Beyond the Borderline Bk. 02

After we finished eating, Mom extracted her iPod from her purse and plugged it into the stereo. We listened to "Kind of Blue," '"Lush Life" and a smattering of Thelonious Monk, Diana Krall and Esperanza Spaulding as we ate up the miles. Mom sat close to me, head on my shoulder and a hand lightly resting on my thigh. Almost before we knew it, we were at the end of our day and our first stop.

Mom had found a little bed and breakfast place online, in a town called Chardon, east of Cleveland. It was a quaint, gingerbread Victorian place, which once must have belonged to a wealthy family, given its large size. There were at least eight bedrooms, of which we had the largest, housed in a turret with a fanciful, mansard roof. It's slightly isolated location was a fortunate bonus, because the old brass bed within was as squeaky as they come.

Later that night, as Mom rode me in cowgirl fashion, the bed shook and rattled like the proverbial jalopy held together with spit and bailing wire. As embarrassingly loud as it was, I don't think that the noise of the bed frame entirely concealed the true nature of our coupling, as Mom and I cried out to each other when we came together.

When we came down with our bags the next morning for breakfast, we were greeted with a somewhat scandalized reception, several guests refusing to even acknowledge our presence, two other couples looking at us with frank curiosity and memorably, one solitary older lady giving us a smile and wink of approval.

None of that really mattered to either of us, knowing we wouldn't be back again. As we sat munching toast and eggs, sipping our coffee, I saw an excited, lustful gleam in Mom's eyes. Leaning over and lowering my voice, I whispered, "I know that look, Momma-love. You're thinking about something very wicked, aren't you?"

"Who, li'l ole me?" she asked innocently.

"Yes, li'l ole you. I know that expression very well."

"Hmmm, could be, Ricky. I want to give them a little show when we leave, shake 'em up a some more."

"You are very, very bad, mother. What do you have in mind?"

"Just follow my lead, boy."

Raising her voice to a normal conversational tone, she spoke to me, "Ricky, be a darling and put our bags in the car while I finish my coffee."

"Okay, Mom."

Arriving back in the kitchen, I offered her my arm as she stood from the table, draining the last dregs of her coffee from the mug. When we reached the doorway, Mom stopped, put her arms around me and gave me a wide mouthed, wet, sloppy kiss with lots of tongue. I heard several sharp intakes of breath from around the table we had just vacated. Mom then broke our kiss and we headed out the door. As we went down the walkway, arms around each other's waists, I lifted the hem of Mom's sundress to expose her pantyless ass, hand reaching down to cup her cheek before we got into the car. I thought I heard the sound of breaking china from the kitchen as we reached our vehicle.

Once away, we dissolved into a fit of giggles that persisted for at least ten or fifteen miles. Every time we would quiet down for a moment, all it would take was one glance at each other and a fresh gale of laughter would ensue.

Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Mom finally caught her breath, gasping, "Oh my God, that was soo bad and sooo fun, Ricky! My sides hurt from laughing so much."

"I think we made the other guest's stay a memorable one, even without that little stunt at breakfast."

"Whatever are you talking about, Ricky?" she asked, the picture of innocence.

"Well Mom, there wasn't much doubt about what was happening in our room last night. That bed was flat out noisy. You did sort of let the cat out of the bag when you came, though."

"Do tell."

"Yes, I will," I concurred. Raising my voice to a falsetto scream, I yelled, "Ooooh God, baby! Mommy's cummmmiiinnngggg!"

"Heh, I guess I did, didn't I, son?"

I turned to her and smiled, raising my eyebrows and holding my thumb and forefinger up, about an inch apart. "Just a little, Mom, just a little."

"Well, I think there is some blame to be shared, lovely boy. If you weren't such an incredible cocksman, I wouldn't have come so hard."

"Hah! Flattery will get you everywhere, dear mother."

The rest of our trip continued in a similar vein, each day on the road punctuated by frequent interruptions for sneaky rest stop blow jobs, eating Mom out behind an abandoned gas station outside of Madison, Wisconsin, masturbating each other in the car and most memorably, stopping by a farm near Badlands National Park in South Dakota, where, at Mom's insistence, we snuck into a cornfield for some hot cornholing. I remember the sense of utter contentment I felt afterwards, as we lay together naked on our blanket, between the rows of yellow corn, listening to the gentle, sighing rustle of wind flowing through the stalks, the warm noonday sun on our faces, the drone of insects buzzing around us. It was a moment of utter perfection.

