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*****
“The funeral’s the easy part, you might not believe me but it’s true.”
“Jesus Colin,” said Mum, “I hope not, I want it to get easier from here, not harder.”
“No,” said her brother, “I had to clean out Dad’s stuff, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, and you Tim, will have to do that for your Dad.”
“Thanks Uncle Colin, it’s a hard enough day without that to look forward to,” I said.
“Tim, it’s just the cycle of life, we look after our parents, and our kids look after us, if we’re lucky.”
“As a matter of fact, his Mum’s the person I’m most concerned about, Bill was her entire life after his Dad died, he doted on her and she’ll miss him so much, you’ll have to keep an eye on her. He had dinner with her most Friday nights and often slept over when she was a bit down, as you know, and she’ll miss all of that.”
That’s the only thing I remember about Dad’s funeral, everything else is just a blur, and so even knowing that it had to be done, I kept avoiding doing his stuff. But three months later, I had to start going through it, as like most men Dad had a very impressive collection of rusty old screws and bent nails, broken and blunt saws and screwdrivers, not to mention, “things that’ll come in handy one day if I can get the parts to fix it.”
Mum came to help but after continually saying, “oh don’t throw that out please, it has memories for me,” I decided to give up, and do it when she wasn’t there.
After the first day of the clean up, I’d thrown out a fair bit. She must have noticed, but as she didn’t know what it was that I was throwing out, didn’t comment. On the second day, at the bottom of a cupboard under two dusty phone books, I found his old laptop in a bag.
Dad had said that it was lost two or three years ago, and went out and bought another one.
He was very proud of his new Mac, showing everyone who came for the first few weeks. He must’ve forgotten he’d put the old one there. When he’d passed forty he’d said he thought he was losing his mind and maybe he was.
It looked pretty clean, as it should be, in a bag and under the phone books. I took it out and to my surprise it started, how long had it been, two years, three?
At least two years I thought, and yet it fired up ok. I wasn’t going to have it on when Mum came, so I closed it down, putting it back under the phone book, and meaning to come back for it later.
I remembered the next day and took it to my room that night. I started it up and looked through his files, there wasn’t much on it but what was on was all fairly new, all in the last two and a half years. It was all porn, I laughed, so this was how he kept it from Mum, this was why he spent so much time in the garage, “doing stuff.”
The next day we got the call that Grandma had died, she just didn’t wake up that morning, the cause of death was old age but we all knew that she’d died of a broken heart, she missed her son so much. As Colin said “how do you bury your child, it’s got to be the hardest thing you’ll ever do”. It was, and it proved too much for her, she just couldn’t go on.
I forgot about the laptop for a couple of days, and when I remembered, returned to it.
On closer examination it wasn’t all your standard porn in fact there were only three films on it, but all of the files, eighteen in total, were stories, erotic stories, and I thought, what the hell is Literotica anyway?
Two hours later I knew exactly what Literotica was, and I knew a lot more about my Father’s furtive, secretive life.
The three films were all from the Taboo series dealing with incest, and the stories were all about incest also. The most astonishing thing though, was that the stories were all written by him, in the first person, about his relationship with his mother.
Different things they’d done, places they’d gone to, different places they’d made love, different ways they’d made love. They were all claimed as fictional, but it was easy to fit members of our family into the picture as I read the stories.
The feedback from his readers was very good as the stories were well written, I felt proud of some of the comments that were posted, he had a lot of loyal readers. But I mean, shit, my father had had a sexual relationship with his mother. That was a whack between the eyes, was it ever, and how was I going to deal with this?
I watched the Taboo movies and found that I was enjoying them more than I should, especially the first one where Barbara goes into her son Paul’s room.
I played it several times telling myself that I was trying to better understand my father, but in fact the films were so well made, and so very erotic that they kept me intrigued for hours, so much so, that I copied them onto my computer to keep, along with his stories.
