21-08-2019, 06:24 PM
She hasn’t made a hundred bucks.” “She said she’s sold about a thousand.” “Well, a thousand then, but she’s spent five grand on that studio out back and all that crap for making figurines.” “Statues,” I corrected my father. “They’re miniature garden statues.” “Whatever.” “Dad, she’s had a big shock.” “We’ve all had a shock but it’s time to move on, get back into the swing of things.” Dad stopped walking and ran his right hand through his hair, then released a long sigh. “I know, Ben. I know. It’s just that…well…I thought she would be getting back to normal but it doesn’t look like she’s going to, or even wants so. I don’t know what to do,” Dad lamented, his exasperation evident. “Just give her some room,” I suggested. “Room? Room? I given her all the room in the world and all she’s done is go further off track.” “Maybe she really needs to go in a different direction, Dad. It happened to her.
The cancer happened to her, not to us.” “Yeah, well it affects all of us. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Dad ran his hand through his hair again. “All our friends are talking about it. She’s doing nude statues, you know. Have you seen them? And that’s not the half of it.” I ignored his question. In fact, I hadn’t seen them but suspected they were underneath the tarp in the far corner of Mom’s studio. “How about you give her a while longer, maybe another two or three months?” “Two or three more months?” Dad looked at me, stunned. “Yeah, a couple of months or so. I’ll get a website up and send some emails off and we’ll see what happens. I think people will be interested in her sculptures and if they’re not, well maybe Mom will realize sculpting has to be a hobby and she’ll go back to work.” I felt guilty stringing Dad along. I didn’t think Mom was ever going to return to work, not as an insurance agent anyway, but the carrot worked—the one about sales rather than returning to work as I thought.
“You really think people in the city might buy that stuff.” “There’s the possibility. Yeah, I think so.” I wasn’t convinced but I needed Dad to think there was a chance so he’d give Mom a breather. She needed it. “Ok, son. Two months then.” “Three, Dad. Three.” “Ok, three.” Dad walked away with a spring in his step. ————————————— “Ben, you’re making me self-conscious,” Mom complained. She was washing a few dishes by hand while I finished my cereal. As she scrubbed the dishes, my eyes were drawn to the green tank top she was wearing or, more to the point, the tantalizing movement underneath that made the material so interesting to watch. I just couldn’t believe my mom didn’t wear a bra. This was my third day at home and Mom hadn’t worn one yet. She wore t-shirts, loose blouses, and tank tops but never a bra. Misinterpreting the reason for my attention, Mom added, “They’re fine. I only have the one lump and it hasn’t grown and there aren’t any new ones.” My face reddened. Whenever that happens to me, trying to stop it makes it worse. I tried to hide it by looking down and scooping Honey Nut Cheerios into my mouth. “Whatever you say, Mom.”
It was definitely better that she believed I was worried about her health than the truth, that is, that I was ogling my own mother’s tits. I slurped down the last of the cereal and put the bowl on the counter, then returned to finish my coffee. “You should quit drinking that stuff,” Mom said. “You’ll end up like your father, all antsy and uptight.” I laughed. She had Dad pegged alright. Mom cleaned my bowl and pulled the plug out of the drain. Immediately, she picked up a dish towel, dried her hands and then started on the dishes in the rack. My eyes followed her as she turned to put a glass away in the far cupboard. I barely managed to look away before she turned back to get another glass but kept my eyes suitably averted while she dried it. When she turned to put it away, my gaze locked onto her buns again. Mom had a great bottom, nicely lifted and outlined by the jeans. They may be old and faded, but they were designer none the less and made to highlight a woman’s best feature, at least, the best for some women.
And Mom was one of those women. Her butt sloped gradually away from her waist to end in two beautiful lumps that looked like someone had filled a couple of longish balloons with water, held them over an edge, and covered them with denim. The bulk of the weight swelled out at the bottom and. As she walked, her ass swayed and the jeans tightened alternately over each cheek. Mom had remarked that her ass was getting fat, critically eyeing the way it jutted out more than it had a few years ago, but to me it was fulfilling its destiny, assuming a near-perfect form, the pinnacle of female assery. But Mom was the sculptor and that’s why all her statues, which were all of women, sat in various poses. Not one was standing. It was a shame because I knew there were cretans out there like me that would gladly buy a statue adorned with a butt like Mom’s. Yeah, Mom used herself as a model for her sculptures. She had a large mirror set up in her studio and she looked at herself, striking a particular pose, as she created each new work. She must have put hours and hours into it to have made all the statues sitting around the studio.
