The Practical Applications of Bimbo Math
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I am 32 years old. Jonathan is 18. You don't need to be an accountant to do the math. For the record, I am starting this account Sunday evening, March 1, 2015. The date the account actually begins is May 27, 2014, a Tuesday. The time was just after 11 p.m. It was the day between Jonathan's birthday, and my own.
Jonathan's father is long out of the picture. I haven't seen him in almost four years. For Jonathan, it's been nearly three years. His father lives in Laramie, Wyoming, with his third wife and their three kids. Nick has six children altogether, including Jonathan.
His father and I were never married. I've never married, and retain my maiden name, or course, while Jonathan bears the name of his father. That was our parent's decision. I wanted Jonathan named completely after my father, whom I adore, but he overrode me. A child is the son of his father, he said. I was 14; I had no say.
I work for my dad. He is general manager and part owner of the third largest electrical supply company on the East Coast. I've worked for him all my adult life. I worked part time for him during 11th and 12th grade, sporadically during college, and then he put me to work as a newly minted BA in accounting after graduation. Because of my father, I can provide for my son as a single parent in our own home. It's not always easy. Sometimes, it's very, very difficult.
Mom and Dad took legal custody of Jonathan until I turned 18. It was the only way to keep him out of the hands of his other grandparents. I had little contact with Nicholas after revealing that I was pregnant, until we turned 16 and Nicholas rebelled. By then, it was too late. We had little in common to begin with except intense sexual attraction in our thirteenth year, and two years away from him put an end to that. I had little to do with any boy, all the way through the end of high school.
It was different in college, of course; I went wild. I almost lost Jonathan again, and probably for good this time, had Dad not put an end to my wildness with a good spanking over his knee on my bare behind. This was in front of my roommates during the end of my sophomore year, and I hated him for it. He made me kneel in a corner afterward, like he made me do when I was a little girl, hands on my head, my bare bottom showing the results of his handiwork. I hated him, but I grew up that night. I wish he were here to discipline me now. I deserved to be put in a corner again, crying.
Jonathan is at school, probably raising hell with his friends, doing what every freshman does their first year-get trashed and party. He drives home on weekends to see me. It's a four-hour drive, but he never misses a weekend, no matter how bad the weather or road conditions. Since he left in September, he's been home every weekend but one, and only because his car broke down. He usually arrives around the time I get home Friday night, and heads back at three p.m. Sunday afternoon. We spend as much time together as possible. His friends grow rather chagrined, I imagine, knowing he's here and Jonathan practically ignoring them. I am selfish bitch and don't care.
I keep putting this off. Just type it out, Jena.
I can't. Even though it's the reason I opened my Macbook tonight.
Monday evening
March 2, 2015
I've decided to do this as journal entries. I came apart last night, closed the lid on the Macbook and went to bed. Actually, I read on my Kindle and munched on celery and carrot sticks until midnight. Jonathan says I'm a rabbit. I'm a vegetarian, though unlike vegans, I occasionally eat fish and have no problem with most diary products, other than milk. I have never liked milk. Maybe because my mother poured it down me by the gallon growing up. I also don't much care for cheese, though I eat it on salads and such. I tell you this; to explain the full tub of Ranch dip I consumed last night with the celery and carrots. Dip is my comfort food. I am helpless before dip.
Jonathan is my lover. There I said. It's done.
Tuesday evening
March 3, 2015
Last night went well. I got one paragraph written. I dropped my bombshell, though, and that was good. I have never told anyone. I hereby confess to everyone now, anyone who reads this account. No one will ever, ever read this account.
I don't mean to be flip. This truly is a horrendous situation. Difficult beyond all imagining for a mother, woman, daughter, companion. It is amazing that I haven't lost my mind the way I lost my moral compass in the last 10 months. How effing fragile I've become. How unable to explain why I continue to do this week after week, with no end in sight. People kill themselves over things like this. I wanted to, that first night especially, as the true horror of the situation enveloped me like a death shroud. That's where this account starts: the worst moment of my life. That split second in time that Jonathan had prayed for since the age of eleven, and never believed would come. It was the moment he reached orgasm and ejaculated into his mother's vagina.
There, I said it. So much worse than a simple admission of wrongdoing. Let me say it again: Jonathan ejaculated in me at approximately 11: 06 p.m. on the evening of May 27, 2014, the day following his 18th birthday, and one shy of my 32nd. Our shared birthday present, as I've often thought.
