I knew Martin was gay, of course, probably before he did. So it came as no surprise when he came out to me the day he left for college. It was a relief in fact. The pretence we’d been keeping up till then was beginning to show the cracks. And at least now we could have a more open and honest relationship, or so I hoped.
“Just have fun, son,” I said as I kissed him goodbye. “Be careful and work hard.”
I didn’t see him for a couple of months after that. Too much partying, I imagined. I had to admit to being the teensiest bit jealous. I’d had Martin young, out of wedlock, as my mum called it. There’d always been just the two of us, and we’d been close and spent a lot of time together. I’d tried to kick-start my social life when Martin was about a year old, but it had been difficult to be a single mother and get out a lot. I did manage the odd singles club, or speed dating session with my best friend Clare, but besides the occasional dinner date and quick, often unsatisfying, fumble they didn’t amount to much. And now Martin had left home I felt too young to give up on the idea of partying myself, and wished I could join him. Now doubt his new social life was a blast. But what eighteen-year-old gay man would want to drag his mum along to a club, and have her cramp his style? Not many, I’m sure. And I missed him too. We got on so well together. Had a laugh and a giggle, and a cry too over soppy films. We had our moments like all mothers and sons, but they were rare. And I’d been really looking forward to his first visit home, after a couple of months away. He arrived early on a Friday evening.
“Hi, Mum, hope you don’t mind but Tom’s come to stay for a couple of nights.”
I looked at Tom as he followed Martin into the kitchen. How could I mind? He was gorgeous. Tall, slim, a wild mop of blond curls and a goofy smile. Eye candy for the middle-youth woman, that was for sure. And, of course, almost certainly gay. And not only gay, but chances were high that he was my son’s boyfriend, the first he’d ever brought home. This was going to be a steep learning curve. What was the etiquette around that? Did I offer to make them up the spare bedroom, the one next to mine? And, more importantly, the one with the double bed with squeaky springs, so if there was any nocturnal activity I would hear everything. Or did I put them in Martin’s bedroom, in the bunk beds? He’d been used to sharing his room with his mate Paul, when they’d dossed down here after working on their A-level projects. Maybe that’s what he’d prefer to do with Tom, share the bunks. Carry on with a tradition. And, though I had no problem with Martin being gay, and bringing home a boyfriend, it might spare all our blushes, for the first visit at least. I just wanted Martin to be safe and happy. Isn’t that what every mother wants for her son? Oh, and to be looked after and cared for. I wondered if Tom was the looking after and caring for type.
“Hello, Mrs Bateman, lovely to meet you.”
He shook my hand. I warmed to his manner immediately. And I couldn’t stop myself feel a twinge of jealousy. And that felt strange, feeling jealous of my son’s luck.
“Lisa, please. Mrs Bateman makes me feel about 70. And anyway, I’m not, Mrs that is. Cup of tea? Beer?”
“A beer would be great, Lisa. Thanks.”
And the evening went swimmingly from then on. I cooked for them, we sat round the table and ate, drank beer and red wine, gossiped and laughed. Tom’s smile was completely infectious, and it was good to have my house reverberate with the sound of men. It felt like he was flirting with me, which felt good, though I was conscious of what Martin would feel. He didn’t seem to notice. Or mind. It was the best time I’d had in ages.
“Cool, Mum,” Martin said when I told him about my suggested sleeping arrangements.
When I finally made it downstairs the next morning, feeling a little groggy from the wine, Martin had left me a note to say he’d popped round to visit an old school friend, Paul, who was home that week too. He said not to worry about Tom. He’d probably have a lie-in and work on some college stuff until Tom got back.
“Morning, Lisa.” Tom’s voice took me by surprise. It sounded deeper, like he’d just got out of bed, which, by the look of him, was the case. His hair was unbrushed and he wore a tight T-shirt and jeans that fell around his slim hips, exposing a line of dark hair leading down to his groin. I looked, then looked away, blushing.
“Cup of tea?” I asked, brightly. I was still in my dressing gown, which I pulled more tightly round me, as I was naked underneath. It didn’t generally matter what I wore around the house, as these days there was rarely anyone to see. Not that Tom would be interested in me. Not only was I nearly twice his age, but he was also probably far more interested in my son.
“Thanks, let me get it.” He came closer and his hand brushed over mine as he reached for the kettle. This one touch sent a tingle throughout my whole body. I must be starved of affection, I thought, if this is how I react to a brief encounter over a kettle. As I reached up to the cupboard I felt my breasts rub against the silk of my dressing gown, and I caught Tom’s eye. He was gazing at the curve of my breasts, I was sure. The ‘v’ of my dressing gown deepened as I placed two cups on the side, and I crossed my hands across my chest to cover myself up. Tom was close to me. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the scent of him. Not the heavy cologne, mixed with whisky, of the men I met at singles club. But the sharp and sweet smell of a young man just out of bed. I admitted to myself now just how much I wanted him. He reached forwards and brushed my hair back, placing his hand gently under my chin and bringing my eyes up to meet his. He was a foot taller than me at least.
“Me and Martin.” His voice trailed away and his fingers grazed over my cheek.
“Yes,” I replied.
“We’re just friends you know. Good friends. But just friends. I like girls. Well, women.”
I just nodded. And then he leant down and kissed me. It was just the lightest touch of a kiss at first. Tentative. I imagine he was uncertain, waiting for my response. So I returned his kiss, opened my mouth to him. The taste of him was wonderful. Sweet like his scent. We stood and kissed in the kitchen for an age, like teenagers, which I guess he was. It felt so good. Warmth radiated through my body and we moved closer together. I felt his body press against mine. I laid my hands on his hips. He was angular and firm. No soft edges to him. He pulled away. I felt momentarily disappointed. Had he changed his mind? Did he think he’d made a mistake? Oh, God, how awful would that be? Not least, now because I was anticipating and fantasizing about what would happen next.
“I definitely like women,” he whispered softly. “Women just like you. May I?” He reached for my dressing gown belt, which was tied into a loose bow.