Our Son Isn't Gay

The conversation

If Mary lived to be a thousand, she didn't think that she would have ever expected the conversation that her husband, Ken, dropped on her that Thursday night.

Mary was doing dishes. A normal thing, done every day. Ken was leaning against the opposite counter sipping from his scotch glass. Mary wondered, idly, what was on Ken's mind. He wouldn't normally stand around like he was that night. But it wasn't a big deal. She assumed he'd speak when he was ready.

Eventually:

"I think that George is gay." he says.

Mary doesn't turn around. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She finishes with a glass, sets it down with care.

"Our son isn't gay." she replies flatly.

Ken shifts. "He's... different."

Mary doesn't respond.

Ken tries again. "He doesn't date. Doesn't talk about anyone. He's never brought a girl home, not even once."

She leans her hip against the counter, slowly drying her hands.

"You think he's gay."

Ken nods. "Yeah."

A pause.

Then she says, evenly: "He's not."

Ken looks up. "You're that sure."

Mary meets his gaze. "I am."

That hangs for a second.

Ken opens his mouth, hesitates. Then: "How could you possibly know? How can you be so sure?"

Mary shrugs one shoulder. "Call it a mother's intuition."

Ken just stares at her.

Mary gets a little uncomfortable. "You've seen how he looks at me, and I'm his mother."

Ken considers for a moment. Then, "Yes, I have seen how he looks at you, and how you look back at him. Unless you have something to tell me, that is only looks. It could mean anything, or nothing at all. You know that he loves you, maybe it is just his way of expressing himself."

Mary looks away. She ponders what Ken has seen, and what he hasn't.

George and Mary did have something between them. Something that she didn't think about most of the time, but something was there, nonetheless. It didn't start as anything in particular.

George lingering longer than he needed to in the doorway. Sitting close when the room was half-empty. Asking things he already knew the answer to, just to keep talking.

But over time, it added up.

And somewhere in the middle of all those glances and moments and breathless pauses, she realized: he wanted to be close. Not like a son. Not like a child looking up to his mother.

He acted like a young man infatuated with a girl. And Mary had recognized the behaviors, and let them continue. Maybe even encouraged them.

She could've shut it down early. She knew how. A cool tone, a firm boundary. Even a simple correction. But she didn't. She told herself it was being kind. That she didn't want to embarrass him. That it was harmless. But she knew that she wasn't being honest with herself about it. She enjoyed the attention.

There was a little trick he liked to pull.

God.

He would lean over the kitchen table, just slightly, and drop his voice as he asked for something. It almost felt conspiratorial. He'd ask to borrow the car, or to get some cash for this or that. The context was always a request he wouldn't necessarily want his dad to know about. Ironic, considering what he was really doing. He'd time it perfectly. That subtle lean, and Mary would lean in too. It was a reflex, at first.

But then one day Mary realized what he was looking at. And something inside her froze. He was looking down. Right into her shirt. Right into her cleavage.

The first time Mary realized what he was doing, she stood up so fast she knocked a spoon to the floor. Her cheeks went hot, her stomach twisted. She didn't say anything. Neither did he. But Mary felt it. Her son liked looking... at her.

But the funny thing was that she didn't call George out on it. Didn't even stop playing along. She knew that she liked showing off to George. She also knew that she would be willing to show him more, under the right circumstances.

She liked it, her son looking at her like that. It gave her a secret little thrill that she never admitted to anyone but herself.

It was harmless. It wasn't cheating, to give him just a little peek. Just a flash of skin. A hint. But the thrill of it, that shocking little rush, it made her heart thunder every time..

Then there was that other thing. It only happened once, but... Oh.

It was late afternoon. It was a quiet, warm day. Ken had gone out to run errands, and Mary was at the sink, elbows deep in soapy water, humming to herself. She didn't hear George come in. Not until she felt him behind her. He stood right behind her, he pressed right up against her.

He reached around, reaching for a paper towel. But he was standing right up against her, his hips pressed against her ass in a clearly deliberate way. She could feel it, feel him.

He was hard, and his hardness was pressed, quite deliberately, right up against her ass.

She froze.