Eventually, we managed to make it to Puget Sound, where we hung a right and shot on up to Vancouver. Our lazy days of extemporaneous, semipublic sex, roadhouse food and unscripted itineraries were over. It was the trip of a lifetime, but the rest of our life now beckoned and would brook no delays. We became immediately and hugely busy as Mom got started in her new practice and we worked together to get the restaurant off the ground.

***

You can get a good education, be book smart and technically competent in your chosen field, but when you get down to it, there is nothing you do in college that truly prepares you for running your own business. If anything, having a fine education sometimes blinds you with a kind of arrogance that comes with buying into the notion that you are somehow unique or more able than those around you, even the ones you love.

I know this for a fact, because I fell into that trap as we began setting up the restaurant. It led to the only serious argument I ever had with Mom, a gut-wrenching experience I never, ever wanted to repeat.

Those memories remain razor-sharp, carved into my cortex by the guilt I felt and the hurt I caused Mom.

We were freshly moved into our new flat, above the intended restaurant, still living out of partially unpacked boxes. I was fully immersed in consultations with our interior designer and contractor, both of who had been recommended by Clay MacLeish.

Our contractor, Duke Ellis, was working for cash at a significant discount, which was a tremendous help. We were meeting at least every other day to monitor the progress of the build-out. Having heard many construction horror stories from my school days, I was pleasantly surprised by how smoothly things were going as our kitchen and dining area took shape. When I mentioned this to Duke, he smiled and clapped me on the shoulder.

"It's my pleasure, kid. I owe Clay big time for helping one of my kids out of a major jam about ten years ago. He didn't charge me a nickel because, at the time, I was in the process of being nailed to the wall by my soon-to-be ex. He's never asked anything in return. So, when he calls me a few weeks ago and asks for me to look after you and Mizz Jenny, well I was more than happy." Rubbing his finger on the side of his nose and grinning, he added, "I love working with cash-only customers, too. That's always a bonus."

Our interior designer, Denis St.Onge, was also quite good. He was so exactly what you would expect from his name, it was almost impossible to keep a straight face around him, though, as he was so much to type as to almost be a caricature of the mincing decorator queen. To my discomfiture, he made no bones about being attracted to me, much to Mom's amusement. When it came to his work though, he was a total pro and had a sixth sense for exactly what Mom and I were looking for to establish the ambience of the restaurant. Even so, I tried to arrange for her to be around whenever we needed to meet. It seemed to keep his covetous glances and discrete pats of my ass to a minimum.

Mom had a field day with all of this the first time Denis came on to me, much to my embarrassment.

"Well, Ricky, if you ever wanted to try swinging both ways, this is your opportunity," she'd teased. "Denis looks like he'd love to just gobble you up."

"Holy crap, Mom. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth."

"What's the matter, son? I'll bet he gives good head. It might just be the best oral sex you'd ever get."

"Jesus," I shuddered. "Are you deliberately trying to get me to blow my lunch?"

"I know how much my boy loves a good hose job. I'll bet Denis swallows, too. Think of it as a novel life experience."

"Are you quite through, Mom? I feel like I need to take a shower now."

"Poor boy, can't take a little ribbing?"

"There are limits and lines you shouldn't cross, woman," I grumbled.

"Yes, my thoroughly heterosexual son," she giggled.

"Are you complaining, mother dear?"

"No, sweetie, just having a little fun."

"All right then, subject closed," I said firmly.

Eventually, we both were able to laugh about it. Mom had Denis' mannerisms and body language down pat and derived considerable amusement from teasing me about his attraction to me. She'd put her hand on her hip and cock her pelvis just so, tossing her hair off her forehead, speaking in a deep, gravelly voice, "Girlfriend, you really must share with Denis. He's just sooo delicious, I'd love a taste. You be sure to let that gorgeous boy know that Denis will be waiting, if he ever wants to take a walk on the wild side."

Then I'd reply with my best Curly imitation, "Oh, a wise guy, eh?" and we'd be off to the races, usually out of breath from laughter in just a few minutes.

