I Was Always My Mother’s Shadow

Marisa, my mother, is forty-nine and has thick ringlets that fall to her shoulders, the perfect frame for her round face and her exaggeratedly feminine features. She has a fine nose, just like mine, and full lips she paints a nearly defiant red. Her eyes are big, brown, so expressive that when they really look at you, you feel like you have nowhere to hide.

Her body never goes unnoticed. Big, heavy breasts that stand out under any neckline and even under a winter sweatshirt. She has a defined waist with those little folds that remind you she’s a flesh-and-blood woman, with her history, her scars, her whole life laid over her, not a plastic figure fresh out of a surgeon’s office.

Wide hips, full thighs that move when she walks and make men turn their heads on the sidewalk. In short: a huge woman in every sense, radiating sensuality and natural beauty at an age when many women give up.

When my younger sister, Lucía, was born, Mom started dressing more suggestively. In my innocence back then, I didn’t understand why, but over the years I came to: every woman deserves to feel beautiful and desired, and she, who had spent years hiding herself out of insecurity and giving herself over to the house, finally decided to live in her own body. No one had ever told her it was worth showing off.

Throughout my teens, the same idea ate away at me: my mother was more attractive than I was. And not a little. A lot. I consider myself a pretty girl; I have a face that has always been praised, but my body is rather thin, without curves to draw attention. Next to her, I looked like the draft version of a woman still unfinished.

Many times I’d walk down the street with Mom and someone would shout something filthy at her, ignoring me completely. To be honest, street catcalls horrify me. But in those years, the fact that it was always aimed at her and never at me made me feel invisible, inadequate, like I was missing something essential.

Back then I suffered something I’m not even sure I’d call harassment. They were crude jokes, sexual comments from my classmates about my mother’s body. Today, with some distance, I know they were just a bunch of idiots. But at the time I wanted to die, I wanted to kill them and, by the same token, my mother too, in whatever order.

—With those tits, your mom nurses half the neighborhood —one of them told me one morning, laughing his ass off.

—They switched you at the clinic, skinny girl, because you didn’t inherit a thing from that body —another one finished.

Stuff like that, not every day, but often enough that I still remember it. Mom wore a super-low neckline to every gathering, so it was always the topic of conversation the next day. The worst came when someone created a fake account and sent me an edited photo of her by message, a humiliating image they had obviously put together just to hurt me. I was destroyed. I couldn’t believe anyone wanted to hurt me that much. If you wanted to fantasize about my mother, do it in silence, what did you gain by sending it to me? It was deeply humiliating, but at least it was private and I could handle it.

What could I do? Keep my head down and move on.

Luckily, in less than a year the comments disappeared completely. I suppose they matured, although the staring didn’t stop. I was content that they no longer said disgusting things to me. I think my boyfriend helped too. One of the guys who had fucked with me the most apologized shortly after we started seriously dating. Whether it was because he’d matured or because my boyfriend talked to him, I never knew, but I enjoyed every second of that awkward apology. Of course, I accepted it.

However, that wasn’t the end of it.

One afternoon, with my boyfriend at home, Mom came out of her room looking careless, in around-the-house clothes that showed more than she would have wanted. We both saw her. My boyfriend froze for a second, which felt like an eternity to me, and then immediately turned his head my way. I don’t know if he managed to notice the fury in my eyes, but the poor guy turned red as a tomato. Mom apologized, saying she hadn’t known he was there, went back to her room, changed, and reappeared as if nothing had happened.

We spent the rest of the afternoon wrapped around each other, kissing, making plans for the future. That phase was beautiful: we spent hours glued together, laughing, dreaming about the house we were going to have one day. I loved him with an intensity that hurt in my chest.

The next day, alone at home with Mom, I staged one of the things I regret most in my life. A brutal fight, fueled by all that accumulated discomfort.

—Mom, you embarrassed me again —I said on the verge of tears.

—What happened, Flor?

—Yesterday you showed up half-naked in front of my boyfriend.

—I already apologized, I didn’t know you were there. It’s not that big a deal either, you’re both adults.

—It’s always the same. All last year they made fun of me because of how you dress. Do you know the things they said to me because of you?

—Excuse me, is my daughter going to tell me how to dress? Are you ashamed of how I look?

—Everyone thinks you’re looking for something, and they made sure I knew it.

—Lower your tone a little, because I’m speaking to you nicely —she replied, still calm—. If a bunch of shameless boys crossed the line with me, the problem was them, not me. I don’t have to cover myself for a pack of immature idiots who don’t know how to behave. And, in case you need it spelled out, I’m an adult woman and I dress however the hell I want.

—I hate you. I wish I didn’t have a mother who looks like something else —I spat, and walked off crying, slamming the door.

Today I’m ashamed of every word from that afternoon. We spent a couple of days distant, speaking as little as possible, until I had to ask her for help with something stupid. In her tenderness I realized she had already forgiven me, without me even needing to apologize.

That night we were alone. My dad was away on a work trip and my sister had gone to sleep over at a friend’s house.

My boyfriend had stayed for dinner with us, but he went back to sleep at his place. I would have loved for him to stay, though they still didn’t let us sleep together except on rare occasions.

It took me ages to fall asleep. I replayed the fight with Mom, how unfair I had been to her, how well my boyfriend had always behaved with her without ever crossing the line, the kisses I still had pending, the caresses I hadn’t given him. I thought about him, his body, what I still didn’t dare give him.

I remembered an afternoon when he’d come back from training, sweaty, and for some reason I don’t fully understand that turned me on even more. I’d gone with him and we walked back to his house, which was empty, so I went in. We kissed as soon as we crossed the door. I was burning up.

