Blake got the job in my metropolitan area, and ten weeks after our first contact he made provisions to make a trip to the area to find an apartment. I took off work to pick him up at the airport and show him around. I was never more nervous in my life.
Even though I had never before seen Blake, or even a photograph, I recognized him as soon as he came through security. He looked like his father, only larger and with my eyes and hair. He was six feet three inches tall, probably about 210 pounds, with muscular arms, a mega-handsome face, and a smile that lit up the entire airport. I got weak-kneed. There must have been something about me that he intuitively recognized – maybe it was the expression on my face or the tears unconsciously welling-up in my eyes – because after one glance around the waiting area he honed in on me.
“Hi Amy,” Blake gushed as he gave me the longest and most zealous hug that I’ve ever received, as I sobbed “Blake, Blake, Blake,” into his ear as I squeezed him tight.
We had talked so much on the phone that I felt that I already knew him – and he said the same thing to me. We walked arm-in-arm directly to my car since he just had a carry-on bag. We had lunch, I drove him around to apartments, after talking to his wife Melanie on the phone he signed a six month lease for one that was only ten minutes from my house, and I made him dinner at my place. He insisted on doing all of the cleanup while I merely watched and “supervised,” with wine glass in hand.
I don’t think that I had a better time in my life with my clothes on. We really hit it off. He stayed in one of my guest bedrooms, and we both turned in about midnight. I was the happiest I had been in years, maybe ever; that is until I recognized that my happiness was due in large part to fire in my loins.
I woke up three times that night in a sweat, with my hand on my pussy, thinking about fucking Blake. I tried my best to purge those thoughts from my mind, but I wasn’t successful. I was horrified by the social unacceptability and taboo of my feelings, enough so that I was wary when I greeted Blake the next morning. When I saw him in just a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, however, my apprehension was replaced again by the vigor in my crotch.
I somehow got through a breakfast of blueberry pancakes, sausage and orange juice without staring at his midsection. When we parted at the airport he gave me a quick, though not innocent, kiss on the lips. My spine almost became a wet noodle.
I tried to justify/analyze/minimize my feelings toward Blake in the ensuing weeks, and did the best that I could not to immediately run a dildo up my pussy after each time that I talked to him on the phone. I was afraid that what I was feeling toward him was passionate romantic love, but never having experienced it before I was able to at least partially fool myself that it was just the excitement of reconnecting with the only person that I had given life to.
When Blake and Melanie moved to the apartment near my house, I helped them get things settled. Blake and I had decided that it was not right just yet to tell everyone that I was his biological mother, so we decided on a cover story that I was someone from his workplace who had been assigned to smooth his transition to the area.
I didn’t like Melanie. She was snooty, pushy, and mean-spirited. I may have quickly come to that conclusion just because she didn’t treat Blake the way that I thought he should be treated. Maybe I was jealous too because she was sleeping with Blake and I wasn’t. Blake excused much of her behavior by indicating that she was not really happy about moving, and would have preferred to stay near her parents in their old location.
Since I was not enamored with Melanie, Blake and I usually got together without her. We talked on the phone regularly and met in person at least once during the week, often for lunch, and at least once on the weekend. Unfortunately, the stirring in my crotch never subsided, and our parting kisses seemed to me to be getting longer and were always more intense than any others in my life. I finally admitted to myself that I had a problem, and went to see my friend the female psychologist, Martha Milner.
I spent the first fifteen minutes of my appointment with Martha nervously beating around the bush, refusing to make eye contact, and wondering whether she’d call the cops and have me arrested if I told her my story. Finally she said “Alright, Amy; stop bullshitting; tell me what your problem is. If you don’t, I can’t help.”
After a long pause I finally summoned the courage, looked her in the eye, and said “I think that I’m madly in love with my son.”
“I didn’t know that you had kids,” was her first reaction.
“I have one – a son that I gave up for adoption as a baby twenty five years ago.” I proceeded to tell Martha everything that I thought was relevant. When I finished, I heaved a sigh of relief.
With a contemplative look on her face Martha said “Sounds like GSA to me.”
