Needed

It was 1982 and Thomas loved Marisol. The problems were Marisol was his mother and they lived in Brooklyn Heights, NY.

We lived in civilization, not the backwaters of the South. When living in a society where being called a motherfucker is one of the worst insults, I kept my guilty yearnings hidden. That all changed one night when Marisol said, "Thomas, we need to talk."

EXCERPT:

“Thomas, I’m worried about you,” my mother started, startling me from my woolgathering. I was surprised to discover she had pulled out her chair and was sitting down next to me. I was also surprised to see she had refilled her wine glass. Besides her diminutive size, she wasn’t much of a drinker anyway.

This evening after she got home as a treat, and almost an appetizer, I had poured a small glass of sherry for her as I prepared dinner. She had sipped at that as she told me about her day and I finished cooking. Then during dinner, we both had half a glass of a light chardonnay. To see her with another glass was unusual.

“I don’t mean for this to be embarrassing or to make you uncomfortable,” she said softly and earnestly. Reaching over, she took my left hand and held it in her right. I stared down at our hands together atop the table. She continued, “I’m telling you this because I love you and am concerned, okay?”

Looking up into her wonderfully large dark eyes that showed both love and concern, I nodded my head in understanding. Then lowering my eyes, my gaze happened to fall on the décolletage of her blouse and the delightful sight of her cleavage. I couldn’t help but be enchanted by the fact that I could see hints of her bra through her blouse…

…Mom took a sip from her wine before saying, “I love you and don’t want this be to awkward, embarrassing or uncomfortable…” and she paused. I looked up at her.

“…But I know how you feel about me,”