She turned, knife in hand, and looked at me.
“You look tired,” she said.
When I was eighteen, Mom sat me down in this very kitchen and explained what she called “freeuse.” Not as a kink, she said. As a practicality. She was a single mom. I was a young man with needs. And we lived under the same roof. Why pretend? Why waste energy on awkwardness and denial when we could simply… use each other? Freely. Without asking. Without performance. Without guilt. She turned, knife in hand, and looked at me
It lasted six months. Then I left for school. As a practicality
“So. First day back. First rule in effect.” She took my hand and placed it on her hip, right where the yellow cotton was thinnest. “I’m in the middle of prepping dinner. But my mouth isn’t busy right now.” And we lived under the same roof