She was instantly wet. But she gripped the edge of the sink. She was very careful in her reaction. She didn't want to push into him to encourage this behavior, but also didn't want to pull away and reject him. But mostly, she didn't want to overtly acknowledge his actions.

Neither of them said a word.

He stayed there for maybe three seconds, five, at most. Then he stepped away, as casually as he'd arrived. Like it had never happened.

Then, he left without a word.

And Mary never told anyone.

So, yeah. Mary was pretty confident that George wasn't gay from her own experiences with him. The things that George had done where Ken could see them were very mild by comparison, but still got the core message through. George had the hots for his mom.

Ken stood there, not speaking for a bit, just looking at Mary.

"Are you going to get to the point sometime tonight, Ken? You have something on your mind, say it."

Ken breathes out, slowly. His voice falters. "I think... I think maybe he needs his flirting to mean something. He needs you to respond a little, to show him that it is ok."

Mary tilts her head slightly. "That seems like a particularly bad idea. It could lead to places you really don't want things to go."

Ken looked up at her, a slow smile forming.

Another silence.

Mary stands, mouth agape. "This isn't about you thinking that he is gay, is it? This is something completely different."

Finally, Ken nods. "He wants you."

Mary blinks once.

Then: "He can't have me."

Ken just smiles again.

"I'm married."

"I know."

"To you."

"I know."

Mary turns away, slowly folding the towel.

"Just because he wants it." she says, so soft it's almost a thought. "That doesn't mean we do anything about it."

Ken doesn't answer.

Mary turns back around.

"Spit it out. Tell me what you are trying to achieve here."

Ken swallows.

"I want you to let it happen."

Mary's eyes narrow slightly. "Let what happen?" Mary thinks that she knows what Ken is saying. But for this, she wants there to be no ambiguity. This isn't a conversation to have based upon assumptions and guesses.

Ken's voice is hoarse now.

"I want to see... if he'll respond. If he'll fuck you."

A beat.

Mary's voice, quiet, razor-sharp: "Ken. Are you asking me to fuck our son."

He doesn't answer. She doesn't press. She just lets the silence keep pressing in around them, waiting for him to own it, or not.

Ken doesn't answer. Not out loud. But the way his eyes hold hers, steady and unflinching, is enough.

Mary breathes out, barely audible. "You are, aren't you."

Ken nods. Once.

She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rattle something back into place.

"Why do you think I'd be willing to do this?" she asked, her voice soft, even.

Ken didn't answer right away. She expected that. He was always slower with questions that mattered. She didn't fill the silence, just let it stretch, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling.

"You've seen this for what it is for a long time. You didn't act on it, but you saw it. You saw George watching you, the way he looked at you. And you didn't shut it down harshly or pretend you didn't notice. You managed it with... grace. Quiet restraint. You held the line."

Mary said nothing. She didn't need to. He went on.

"I think a part of you is tired of pretending it isn't there. Not because you've stopped loving me. But because it's exhausting to keep burying that part of yourself. The part that wonders. The part that aches."

He paused for a moment, then added, more quietly, "And I think you want to be seen like that. Wanted like that. Not just admired, but... desired."

Her breath came slower now, in deliberate attention.

"And George sees you that way," Ken said. "He has for a while."

There was a silence, and Mary could tell he wasn't quite finished.

"And the thing about him being gay?" He shifted, just slightly. "That was just me... looking for a reason. An excuse to say it out loud. To make it a problem I could solve."

Mary finally turned her head, just enough to glance at him.

"It's not about him being gay," he said. "It never was. It's about you. And him. And this thing between you. I just didn't know how else to talk about it."

Mary let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She was quiet for a long time, then said, almost under her breath, "You're not wrong."

"There's always been... something," she says, voice low, almost stunned. "Between me and George. I'm not stupid. He's always been pretty obvious in his interest, but I've kept him in line."

Mary presses her hands to her eyes and takes a deep breath, then she starts pacing around the kitchen. She starts to speak, occasionally pointing at Ken with a finger as she makes her points aloud.

"I kept it in check," she goes on. "Because I knew what it was. Because I had to. Because I'm married, Ken. Because I'm his mother. You don't just throw that away for... what? A theory? A tension you noticed in a room?"

"You realize what you're asking me to do," she says. "What it means?"

