Page 30 of Ghost

Ghost

I’d walked into the kitchen hoping to find a piece of pizza in the refrigerator. While I rummaged through the leftovers, my mother sat down at the kitchen table.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Pizza.”

“I threw it out,” she said.

I spun around. “Why?”

“Because it was from Monday night.” She gestured to the chair across from her. “You don’t need to get sick.”

I noticed a plate of cookies on the table that weren’t there when I left for school. My mother often baked, and cookies were her specialty. I meandered to the table, lowered my backpack to the floor, and sat across from her.

“They’re oatmeal and raisin,” she said.

I searched my mind for what I might have done to warrant an after school sit down discussion. I’d been difficult to deal with since my grandmother’s passing, but not so much that a face-to-face with my mother was necessary.

I looked her over, hoping to find a hint on her face as to what the conversation was going to be about. Short of her long dark hair and natural beauty, I found nothing.

She was a tall woman, standing five feet and ten inches without shoes. Lean and as muscular as most farm workers, she seemed much younger than her age of thirty-seven years. Her youthful appearance and hourglass figure earned her MILF – Mom I’d Like to Fuck – status from most of the kids at school.

They said it in my absence. I needed to kick off my boots to count the amount of kids who got their asses whipped for saying they wanted to fuck my mother. Nonetheless, I’d often overhear a conversation where someone wanted to fuck Ghost’s mother. It never ended well for the person making the claim.

She reached for a cookie. “I just baked them.”

It didn’t take much coercing to get me to eat an oatmeal cookie. As my mother was aware, they were my favorite. Somewhat hesitant, I reached for the plate, still wondering what I did wrong.

I bent the cookie until it broke in two, and then met her hard-to-read gaze. “What did I do?”

She pinched a thumbprint-sized bite from the cookie and paused. “Nothing. I just wanted to have a talk with you.”

It was never that simple. My mother rarely stuck her nose in my business. When she did, there was always a reason for it.

“About what?” I asked.

“You’re sixteen,” she began. “We probably should have had this talk long ago.”

The sex talk.

She was going to have the sex talk with me over a plate of oatmeal cookies. I couldn’t tell her that Amy Betterman had given me a hand job in her dad’s truck, or that Shelly Pickert had sucked my dick at the end of sophomore year, just before summer break. I damned sure wasn’t going to let her find out that I’d shared half a bottle of Goose’s dad’s whisky with Patty Wilson, and that she let me fuck her in her back yard while we were half drunk.

The hand job sparked interest in having girls do what I’d already spent twelve months trying to perfect. I learned that it was much more satisfying to watch a girl stroke my dick than do it myself.

Shelly’s blowjob opened the door for me to try and stick my dick in every willing mouth in Great Falls, Montana. That love for blowjobs got my dick into Patty’s very willing – and capable – mouth.

I found her insistence to swallow my spunk grotesque at first but was fascinated by it later. That fascination lured me to return day after day, while her mother was at work. Her willingness to suck my dick on any given day made her the perfect candidate for experimental sex.

The whiskey was more to boost my courage than to lower Patty’s resistance. She was willing from the start. When the deed was done, I left Patty in the wet summer grass with her panties around one ankle and an empty bottle of whisky at her side. Filled with guilt, I couldn’t run home fast enough to escape the cloud of shame that seemed to loom over me.

Her foul-smelling pussy left me wondering if sex was worth it. I spent a half hour in the shower trying to scrub the rotten residue off my dick, only to find out later that she had some sort of an infection.

Sitting across from my mother, I seriously doubted I’d ever have sex again. Blowjobs, on the other hand, were as commonplace as going to the movie theater, and I went to the movies quite often.

I situated my backpack but didn’t look up. “Is this about sex?”

“Should it be?” she asked.