I looked through the family album and when you know what to look ataşehir escort bayan for, you can see it. In every photo he was holding her hand, his arm was around her, her arm was around him, her arm was through his and her breast was hard against his arm, or she was looking at him deeply with love in her eyes. Just a mother and her son photo? Yes absolutely, until I read his stories, I would’ve thought so also.
From the album I looked at photos of Mum when they got married, and saw a real resemblance between her and Dad’s mother when she was younger. When I mentioned it to Mum, she laughed, saying “yes, it was something that was commented on at the time, she looked more likely to be my mum than his.”
How long had this been going on anyway?
Over the course of a week I reread all of his stories several times, so that I almost knew them off by heart. I was able to judge that it’d been from a year after his Dad had died, right through until quite recently that they’d been involved. I must confess I found it changed completely my view of everyone else in my family, who else was having sex with whoever else, I tried to picture my father and his mother making love.
Every night now I had dreams about my Father making love with my Grandmother, which over several nights developed, until then Mum joined him in my dream. A few nights further on, and I joined the three of them at it. After that Mum started to be missing some nights, and then disappeared from the dreams completely, and then it was just Dad and I with Grandma.
The whole of this was like watching a movie filmed through a blue mist.
Dad and I seemed to be in conflict as to which one of us would make love to Grandma, I thought it was wrong for him to be making love with his mother, and tried to stop him by making love with her myself. When he won he turned and taunted me, and when I won, I turned to taunt him, but there was no one there.
On the times that I won, as I made love to her, Grandma put her arms around my neck squeezing as hard as she could with her mouth against my ear calling out, “I love you son, you’re the best son a mother could ever have,” and she looked into my eyes with the love only a mother could have for her son.
Even through the blue mist I could see and feel the emotions. Obviously she thought that I was Dad. These dreams went on for many weeks, almost every night. I had to start wearing bathers and bike pants to bed, as on the nights that I won and made love to Grandma, it turned into a ‘wet’ dream and I tried not to mess the bed.
Was I screwed up? You be the judge.
My biggest problem was how was I to deal with it, it’s ok to say just ignore it, no one needs to know. But I knew, I was being affected by it and found it hard to handle, I’d worked for the same importers for five years, but found it hard to go about my normal business doing what I’d been doing for all of those years.
One day the boss spoke to me, “Tim, what’s wrong, to be frank, you’ve become a fair pain in the arse lately.”
“Nothing really Bruno, thanks for your concerns, I’m just not sleeping since Dad died, I’ll get over it soon I hope.”
“Soon, I hope.” echoed Bruno, as he walked away.
What could I tell him? How about this for starters?
“Well yes Bruno, I do have a problem since you ask, you see I’m having sex all night, every night, with my dead Grandmothers memory.”
Any half decent psychiatrist would have had me incarcerated in a heartbeat, and become famous for identifying a new mental disorder.
I’d been seeing a really nice girl for over three months, but she just got sick of me and walked away.
What really affected me badly was not being able to talk about it with any one.
I asked Mum how she and Dad had met, she told me that he’d seen her on the train and started a conversation, she thought he was just an ordinary guy, nothing special.
He was on the train every morning, and asked her out several times until she ran out of excuses and finally agreed. She said it must’ve been meant to be or she would’ve thought to change carriages or even trains.
After their first date he kept at her for a second date, and then a third. On the third date he told her that he loved her and would marry her, she laughed and said she had no intention of marrying anyone yet as she intended to travel first.
He was very persistent and after a year and a half they were married. She said it was just impossible to resist him, he kept buying her flowers and other gifts and telling her how much he loved her, she’d never had anyone be so persistent and so she just stopped resisting.
When she finished talking she looked at me and asked. “What’s wrong, why did you ask me that?”
“Nothing’s wrong I just wanted to talk about you and Dad that’s all,” I turned and walked away. Nothing’s wrong, yep, I’ll believe it if you will.
A couple of months later Colin came to me in the garage and said, “what’s wrong Tim, your mum’s worried sick about you, she says escort kadıöy there’s a problem, and you won’t talk to her about it, you just won’t let her in. She’s had a bit on her plate with first your dad and then his mother dying, and this is more than she can take, she’s at her wits end. You’ll just have to tell her what’s wrong or she’ll most likely join them.”