Ken nods again, quieter this time.

"It means tearing up a line I've built over a lifetime," Mary says, her voice rising just slightly. "It means blowing up our marriage. His life. Mine." she snaps. "You are asking me to do one of the most forbidden things in our culture. You are asking me to commit INCEST with my own son. We made him. He was inside me for 289 days, Ken. I taught him to talk, to walk, and now you want me to... what? Teach him to fuck? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ken takes a breath. Steps forward. "I'm asking you because I think that the feelings are already there. You may have been keeping things at somewhat of a distance, but you said yourself that you haven't shut him down like you could have. I think part of you wants it too, and I'm not judging you for it, far from it."

She stared at him, searching for anything, regret, hesitation, guilt. But she didn't see any of that.

"I thought we were solid," she says again, softer now. "I didn't think you'd ever... want something like this."

Ken's voice is quiet. "Neither did I."

Mary exhales through her nose, slow and trembling.

She walks a few steps away from him. Her fingers run along the edge of the counter, steadying herself.

"Help me understand," she says, voice tighter now. "Because I don't know what this is. One minute we're watching TV like everything's normal, and the next minute you're asking me to, to cross a line I've spent years keeping in place."

Ken doesn't respond right away.

Mary continues, quieter. "You think I want this?"

His eyes meet hers. "I think part of you does."

She stares at him.

Ken steps forward slightly, voice careful. "Not because you're unhappy with me. Not because he's younger or new. But because... it's there. Between you. I know you. I know how you process things, how you deal with strong emotions. You two have been dancing this dance for a long time now. I think that neither of you will truly be settled until you face this head-on."

Mary considers Ken's words. She thinks of the way George's eyes have lingered. The way her body has reacted, against her better judgment. She shakes her head, as if trying to physically shake off the implication.

"You don't know what you're asking," she says, her voice very quiet.

Ken watches her. "Maybe not."

Mary's voice drops, almost a whisper. "You're giving me permission to do something I've spent years resisting. And not because I had to. Because I chose to. Because I believed in the boundaries. Because I thought it was right to resist."

Ken nods.

"I'm not arguing that," he says. "I'm telling you... if part of you wants this, if you want this, I won't stop you."

Mary frowns. Then, "You say you won't stop me."

Ken nods, tentative. "Right."

She gives a short, stunned laugh, sharp, disbelieving. "Ken. This insanity was never my idea at all! This wasn't my suggestion. I didn't bring this into our house. You did."

He blinks, but she's already stepping forward, her voice quiet but clear. Ken opens his mouth, but she holds up a hand.

"I need you to understand that. This isn't some dark little thing I've been waiting for permission to chase. This didn't come from me."

"I know," he says quickly. "I know it didn't."

She studies him for a beat. "Then say it."

Ken's throat bobs with a swallow.

"I'm asking you to do it," he says, finally. "This is me. Asking. Please seduce George."

Mary exhales slowly. "Then don't twist it," she says. "This is your brilliant idea, not mine. This is based upon what YOU want, not what I have asked for. Don't stand there all magnanimous and tell me that you will let me have my heart's desire, when it never occurred to me before tonight that this subject would ever be broached in our home."

"OK," Ken says again. His voice is softer now. "I get it."

Mary folds her arms. "Because I've kept it at a distance, Ken. Whatever there was between me and George, I held that line. You don't get to act like I was just waiting for the chance."

Ken looks at her, and there's no protest in his eyes now. Just raw hope.

Mary stands there, still in shock. Mostly because of the audacity of Ken's request, but partly because it doesn't immediately offend her or send her screaming. So she turns away again.

But she doesn't leave the room.

Mary stays turned away for a moment longer, staring at nothing.

Mary said it gently, a slight quaver in her voice, "He could hate me, Ken."

Ken replied, equally softly, "He won't."

"You don't know that." She shakes her head. "You think you know. But once it's real, once I cross that line, it's not just some abstract idea. It's something I did. To him. With him. And he might not be able to live with that."

"He wants you."

"Yes. I think he does. But that's not the same as him being ready to have me." Mary glances up at Ken, eyes hard. "Do you understand that difference?"

Ken, nodding slowly, says, "Yeah. I think I do."

