Built for One Thing

(Part 1 from 6)

I had wanted to fuck my gorgeous mother since the moment I learned what fucking was all about.

At a very young age, I had become aware of Mom's ravishing looks--aware, at least, that she didn't resemble other women. She was taller, her hips were wider, her legs were longer and her breasts were much larger. Plus, her skin was smoother and softer and her arms didn't have that flab that I saw on her friends' arms. Her face was so much prettier, too. During my pre-school years, I loved to remind her of this last fact as I tagged along with her on errands. "Oh, thank you, sweetie-bear," she'd say, grinning and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Before long, I realized that other people--men, mainly--noticed Mom, too. Wherever she and I went without Dad, wolf whistles and shouts like "Hey, honey pie!" followed us like the baying of horny dogs. I became so accustomed to them, the way an urban dweller grows deaf to the sound of sirens, that they became a normal part of my environment. Even today I never notice when some jerk whistles at a woman who's with me. On some unconscious level, I probably assume they're whistling at Mom.

Back then, I naively thought all women provoked the same reactions from men until the day I mustered the nerve to ask Mom about it. She was walking me home from kindergarten through our neighborhood of big houses and lush, sloping lawns, and the route took us past a home being built two blocks down the street from ours. As we walked by, a guy with a thick moustache yelled from the roof, "Hey, baby, bring those things up here!" Mom didn't seem to hear him.

As we crossed to the next block, I said, "Mom, what things was that man talking about?"

"I'm not sure," she said casually. "Since he was too lazy to include an adjective, like 'big' or 'long,' he could have meant either my breasts or my legs."

"Why do workmen always say stuff to you?"

"They do it for fun. And I guess they think I'm really hot."

"Like a stove?"

"Well, not quite. You'll find out later."

"You're pretty, Mom."

"Thank you, sweetie-bear."

"And those *are* really big," I said.

She followed my gaze to her tits, which were bouncing around and stretching a green tank top out far in front of her body. They were easily the size of cantaloupes. Each looked as large as my head.

"Oh, not you, too, Bobby," she said, rolling her eyes.

"No, I mean they're big and pretty," I said.

"Thank you, honey. Coming from you, I don't mind at all. They are nice and big, aren't they? This bra really lets them jiggle." She cupped her hands under them, hoisted and made them boomerang up and down a few times as she grinned and wiggled her eyebrows at me. I giggled, but I was far too young to realize what a mind-boggling sight it was. The imbecile on the roof would have squirted his brain into his pants.

"Do you like them? I look a lot younger than I am, don't I?"

"Probably. How old are you?"

"Never mind."

"Does Dad like them?" I asked, pointing at her tits.

"He never pays much attention to them," she said.

I wondered what was wrong with him. "I would if I was Dad." Mom was quiet for a minute. My parents got along okay, but Dad traveled a lot for a his job. He was the vice-president of an oil company. And even when he was home, I didn't see much of him except at breakfast and dinner.

But he a sense of humor. Before my bedtime, whenever Mom would read *The Little Engine That Could* to me, Dad would poke his head in the room and say, "Jill, that *is* an oil-burning locomotive, right?" She would snicker and say, "Oh, Charles."

On the sidewalk, Mom and I were nearing our house. "Bobby, starting tomorrow, let's walk to school a different way."


"And remind me not to wear this top anymore."

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