Sigmund Freud is a name I know, but I’ve never actually read any of his work. Although I am aware he proposed what he called the Oedipus complex.
It seems he came up with a theory that all small boys select their mother as their primary object of desire! He also believed that this occurs between the ages 3-5 years old.
As someone who fell passionately in love with his mother and became her lover at the age of 18, I have to disagree with the old guy on that point.
I never had carnal thoughts for her until I became a man.
I also have problems with Freud’s assertions that boys wish their fathers dead- so as they can replace them in their mother’s bed!
Again, not true in my case. I really cared for my Dad, that was until he fucked off and left us for a fat redhead. Then I wanted him dead.
I think my desire for Mum came to me by a circuitous route. Probably beginning when I discovered thrilling sexual stimulation from holding and smelling her makeup and lingerie.
But looking back I can’t honestly pinpoint any specific event that imprinted this fetish on me.
Anyway, here’s my story, so you can judge for yourself.
When I was 18 our family life changed irrevocably after dad met another woman and decided to leave Mum and me without warning.
One day we came back to an empty house. All our suitcases had disappeared, as had his clothes.
And to put the cherry on the cake, he had emptied their joint account, leaving us penniless.
The only item of any value he left behind was his wedding ring, which he had left on Mum’s pillow.
Fortunately the deeds of the house were in Mum’s name. Otherwise he would probably have kicked us out and installed his whore!
Somehow we coped and survived that seismic upheaval in our lives.
The consequence was that Mum had to take a job, which left me alone in the house for long periods after returning home from college. But at least I was still in education and hadn’t had to leave and take a job. I was in my second year of a photography course I hoped would eventually help me set up my own photographic studio.
In a happy coincidence mum had managed to get herself taken on as a back office assistant by a busy studio producing catalogues for some of the better known UK manufacturers of quality lingerie and makeup.
She liked the work and they seemed to take to her.
Looking back I still can’t imagine why Dad left Mum for a chubby red-headed tart ten years older than himself.
While Mum was no film star, at 36 she was slim and attractive with a head of shiny jet-black hair.
And while she mostly dressed down for work, she scrubbed up really well at weekends, when she put on makeup and wore stockings under quite tight skirts.
I knew she was proud of her figure, often commenting how she was still the same weight and dress size she had been at 17, just a year before I had been born.
More than once I had caught her standing side-on at her bedroom mirror, checking out her figure.
And sometimes she even asked me how she looked, and if I thought she was getting old.