Mommy Incest Stories

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I walked into my son’s school a few weeks ago to pick him up. He was sitting with all his friends waiting for me by the door and immediately got up when he saw me coming. Clearly, he didn’t want me coming anywhere near his friends. I got the feeling he didn’t want anyone to know he was with me. I was right.
As he got closer, he whispered, “Mom, why do you have to dress like that? Everyone stares at you.”
“No they don’t. They are probably staring at you because you are so handsome,” I told him.
“I blend in. They aren’t staring at me. They are looking at you. Why do you have to wear dresses and high heels?” For the record, I was wearing the outfit below. The nerve, right?
I decided I wanted to try something with my teenage son that day. I asked him if he wanted to dress me for a little while. I told him he could pick out my outfits and I would wear whatever he wanted me to wear as long as he had an open mind and would listen to a few things I had to say about people and the way they choose to dress, so that’s what we did.
I wanted to talk to him more about the subject and why he was feeling the way he was. And by having him choose my clothes for a while I would better understand why he wanted me to wear certain things, and maybe he would understand why I like to dress the way I do and that, really, it shouldn’t affect him as much as it does.
This was his choice for the first day. He picked out a very casual, sporty outfit, and I loved it.
While I dress like this about half the time and like this look, it doesn’t always suit me. Sometimes I feel like dressing up more, so I do. When I asked my son why he picked this out, he said because I “blended in and didn’t look out of place.” In his mind, when I dress up, I look like I don’t belong. If he only knew how many women I saw throughout the day wearing suits and heels maybe he would have a different opinion.
Regardless, I told him nobody should be judged based on how they dress — not even your very embarrassing mother . Most people wear what they are comfortable in, what makes them feel good. It doesn’t matter where it came from because this isn’t how we judge others. We focus on how they make us feel, if they are kind, how they treat people. I told him judging people for what they wear is very transparent, and he will be missing out on a lot in life if he is going to focus on making friends because of what they wear, what they have, or what they look like.
If he is comfortable dressing in a way that makes him feel like he blends in, I think that is great. However, I want him to have the inner confidence to step out of the box if he wants. If he feels like wearing something, even though none of his peers are, I want him to feel like he can.
I also let him know what someone puts on their body isn’t an invitation, for him or anyone else, ever. And he should always take heed on how he looks at people, especially women. There is a way to look at a woman without staring or gawking. No matter how you see her, she deserves respect. I don’t care what she’s wearing.
I also want my son to realize just because I am a mother it doesn’t mean I have to dress a certain way. I loved the outfits he picked for me, and dress like that on my own accord often. But I also love wearing dresses, heels, skinny jeans, and trying out new trends because that is who I am, and who I was long before I became his mother. It’s not my intention to embarrass him. It is my intention to be myself, and him making comments or telling me he doesn’t want to go anywhere with me because of the way I dress is hurtful (as normal as it is).
A few days ago, I discussed these “lessons” I was trying to teach him with a friend and she told me he would “take all these lessons and bake them into a gentleman pie.” I really hope she is right.

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Erotica collection, 1940-1969

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Erotica collection, 1940-1969

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, depicting transgressive sex acts including (but not limited to) lesbian and heterosexual sex, incest including (but not limited to) lesbian and heterosexual sex, incest , pedophilia, sadomassochistic behavior

Erotica collection, 1940-1969 ✖ [remove] 1

David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library 1

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This collection contains an archive of original illustrations, four sketchbooks, and erotic stories, depicting transgressive sex acts including (but not limited to) lesbian and heterosexual sex, incest, pedophilia, sadomassochistic behavior, and copulation with objects as varied as sex toys, produce, and household appliances. The stories and illustrations appear to be the work of a single individual, with nearly all narrative told from a female's point of view. Also includes some amateur pornographic photography and magazine clippings.
The stories included in the collection range in length from one page to 46 pages. Two of the four sketchbooks include drafts of multiple storylines. Most stories are handwritten in the style of a graphic novel; some are typed. All include accompanying hand-drawn illustrations. There are also loose, miscellaneous illustrations in the collection with no correlating story. The collection's photographs and magazine clippings appear to have been used as models for some of the sketches and artwork. The photographs include at least one image of a hermaphroditic woman who appears in some of the accompanying stories.