I was perplexed. “What does gunshot residue have to do with my situation?” I naively asked.
“Not GSR,” she lightly chuckled, “GSA; genetic sexual attraction.”
“What the hell is that? I never heard of it.”
“It’s a condition where two related people, brother-sister, father-daughter, mother-son, sometimes even first cousins, meet for the first time in adulthood and have a strong romantic and/or sexual allure. I’m not an expert on it – actually probably no one is. However, I have a colleague that knows as much about it as anyone and I’ll send you to him.”
Before I could even protest she was on the phone talking directly with Dr. Milton Strong who was a professor of psychology at the local university. “Can you meet with Dr. Strong tomorrow at noon for an hour or so,” Martha asked me while still on the phone with Strong.
“Uh…I guess…uh…sure,” I stammered in reply. And so the next day around lunch I found myself in Dr. Strong’s office, greeted by a man that would clearly be cast as a Professor of Psychology in a Hollywood movie, complete with Freudian facial hair and receding hairline and wearing a tweed jacket and holding a pipe in his left hand.
After initial pleasantries I got right to the point, as uncomfortable as it was. At least Martha had taken the edge off by being able to name my condition (or whatever you want to call it), leading me to hope that I wasn’t a total freak. After repeating what Martha said, I then got a lecture on GSA from Dr. Strong.
“GSA was first identified as a real ‘condition’ in the 1980s by Barbara Gonyo, the founder of Truth Seekers In Adoption, a Chicago-based support group for adoptees and their new-found relatives. While she was not a trained psychologist she was a very perceptive woman and had to deal with the real life situation of falling madly in love with her son. Gonyo struggled for thirteen years to break off feelings for him before writing about it.”
“Was she successful?” I asked.
“Not really – but since her son didn’t have as intense of a reaction they supposedly never engaged in sex. Since then there hasn’t been much legitimate research on the subject likely because no one wants to get a PhD in what many people would call ‘Incest,’ however that does not mean that the condition is not real. In fact, evidence from the Post-Adoption Centre and University College London suggests that GSA happens in 50 percent of reunion cases. With some people, like you, it is almost overpowering.”
“Why does it occur? I mean there is very little real incest in families, so why under these circumstances?” I provocatively inquired.
“The rationale is – and of course it is just a hypothesis at this stage – is that an effect in infancy protects against GSA. When families live closely together, they become desensitized to each other as sexual prospects. This desensitization effect is believed to happen between birth and age six. Without it, and when relatives meet later in life, GSA can occur.”
We proceeded to talk more. Dr. Strong was non-judgmental and assured me that it was his philosophy that although a relationship as a result of GSA probably met the definition of “incest” that he didn’t consider it as such as long as children were not in the equation. He also assured me that there was virtually zero chance of legal repercussions, and in fact zero if no one else knew that I was Blake’s biological mother.
I left Dr. Strong’s office with a better grasp on my situation, but still not sure what to do about my uniquely intense feelings for Blake. “Maybe like Barbara Gonyo’s son he doesn’t have the same feelings for me,” I mused, although from the way that Blake looked at, held, and kissed me I was afraid that that was not the case.
Things came to a head just ten days after my meeting with Dr. Strong. Melanie and Blake had had an argument which caused her to leave for the weekend and go visit her parents. I suspected that I had something to do with the argument since I had seen Blake twice the preceding weekend and Melanie didn’t like it. Anyway, Blake invited me to go to a Saturday afternoon baseball game, which I happily agreed to.
Blake was very handsy and solicitous at the game. Since it was hot I was wearing shorts and a tank top, but with the proper undergarments. At one point he whispered to me “You’re causing quite a stir in our section.”
“What do you mean?” I chuckled.
“With your short shorts on all the men are ogling your world class thighs – making me quite jealous,” he chortled. Then he stroked my thigh, and left his hand on my knee. My pussy quickly became a waterworks probably because it was the first time that he had been so blatantly appreciative of my appearance.
“You’re dreaming,” I replied, trying to sound flippant. Then he laid a short duration but intense kiss on my lips and went back to watching the game – but with his hand still on my knee.
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