Where it happened: Denver
Langauge: English
Sex: Male
Rating: 5
Category: Straight
When I was 18, mom and I went to Rolling Stones concert. At home afterwards we started dancing to their records. While Mick sang, “Let’s spend the night together,” we kicked off our shoes and boogied around the living room. We laughed and did little routines together, twirling around, bumping shoulders. Each time we looked at each other, so many emotions poured between our wide-open pupils: shyness, apologies for old hurts and harsh words, fear, nameless yearnings, defiance, and strongest of all — love.
The slow tempo of “No Expectations” brought us into a ballroom pose. While Mick crooned, “Never in my sweet short life have I felt like this before,” I held her manfully and bent her down into a low dip, my leg between hers. I could feel her warm midsection pressing against me and see the bulge of her breasts beneath her Mexican blouse. I almost dropped her, but managed to raise her back up. She must’ve felt something in my middle too, because she skittered away.
The next song caught her, though, and we were off on a fast one. She seemed the most beautiful and desirable woman I’d ever imagined. Her female core drew me like a magnet. I could tell from her surprised, embarrassed glances that she was seeing me as a man.
We played eye games, staring into each other’s and dancing closer and closer as if hypnotized, until it got too intense and we darted away. Finally we found ourselves just standing there two inches apart gazing into each other through a great silence. The song was over and we weren’t dancing.
When the record ended, I needed to look at something besides her, so nervously I picked up one of the jackets, Between the Buttons. The title seemed hilarious, and I cracked up, laughing to relieve the strain.
She came over to see and thought it was funny too. We pointed at the musicians’ pictures set into flowers and giggled together.
“Between the buttons,” I said. “What do you have between your buttons?” It seemed witty, and she reached out and tickled my tummy between my shirt buttons. We were blushing and our looks had turned daring. I tickled her in return, along her ribs then under her arms, and she squirmed and shrieked. We were both so tripped out that we did things we normally wouldn’t’ve let ourselves even think about.
“The buttons!” I intoned in a mock basso voice. “What’s between your buttons?” We stood close together panting with laughter. I touched her embroidered blouse and stretched my fingers between its wooden buttons as if measuring. A button came open and my hand kept going, into the soft fullness of her bra.
At that touch, every cell of my skin came alive, my breath hung suspended, and a different music drummed in my mind. I touched more, ran my hands over her luscious mounds. The other buttons came undone. “What do you have — ?”
“Whoa, you!” she cut me off and backed away on unsteady legs, rebuttoning her blouse. “Put on something a little quieter.” Mom turned away and looked at the record rack. As she bent over to pull out an LP, her jeans stretched around her curvy bottom.
I forced a laugh to make it seem this was still just a game and pulled the tails of her blouse out from her jeans. She jerked up, turned around with a reprimanding but amused look, and waggled her finger at me. “OK … stop now.”
“Only if you give me a kiss,” I insisted, trying to sound playful.
Diana puckered her full lips into a little moue, then began laughing. I lurched into her, held her in my arms, kissed her cheek, then her lips. She didn’t return the kiss but let me continue. I brushed my lips gently over hers, trying to recall all my limited make-out skills. I slipped one hand under her blouse and up her back.
My thoughts were chaos. What was I doing? This was mom I was groping! That’s the Big Don’t. I must be freaking out. But I couldn’t stop. A wild roaring hunger drove me on.
#If you’d like to read the entire true story, you can download it free on Smashwords: “TABOO: A Memoir” by Tom Hathaway.
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