Mom places a kiss on my cheek and then turns to Mama, who has her hand on her chin, deep in concentration, while the dick aerobics happen in front of her. Not batting an eye, Mom bends down and kisses her on the lips. “I know you’ll be able to find the glitch, honey. You’ll soon bring butt plugs to all.”
Huffing and turning back to the code, Mama adjusts her glasses and studies the screen. “Thank you. Have fun, you two, and bring me home some potato skins. I’m going to need them after this.”
“As long as you don’t eat them while watching that man jiggle his penis,” I say.
“Oh honey, when we eat potato skins, we watch cock ring stimulation. Obviously.”
I throw up a little in my mouth, as both my moms laugh and then give each other one more kiss.
Mom takes me by the hand and leads me to the garage where she tosses me the keys. “Care to drive your old lady around?”
“Depends. This is just a date for you and me, right? No hidden agenda?”
We both get in the car and after she buckles up, she tilts her head and says, “This is my last night with you before you go back to Brentwood. Do you really think I’d forfeit it to another woman?”
“Yes.” I start the car and back out of the garage. “I really do, Mom.”
“Then you obviously don’t know me.” She turns away, and I swear I catch a glimpse of a smile on her lips.
This better not be a set up.
“These potato skins are positively orgasmic.” Mom licks her fingers and moans.
I die slowly inside.
“Can you not do that shit, Mom? Jesus.”
“What?” She looks around, confused.
Leaning in and whispering, I say, “Call things orgasmic and then moaning.”
“Is that not appealing to you?” She laughs out loud.
Even though with me she’s massively inappropriate most of the time, I still soak up these moments with her. The sound of her laugh, so familiar that it feels like a warm blanket wrapped around me when I hear it. The adoration in her eyes when she looks at me, a look so full of love I don’t think I could ever do wrong. And that smile. I have so many pictures of that smile staring back at me, and it reminds me what happiness looks like.
“Not appealing.”
“Such a shame.”
“You know, if you really want to talk about that kind of stuff, I could talk to you about it. Give you a taste of your own medicine.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve been working on a porn site with your mama for two months now, so I’m pretty sure anything you have in your arsenal is going to go in one ear and out the other.”
“Maybe,” I say, biting the corner of my lip, trying to think of anything shocking from my vanilla sex life.
Yeah . . . vanilla.
I didn’t lose my virginity until I was a freshman in college. I was too goddamn scared of getting a girl pregnant, thanks to my mama who showed me videos of childbirth and made me walk around with a fake baby on the weekends. She thought it was a good form of birth control.
It was.
Until a girl touched my dick during my first week of college at a baseball loft party.
Yeah, one touch and I was done for. Two weeks later, I lost my virginity, came within a minute, and embarrassed myself completely.
Thanks, parents.
I then did all the research I could about sex. I read about clitoral stimulation, until I actually felt like I had a clit from the number of pictures I looked at.
After that, I was smoother with every encounter until I was known around campus for giving girls amazing orgasms. Yeah, sure, being known as the guy who delivers orgasms is great and all, but when I come, it feels . . . subpar. Like I’m missing something. I don’t have that blackout moment, that toe-curling, I-might-die moment.
Concerned for the well-being of my penis, I asked Hartley if he’d ever come so hard, he blacked out. He said once, and then reassured me my dick wasn’t broken, but maybe I hadn’t found the right girl yet.
Which, of course, made things worse, given my mom’s meddling, because all I could think about was . . . does her vagina have the magical blackout powers?
“Trying to think of something to scare me away?” Mom asks, smirking while finishing off the last potato skin.
“Is it pathetic that I can’t come up with anything?”
She laughs and pats my hand. “Just makes me love you even more. Don’t worry, Linc, you’ll lose your virginity someday.” When I give her a look, she laughs harder.
“I’ve had plenty of sexual encounters, thank you very much.”
Smirking over her drink, she says, “Maybe your problem is that you call them ‘sexual encounters’.”
I lean back in my chair and say, “Being roasted by my lesbian mom about using my penis isn’t boding well for my self-esteem.”
Mom throws her head back and lets out a wallop of a laugh, just as someone says, “Laura, is that you?”
Slowly, Mom focuses on a woman over my shoulder and the corners of her lips turn up. “Beth, how lovely to see you,” my mom says. “I didn’t know you were a Boondoggles kind of girl.”
A woman my mom’s age, wearing high-waisted mom jeans and a frilly blouse, comes up to the table and gives my mom a hug. “We can’t get enough of the potato skins. They’re what wet dreams are made of.”
Smiling even wider, my mom says, “I was just telling Lincoln here that they’re orgasmic.”
Jesus . . . Christ.
“Oh goodness, is this Lincoln?” Beth says, turning toward me. Because of our bar-height table, I come eye to eye with a very done-up lady. Brown hair curled and sprayed down with hairspray, purple metallic lipstick, and bright blue eyeshadow.
Whoa.
“Yes, this is my Lincoln. Lincoln, this is Beth, my hairdresser.”
Because I was raised right, I take her hand in mine and say, “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“Oh, what manners . . . and look at these hands, they’re huge.”
Okay, this is uncomfortable.
“And who’s this lovely lady with you?” my mom asks, with a coy smile.
Oh
Sweet
Mother
Of
God
I know that look, that smile, that tone of voice.
I’ve seen that twinkle in her eye all summer. I’ve been subjected to that evil grin over eight dates. And that lilt in her voice, like she’s about to do something purely spontaneous, but it’s actually contrived to the very last second.
Yup . . . I’m about to be set up.
“This is my daughter, Indie.”
I don’t even look to my side. Why bother? Plus, I don’t have it in me.
Instead, I press my forehead into my hand and rub it back and forth, feeling the tension move up my neck to the base of my skull where it starts a low thrumming beat, a thrumming I know will grow into exponential annoyance.
“Indie, how lovely to meet you. Your mom has told me so much about you. You play soccer at Brentwood, right?”
What?
I release my head and look to the side to see a slender frame. My eyes travel up her torso. Tight-fitting yellow shirt, medium-sized breasts, smooth, tan skin . . . clenched jaw.
Ha, I know that clench.
When I reach her face, I can practically feel the daggers coming out of her mossy-green eyes as Indie stares down her mom, her long brown ponytail swishing behind her. She’s not wearing makeup, but she doesn’t need to. She’s gorgeous, and those lips . . . fuck, they’re enticing. Plump and pouty.