Current results range from 1940 to 1969

Life Skills For Teens To Learn Before They Leave Home
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Several weeks ago, I took a bath. A real one, with bubbles and everything. I do it once every seven or eight months. It is never relaxing, but I am no quitter, so every once in a great while, I’ll give it another go. I stopped locking the door years ago because quite honestly, I’d rather have unwelcome visitors than listen to them screaming at me and/or each other from the other side of the door.
“Mom, are you done yet? What are you doing Mom? Move over, I was here first! Stop hitting me! Mom, he just hit me! Mom, I have to go potty RIGHT NOW!”
We have four bathrooms in our house.
Regardless, the lesser of two evils is to just leave the door unlocked and hope for the best (heavy sigh).
I had approximately six minutes (pure heaven) before my first uninvited guest arrived, walked in, put the toilet lid down and made herself more comfortable than I have ever been on a toilet seat in my life.
“Why are you taking a bath Mom? You never take a bath.”
Before I can answer, Uninvited Guest #2 arrives with a bit more enthusiasm.
“Mommy! You’re taking a bath! Can I watch?”
“No, and aren’t you suppose to be doing your homework?”
Almost immediately, she returns (still no invitation) , and proceeds to sit down next to the tub holding a pencil, her worksheet, and a lap desk.
“I need help with my homework Mommy.”
Uninvited Guest #1: “Mom is trying to take a bath! Right Mom?!”
“Why yes, yes I am very thoughtful child of mine,” who is still sitting on the toilet looking down on me from her throne very softly stating the obvious, “Mom, I can see your (and then she points in the general direction of her chest area). Maybe you should cover them up with a washcloth or something?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I making you uncomfortable? You see, in most cultures, it is customary to remove one’s clothing prior to settling into a water-filled bathtub. Generally speaking of course.”
What can I say, I take advantage of every possible opportunity to teach life lessons (i.e. common f**king sense) to my children.
Enter Uninvited Guest #3. Well now it’s a party.
“MOMMY! Why you takin a bath? Can I come in?”
“No Buddy. Go find your Dad (Where the hell is he?!).”
UG#2: “Mommy, do you like taking a bath?”
UG#1: “Mom, the bubbles are disappearing. Are you sure you don’t want a wash cloth or something, you know to (more chest area pointing)?”
“Nope. I’m good. I really appreciate your concern though. Here’s a thought. Get out.”
Re-enter UG#3 who turns the corner like Cole Trickle on speed coming out of turn #4 on full throttle in the general direction of the bathtub wearing nothing but an ear to ear grin.
“Stop the car Cole! Get out of the car!”
“I yike takin a bath with you mommy.”
This article was originally published on 10.3.2014

