“Please, sugar. I won’t expose myself to you. I’ve thought about how I want this done–for both of us. I want you to just put some of that cream along the side of your hand where your pinky finger is. Cover that side, and just knife your hand through.”
“Just once?”
“Well,” she said, “maybe you ought to saw it back and forth a couple of times to make sure you cover the area.”
“Okay.”
I coated Mom’s bottom pretty well.
She watched me carefully while I greased up my hand for the knife-through. She told me to add some more here. More there. Then, she nodded, saying, “Gently.”
I slid my hand through the dark line like swiping an old credit card. Then I went back through the other way.
Mom winced and gasped. “Again,” she groaned.
I did it again.
“Deeper, sugar. You’re not getting it in there enough. I’m so sorry.”
Adding some pressure I went back and forth again. I heard Mom moan, and then I almost gasped. The side of my hand slid over her anus. My pinky finger touched it. I rapidly drew my hand out.
Mom flinched, saying, “That’ll do. Finish my legs, please.”
I did, and then I washed up and went to school.
***
It was during second period that I began finding it difficult to concentrate. The phrase “I touched my mom’s anus” kept popping into my mind. It was insane, knowing I had felt that part of her body.
I couldn’t speak intelligently about other sons, but I didn’t spend much time considering my mother’s body, especially her anus. In fact, it was probably the place on her body I considered the least.
On those rare occasions, for example, when I thought of Mom’s breasts, I knew I’d been nursed by them, and the idea made me cringe. The only other time I considered them was when she decided to wear something that showed them off a bit. It annoyed me.
When I considered her special woman’s place–a singularly uncommon event–it was either in terms of my birth or when I could not prevent from zipping across my mind the idea of my mother coupling with my pop or Gary. On those occasions, I remember shaking my head as if to dislodge the thought. That part of my mom’s body was inviolable; one best not ever dwelled upon.
But, her anus? Did I ever think about it?
I supposed it had happened–once or twice in my life. Maybe because of that rarity it seemed like the most intimate part of her. Certainly, it was the most guarded part of her, hidden not only by the usual layers of clothing but also buried by the natural contours of the body. The same could not be said of her other womanly parts.
I decided that I was more likely in life to see my mother’s bare breasts or even her secret place before I ever saw her anus. If she considered the same thing–what parts of hers might accidentally be exposed to her son–I imagined she might draw the same conclusion. How strange it was that I had touched her there.
I had kissed one girl, but I had never touched one in an intimate place. Now, I had, and it was my Mom’s anus. It was all wrong, I told myself. It was a nightmare scenario for a son.
Plus, I reminded myself, a woman’s anus was not really a loving place. On a girl’s body, that spot was a business address; other places on women were more like vacation resorts.
Was that accurate, though? I asked myself. Didn’t I hear or read somewhere that certain women enjoyed touches on that part of the body? What if Mom did?
Oh, gosh.
Not long ago, the subject of the anus came up during one of the late-night talk shows. I was with Mom in the family room, watching tv. She always liked to hear the opening monologues. I was on my phone, texting with a friend back in Nashville when I overheard the joke.
I turned toward the television when I heard the phrase “anal loving.” Mom blurted, “Goodness gracious!” and instantly changed the channel.
That had been expected.
What was unexpected was her brief comment on the subject afterward. She intoned, “Good girls don’t do such things, sugar, and gentlemen don’t even ask.”
I nodded to her. Advice from my mom, I wondered, about that?
Back in my classroom, I decided a woman’s anus was a curious place–a mysterious and guarded one.
What made it even more fascinating was that it was taboo in my household. My mom was a very proper woman. We didn’t say “butt” or something worse; we said “fanny” or words similarly benign. Mom did not tolerate toilet humor, teenage slang, and especially foul language. She expected excellent manners. She did not discuss private, personal issues. In fact, rather than addressing human sexuality with me directly, she sent me to a summer school class offered by one of the big churches in Nashville.
On those few, extremely rare occasions when Mom had to address the issue of sex, she used words like “couple” or “mate.” I grew used to her language preferences, and I tried to use the words that would have met with her approval, even when most of the kids at school used the big baddies. Mom appreciated it. She thanked me when she heard me talk like a gentleman.
Now, I had touched her anus.
In a way, that part of my mother was a dangerous, illicit thing, maybe more so than anywhere else on her body except for her special place.
I wondered what she felt–not on her body, but in her mind–when my pinky finger dragged across it. Was she embarrassed that she had to allow her only child to touch her there? Was she angry about it? Was she excited?