Again, I digress. While we were making good progress with the construction and decoration, I got a little too full of myself, thinking that I had it all knocked, that it was no big deal to get a restaurant up and running in three months, that I was somehow getting it all done myself, taking Mom's extra efforts and help for granted. I guess, in a way, I was throwing my weight around, exerting my authority as chef-owner, because deep down I was still VERY nervous about failing. In a nutshell, for while I was a dick and an insecure fucktard.

This led directly to a big blow up one cold, wet evening in December. I can't even remember exactly how things started, it was actually that trivial. I think we were having a spirited discussion about table placement, Mom emphasizing diner experience and me trying to maximize revenue-generating floor space. In the end I made some very rude and cutting remarks and grabbed my jacket, stomping out the front door, leaving Mom standing in the middle of the floor, her mouth hanging open in surprise and hurt at my outburst. As I argued with her, there was a little voice in the back of my mind telling me to cool my jets, that I was crossing the line, really hurting Mom's feelings, but it was drowned out by my ego and insecurity.

I slammed the door behind me and got no more than five steps down the street when what I had just done hit me, literally hit me. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach and I couldn't catch my breath. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, rain cascading off the awning of the restaurant, running down my neck, as the enormity of what I had done dawned on me.

I had just verbally savaged the love of my life over an absolutely inconsequential disagreement. It was unforgivable.

Dashing back into the building, I searched frantically for Mom in the dining area, but she was nowhere to be found. I walked back to the kitchen, a hard knot of nausea in the pit of my stomach as I came to the back office.

The door was closed. Behind it, I could hear Mom, quietly crying. Opening the door as quietly as possible, I could see her seated at the desk, her head buried in her arms. I moved behind her without speaking and put my hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it away angrily, her sobbing increasing, burrowing her head more tightly into her arms.

I was at a loss, trying to navigate completely uncharted waters. It had never occurred to me that loving Mom so much, that I could ever do anything intentionally to hurt or upset her. Yet here I was, having done the unthinkable. I don't think I have ever felt as much guilt or self-loathing as I did at that very moment. I wanted to slit my wrists.

"I'm so sorry, Mom," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I was a total jerk. Please forgive me."

Raising her head, she turned towards me, cheeks wet and eyes reddened. "Jerk?" she spat. "You were a complete asshole!"

I moved to squat next to her, eyes level. "And a fucking idiot, to boot. You didn't deserve any of that. I can't believe what I just did. How can I be such a bastard to my own mother, my lover? I'm such a shit," I said dejectedly.

Wiping her tears with the palm of her hand, she swiveled in the chair to face me. "What's gotten into you, son? What's the problem here? Is it..is it us, Ricky?" she asked softly, her lower lip trembling.

Groaning, I buried my face in her lap, arms encircling her waist. "Oh, God, no Mom. Not now, not ever. I'll never stop loving you. It's just that, well, I'm so worried about making everything work for the restaurant. I'm still afraid I'll mess it all up. You're always bailing me out when I'm about to screw something up and you're working so hard all the time. And...and...I feel like such a dick for saying this, but sometimes I resent that I need so much help from you," I said, my voice trailing off in shame.

It was then I felt her fingers running through my hair, lightly stroking. She sniffed a couple of times and spoke reassuringly, "It's okay Ricky, I understand now. Never forget, we're a couple. We're a team. We enjoy the good and work through the bad together."

She sighed and her hand strayed down to touch my cheek. "Remember son, sometimes it gets, well, it gets complicated and all knotted up. You've been thinking like a boy trying to untangle mom's apron strings. I know how much you want to make this your achievement, to prove that you're a successful man, but you don't have anything to prove to your Mom...or to your lover. Just relax and roll with it. Ultimately, were going to succeed or fail on the basis of your talent."

Squeezing her tightly, I mumbled into her skirt, "I don't deserve you, Mom. You're so smart, you know me so well. I don't know if I could forgive you as quickly," I sighed.

Pulling me up to meet her eyes, she lightly kissed me, cheeks, lips and forehead. "You don't need to hide anything from me, sweetheart. I'm here for you. If something's on your mind, please share it, okay?"

"Okay Mom. I'm sorry. I feel awful right now. No way you deserve what I did. I never want that to happen again, ever."