This shocked me, I’ve been selfish only thinking about how it’d effected me and not how my behaviour was affecting her, so that night I talked to her and said, “sorry mum I’ve had a bit to deal with at work, and that girl Heather that I really liked, went off with another guy.”
I really tried but nothing changed, I was still having dreams about Dad and I fighting over who would make love with Grandma. Sometimes in my dreams again, all three of us were making love together.
One day I went to the photo album and got one out of Grandma taken in the garden many years ago, she was kneeling looking up at the camera, with two garden tools in one hand and her wide brimmed hat in the other.
She had such a lovely smile on her face, and whoever had posed her had got her blouse just a little opened with the slightest hint of her bra showing, it was perfect. I took it and put it into the drawer by my bed.
My grandmother had died at the age of eighty, but the full of life woman in the photograph would have been no more that a half of that age, and that was who I was making love with every night.
Before getting into bed I would kiss the photo and tell her, “see you in a little while.”
Sure enough as soon as I fell asleep, I was dreaming of her, and as time went on my father appeared less and less, so that it seemed that I’d at last beaten him out, and she was now mine. When this happened the love making became more intense, to the point that I now knew every inch of her body, because I’d kissed it so many times.
Her right nipple which was long, thick and black, was very sensitive, I’d lie across her body and spend ages just sucking it until she called out with pleasure, whilst pushing my face hard into her breast at her moment of release.
At other times I’d hold her legs wide apart and spend the time kissing her on one or the other of her thighs, at the very top, right alongside her entrance. Sometimes I’d suck her skin until it bruised, and the next night the mark would still be there, so I’d put another one alongside it.
Soon she had a collection of love bites which were in various stages of development or fading away. Love bites are the way that lovers mark their territories, what I was saying to my father was, “this is now mine, keep out.”
Many times after laying down claim notices a half the way down to her knees, I only had to move my head a few degrees to start mining my claim, looking for the rich veins of pleasure that I knew were hidden in there, cocooned deep within her velvet oyster, far from prying eyes.
But not too far to be impervious to the probing tongue and fingers, which searched for the small islands of skin, and the nerve ends, which I needed to reach to be able to communicate the messages of warmth and electricity to the receptors in the brain, which in turn sent their own messages of pleasure, to great effect.
It was so very real, and every night I had to get up, go into the bottom bathroom and clean myself up.
Our lovemaking was so very intense and I can still see her today as she opened her legs so wide and welcoming to allow me to enter, her lips swollen, wet and slightly parted in anticipation.
Then as soon as I entered her, her arms and legs clamped around my body, imprisoning me inside her, and as she came, I’d put my ear against her mouth, so that I could hear those beautiful words as she told me, time and time again what a good son I was, and how much she loved me.
She still thought that I was Dad, but I knew who it was that I was making love to.
Things happen in dreams that cannot in real life, and one of them was that as I was making love to her, I would depart from my body and move down to between her legs, as the camera would have done so, as it sought out ‘the money shot.’
From there I would see as I thrust myself into her, until the moment that I fired streams of high voltage liquid electricity inside her.
Only to then move back into my body again, to be able to feel the effects as the sparks did their work, and were then sent back into me by her finger nails spearing deep into my flesh, as she did some mining of her own.
We made love in every position that I knew of, it was all so languid and sensual, there had never been a coupling like this since Anthony and Cleopatra.
Sometimes in the bathroom cleaning myself up, the feelings were so very real that I’d look at my back in the mirror expecting to see her nail tracks, and blood on me.
Sometimes at work I would think about her, and be able to still taste her in my mouth.
Often many hours after the dream, I could still feel her sharp nails digging into maltepe escort my flesh, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had said to me that I had blood on my shirt it was just so, so real.
