Selma Fant sat in the dark of her private media room, her fine lace panties down around her ankles, draping her Ferragamos like the small gathered train of a bridal gown. With glazed over, bloodshot, and unblinking eyes, eyes that bulged wildly and drunkenly stillborn under heavy black lashes, she stared at the hot black gay porn on the bright screen before her. She ate popcorn and drank vodka and watched with zombie intent while boys fucked and got fucked and busted nut after nut, one after another, some all together. Big blue-black stallions and hot bubble-butt sissies, and a doggie-style roughneck Puerto Rican thrashing some caramel cutie with ten inches of uncut banana, entertained the quiet and mesmerised drunk. A Mandingo salad toss and then a ride on some cream-coloured pony - boy trade was getting it and giving it every which way, tight and loose.
She continued to stare through those unblinking eyes, continued to eat popcorn, drink vodka, and gently probe her senior but still spit-moistable pussy.
But after she brought herself to a myriad of huckbucking climaxes, she felt vile, vile as vile's mother. Her drunkenness and her guilt were ill-mixed and she had sickened herself, was sick of herself, and hated herself all over again for the pain she had caused.
She remembered how sweet he was, how fresh he was, how bright he was. If she had only remembered discipline.
But how could she have known? She was weakened bu lust, wilted by proclivities she could not control. That is what she had told herself throughout the years, even if she had yet to convince herself. Time had not gauzed over the picture. The colors had not faded. The transgression still stood crystal clear, in spite of what she had tried to tell herself.
Time does not make everyone forget. Time had not let Earl-Anthony forget, had not let his mother forget. A scalding is always remembered. So what happened more than twenty years ago felt as if it had happened just yesterday.
In theory Salma Fant was the near perfect mother for a homosexual son. Some mothers just come fit to order, others have to be dragged to it like gluttons to tofu. But Selma Fant was near perfect. She was girlfriend and guardian, both shield and mantle. She was near perfect except for that one mighty thing. It did not matter that what happened occurred so long ago, when Earl-Anthony was still living at home, was still her perfect little man, years before he became the diva Miss Zara. The pain suffered by both mother and child was a deep, rugged canyon not easily traversed.
Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater. That's what she called him once she discovered all he could do.
More than twenty years ago. She had come home early, had shown all her listings and closed two escrows. She was feeling no pain when she came through the front door, went to the bar, and fixed a celebratory cocktail.
She almost snapped on the music when she recognized the huffing and puffing of Earl-Anthony working out in his room upstairs. She decided to share her good news with him.
She set down her drink and swept up the stairs like a schoolgirl home from a great night at the prom. She smiled to herself as she moved down the hallway; the midafternoon sun from their bay windows poured through Earl-Anthony's wide open bedroom door. And the strains and the grunts and the huffs and the puffs from her hardworking baby working harder than usual made her smile with pride at his sense of dedication to physical fitness, so unlike his potbellied, near-wasted daddy.
A pride-filled smile was still plastered on her face as she stood frozen one step inside his bedroom. Her eyes became bulges as she stared at the sight: the horror and the beauty, the anger and desire, the heart-bending pulse of the rhythm of the two bodies connected like yard dogs in heat. She was repelled and rekindled by how well her son was taking it and loving it, how well his friend was riding it and giving it. She was deeply moved and thoroughly disgusted. She shed a tear and almost let out with a "Bravo, you bitches!"
For she wanted it. She wanted to love it and taste it and take it as good as her son was.
Move over, son, and let Mommy get some!
And then she felt bad, guilty as hell; but before she could look away he looked up and saw her.And when he smiled that dangerous smile that knew that she wanted whatever it was he was giving her child, her guilty-as-hell went straight out the window.
So while Earl-Anthony Fant was getting it too good to open his eyes, his man and his mom were eyeing each other and planning with smiles that were guilty but not guilty enough.
Guilty-as-hell was long gone...
Pictures: 21-year-old New York model Toks Adewetan.
Text: Excerpt from "Looker" by Stanley Bennett Clay.
Title quote: "What is most beautiful in virile men is something feminine; what is most beautiful in feminine women is something masculine." Susan Sontag, American author and critic (1933 - 2004).