Rewriting Us

This is a long one, folks. My previous offering, "Finding Our Way," was an effort to rush through the build-up that is typical in the mom-son genre and focus on the budding relationship that resulted. If you are looking to get to the nookie in a hurry, I would humbly offer that story over this one. This piece is the opposite. "Rewriting Us" is an attempt at a good steady build-up, leading to a payout that should make the whole journey worthwhile.

To get there I enlisted the generous help of NateBlack, Marie AB and DirtyMindedMom. The stuff you like here was probably thanks to their suggestions. The stuff you don't is all on me. My heartfelt thanks to them.

Last, for now, please accept my apologies for the extensive and frequent delays. Usual disclaimers (OnlyFiction, not for real life people to do, characters are slightly too fabulous for real life, yadda yadda yadda.)

Please enjoy!

*****

Rewriting Us

MAKING PART I

CHAPTER 1

I was thinking about changing the workout schedule for our home gym in the basement when I heard the side door attached to the kitchen open. I heard her voice. "Hi! I'm ho-ome!"

"Hey! I'm in the living room," I called back.

She walked through the kitchen, past the basement door and into the living room. "Hey sweetie," she said. I just smiled at her. She stood there with sunlight from the kitchen bouncing off her honey blond hair. She had tied it back into a loose ponytail, so I could appreciate the hard lines of her shoulders. Her smooth taut legs flexed thanks to the high heels. Her tight waistline and the swell of her chest impressed in that flower print dress.

"Hey," I echoed back at her. "How was lunch with Lucy at the mall?"

She looked up and to the left with a smirk on her lips. "Lunch with Lucy was...uneventful."

I kept a passive face, but I felt my stomach ache. Maybe it was Antonio's pizza, but it was more likely the fact that Mom had never hidden anything from me before as far as I knew. Was she keeping the encounter at the mall a secret?

Had Bono ratted me out like a sore fucking looser?

Mom bounced to the couch, and flopped down next to me as she opened up a 1000 watt grin at me. I could've gotten a tan from her perfect smile. Her eyes twinkled with mischief, and she said, "But waiting for Lucy was interesting!"

I felt my stomach uncoil, and warmth flooded my whole body. I felt the beginnings of an erection in the glow of her smile and the realization that she wasn't going to hide anything from me.

"A guy hit on me near Forever Yogurt. A young guy!"

"Young like he was walking around in a little league outfit or like born two days after you or what?"

"Like...well...like your age about. He could have been one of your friends."

"Wow. One of my friends needs a black eye. Who did it look like?"

"Well, he didn't look like you or your friends. He wasn't in good shape like you guys. He dressed in these dark clothes...Kind of a Goth or whatever...you guys call them Emos or emus or something?"

"Emo and Goth aren't exactly the same, but I get the picture. Should I be expecting the phone to ring with a pissed off or depressed voice on the other end of the line?"

Mom was one of the last hold outs on land lines. We didn't use it often. There was a yellowing digital answering machine attached to it. We used it as a last ditch backup. It served when cell phones died or if we had to give a number to someone not ready for our "inner circle" as she calls it.

"No! I didn't give him a number."

"Not even the land line?"

She looked at her hands in her lap. "No. That wasn't happening."

Bono had failed, and hadn't been able to give me the magic keys to my secret future; the future I'd been dreaming of since my late teens. But he'd given me something, I was sure. Somehow this stunt would open the way to my deepest secret dream.

"Not into the Goth thing? Or was he too out of shape?"

She looked at me like I'd farted at the opera. "I'm not that shallow! No. There wasn't anything wrong with him. I don't need a guy to be a fitness freak like our family has become, and his clothes were just another fashion style."

"Okay. Sorry," I said, softening my tone. "What was wrong, then? Was he an overbearing jerk?"

She tilted her head, remembering the afternoon. "No."

"Was it his age?" I asked even quieter still, trying to hide my dread that this could be it.

The skin between her eyebrows crinkled as she processed the idea. "No. I mean, now that you mention it, I suppose it would be hard bringing a guy home to meet you when he's the same age as you. But I can't say that I'm disturbed by the idea of a spring/autumn relationship."

"Then what? Why didn't this guy rate high enough to even score the land line from the hot momma by the yogurt stand?"