The cancer happened to her, not to us.” “Yeah, well it affects all of us. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.” Dad ran his hand through his hair again. “All our friends are talking about it. She’s doing nude statues, you know. Have you seen them? And that’s not the half of it.” I ignored his question. In fact, I hadn’t seen them but suspected they were underneath the tarp in the far corner of Mom’s studio. “How about you give her a while longer, maybe another two or three months?” “Two or three more months?” Dad looked at me, stunned. “Yeah, a couple of months or so. I’ll get a website up and send some emails off and we’ll see what happens. I think people will be interested in her sculptures and if they’re not, well maybe Mom will realize sculpting has to be a hobby and she’ll go back to work.” I felt guilty stringing Dad along. I didn’t think Mom was ever going to return to work, not as an insurance agent anyway, but the carrot worked—the one about sales rather than returning to work as I thought.
“You really think people in the city might buy that stuff.” “There’s the possibility. Yeah, I think so.” I wasn’t convinced but I needed Dad to think there was a chance so he’d give Mom a breather. She needed it. “Ok, son. Two months then.” “Three, Dad. Three.” “Ok, three.” Dad walked away with a spring in his step. ————————————— “Ben, you’re making me self-conscious,” Mom complained. She was washing a few dishes by hand while I finished my cereal. As she scrubbed the dishes, my eyes were drawn to the green tank top she was wearing or, more to the point, the tantalizing movement underneath that made the material so interesting to watch. I just couldn’t believe my mom didn’t wear a bra. This was my third day at home and Mom hadn’t worn one yet. She wore t-shirts, loose blouses, and tank tops but never a bra. Misinterpreting the reason for my attention, Mom added, “They’re fine. I only have the one lump and it hasn’t grown and there aren’t any new ones.” My face reddened. Whenever that happens to me, trying to stop it makes it worse. I tried to hide it by looking down and scooping Honey Nut Cheerios into my mouth. “Whatever you say, Mom.”
It was definitely better that she believed I was worried about her health than the truth, that is, that I was ogling my own mother’s tits. I slurped down the last of the cereal and put the bowl on the counter, then returned to finish my coffee. “You should quit drinking that stuff,” Mom said. “You’ll end up like your father, all antsy and uptight.” I laughed. She had Dad pegged alright. Mom cleaned my bowl and pulled the plug out of the drain. Immediately, she picked up a dish towel, dried her hands and then started on the dishes in the rack. My eyes followed her as she turned to put a glass away in the far cupboard. I barely managed to look away before she turned back to get another glass but kept my eyes suitably averted while she dried it. When she turned to put it away, my gaze locked onto her buns again. Mom had a great bottom, nicely lifted and outlined by the jeans. They may be old and faded, but they were designer none the less and made to highlight a woman’s best feature, at least, the best for some women.
And Mom was one of those women. Her butt sloped gradually away from her waist to end in two beautiful lumps that looked like someone had filled a couple of longish balloons with water, held them over an edge, and covered them with denim. The bulk of the weight swelled out at the bottom and. As she walked, her ass swayed and the jeans tightened alternately over each cheek. Mom had remarked that her ass was getting fat, critically eyeing the way it jutted out more than it had a few years ago, but to me it was fulfilling its destiny, assuming a near-perfect form, the pinnacle of female assery. But Mom was the sculptor and that’s why all her statues, which were all of women, sat in various poses. Not one was standing. It was a shame because I knew there were cretans out there like me that would gladly buy a statue adorned with a butt like Mom’s. Yeah, Mom used herself as a model for her sculptures. She had a large mirror set up in her studio and she looked at herself, striking a particular pose, as she created each new work. She must have put hours and hours into it to have made all the statues sitting around the studio.
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