Jamie’s Mom Seduces a Middle-aged Innocent

Jamie’s mom seduced me with the help of over-sweet candies imported from mainland China nicknamed ‘Mao’s Teeth”. They were hard little buggers… three strong sucks gave me angina. They were evidently developed by the Communists to win over peasant support during the early days of the Revolution, and some say thousands died in their creation during the great Confectionery Reform Movement. I am not political, but their sacrifice was worth it.

Jamie’s mom pulled them out from her nearby purse like she was a Flapper girl passing along tiny cocaine-based narcotics in the 1920s. She gave me two and suggested I sit down on the loveseat beside her. I squeaked as I sat down. Her furniture was enveloped by a prophylactic plastic covering. I took note of the subtle sexual safety message delivered through her couch covering and respected her prudence. I was propped up on three perfect little pillows. She had knitted their covers with representations of two loving intertwined swans. Unknowingly, I had entered the den of an experienced seductress.

She suggested we watch the “Price is Right”. I was compelled to stay. My best friend, her son Jamie, was late coming home from work. Circumstances were aligning. I was just a puppet in a rendezvous that mischievous fortune had arranged. I watched as the ‘Big Wheel’ spun for what seemed forever and it hypnotized me into a wonderful daze. Jefferson Airplane melodies came pouring into my head….“One pill makes you larger…..” I had another one of Mao’s teeth,.. then another.. and another, until I found myself devouring the Chairman’s entire mouth. The air was filled with suggestion and Ben Gay. I was intoxicated and vulnerable. I knew it but didn’t mind. Jamie was late. I hoped his bus would blow a tire.

Studying the TV, she explained “It’s just not the same since Bob left”. “Yes, I know” I replied with a tone of deep sympathy. Jamie’s dad had been named Earl. Was Bob a pet name? Was Bob another who had captivated her heart? Had this rapscallion abandoned her? Regardless, I came to understand the underlying message she was trying to convey… she was lonely. Although advanced in years beyond average human life expectancy, she was still a WOMAN. Though barren now for decades, her fields remembered the lush pastures of past springs. I imagined her crying out to me “Work the land!” I, her loving sharecropper, would have to dutifully comply. Jamie was late from work. I hoped his bus had run into a ditch.

She talked little. She did not need not to say much. Voices need not interrupt when hearts are speaking. “Sweet, sweet knowing silence” I thought to myself. I imagined the future…. I would caress her body and follow her steeply sloping curves however low they might lead my hand. I would traverse the spaces between her liver spots like cupid sailing between the clouds. I would taste the empty holes where teeth had sacrificed themselves to Ovaltine sugar gods. I would tear down her support pantyhose as though I was storming of the Bastille. I would play with the strands of her blue hair like the strings of an angel’s harp. Jamie was late from work. I hoped he had suffered a terrible injury. We would bond over the tragedy and I would comfort her in her pain. Don’t judge me.

“Jamie’s home!” Slowly and crackling she got up to welcome her son. Who the Hell is Jamie? I had forgotten for a split second, for I had even forgotten who I was. At first, I blushed, embarrassed by the unspoken reality of our new found passion. Should I tell Jamie then and there what had been happening in his absence? Dare I be so bold? Should I greet him as ‘son’, and allow him to adjust to the unexpected new world that was emerging? I strengthened my loins (some of which were already naturally quite tense), and determined that the truth should be revealed. Jamie would make me a proud father.

“Will you have some supper before you boys head out?” she asked. “No mom, we’re already running late and better take off if we want to catch the opening pitch.” Jamie’s mom had obviously thought it was too soon to say anything. I understood. I deferred. I played along and respected the wisdom of her years. Jamie and I approached the door to leave. Jamie’s mom kissed her son. Then she kissed me on my cheek… mere inches from my opening mouth. The kiss lasted one second. The kiss lasted an eternity.

The rest of that night was a daze. I longed to pen a billet doux, but worried that her poor eyesight might misinterpret the meaning of the mot juste I would use to express the feelings which had enveloped me. I was captivated by a force majeure. I could not help but think in French, although I had never learned the language.

Three days then passed. She did not call, so I picked up the phone. I heard her voice, but inexplicably, I could not speak. What could I say first when there was so much to say? I wanted to reassure her that her hearing aid was still functioning. It was not a technical issue… it was me. I hung up, ashamed at my cowardice. Three more painful days passed until my phone rang. There was an incoming call from Jamie’s house. Our coy game would finally come to an end. The dam would burst, and the waters would float us together into an ocean of passion.

“Hello my dearest love!” I answered. It was Jamie. His mom was gone. The coroner’s explanation was a heart attack. I knew better. 96 years she had lived without any serious medical issue until my silence had clearly broken her heart. The pain was overwhelming. I did not and could not go to the viewing or the burial. I let Jamie down just days after my cowardice had killed his mother. I could not be there for my would-be stepson.

Weeks, then months passed. I mustered the strength to go back to work. I had to get out of the house. In my sorrow, I had watched so much Price is Right that my skin was pale and I had became intimately aware of the retail cost of basic staple goods. As time went on I gradually improved. I even found love again a few years later during a chance meeting with a lady named Beatrice at a local Bingo tournament. I let her borrow my dapper. She wet the page of her scorecard as the numbers rang out. Time heals all wounds and makes us better.