My Mother Doesn’t Know the Effect She Has on Me

There was only one way to describe Renata: she was a goddess.

She belonged to that kind of person who is magnetic without even trying. And it wasn’t only because she was scandalously beautiful. Nor because her small yet voluptuous body could throw any man into turmoil. Nor because her red mane and green eyes drew attention in every corner she walked into. It wasn’t just that she was intelligent, funny, and sharp-tongued when the occasion called for it, either. There was something else, something impossible to catch with words. An intangible magnetism that would instantly leave anyone who looked at her for more than two seconds spellbound.

As I said, a goddess. The only problem was that Renata, besides all that, was my mother.

***

My friend Bruno couldn’t take his eyes off her while she made her way through the crowd packed into the concert hall. She was walking toward us with three beers in her hands, trying to get them to us intact, and the idiot just kept following her with a dopey smile and his mouth slightly open.

“Fuck, man,” I elbowed him in the ribs. “Try to hide it a little, will you? That’s my mother.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied. He snapped out of it, looked at me for a second, and that was all it lasted: a second. Right away he stuck his eyes back on her. “Your mother is smoking hot.”

“Go to hell. Do I say anything about yours?”

“Of course not, because mine isn’t hot like yours. If she were, you could say it. But she isn’t, so you don’t.”

That was Bruno for you, all logic and delicacy.

“I’m seriously jealous of you,” he insisted, squeezing my shoulder. “At least you’ve had the luck to suck on those tits.”

“Look, if you want to suck on something, you can suck me.”

“Thanks, man, what a gesture,” Bruno said, laughing.

“Anything for a friend.”

“One beer for you, and one for you,” my mother said when she finally managed to get to us. “Though for what they charged me, they might as well have served me unicorn blood.”

“Thank you so much, Renata,” Bruno grabbed his by the neck of the bottle. “The next round’s on me.”

“Forget it, I don’t want you having to take out a loan before you turn twenty,” she laughed, then turned to me. “What were you talking about, sweetheart?”

“Bruno can tell you,” I replied. Bruno choked on his first sip. “I’m going to the bathroom for a minute before this starts.”

I left my mother interrogating him and him sweating, searching for some answer that wouldn’t give him away. I elbowed my way through the crowd to the restrooms. When I came out, I stopped in front of the merch stand. Among the T-shirts with the cover of the band’s latest album, there was a pretty cool girl design that caught my eye. I thought I might buy one for my mother as a little gift. She and I shared musical tastes, and it wasn’t unusual for us to go to concerts together. That night, besides, she had let Bruno come with us, and it seemed to me she deserved some kind of thank-you.

I picked up a T-shirt to look at it more closely. The girl running the stand came over.

“A little small for you, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.

“What? Oh, no, it’s not for me. It’s for…”

“Yeah, I was teasing you,” she replied, laughing heartily. “It’s for that pretty girl who came with you, right?”

I turned and saw that from there you could see my mother joking around with Bruno. I looked back at the girl at the stand.

“Your older sister?” she asked.

“No… she’s my… How do you know we’re family?”

“Well, you look quite a bit alike,” she smiled again. “You’ve got a very pretty sister, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Next to her, I’m the ugly one in the family. When I was little they locked me in a dungeon and slid my food through a crack so they wouldn’t have to look at me.”

“You’re such an exaggerator!” she laughed even harder. Then she added, “Well, if you want the T-shirt for your sister, this size won’t work for her. It’s an S, and she needs at least a M.”

“You think so?” I asked, stretching the fabric to get a better look at it. “It seems like it could fit her to me.”

“Look,” the girl said, “I wear an S, and your sister has quite a bit more than I do.” She placed her hands on her chest and moved them apart from her body, sketching out volume in the air. Then she blushed a little. And I blushed even more, because she’d caught me staring at her tits.

Truth was, she was very pretty. Brunette, with shoulder-length hair that framed a sweet face. Her eyes, blue and bright, above a button nose, smiled at the same time as her lips. Definitely, that girl smiled with her eyes.

“Unfortunately I don’t have any M left,” she said with a sigh, recovering her professional tone. “I only have S.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I put the shirt back on the pile. “Thanks anyway.”

“You’re welcome!” She smiled at me again. She turned to help a couple, but then immediately turned back toward me. “Hey!” And when I looked at her, she added, “Your sister is very pretty, but you’re not the ugly sibling at all.”

At that moment the hall lights went out and the band came out onstage. A collective roar filled everything. I could have gone back to talking with her, but with that much noise it would have been pointless, so I elbowed my way back to my mother and Bruno. She was raising her beer and bringing her free hand to her mouth to whistle.

