My son Manuel

After he finished toweling off, he left, and I went about my business. After I went to bed, I lay awake for a long time. I was deeply disturbed about my feelings. I was quite turned on from the experience of watching my son. But this was my son, my baby, the little boy I had raised. What I was feeling was wrong, inexcusable, incestuous. Nonetheless, I masturbated that night next to my sleeping husband for the first time in a long time.

I was forty two that year; my husband Rodger was forty nine. Manuel was nineteen, in his first year at the university across town. He was still living at home in order to save money, but he clearly had his own life. He went out on dates, he had girlfriends, and I was sure, this being the modern age, that he was having sex. I had long ago decided to let his personal life be his own; he was a grown up, and the last thing he needed was a prying, over-protective mother. Still, I found myself wondering about his sex life. Specifically, I wondered what it must be like to be one of his dates. I had never dated much when I was young; Rodger had been my high school boyfriend.