"I know, Ricky. You're still my guy, okay?"

I kissed her, slowly, thoroughly, trying to put as much tenderness into it as I could muster.

"And you're still and always going to be my lady. I love you so much, Mom...so much."

I pulled her up out of the chair and hugged her long and tight. Settling back into the chair, I drew her on to my lap. Holding her tight, I showered her with smooches.

Gradually, almost without noticing, our kisses became longer and longer and soon, her tongue found mine. We continued our embrace for some time, content to share ourselves simply, reforging our bond. Finally, I couldn't take any more. I stood up, placing Mom on the edge of the desk. Reaching under her skirt, I slowly pulled her panties down. Kneeling in front of my place of worship, I tossed her underwear aside and gently parted her legs, showering the softness of her upper, inner thighs with licks and kisses.

"Mmmm, what are you up to down there, young man?"

"I'm finishing my apology, Mom," I replied, my tongue finding her special place. As I consumed her nectar, I felt like a man lost in the desert, tumbling into a life-saving oasis. I licked, I slurped and kissed her everywhere while her hands gently clenched and unclenched in my hair. I delved into her from stem to stern, tongue lightly vibrating her nubbin, trailing down to her portal, diving in and then continuing to her little pucker, her most secret place, where I laved and probed wetly.

As she arched her back and pressed herself to my face, I lost myself in the task at hand. I wanted to totally lavish my attention on her, totally love her. I wasn't the least concerned with my own needs. I wanted Mom to feel special again, and especially well loved by her adoring son. I continued until my neck was stiff and my lips and chin were raw with my exertions. I must have eaten her for at least an hour, bringing her to a half dozen climaxes, each more intense than the last.

Finally, she pushed me away with a sigh. "Oh God, baby. No more. No more, please. I can't take it, you sweet, adorable boy. Jesus..."

I sat back on my haunches and grinned. "Sometimes, it's not enough just to say 'I'm sorry,' Mom. Sometimes you need to do more. I am sorry, you know," I continued softly, head down.

Putting her hands around the back of my neck, she drew me up for a kiss.

"Your apology is accepted, you wonderful man. A good son knows exactly how to set things right with his Mom when there's a problem and you did just that, darling."

Smiling gently, she pecked me again on the lips. "Let's go to upstairs and get into bed together, you gorgeous hunk. I could wish for an argument every day if this is how we're going to apologize to each other. I guess the old clichés about 'make-up' sex are true."

Taking my hands, she pulled me to my feet. "C'mon lover, lets go make up some more."

Eventually, after months of preparation, many sleepless nights and several false starts, "Casa di Mia Nonna" finally opened. I had sunk essentially every penny I inherited from Gramps and Nana into the place, but it was worth the risk. It was fully mine, not the bank's.

Mom and I were ecstatic about how the final appearance turned out. Duke's work managed to showcase the charming older features of the space while stripping the lines and structures down to an elegant, clean modernism. Denis and Mom came up with absolutely stunning, up to the minute Italian designs for all of the fabrics and furniture. Denis also was a genius with indirect lighting and muting of sound. Between the old fashioned bones of the building, the high ceilings, contemporary furnishings and illumination, we had a space that was intimate, just slightly decadent, but open and airy at the same time. You could have a conversation with your dining companion without shouting, but also didn't have to worry about hearing the business going on at an adjacent table. The feel was very relaxed and informal, but at the same time sensual and stimulating to the senses.

Mom explained it this way, telling Denis she was looking for an ambience where "if you take your date here for a meal, by the time the evening is over, you'll be taking him or her to bed afterwards, guaranteed."

Mom had gone on to tell me about the fantasies she'd had about me actually fucking her in the booth at Sorvino's, as though no one was there. This had been the initial inspiration for her idea of a very private booth for "really intimate" dining, a place where "if I wanted, I could suck your cock or even ride you and no one would know."

This got me thinking (and also got me hard) about what was needed, and I came to the conclusion that the special booth lacked only one thing – the ability to have uninterrupted time with your companion. So I asked Mom, "What if you could get your waiter only when you wanted them?"

That was how we came up with the idea of a buzzer – summon your waiter only when needed. "You need enough time to be able to put your dick away or pull up your panties," Mom agreed. Thus, the "private dining booth" was born.