“What?” she said into my ear as she nudged me again. “Have you already stopped flirting with that cute girl at the stand?” She messed up my hair, took a swig of beer, winked at me, and turned her attention back to the stage.

I couldn’t blame the girl for having mistaken my mother for my sister. Seeing her jumping around like a lunatic in the front row, in her tight jeans, a T-shirt that barely covered her navel, a cropped leather jacket, and her red mane pulled back into a high ponytail, she didn’t look like a woman on the verge of forty-two. Not by a long shot. No one would have guessed her at over thirty, because she always looked much younger than she was. She didn’t look like anyone’s mother. What she could have passed for, without any trouble, was the older sister of some nineteen-year-old idiot. And that idiot, in this case, was me.

***

“What?” Bruno asked. “The second-to-last one before we head home?”

We were leaving the concert hoarse and wrecked, but happy. We got to the car and my mother opened the driver’s door.

“No second-to-last anything,” she said. “I have to be in the studio first thing tomorrow and I’m exhausted. Besides, I think I’m accompanied by two very handsome young men who have class tomorrow. Or am I wrong?”

“Renata…” Bruno protested. “Don’t be such a killjoy. I promise we’ll go somewhere that plays music from your era.”

“Listen, kid. The band we saw tonight was already old when I started listening to them. Don’t go thinking you invented gunpowder. And on top of that you just called me old, so now you’re definitely going straight home.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant…” Bruno had turned red. “Besides, tomorrow’s Friday, and first thing…”

“Bruno, first thing we have class with the Colonel,” I cut in. “And she doesn’t forgive anything.”

“The Colonel?”

“Yeah,” Bruno explained to my mother, “she’s a teacher with a temper and legs like…”

“A little out of place, don’t you think, boys?” my mother warned us, though she was cracking up.

“Go to sleep, and tomorrow class, man. Better not mess around with the Colonel. I’m not having my grade dropped in the last term evaluation over something stupid.”

“That’s my boy,” my mother said, tousling my hair again. “But the swear word was unnecessary.”

“Sorry, Mom.”

“Brownnoser,” Bruno muttered.

“Survival instinct,” I clarified.

We dropped Bruno off at his place and finally got home. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth and pee, and when I came out, my mother was in the kitchen.

The boots, jacket, and jeans were crumpled on the floor. She was leaning against the counter, fiddling with something. She was only wearing the cropped T-shirt and a black lace thong with wine-colored trim.

I swallowed.

My mother and I had always been incredibly close. There were days when she seemed more like an older friend than my mother. We did a ton of things together, talked about anything, understood each other without effort. And since I was little, I had gotten used to seeing her in all kinds of situations. In the shower. Topless on the beach. Walking around the house in very little clothing in the summer.

But over the past couple of years, something had changed inside me. And I was sure she had no idea about the effect she had on me. She was still leaning slightly over the counter, so her ass, crowned by that thong, barely swayed with each movement. She turned a little to reach the tea tin and I saw that, beneath the T-shirt, her nipples were outlined. She had also taken off her bra.

Standing there like an idiot in the doorway, I couldn’t stop looking at her.

She was a spectacle. She was a marvel.

She was torture.

“Oh, Lucas, sweetheart,” she turned when she noticed me. “I’m making myself some tea before bed. Do you want one?”

“No, no, thanks,” I stammered, trying not to make it obvious that I was watching her like a psychopath. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”

I went over to kiss her on the cheek, and as I did she brushed her breast against my arm. A shiver ran through my stomach. She kissed me back, caressed my face with the back of her hand. Her hair smelled wonderful, of a mix of jasmine and concert smoke that stuck to my nose.

“Sleep well, darling,” she murmured without quite letting me go. “I had a really good time with you today.”

“Me too, Mom,” I said, and my voice came out rougher than I intended.

I didn’t know if she noticed. She just smiled with that half-smile of hers and went back to focusing on the steaming cup. I forced myself to turn away before my eyes could keep traveling over her, before she looked up and read everything on my face.

I locked myself in my room and leaned against the door, heart pounding. Through the wall I could hear the clink of the spoon against the porcelain, her bare feet on the tiles, the rustle of clothes as she moved. Every sound drew a picture that shouldn’t have been drawn at all.

I let myself fall onto the bed and closed my eyes. It didn’t help. I had her etched into the darkness: leaning over the counter, her nipples showing through the thin fabric, the black lace hugging her hips. I knew it was wrong. I knew it was the most forbidden thing a son could feel. And yet I couldn’t shut it off.

I masturbated furiously, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound, with the smell of her hair still hanging in the air. Afterward I lay there in the dim light, breathing hard and feeling guilt settle slowly in my chest, listening as, on the other side of the hallway, my mother turned off the kitchen light without suspecting a thing.