ritual restored a little more of my self esteem. It also gave me a place to apply Jergen's lotion over my entire front. As objective as a very vain gal could be, I counted up the "good points" of body. Good shoulders, to begin with at the top. And when I stood up straight and drew my shoulders up and back slightly, my breasts were fuller than as a teen, and had settled only slightly, nicely, on my chest. My nipples bore the same deep carmine color as my favorite lipstick, the aureolas a pale powder brown. My midriff was lightly dappled, could have been thinner, but okay sexy. That's what I decided the slight tuck over my tummy was. Sexy. The bowl of my belly was...well it was there and probably always would be. The feint lines across my loins radiating out to broad child-bearing hips even looked sexy. I loved my hips, loved them because the apple bottom in back was complimentary just fine. The rest - thighs, knees, calves, feet were what Bobby's father had called Ann-Margaret quality.

Each night I would do this. And, truth be told, each night I slipped nude and alone into bed I re-experienced that same stirring of the last night Bobby was here. I knew he liked me an an awful lot now. I knew he wasn't getting much, if any, from his wife. And I knew he was a virile fellow with a powerful sex drive. All you had to do was look at him. I knew that he had ploughed through a couple dozen girls before he married Susanna. I knew, because it is a mother's business to know about such things. Listen to this: I just read in the New Yorker, pg 27, that the more a rat pup is licked and groomed by its mother, the more synaptic connections it has. That is a mother hard-wiring the connection to her young. And I did plenty of that hard-wiring stuff with him when he was very young. Plenty. I was growing him well after he left my womb. I know my Bobby better than I know anybody. Better than anybody else knows him.

When he finally called  - three weeks from the night of the "accident" in my bed - I shaved my pubic mound. He was coming the next day. His wife was away at a conference. He could stay over-night with me and be under no pressure to answer to her. Did you hear me? I said I shaved my pubic mound.