beneath, were not what I would have expected. As I say, I hadn’t really
expected anything, but what I saw so well that afternoon was to be
imprinted on my mind with an indelible permanence.
“Damn, my feet are tired,” she complained to the heavens. And
then, stating the obvious, “Professor Twist is so incredibly boring,”
followed by a mental right turn, “I need some excitement in my life.”
Excitement? I glanced up at her face, but she looked unchanged,
head back and eyes still closed, the picture of fatigue, or was it boredom?
Looking again at her long legs encased in shear nylons leading up to that
pantied juncture in her crotch, I suddenly had a near-overwhelming desire
to see more, to get closer. Some desires, short of compulsions, can be
modulated if for no other reason than a fear of disclosure. The strength of
this desire was not to be moderated by caution or restraint. I *had* to see
more.
Understand, I wasn’t a complete nincompoop, but as a seventeen
year old, I didn’t know much. Most of my sexual adventures came as the
result of me just being there and things happening. I suppose I was more
of an opportunist than a mover and shaker, at least in sexual things. Later,
that was to change. Anyway, I knew I wanted to get closer and hadn’t the
faintest notion how I might accomplish this . . . and keep my head on my
shoulders.
I had an idea! Hardly original and certainly not a bit creative, but it
was what came to mind at that moment and without turning it over to
examine its merits, I blurted out, “Want me to rub your feet? I know it’s
not very exciting, but you used to love it.”
Now this was not entirely without precedent, for I’d once taken a
low-grade massage course that had started with the feet and then the
hands. Most of the people in there were taking the course hoping to learn
about erotic massage. That never happened and it was not until eight or so
weeks later that we even got to the back! At any rate, I’d massaged my
mom’s hands and her forearms and feet and calves in the past. At that time
I was doing it for the practice and hardly noted that it was my mother’s
limbs on which I was working. Now, months later, she just sank deeper
into the couch and wiggled her toes, saying, “Oh, yes! Yes, indeed, yes.
Oh, thank you. Marvelous idea!”
As I was walking around the coffee table, I remembered reading an
erotic story of a young kid who massaged his mom’s legs so he could look
under her robe. Each day his mother relaxed a little bit more, the story
went, and each day he’d get a little better view. More, he was able to
move up her legs each day. “How dumb!” I thought at the time. I liked
the story, but knew it’d never work. Now, it seemed like a much better
idea.
Then, with the keen awareness of the paranoid, I thought, “If *I*
thought of this, then my mother probably did as well. She probably know
what I’m up to.” Yet her relaxed body surrender suggested otherwise as I
sat on the coffee table and said, “Gimmie a footsie, lady.”
“Footsie?” she asked, as she picked up one leg and offered it to me,
opening up the view of her entire pantied pelvis and crotch. “Since when
did you get so cute?”
“You want this massage or not?” As if I’d be content to just walk
away if she decided she really didn’t want it.
“You can call it anything you want. Just rub it for me, please.”
In retrospect, I don’t know if one might have viewed this as some
right of passage. Almost certainly not, yet it had a profound impact on me
that colored my thinking and my thoughts, seemingly to this day. I mean,
why else can I recall with such vivid clarity the texture of her skin and the
color of her clothes? Why else did this produce a deeply etched memory
that was swamped with eroticism?
Because I’d sat next to her feet on the coffee table, when she
offered me her foot, I’d pulled it slightly aside to hold it in both hands.
This caused her dress to climb still higher on her thighs and open her legs
still more. Her panties were a burnished saffron in the long light. I was so
…End of the part2. To be continued..