Chapter One

I’m about to tell you a story that makes me very embarrassed. In fact, it makes me absolutely blush with shame. And to give you a hint about the kind of man I am, those emotions make me instantaneously hard...down there, I mean. I am writing this recounting of how it is between me and my Mommy because that is what she told me to do. She loves to do that: to make me turn bright red with those feelings, since I am very fair complected and I flush quite vividly when I am caught in a feeling I would rather hide (or am turned on, which is often the same thing).She always delights in fondling the evidence of how directly the wiring is between my shame centers and my...well, my cock. Mommy has instructed me to use frank (she actually said ‘filthy’) language in telling my story, even though that goes totally against my natural tendency and lifelong training. I was brought up to be a good boy, and good boys don’t use such words. But my new Mommy has very different ideas about almost all such things that the woman who brought me into this world and raised me all by herself did.

I distinguish the two by referring to the woman to whom I was born as Mother. The emotions I feel around that rather impersonal title are consistent with the very unemotional atmosphere (well, except for her cold constant anger) in which she did her duty of bringing up the product of her worst mistake ever. She often said that, especially when I was displeasing to her, which was frequent no matter how hard I tried. My embittered Mother would often recount the circumstances of my conception while I was trying to collect myself while doing my corner time after her latest energetic attempt to help me to be a better boy.

This is how the story went. A very handsome and charming frat boy had been flirting with her for months. This was not behavior that a very prim and proper college librarian ten years his senior was used to. She later found out that he was trying to collect on a hundred dollar bet with his frat brothers, in which he claimed he could seduce any woman on campus. His sneering buddies chose her, someone whom they deemed was the least likely target of opportunity to respond even to my Father’s legendary charms to which even the most prudish coeds had proven uniformly susceptible. And Mother held out for a long time, going home alone to her sterile little bungalow just off campus night after night with notes, gifts, and flowers. But finally, his smiling and apparently earnest persistence hanging around her desk chatting her up wore down her disbelief and then her resistance, and she agreed to a date.

Now my Mother was hardly a party girl, and had tasted alcohol just a few times in her life (other than the Holy Communion wine that she drank a sip of every Sunday at Mass).But she felt so won over by the seemingly endless attention from his big blue eyes looking at her, as an envious fellow old-maid librarian put it, like she was ‘the future Mother of his unborn child’. This part of the story was always recounted with particular bitterness, since there was a special irony in that prediction given that I came to pass.

So she actually felt like celebrating when he took her to the nicest restaurant in the small college town. A glass or two of champagne hardly seemed like it would hurt,