Smiling, she slapped at my arm, but failed to even make contact. "Pshh. I don't know, Don. I guess we weren't on the same wavelength."

What the fuck does that even mean? She stared up at where one of the walls met the ceiling.

Prompting was called for here.

"What do you mean? How were your...uh...wavelengths different? Did he approach you in some kind of creepy way"

"He approached me just fine; friendly and funny. He said he needed my help settling a bet between him and a friend who disappeared on him while he came to ask me a question; something about appearing on a talk show. I can't remember the details anymore, but he was warm and charming. Not threatening or pushy or overbearing or anything like that. Nothing creepy about him. He was just..."

"Not on your wavelength."

"Yeah! I mean, I wasn't worried that he was trying to lure me into a dungeon or anything like that, but I didn't trust him either." She mulled it over for another beat. "What I mean is that he seemed interested in me, but just for the chance to tell a joke or talk about himself. He asked about me and my thoughts, but...he only seemed to be looking to use my answers to keep on being charming. He didn't seem interested in getting to know me for the sake of knowing me better. Does that make sense?"

I sat frozen, processing what my mother had told me. I'd heard her question, but was digging deep for answers. She smiled, watching me struggle to digest what I'd learned there on the couch.

As the pause stretched, I shook my head. "I think it makes sense, Mom. Yeah. You've given me a lot to think about. Thanks."

What I needed to think about was the path to a future I was desperate to achieve. I acted from day to day like a cocky ex-jock. But it was the best way I could think of to cover the desire that had been growing over the last three years. It had become so powerful that I could no longer debate with myself about the moral bombshells.

I wanted a more adult, intimate and sexual relationship with my mother. I know it sounds sick and crazy, but I couldn't argue the pros and cons of it any more. We will get to how I arrived at such a strange yearning. For now let it be enough that I was burning with a sense of urgency that had finally propelled me into action a few days ago. At a subconscious level I sensed a window of opportunity when I met Bono.

Mom nodded at my thanks. She reached for the day's mail, lying on the coffee table. "Besides," she, she added shuffling the envelopes under close inspection, "I could just tell that he wouldn't have stood a chance keeping up with me in the bedroom."

"What?" I asked, shocked.

Her eyes shot open, realizing what she'd said and to whom. She blushed and covered her mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry, Don. It must be totally gross to hear your mom saying something like that."

"No, it's..."

"I promise I won't talk like that around you again. I guess I've just got the conversation with Lisa on my mind. You know, girls talk."

"Don't worry about it, Mom."

I could feel things shifting in my head. The path was still unclear, but it was near. I could sense it out there and yet inside myself. Some creative - imaginative - energy was bubbling inside me, and I just needed to direct it to create what I willed.

***

Three days ago:

I can't say Bono was a friend. We never made it past friend-of-a-friend status. He never knew the whole truth about what I wanted, but he helped me achieve it; more than anyone else in real life. His help was less a matter of generosity and more one of his ego. It started out as a bet after all.

He wasn't ugly, but no modeling agency would pick him up either. His nose was too big for his balloon shaped face, and his jaw receded, forcing you to search for his chin. His hair hung almost to his shoulders, a bit lank and styleless for our neighborhood. He nicknamed himself after the old guy from U2, and he had a chip on his shoulder about his looks even though he was always dating the hottest girls on our community college campus.

I saw a buddy of mine, Rich, talking to Bono. A scorching hot brunette was hanging on Bono's arm. As I passed the trio, I slapped Rich on the shoulder and double checked that he would be at Chem class in a quarter of an hour. He agreed to see me there. Bono gave me a 'sup chin tilt when we made brief eye contact. The brunette only had eyes for the unlikely stud.

In class, I pressed Rich to connect me with Bono so I could find out how he does what he does.

"Tell you what, Don. You focus and get us through this lab work, and you can tag along with me after class. I need to stop by my apartment to pick up some weed, and then I'm meeting up with Bono to sell it to him. Then, while I'm smoking some of his fresh-delivered pot, you can sit at his feet and ask for some wisdom. Deal?"

We did just that, and once I'd gotten Bono talking about his pick-up skills his sales pitch started up. There are strategies. Techniques. Methods. Anyone could learn them, and once you'd learned them any woman could be yours. He insisted it was true. And he could teach me the ways he had learned from studying the masters. The true Pick Up Artists.

