Billy Morris is no exception. Just a few years out of college, he’s putting his broadcast journalism degree to good use as a reporter for a local TV station. It’s a small station in a small town. Billy hopes one day to work in a large metro area for a national affiliate. It’s a start, where he is now, and that’s okay with him, for he knows that many of the industry’s top names began their careers at small stations in small towns.
He’s single, lives in a two-bedroom apartment and is generally happy with where he is in life. But lately, there is something that’s been bothering him, eating at him like an itch that won’t go away. And that something is what he wouldn’t dare discuss with friends. It began with dreams of his mom in various stages of undress and then progressed into Billy becoming more involved in these nocturnal taboo goings on. The dreams began a few months ago, and he has no doubt what triggered them. If he had repressed anything, it was the way his mom had pranced around the household in skimpy attire. The kid Billy paid no attention. The teen Billy, hormones raging, paid lots of attention. What embarrassed him most was when his mom caught him looking and then smiled with gratification. Quickly, he’d look away, ashamed and embarrassed. Nothing was said between them, nor did Billy ever bring it up to his dad or younger sister.
The “exposures,” as he called them in his middle school and early high school years, stopped in his senior year in high school. His mom dropped the skimpy attire when he was around. He wasn’t sure why, and he wasn’t about to ask. After he left for university, those memories of seeing his mom doing housework in revealing clothing such as short-shorts and see-through negligées faded into the ether. He didn’t forget; he just had other priorities–pouring over his studies and also dating a few of the girls he met on campus and off.
But now, right in the beginning stages of his media career, he’s dreaming things that actually happened and other things he apparently wants to happen. If not, why would his subconscious serve up such erotic images, images that produce wet dreams and shameful desires?
He and his mom Tracie never had an inappropriate relationship. There was no inappropriate touching, no sexually explicit remarks, no obvious attempts on her part to seduce him, although Billy questions that last one. The images of that time when he lived at home come back to haunt him. Tracie, attired in a short nightie, bending over the washing machine, exposing her sexy ass. Tracie, reading in bed, with her nightgown pulled to the tops of her full, creamy thighs. Tracie, squatting down, using the vacuum cleaner hose to vacuum under furniture, wearing a short housedress. And she wasn’t wearing panties. Images–vivid, undeniably erotic and bothersome enough where Billy considers seeing a sex therapist.
First, though, he begins to read on the web about the Oedipus Complex, a theory developed by Sigmund Fraud to explain a child’s attachment to his mother during early childhood. Normally, the complex is resolved when the boy begins to identify with his father. But what if it isn’t resolved? Billy doesn’t find much material on that, only that the boy might develop “abnormal” sexual relationships as an adult. So far, that hasn’t been the case with him. He’s had what he considers “healthy” sexual relationships with past girlfriends.
Meanwhile, the dreams continue, dreams that he’d be embarrassed to reveal even to a sex therapist. So he drops that idea. In his most recent dream, he walks into his mom’s bedroom to find her dressed in a black Teddy, sitting on her bed, legs bent under her, with her pussy exposed. ‘Mom, why are you wearing that?’ he asks. She answers: ‘To turn you on, son. Like it?’ Then he awakes to find himself nursing a boner that he doesn’t hesitate to take care of, letting his imagination run wild. He extends the dream, imagining things that bring him to a quick climax, while leaving him ashamed at the same time.
The unthinkable is becoming more thinkable–confronting Tracie. But that idea seems more embarrassing than telling friends or a sex therapist. He pictures a number of reactions. She’d laugh at him. Or, she might be appalled to the point of telling him to get the hell out of her sight. Or, as in his dreams, she likes what she hears and helps him fulfill those dreams. Again, thinking back to when he lived at home, she must have had a motive for dressing the way she did, for grinning when he gawked and then, in his last year of high school, appearing more covered up when he was home.
Finally, when his curiosity gets the best of him, Billy decides to pay Tracie a visit. She’s now an empty nester, living in the same bungalow-style, white clapboard house that she lived in prior to her divorce from ex-husband Leonard Morris. He calls first, tells her there’s something he needs to discuss. “Email or texting won’t do,” he says.
“I hope nothing’s wrong. Are you okay?”
“Doing great. See you after work.”
Come early evening, Billy sits behind the wheel of his Honda CRV, his nerves a jangled mess. He’s not sure how he’s going to approach this sensitive subject that very few sons, he imagines, ever discuss with their moms. He’s got to first remind her about the way she used to dress around the house. That would be tough enough. But then, going into his dreams…It seems overwhelming, so much so that he’s tempted to turn back for home. But doing that won’t resolve his problem. “No, this is what I’ve got to do,” he says out loud.
He pulls up to the house, parks by the curb, then walks up the flagstone walkway to the front door and reaches for the heavy brass door knocker. He’s wearing the conservative outfit he wore for work, olive dress pants and a blue, button-down dress shirt.
Tracie greets him wearing white slacks, a striped green and white blouse and black flats. She wore this very outfit when he and his sister Marlene came over for dinner. Nothing provocative there. Even so, Billy notices the way her tight slacks bring out the fine curves in her shapely thighs. She’s nearing fifty, and yet her light brown hair, the ends curled just shy of her shoulders, is still devoid of gray. He always noticed the sensuous, seductive way she brushed back her hair and shook her head, her full lips parting slightly as she did it. He never thought she was actually trying to be seductive; it was just her way.
After removing his wire-frame glasses, he bends down to kiss her. He has to, for she is a mere five-four to his lanky six-two.
After stepping into the living room, she says, “Billy, what can I get you to drink? Last week, you and Marlene raved about the Merlot I served.”
“That would be great,” he says, greater than she even knows, he thinks. He needs something to calm his nerves.
He also goes along with her suggestion about talking on the back patio. The warm spring evening is perfect for enjoying fine wine and chatting. He surmises, though, that Tracie might not think that what he plans to chat about is particularly pleasant.