The weeks passed and the dreams continued, so that they just became a part of my life, it was a routine. I would kiss her photograph, say “see you in a little while,” go to sleep, have my dream with her, go to the bathroom, clean myself up, go back to sleep, and sometimes dream again. It just became a part of my life, and after a while it seemed so normal.
I thought I was dealing with it a lot better, but four weeks later Mum came to me at night just as I’d got into bed. “Tim, something is still bothering you what is it? Please talk to me about it.”
I just burst into tears, I never cried, nothing got to me I hadn’t cried at Dad’s funeral, nor Grandma’s. But now I did, and like a baby. She just sat there, and after a while said “please tell me.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Please tell me, you’ll find it won’t be as bad as you think when we both talk it out.”
She put her hand on my arm and said, “I’m your Mother, you can tell me anything, no matter how bad, no matter what you do, I’ll still love you.”
She needed to know, and I needed to tell someone, but I couldn’t tell her, so I went and got the laptop.
“I thought that was lost”, she said as she saw it.
“So did I, but I found it amongst Dad’s stuff’.” As I started the laptop, and then opened the files.
“Don’t worry about the movies now mum, you can watch them later if you wish, just read the stories, they’re in chronological sequence, and have more relevance.”
I lay on my bed and watched her for thirty minutes or so as she read two of the stories without expression, then she stopped and looked at me blankly. “I guess I knew all along, without really wanting to admit it. My bridesmaid Mary said that she thought that as he couldn’t have sex with his mother, he’d got a mummy clone in me. They’re not the words she used but you get the drift.”
She continued, “He’d started to see her on Friday nights when I worked late at the supermarket, she fed him and I got something to eat from work, and that helped me out. When my shifts changed, he continued going as she was missing his Dad so much, and from time to time he stayed overnight when he claimed that she was really bad.”
A long silence followed before she looked at me and said “I don’t want to talk now, I need time to process all of this, I’m going to bed. I’ll take the laptop as I’ll need to read the rest of it tomorrow. I hope you’re feeling better now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I’m not sure if I felt better or not but I did dream about making love with my Grandmother again that night, I won and she still thought that I was her son, the lovemaking reached its usual frenetic intensity, and again I had to use the bathroom to clean up.
I had to leave early the next morning before Mum was up, and when I got home I said to her, “did you read any more of the stories?”
“Yes all of them, twice.”
“What about the movies?”
“The first one.”
“What did you think?”
“Interesting to say the least, what did you think of it?”
“Interesting to say the least.”
“How many times did you watch them Tim?”
I smiled, “several.”
She returned the smile “and still going?”
“Yes.”
Mum and I talked more about the hurt that she was feeling than the mess that I was in, she felt she should have said something to Dad, but really it was only a feeling in her gut rather than something concrete, so there was nothing for her to talk to him about.
We talked for a couple of nights more, and then it just seemed the best to let it go and move on.
Me? Well I still had to wear the bike pants every night.
The days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and the year sped by. Mum never talked much about Dad and Grandma, and I never brought it up in case it stirred the memories up for her.
It was still hard for her though, all the special days were hard, his birthday, her birthday, Christmas, wedding anniversary, everything was just so hard.
Then the first anniversary of his death crashed down onto us.
We knew that 10:20am was the time he didn’t feel well at work, 10:25 they called the ambulance, 10:26 the office called mum, 10:45 the ambulance arrived, 11:05, he arrived at the hospital, 11:15 she arrived, and 11:50 he was pronounced dead.
The cold hard facts from last year, but colder and harder to live through this year, as I watched the clock minute by minute all through the morning, and then through for the rest of the day. Whatever time it was, I knew exactly where I was and what I was doing at that time.
Mum went to bed at 9:30 that night. She said that as she’d struggled through the anniversary, she’d had enough, as I had.
But I wanted to stay up to the end of the day at midnight. So I settled down in one half of a twin recliner and watched television, as usual everything on was shit.
Soon I gave up on the television, and quietly moving past Mum’s darkened room got a memory stick with his stories and the Taboo films on it and plugged it into the television. I didn’t want to watch the films but I did want to read his stories again.
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