It's 9:41 p.m. I took an hour away from typing that bit about the birthday present.
I became unglued, even as his sperm flooded my insides. I was in bed with my son, my underwear on the floor beside us, the rest of my clothing downstairs on the living room floor. A half-empty bottle of Chardonnay on the bedside table alongside two empty glasses; an empty bottle on the coffee table downstairs, the remains of the four joints we'd smoked, the strip monopoly game where I'd removed everything but my panties in front on my son.
"Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus," he cried repeatedly as my body rebelled, as my mind started to shut down. Not pushing him away, but withdrawing into itself like a flipped tortoise into its shell. My arms released first, folding alongside my ribcage, hands tucking into my armpits defensively. Then my legs came apart, spread-eagling first, before forcing their way beneath him even as he struggled to bury himself deeper inside me. Finally, I turned away, closed my eyes, and imagined soaking in a hot bubble bath, in my darkened bathroom, scented candles flickering through the translucent curtain. It was my only means of escape, of mental survival. I had just fucked my son.
"Mom?"
I made a pitiful mewling noise and shook my head.
"Mom, are you okay?"
How could I be okay? On what planet could I possibly be okay with what I'd just done? I just kept shaking my head.
"Mom, it's all right," he soothed, trying to bring my chin around with his fingertips, but I shook him off.
"No," I croaked. "Don't."
He lay still, supported on his elbows, his weight on my hips and thighs, still in me, but no longer moving. I could feel the slick wetness of his semen, leaked out from our exertions and from my desperate pullback. I will always feel the wetness we made our first time together. It was not all him, not close; I had added my share.
"Are you all right?"
"Please stop asking me that," I pleaded.
He remained motionless, penis wilting and thankfully, easing out of me. I controlled my breathing and felt the thud of my heartbeat, a fist beating protest against my breastbone. What had I done? What was wrong with me? I had committed incest.
I had been a willing, active participant in the act of incest. I had moved forward with Jonathan in lockstep, a perverse ballet of step, counter-step, would you like to do this, I would like to do that, innuendo and taunt, tease and titter, titillation and tentativeness, until...
My mind said no more.
He eased off me and I turned on my side, curling into a fetal ball. "Please go to bed, Jonathan."
"Mom... ?"
I continued shaking my head, eyes squeezed shut, jaws clenched tight, lips drawn back, breathing through my teeth. What had I done? What had I done? What had I done?
He touched my shoulder and I shuddered so violently that he snatched it away. I covered myself, cocooning inside the bedclothes. The shudder had started a tremble that was fast becoming an earthquake.
"I can't leave you like this," he objected, voice hoarse and cracked.
I shook my head, shook it, shook it, and shook it.
He sat on the edge, fidgeting, rubbing his legs, scratching his arms, occasionally shifting his weight, not touching me, but always on the verge. I cringed if he even placed a hand too close beside me on the bed.
"I'm not going," he said, harshly. "If we end it like this, you'll never talk to me again."
That was a very real possibility. I might kill myself.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
I shook my head doggedly.
"This wasn't your fault. I-"
"Stop it!" I cried. "No more! Just go to bed, please! Now!"
He stiffened in determination. "No!"
"Jonathan, please?" I begged. "Can't you see-" That was far as I got before the floodgates opened and the horror came pouring out of me.
Wednesday evening
March 4, 2015
I have to attempt this, a little at a time. Tackle it, I should say. Last night I slept almost as badly as I did the night of my birthday. The evening before, Tuesday night, once Jonathan had left me alone and gone to his bedroom, if not to bed, I fell asleep immediately and dreamed nothing at all.
Some perspective, I think, is due here: I made love to my son four times this past weekend. He got me high as a kite Friday night, made me do a striptease while he filmed me with his cell phone, and then masturbated while I watched myself strip and dance for him, the video playing back on the flat screen in my bedroom. Our bedroom, on the weekends.
We made love Saturday night and Sunday morning, and again, before he left Sunday afternoon. I am patently a moral degenerate, insane, not to mention, a felon. Incest is legal nowhere in the United States.
Wednesday, my birthday morning, was a horror of another kind. Jonathan was gone to school before I woke up; I called in sick, soaked in the bathtub for two hours, until my skin threatened to slough off. I cried, breaking into unexpected, hysterical bawling. I wanted to beat my face with my fists. I wanted to drown myself. I didn't, and knew I was a coward. I almost drowned myself accidentally, falling asleep with my chin in the water.