I felt a pain in my chest. Maybe it was the smoke, but I felt it at that moment; how desperate I was to find a way into Mom's heart. That one specific - impossible - woman. I got lost in the thought for just a moment and the word "Impossible," escaped me.

"No! It's true! I'm proof!" He had the light of a true believer in his eyes.

Something bitter touched the back of my throat. This shadow of hopelessness shamed me, but I spoke it aloud anyway. "I'll bet you fifty bucks you can't pick up the woman I have in mind."

"I don't pick up married chicks," he backpedaled. His response was so immediate, I realized that I wasn't the first person to raise this objection. "Not even to win a bet. I'm not interested in breaking up any couple."

I nodded. "A man of honor. I like that. I can live with those terms." We would settle the remaining terms over the next three days.

***

So at about noon today, Bono and I stood together by a giant palm frond.

"Show me the fifty bucks," Bono said. "I'll use it on my date with the target."

"Only if she gives you the digits," I reminded him, flashing the twenty and three tens. "But you'd better have your own money ready for when you lose." Since he was taking the risk (and because I expected to learn a thing or two no matter what the outcome) Bono's end was smaller. If he lost he had to buy me lunch and give me a free run down of what he'd learned from the pickup community.

If he won, he'd take my $50 and offer to teach me everything he knew for another $150.

If he could manage this I'd pay him for his success. I'd pay him for his wisdom. I'd pay him extra to never call the "target's" phone number. I think he was looking for students or acolytes. But I wasn't interested in his techniques. I only wanted the woman at the other end of this bet. Two hundred dollars was a significant amount of money to a poor college student like me, but I had some meager savings I was willing to touch. I'd thought about this for a long long time. She was more than worth the risk. Sooner or later I was going to risk everything.

Bono and I stood there, an odd couple among the glossy passersby, in the food court of the high end Courtiers Place Mall. The big name shops and exclusive boutiques were all that could bear the rent of the neighborhood. The clientele were there to be seen celebrating spring's arrival. They strutted the mall with short skirts and expansive necklines. It was the catwalk for moneyed people and their children. Bono and I would only be there for jobs.

He would've been shorter than my 6 feet even if he weren't stooped over. His black hair hung long where my sandy brown hair looked rich and full cut short. I had a lean build from the high school swim team. I wore newish clothes that showed my bare arms and indicated the lean musculature of my body. My companion hid his build with a loose T-shirt under a dark fall jacket and wide legged pants and black boots. He stuck out more than me in these surroundings. Standing close to him I could see that the ensemble was clean, ironed and arranged with care. He called it "peacocking," and I wanted to do the exact opposite today. I couldn't afford to be noticed when Bono went to work.

"So which one will it be?" he asked. I could see excitement in his face. I couldn't help but like the guy as his breathing picked up, and I could see some vulnerability there.

I looked around and then at my watch. "Give me a minute now." I knew she liked to get to the mall about half an hour before her friend's lunch break just in case she got out early.

"Look, if you chicken shit out of this I'm still gonna want that fifty bucks, so you might as well pick someone and watch how I do what I do. Don't waste either of our time."

That is when I saw her enter the mall. She was not a particularly tall woman, but her cream colored heels would have brought her forehead up even to my nose. Her legs were shining, lean, bare and tan all the way up to mid-thigh where the hem of her dress stopped. The pastel floral print on the white dress fluttered to the scissoring of her thighs. She walked in like she owned the place, chin high and smiling. The dress pinched in at her narrow waistline and then spread as it rose to cup her chest. It was an admirable chest. There was nothing artificial or gargantuan, but it formed a respectable cleavage at the neckline. (I knew that I was looking at a pair of 36-Cs, but I wasn't going to invite questions about how I knew such a thing.) Shiny golden blond hair puddled on her bronze shoulders and spilled over the collar bones. Her arms swung as she walked with purpose. Their shape and smoothness showed a familiarity with swimming as much as my own build did. She used the swimming pool in the backyard, I knew, almost every day. Her jaw line was broad, and her cheekbones were like ping pong balls. She resembled a model I'd found on the internet called Melissa Giraldo aged to 35 or so, and this woman was in her 40's. Her sex appeal was beyond dispute, but she exuded confidence and friendliness most models have to fake.