"I know his tells. I know when he's scared. I know when he's angry but won't say it. I know when he's pretending he doesn't care because it hurts too much."

"You know him. This isn't a stranger."

"That's exactly what scares me." Mary laughs without humor. "Because if I misread him, if I misunderstood his interests, I could lose him."

Ken gave her a calming smile, "You won't."

"But if I do..." Her voice falters. "I won't just lose the moment. I'll lose everything. He could stop talking to me. Avoid me. We might not get thatcloseness back. Not ever."

Quietly, Ken assures her, "He's not fragile."

"He's not made of glass, no. But you don't see how deep this runs. I've held a part of myself back from him for years, because I thought that's what I was supposed to do. Protecting him, myself, and you. Holding the line."

"You still can."

Mary, with an incredulous look, says, "No. If I do this, everything changes. If I touch him like that, if he touches me... And then pulls away, if I see that recoil, it's going to hurt. A lot. But if I do this, it's not a simple thing. If I put myself out there for him like that, it is going to make me feel very vulnerable. Not only to what he says and does, but to what you say and do. If I do this... our marriage won't be the same."

Ken is quiet but steady, "I know."

"What will that do to us? Will I look at you and feel... empty? Or betrayed? Will you look at me and feel like I've been... soiled? Or worse, defiled?"

Silence.

"If I cross that line, will you still trust me? Will you still respect me? Once you've seen what I did?"

"I understand why you're afraid."

Mary looks at Ken pleadingly, "Then help me understand why you want this."

Ken gathers himself, thoughtful and deliberate. "Mary... I've been wrestling with scripture lately. You know the verses, you know how they say that anger is akin to murder in the heart, envy is theft, even if you don't act on it."

Mary makes the connection, "And lust is the same as adultery, or in this case, incest?"

"In your hearts, your feelings for each other are real, and in the bigger picture, you two are as good as lovers. I can forgive all that, if I can really wrap my head around it all."

Mary was once again incredulous, "You want to see it... so you can forgive it?"

"Yes. I want to see what it looks like. Because I believe if I see it, I can forgive it. Let it be unhidden. Held in light."

"You're talking about forgiveness for what's already in our hearts. Not just intentions. But the truth of it."

He leans forward, placing a hand over hers. Then he says, "I can forgive all of it. If I see it. If nothing is hidden in the shadows."

Mary is quiet.

She watches him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, not with anger, but with something sharper. Then she lets out a slow exhale through her nose. "You are so full of shit."

Ken blinks.

Mary grins, "Quoting scripture to justify watching your wife fuck your son? Really?"

Ken opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

And then, finally, Mary laughs. Just... laughs. Shaking her head as the knot in her chest starts to loosen.

"God, Ken. You would spiritualize incest, adultery and voyeurism."

Ken gives a guilty smile, then chuckles. "Hey, if it is stupid, but it works: It isn't stupid."

They sit there in the aftermath of that laughter, something between them relaxing.

Mary, looking away, says, "You know we'll never be the same after this."

Ken nods. "I know."

She looks at him again. "Well. I guess we're doing this."

Ken smiles his small smile again, "So, you'll do it?"

A few hours later, the couple lay together in their bed, quiet and cuddling together comfortably. The lamp is off. The covers pulled up. Mary lies curled against Ken, his hand resting over her soft belly.

Mary's eyes are open.

She listens to the quiet, the soft creaks in the walls, the distant hum of the fridge.

Ken breathes steadily beside her.

She feels warm. Grounded. And yet... Her mind isn't here. Not completely. It's in the living room. On the couch.

In her mind, she is imagining details. The logistics of actually fucking her son on their old couch. She imagines the scratchy throw blanket, the dip in the cushions, the way the armrest might dig into her back. She thinks about the shape of the space, the width of the cushions, how close they'll have to sit.

And suddenly, she finds herself wondering, not erotically, but practically, Is it comfortable enough?

The absurdity of the thought almost makes her smile. Amid all the emotion, all the transgression, all the intensity of what they've agreed to... she's thinking about upholstery.

Her fingers entwine gently with Ken's. He doesn't stir.

She knows that after tonight, everything will feel different.

Even the furniture.