I douched. First with a kit from under the sink, and then with soapy water, four more times. Uncountable millions of sperm cells had invaded my uterus and would never be touched by any flush of chemicals or water. Many had died, others absorbed into my mucus lining, I'm sure, but plenty were still alive, swimming around inside me, searching, searching, and would remain that way for days to come. I could become pregnant. I was a week and a half past my period, I was not on the pill, and we had not used protection. I would become pregnant as stupidly as I had the first time around. I knelt at my bed and prayed for the fist time since I was thirteen and two weeks late for my period. Not a good portent, I thought. Not good at all.
Retreating to my bed, and refusing to answer the phone, ignoring all congratulatory emails and text messages (officially, I would remain thirty-one until 9:06 p.m.), I stayed there until Jonathan came home about three o'clock. I was terrified to see him. He was the last person in the world I wanted to see. I was paralyzed by depression and couldn't leave the bed to lock the bedroom and bathroom doors.
"Mom?" It took ten minutes, but he finally knocked. "You're car's outside. Are you okay?"
I burrowed deeper into the covers. In memory, I stumbled up the stairs, tripping and laughing in the dark, grouping for handholds, my bare breasts perfect handholds for Jonathan, irresistible as my neck and jaw and earlobe to his mouth. I was moments away from being put into bed and having my panties removed, engaging in ultimate intimacy with my son, just 18 years old, coupling with him in extreme frisson, and then realizing where I was, and what I was doing. I had accepted him more eagerly than I had accepted anyone I'd been with, ever. I fucked him recklessly for half a dozen minutes, before understanding finally set in: what I was doing, where it was going, and what he would do to me without moments. I tried to stop it, too late. He gushed, gasping, clutching, and grunting while I began my implosion in earnest, losing my mind.
The bedroom door inched open.
"Mom?"
"Go away," I mumbled.
"Are you all right?" How many times would he ask me that?
"I'm fine," I lied. "Please just leave me alone."
Instead, he slipped through the opening and closed the door behind him. "I brought you a glass of Ovaltine."
"I don't want it," I said, although I did, and I was touched. Ovaltine was my favorite childhood drink, had been since Mom used to make it for me while I bounced on my toes excitedly. One of the few things good as they are in recollection.
He brought it around the bed and placed it on my bedside table. The remaining Chardonnay and the two empty glasses he removed and carried out of the room. I was surprised, and unexplainably dismayed, when he closed the door behind himself and left me in peace.
I had fucked my son. No. I had seduced, and fucked my son. He was not an age where I could hold him accountable for my actions. My actions, not his. I am the adult. I know better.
I forced myself up, sat on the edge wrapped in the bedclothes. I wore pajamas that I had no memory of putting on. Events of the morning--the desperate bath, the manic flushing of my vagina, avoiding mirrors at all costs ... had I really stood naked in the living room gazing out the bay window?
"Jesus," I muttered plaintively. I really had lost my mind.
My bladder ached, threatened to explode if not immediately emptied. I rose and stumbled to the bathroom and pulled down my pajama bottoms before falling onto the toilet ring. Implosion had left my muscles rubbery and ungovernable. I trembled, stopped, began to tremble again, and retched silently, hand over my mouth. Thank God, I hadn't eaten anything or drank the glass of Ovaltine. It would settle my stomach, though, I knew, when I returned to bed, and that was good. I peed, releasing what seemed a gallon of urine that jetted from me at high pressure. I have a child-size bladder and pee a million humiliating times a day. I wake up, several times a night to go pee. I never drink anything after ten p.m ... I remembered drinking nothing that day, so this was the last of the wine that we downed last night. I wasn't helped by my intense hangover.
I brushed my teeth and made myself look in the mirror. This was what a felon looks like, I thought: ratty blonde hair, sunken eyes, gray pallor, a puffy, beaten-about-the countenance look. "No," I moaned, seeing the unmistakable bluish-purple haze of a half-formed hickey. I remembered that being made, and my girlish protestations and giggling as I pushed him away from my neck, at the hollow joining my shoulder; I had not been fast enough. I raised my pajama top, looked at my reflection, and lowered it again with a miserable groan. What he had attempted on my neck, he'd succeeded in doing to both my breasts in multiple locations. He had bitten my left nipple on a dare-for which he was resoundingly smacked like a schoolboy-and it was noticeable painful against my top.