"That's her. In the floral dress. That's her." I said, almost to myself.

Bono looked at her, but he didn't seem to see her. Most guys' jaws drop when they first see this woman. Their eyes bug out. The idea of hitting on her seems out of the question. She was so far beyond Bono's league that I expected him to crap his pants and pay me fifty bucks as an apology. But...nothing. He just watched her walk to the frozen yogurt place and get in line.

"Well?" I said.

"Yeah," he said turning to look at me. "She's pretty."

"No shit, she's pretty Bono. Are you going to make your move or are you buying me lunch? Though, I'm not so sure I'll want your advice if you're afraid to even try."

He smiled at me, a master in his element...at least in his own mind. "Afraid, Donny?"

"Don't call me that," I growled.

"Donald?"

"No," you fucking idiot my face must have read. "My name is not Donald or Donny. Don. Just Don."

"Sorry, man. Ease up!" He slapped my right shoulder. I looked over and saw the floral dress second in line. She would place her order in a few dozen seconds, and Bono was smirking at me like he had all the time in the world. "Relax, Don. I'm not afraid of pretty girls. You've seen the last few girls I've dated."

I had. They were stunning, but... "That's no girl over there."

The supposed pick up artist just rolled his eyes. Then he gave me a warm smile, and said, "Yeah, I can see that. She's a hot cougar. Hot females stopped scaring me a long time ago." I looked over to the Yogurt place. She was placing her order. Bono was still talking. "You can beat your fear of them too. I can show you how for just..."

"Skip the infomercial. Are you going in or are you bailing?"

He glanced at the woman. It was like he was watching children playing in the park. "Don. Have some decency, man. Let the woman at least get her yogurt first."

"She's getting it right now."

"Let's see if she's going to sit down at a table to enjoy her sweet treat or if she's taking it on the go." Then Bono began strolling in her direction. He looked around at everyone there, not just the swimsuit model look-alike. I could have told him that she would sit, that she was meeting a friend who ran one of the boutiques at the mall. But I wasn't going to let him know that I knew so much about her. He didn't want that sort of information anyway.

He took his time when he saw her cruising the eating area, looking for an empty table. She sat down at a two-seater. He waited for her to have a spoonful of her treat before moving in.

I ducked down behind the broad leaves of a tropical plant. I could see her looking at him, but heard nothing of his patter.

He positioned his body turned 45 degrees away from her and gesturing back to where we had been standing. She looked around him to our original lookout, and back at him. He looked over, and saw I was gone. He shrugged, and said something that made her laugh. He turned away from her and back towards her again. She was smiling and nodding. Her luminous smile never faded. After a few minutes, Bono squatted down to be at her eye level, but refrained from sitting in the empty second seat. She laughed again. I couldn't believe my eyes. He moved his hands quite a bit in small slow motions. She spoke to him with a calm expression, and seemed to ponder questions before answering. His hand was on the empty chair, but he still did not sit. He touched her hand to make some point, and if she noticed she didn't show it. She looked around, maybe for her friend or an escape. He stood up, and took a half step away from her. He looked over his shoulder, but then turned to her again. She smiled as he spoke, but at the end her lips pressed together and she shook her head. He said something, and she replied with a polite smile. He clowned a bit like something had struck him, hand on forehead and staggering back a little bit. This elicited a real laugh from her. She nodded smiled and said something; a single word or two at most. He stood near her for a little while longer. He pointed at the empty chair with one hand and back in my approximate direction at the same time. She shook her head with hesitation. Her smile never left her face, but as he continued to speak, she shook her head three more times. He was done. He said some kind of friendly goodbye. She smiled as she sent him on his way.

This exchange left me both disappointed and thrilled. I would have loved it if Bono had shown that he could do it because that would mean he might just be able to show me how. But then it might have gotten sticky convincing him to leave her the hell alone. His failure said good things about her that I'd already assumed, but it also meant that he wouldn't be able to teach me everything I needed to know. Then again, I knew that I could use this incident to serve my own ends. Lunch time was coming, and I knew that useful information would follow either from Bono or from my mother at home.