He stopped me and said he needed to shower. And then, without thinking, I buried my face in his neck, in his chest, breathing him in completely. I dragged him to the bedroom, pulled down his pants, knelt, and sucked him slowly, my tongue drawing circles, licking him from base to tip. I did all that to make up for what I still didn’t dare give.

—I’m gonna come, Flor —he gasped.

—Come in my mouth.

I stuck out my tongue and pressed it against him while he masturbated, aiming with precision. I felt the heat in my mouth and swallowed him whole, slowly, looking him in the eyes. I was always willing to give myself to him like that.

Lying in my bed, reliving that memory, I stroked myself softly until I came, rubbing my clit in the dim light. More relaxed, I fell asleep around one in the morning.

***

Around three, voices from downstairs woke me up.

I was terrified they were breaking in, so I grabbed my phone in case I had to call the police and went out barefoot in my socks, trying not to make a sound. I opened my bedroom door carefully. The voices were coming from the living room. From the staircase, which turns in an L-shape, I could peek at the lower floor leaning on the banister without being seen.

And there he was. My boyfriend, standing in front of the sofa.

I was about to go downstairs to hug him when I noticed my mother was sitting on the couch, giving him oral sex.

With a pain that tore through my chest, I decided to control my emotions, swallow my tears, and wait to see what happened. My boyfriend couldn’t be doing this to me, and worse, my own mother. They were shitting all over me and the entire family. I raised my phone and started recording, to show my dad when he got back from his trip.

—You suck dick so well —he moaned—. You’re the best.

—See? Do I do it better than your little girlfriend?

—Way better. But I’d never tell her that.

—She’s still too young. And besides, I bet she’s a prude.

Then I saw my mother swallow him whole, effortlessly, all the way down. My boyfriend threw his head back, let out a rough groan, and held her by the nape, setting the rhythm. The muffled sounds from her could be heard, utterly surrendered.

—Flor’s never done this to me —he murmured—. You’re something else.

—Wait —she said, pulling back for a second—, you’re going to make me come too soon and I don’t want that.

—See what a real woman is like? How much she still has to learn from you.

Mom took off her T-shirt and bra, wrapped her chest around him and started rubbing it between her tits, lowering her mouth every time she reached the tip. Crying and consumed by hatred, I watched her do to him what I had never been able to do, and never would.

—I’ve never felt so much pleasure in my life —he gasped—. You’re a goddess, Marisa.

—You haven’t tasted anything yet, spoiled brat.

I had never seen my boyfriend with that look of ecstasy. By then I couldn’t hold back my tears any longer, but at least I was crying in silence. I wanted to die right there, to ruin their lives forever.

—I want to fuck you hard, Marisa —he said, his voice broken with desire—. Really hard, like I never could before.

—Whatever you want.

Mom stood up, took off her skirt and underwear, and bent over the sofa on all fours. My boyfriend, who had always been careful with me, started fucking her slowly.

—Is this okay? —he asked.

—Harder.

—Like this?

—Harder, harder, so it can be heard.

I watched him pound her with a fury he had never shown me. There was no way I could give him that. It made sense that he’d look for a woman who could keep up with him and leave me aside. But why did it have to be her? With so many women in the world, why had he chosen my mother of all people?

—I wish your daughter had turned out like you —he said, without stopping—. We wouldn’t be doing this if she knew how to enjoy herself like this.

—Oh, how you fuck me —she moaned—. You’re so good, kid.

Mom sat up, reached for something in a jar on the side table, smeared her fingers and his groin with it, and prepared for something I had never dared give. She lay on her back, lifted her legs, and looked at him.

—Give me everything, spoiled brat.

—Are you going to fulfill my fantasy?

—What, my daughter the little saint never let you?

—She never wanted to.

—Well, let me teach you. Slowly.

From the stairs I watched my boyfriend enter her slowly, without stopping, all the way in. On his face appeared an expression I had never seen before. It was obvious: she was giving him a pleasure that was out of my reach.

—I love it, I love it —Mom kept repeating—. Don’t stop.

—Do you like the way I fuck you?

—I love it. Harder.

I hated her with all my strength. She was a traitor, rolling around with my boyfriend while I was choking on the stairs. He fucked her with a hardness he had never had with me, and she wouldn’t stop screaming with pleasure.

—I can’t hold it anymore, I’m coming —he warned.

—Fill me up, give me everything.

My boyfriend collapsed on top of her and then pulled away, panting.

—You need to come see me more often —Mom purred—. Someone like my daughter is never going to satisfy you like a real woman.

—Whenever you want. This will be our secret.

I dragged myself, defeated, back to my room, climbed into bed, covered myself to the head, and cried without consolation. I wanted to disappear in every possible way.

***

I grabbed my phone, found the video, and hit play. I wanted to show my dad, let him see that while he was breaking his back on the road for the family, his wife was sleeping with his daughter’s boyfriend.

The image looked clear, but over the audio a doorbell rang.

I could see my mother with my boyfriend, but the doorbell rang louder.

The scene kept going, and the doorbell became deafening.

The doorbell rang again and again until I opened my eyes.

It had all been a nightmare. The afternoon with my boyfriend, the endless insecurity in the face of Mom’s sensuality, and the guilt over our fight had blended together in that horrible dream. It wasn’t the only one from my teens; I had three or four where my boyfriend betrayed me with her.

But that was, without a doubt, the worst of them all. Because I woke up soaked, and I never knew whether it was from tears, from sweat, or from something I’d rather not name.