This is a history based on events far enough in the past that I can look back with some objectivity, and thus the notion of history rather than a more current, journalistic account. I am recounting them now at the suggestion of my therapist, who I was seeing for other issues related to anxiety. But when this came up in a tangential way, she encouraged me to face it rather than continue to have it filed away. I suggested that I write it out before talking about it with her.
Not to, as they say in journalism, bury the lead, this is a recounting of incest. My mother and I engaged in sexual activity, and ultimately carnal relations. As I have recounted the events in increasing detail, I have found it to be a turn-on, and now when I masturbate I will think of my mother watching me, or touching me, or in some of my sessions, I think about her bending over and letting me enter her from the rear.
Our sexual journey, and for me it was a journey, because she also was the first woman I had any sort of sexual encounter with beyond the usual high school explorations, started with a split second impulse, exactly the same impulse that leads to staying in rather than pulling out at the moment of ejaculation despite the clear risk of an unwanted pregnancy.
I masturbated pretty much every day, and it was so much of my routine that I kept a jar of Vaseline on the shelf by my bed, naively thinking my mother – she was divorced at the time, and I was the only of the kids still at home (probably part of the background for this) – would not know what it was for. My room was just off to the side of the front door. It used to be a study. The real bedrooms were used by my sisters when they visited. Even though they had left for college and only came home on occasion, I didn’t bother claim one of them, because I was going to be going to college shortly myself.
If I got the urge right as I woke up or was going to bed, I would lie on my side and clean up with a wash cloth that I also kept nearby. But during the day I would stand, pants pulled down, looking out the window from a safe distance, because my typical fantasy was masturbating in front of Caroline Parker, a girl two years younger than me who lived across the street. I would imagine her looking into my room from her bedroom window, shocked at what I was doing, being initiated into the male anatomy and sexual function, and aghast at what came shooting out of me at climax. I guess I had a bit of exhibitionist streak, or maybe I was still too protective of her to have the fantasy of actually fucking her.
I was thus engaged, and at the verge of climax when my mother knocked on my door. And this is the point of the impulse that was new to me then, but that I have experienced many times over the years, the deep-seated, primal urge to push as far into a woman as possible to shoot deep into her, to push up against her cervix. The urge to have a woman watch – like I wanted Caroline to watch with a sense of amazement and a tinge of disgust – at all of the cum spurting out; to cover a woman with the cum, on her breasts, her face, into her mouth, into her anus.