“Twice. Once about fifteen years ago when we were really wasted, and last Christmas in Tulum.” Dad talked about it like he was describing the times he’d gone parasailing. Like it was a fun diversion. I remembered the Tulum vacation. Robert Brown and Son always travel over the holidays, usually somewhere warmer. That’s what I mean when I say that our life is hard work rewarded with play. I didn’t realize they were ‘playing’ with some other dude in the hotel room next door.
“I thought that guy was bringing room service….ohhh, he was, wasn’t he?” I know I flushed red.
Dad laughed and turned the truck onto our long gravel drive. The rows of deep blue-green cedars guiding us home were soft in the December light. Over us a brief snow squall burst, but at the horizon the clouds parted and a shaft of golden light cut through the swirling flakes. Around the bend our family home waited, glowing in that lowering sun, cradled by the long flank of Brown’s mountain. If you follow the horse path uphill from the barn you enter the national forest about half way up. I wondered if my mother would be on her way back red faced from a frigid ride or already in the kitchen with a hot dinner ready to serve. Would she expect dad to have broached the subject? Would she expect me to say yes?
Hanging our waxed barn jackets in the hall, shucking our boots, we found mom in the kitchen. She had the woodstove cranking. Like a 1950’s housewife she wore a trim blue skirt and pink blouse under a dark red apron, with low-heeled mary janes, her blond hair bound by a seafoam-green silk scarf. As it happened she served meatloaf from a recipe she’d gotten from a Michelin-starred chef that used our home-grown veal and veggies. I rolled up my sleeves and Dad and I tucked in while mom puttered about, sitting for a few bites, then getting up to fiddle with something, more busy than usual. Seeing the look in dad’s eye as he looked over my shoulder at her I guessed that she was nervous…about the obvious. At least, I thought, she must know the gravity of this outrageous proposal…this outrageously enticing and disturbing proposal.
“Amy, sit down and be still for a minute,” commanded dad, “let’s kill the elephant in the room.”
Mom tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, smoothed the skirt under her and sat across from me beside my father. He lay his big, calloused hand over her tiny one. Dad looked her in the eye, “I told him what you want.”
She looked up at me with a mix of apprehension and excitement, toyed with her simple pearl necklace, licked her lips and said, “What do you think, Grant?”
I’d learned from dad how important it is when negotiating to let the silence bring out your opposite’s true desire to close the deal. So I just looked thoughtfully in her eyes and wondered at what was going on in her mind. I was reluctant to just say OK to the offer. Why me? Wasn’t it against the law? Would it feel sick in reality, or would it feel natural like in my fantasies? We’d have to keep it secret, wouldn’t we? Once, or how many times? Birth control, or not? Dad had said she wanted us to “have sex together.” Did he mean we’d take turns or take her from both ends at once.
The moment the image of mom spit-roasted between us flashed in my mind, I think mom knew I’d agree; she saw my gaze transform from that of a loving and well-behaved son to that of a grown up, horny man. Did she sense that my attitude toward her transformed then too? This wasn’t one of those sudden paradigm shifts where the scales fell from my eyes and I suddenly realized that my mother was a ‘woman’ with womanly needs. No, I’d often thought it was unfair that any boy should be mothered by a woman with such a potent sexual energy. I’d been bathed in her sexuality as long as I could remember. Yes, I’d fantasized and felt awkward about it, frustrated. I just thought she was only for dad. Now I could have her too? I wouldn’t be her son so much as she would be my willing sexual partner. Since man naturally leads women it followed that now she’d obey me like she did my father. But would she, really?
I remembered what dad had taught me about being a leader. Grant, he’d said many times, like me you were born with the potential to be an alpha male. Intelligence more than brawn, wealth more than greed, compassion more than dominance are what makes a man an alpha. He’d explained that I’d encounter several kinds of men being formed in high school and that I was virtually destined to be made an alpha by them. That is, my physical prowess, that I wielded with restraint, my intelligence, that I used to benefit all, my confidence and security, that came from my landed and rock-solid family would induce others to cede power to me. There would be those boys who simply understood that I was better than them and would be ready allies, other boys who didn’t care for the hard work or challenge and risks of being a leader, who’d always be followers, and two other kinds.