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All signs pointed toward me being gay, but to my mom and relatives I was just a kid having fun. I was fabulous that night and I knew it; that is, until my father walked in and saw me.
Oral Fixation is a live true, personal storytelling series for adults dedicated to community building and social change.
Feb 19, 2014, 02:42 PM EST | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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Oral Fixation is a live true, personal storytelling series for adults dedicated to community building and social change.
This story was written and performed by Mike Thompson for the live, personal storytelling series Oral Fixation (An Obsession With True Life Tales) at the McKinney Avenue Contemporary in Dallas, Texas, on March 13, 2012. The theme of the show was "One Night Stand."
"Watching Mike read his story on the night of the show was electrifying- like watching him come out of the closet right there onstage," says Oral Fixation creator Nicole Stewart . "I admire his strength to share this once painful but ultimately uplifting story of looking shame in the eye and choosing love."
I had a one-night stand with my mother. Now, before you go crazy on me, let's rewind for a bit to get some history behind this little love affair.
Growing up, I was the only child of an American-born U.S. soldier and a bombshell of a lady from Vietnam. His name was Gary, and hers, Lieú. It's the classic story of soldier meets beautiful Asian lady. Asian lady says, "Five dolla, love you long time." Little did my dad know that the five dollars he spent was well worth the return. They fell madly in love and after his tour in Vietnam, my dad flew back to ask for her hand in marriage. Four years later, I came along.
From early childhood there was so much expected of me. I was going to "grow up and do great things," my dad would say. I was immersed in sports, all kinds of academia, church and developed a huge group of friends. I was one of the cool kids back in my day. Even though I had everything going for me, deep down I was struggling as most kids do at some point. I felt there was another part of me that wanted to be free and I couldn't figure out what it was.
I was 8 years old when it became clear. Picture this: a banana in hand for a microphone, prancing around the living room in my mother's long, flowy nightgown, Donna Summer's 45 of "Last Dance" spinning on the record player and yours truly lip-syncing my little heart out. If you haven't figured it out yet, all signs pointed toward me being gay, but to my mom and relatives I was just a kid having fun. I was fabulous that night and I knew it; that is, until my father walked in and saw me. The look on his face was enough to make me feel like I had done something wrong. His eyes were full of shame and disgust as he turned and stormed out of the room.
For several years after, I hid in the little closet I created to protect myself. Outwardly, I was perky, playful and content but inside I continued to feel unhappy, confused and at times suicidal. When my friends started dating, my father hassled me about not having a girlfriend. One evening it came to this: "So, why is it that all of your friends have girlfriends and you don't, Michael?" he would say. "Why do you think I need a girlfriend? Don't you always want me to focus on school, sports and church? You know, 'to grow up and do great things?'" I replied. "Michael, don't you think that would include a wife and kids eventually?" he pressed. "Dad, I am in high school! I don't want or need a girlfriend right now." Without hesitation he said, "Well, you better not be a faggot!"
With my heart beating, emotions flaring and hands trembling, I muttered the words "I'm not" as I turned and slammed the door on my proverbial closet. It was conversations like this that started a broken record of messages that I played over and over in my head: "I am not normal. He won't approve. He won't love me."
Aside from my own internal conflicts, there was a constant tension in my house and happiness was a rarity. Mom and Dad always seemed annoyed, angry or sad. I guess we were all just good at keeping silent when it came to things that mattered. That silence was broken when my father chose to kill himself.
I was 16 when my neighbor and I found him in the garage with the car running. We pulled him out and tried to breathe life into him, but he was pale and solid as a rock. He gave nothing back -- he was gone. This was the first time I experienced death. I was filled with every emotion imaginable and I was surprised that these emotions included happiness. I was happy because I was free from my father, and the hold he had on my life.
With my father gone, I assumed the role of being the man of the house and took on all the things my father did. I took care of the house and cars, bought groceries, did taxes, helped pay the bills and made sure my mother was taken care of and healthy. She was all I had when it came to family, and we got really close. I gave her almost everything I could at the time. What I couldn't give her was the honesty of who I was and what I was truly thinking and feeling. I continued my "normal" life but the next seven years in the closet were the darkest years of my life. I internalized the same pressures of success and family from my mom and I couldn't help but play that same broken record: "I am not normal. She won't approve. She won't love me."
Jan. 4, 2002: I was 23 and had just moved home from college. I was in my childhood room unpacking my belongings, looking at old pictures of my family all together and "happy," listening to the same oldies that my father enjoyed all while reminiscing about my life in that house. For years I had not shed a tear over my father's death, or over the exhausting task of caring for my mother and especially not over the darkness I lived in. But in that moment, with years of images and words flooding my memory, I cried my heart out.
Hearing me, my mother came to my room to see what was going on because this was not normal for me. She sat beside me and asked in her broken English, "What wrong, Michael, what happened to you?" With my heart beating, emotions flaring and hands trembling I played it off saying I was sad school was over. As with most mothers, her instinct set in and she knew it was much deeper than that. She then grabbed my hand and looked deep into my eyes and said, "It okay Michael, you can tell Mommy truth."
She let me feel what I was feeling while holding my hand and waiting for me to answer. Looking at her, I could no longer stand it. I couldn't cry any more and no amount of prayer could help me out of the depth of sorrow I was in. So in climactic fashion, I kicked down my closet door and said it: "I'M GAY!"
Without hesitation she replied, "Michael, are you sure?" With my palm to my forehead I answered, "Oh my God, Mom, I'm crying my ass off, I have tissue everywhere, snot hanging out my nose and you ask if I am sure?! Yes mom, I'm gay." We both sat there for a minute in silence and waited for our hearts to calm. The weight fell off my shoulders and now I could see she was bearing some weight from the revelation that I was gay. We then started the game of 20 questions beginning with, "When did you know?"
"Umm do you remember when I was singing in your dress?" I started. "Ooooooh, Mommy remember," she interrupted with a small chuckle. "Daddy get so mad when he see you act like girl. He don't talk to Mommy for two days. Mommy think maybe you gay but Mommy not sure. You look so happy sing a song with banana."
As the night went on we continued to have conversations about my father, how I was going to tell other relatives, my worries, fears and eventually my hopes and dreams. This impromptu tryst of sorts was a huge relief because I was a
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