"How could you do this?" I asked myself.
I knew it was because I had wanted to.
Thursday evening
March 5, 2015
It's 8:02 p.m. I have a glass a Chardonnay and I'm tucked into my favorite chair with my Macbook, ready to write. My hair is up in a sloppy pile atop my head, I'm freshly showered and shaved, my tummy is happily full with a salad I picked up at a deli at lunch today, and I'm wearing my favorite pajamas. What better way to continue the baring of my soul?
First, let me say this: I am not sorry for what I've done. These last nine months were the happiest of my life. No one makes me happier, or more excited, than Jonathan.
I am pregnant. I have been so for approximately six weeks and I sat down with Jonathan over the weekend to discuss it with him. It's too earlier to tell the child's sex, but Jonathan wants a boy. Secretly, I would like a little girl, but a boy would be my second choice, LOL.
You know why I'm giddy tonight. Jonathan is coming home tomorrow. At this time tomorrow evening, we will be at dinner; making plans for what to do the rest of the weekend. I already expressed my desire to go away this weekend, to leave this miserable environment for a mountain visit somewhere, possibly even the beach, though he eyed me dubiously at that suggestion. I like Ocean City in March, though. We'd be practically alone, especially with the forecast this weekend: It's going to be cold. We'll have to see.
This journal, I can tell you, is both a cathartic and debilitating experience. I felt the panic and dismay of that first day in its retelling. Last night, after describing my hickey's, I closed the Macbook's cover, went to my vanity mirror, raised my pajama top, and looked at myself. My breasts bear a nearly identical pattern of fading, but still distinguishable love-bites as I had that first day. It's like-no, I am certain it is, Jonathan doing it on purpose. I have one at the juncture of my neck and right shoulder that never seems to go away, and they litter my inside thighs, which can be acutely embarrassing when seen by another woman, I can assure you. For ten months, this has been going on.
I never want it to stop.
Partly, I know, it's my age. I'm only thirty-two. I've been with far fewer men than other women my age (none in the last three years, other than Jonathan), and starting at an early age, sex has left me bitterly scarred and dispirited. My experiences in college were especially so, when, essentially, I was promiscuous, bordering on sluttish. My father rescued me from that episode, brilliantly, as I told you before. My record of accomplishment with men since that time, no relationship lasting more than a year (and that was six years ago), has left me alone, forlorn and lost. Given that, I do understand some of the reasons-factors is a better word, I guess-for tumbling into bed with my son.
Let me continue the telling.
Jonathan knocked on my bathroom door. I looked at it dully, wanting him to go away.
"Mom?"
"What do you want, Jonathan?"
"I want you to come out of there and talk to me."
I wanted to never talk to him again. I was appalled that I had very nearly put his erection in my mouth last night; I shuddered violently remembering, nearly shaking apart. My vocal cords strangled my next words.
"I can't see you right now. Please leave, so I can go back to bed."
"I'm not letting you go back to bed," he warned.
I laughed acidly. "I wish you had said that last night, Jonathan. At least, the 'I'm not letting you' part. I don't-" I closed my eyes and gripped the sink for support. I was verging on another hysterical outbreak. I breathed through my open mouth.
"What we did was wrong, and I'm sorry we did it," he said plaintively, "and I am so sorry for hurting you like I have. Do you think you can ever forgive me, Mom?"
Can I forgive myself? That was the better, immediate question. Could I forgive the mortal sin that I had committed, would God forgive me? I couldn't stop shaking.
"Jonathan?" My voice was broken, breathless and frightened.
He rushed in, caught me as I dropped, lifted me in his arms as I passed out, and carried me, not to my bed, but to his own.
I slept, not waking until nearly two a.m. I was covered with a quilt from the hall closet. Jonathan lay atop his comforter, asleep, holding my hands in his. He was snoring ever so lightly, as he always does on his left side. I watched him intently, feeling the worst of conflicting emotions. I had to pee again, which made me laugh. Not loud enough to awaken him, thankfully.
I used the hall bathroom, and then, after eyeing my disastrous countenance in the mirror for a time, returned to Jonathan's bedroom and stood over him, watching him sleep. I realized my self-loathing had abated a bit. I was not close to acceptance, not within a light year of that, but I did feel marginally better.
Oceana
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