These other two were alike but would act differently. They’d come from poor homes, either poor in material wealth or poor in emotional intelligence or both – sons of drunks or men of low integrity, without the family to teach them to be strong, no matter how large or intelligent they may be. One group of these boys could be made into followers by showing compassion, by becoming a mentor, by being the family they needed. The other group, though small, was the problem. These boys would foolishly challenge my leadership, acting out their poor family dynamics. These are the kind that were bullies if given any power at all. First, I should attempt to mentor them. If not accepted, I should quickly and ruthlessly hurt them so badly they’d never challenge me again.
With alpha status in your domain, dad had explained, you’re living out a man’s natural territorial imperative. Someone has to lead, to be in control. Make that person Grant Brown.
That’s how my years at Reynolds Prep played out, too. I put Don Fleming in the hospital in freshman year; he told everyone he’d fallen off of his tractor. For most of the four years no one else took the risk, though there was the occasional broken finger. The administration appreciated my benevolent leadership and my example. Reynold’s baseball team and the entire school’s academic performance excelled under my influence.
Dad also advised, you’ll be swarmed by the girls, so make a careful choice of your training-wheels women. You want girls who like sex as much as you but won’t get all romantic…because it’s not going to last. I remember he said that a good woman is like a perfectly broken-in pair of boots. It takes a while, but they end up fitting like a glove, with a soft buttery skin and character wrinkles in the right places. They don’t chafe and you can depend on them for a long day’s work. They both have a rich, unique smell and look better with age. I do love a good pair of boots, don’t you?
He was right about the swarming girls, too. Maggie had offered herself to me like so many had, and I could see she had a hunger that had nothing to do with me in particular. But I was the alpha and she wanted that. She reminded me of my mother in her natural, earthy sexual presence. She was an animal and a fearless one. A soft, warm and juicy vixen. Maggie wasn’t a virgin; she walked like her hip joints were lubricated, smiled like she knew my secrets, touched me like she knew where my most sensitive buttons were hidden. Dad had approved. Nice rack, he’d said when I brought her ’round, that’s the kind of ride you’re looking for.
Maggie and I’d explored each other’s bodies and taken each other to the heights of pleasure often over the summer before she left for Stanford. Then, unsurprisingly, when she came back for Thanksgiving we had farewell sex. We’d always been frank about the nature of our relationship. In fact, we’d both supposed that her being in California would be the end of it. Both of us wanted a sex partner, not a romance. Our last time, on our sides, from behind, in her family’s pool house, was for old times sake.
Back in our farmhouse kitchen, in the warm, yellow light at the dining table, my mother put her fingers into the hairs on my forearm and my balls clenched. Looking into her inquiring and hopeful blue eyes, I said, “You’re dad’s partner, not mine.” I was thinking of the territorial imperative. The fine smile lines and peach fuzz on her pink cheeks called for my fingertips to caress them. I restrained myself, if barely.
“Grant, since you’ve become a man…and I mean not just in years, but in your body and your brain…you remind me so much of your father. Anyway, I’ve been watching the two of you around here with your muscles and your bulges…Oh, I’ve been so fulfilled by your father’s talented body,” she looked at him smiling wickedly, “and for a while I’ve wondered what it would be like to have two bodies like that. Two bodies…two mouths, two tight asses, two cocks, twenty fingers…Ahem, well we tried it last Christmas and I give your dad credit…he wasn’t entirely sure… but we both liked it!”
Dad’s face reflected thoughtfulness and satisfaction; clearly it was a fond memory.
“You’re happy to share, right Bob?” she said, looking to dad for confirmation.
“Yep,” he said, squeezing her hand, then looking hard at me, “Your mother’s been telling me how she wanted to try two men for some time. It took me a while to come around. I mean, it’s been years that she’s been pestering me.”
“Still, I persisted,” mom smiled up at him coyly.
“She kept describing it in detail. Until I thought I was missing something.”
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