A Wife, A Mother, My First Lover
I watched them make love from my bedroom window, and had to have her for myself.
I was sixteen or so when I first felt it, peeking from my bedroom window, through the gap in the oaks between our yards. She bent over the flower bed, and her blouse rode up to reveal a strip of skin above her waist; I didn’t know what to think, but it stirred a tickle in my underwear. To me, she was just ‘Mrs. Jamason,’ my best friend Brian’s mom; the woman who made killer snacks. Kinda old, but so pretty. Her smiles wer...