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How well should a woman get to know the man with whom her mother had an affair.

I don’t believe I’ve ever told the tale about my mother after the birth of my biracial son, Benjamin. That story is filled with some of the curious circumstances that happen to white women who have to usher biracial babies around in the diverse places in various cities—malls, grocery stores, and downtown shops. They become magnets for younger men of color who see these women as easy sexual targets

Since I was a late bloomer, so to speak, my mother didn’t have much time to know what the other side of her life might have been like until she turned forty-six years of age. I was nearly thirty before I had my first child, and it was very easy to tell that my child’s father was African American—where I was not.

As you may know, I’d been married to my high school sweetheart for eight years, before he ran off with a younger woman he’d gotten pregnant. We were both positive after those eight years that I couldn’t have children. It merely turns out that I couldn’t have children by him.

My mother hated Stephen, my black lover, at first, but eventually, she got used to him. Stephen died before his son, Benjamin, was born, and, although I didn’t have to move back in with Momma back then, she did offer to watch my son when I went back to work.

That meant that there she was, a middle-aged forty-something white woman who took a half black baby shopping and to the mall or whatever. Over a period of seven or eight months, whenever she’d take Ben out in public, Momma got hit on by black men—most of them much younger than she was. At first it made her angry so I’d have to hear all about the daily insults to her honor and decorum when I came to pick up the baby. Eventually she got used to the remarks enough to tolerate them.

Then everything changed for her. Momma seemed to perfectly content to watch Ben and take him out on the town. More importantly, I stopped hearing complaints.

It seems that one day she had met Reggie, and there was something about him and as she later told me, something about the way he treated her that was totally different from the get go. First, he invited her (and the baby) out to lunch with him. She accepted. Not just once either. They began meeting for lunch on a regular basis. Momma was worried about her relationship with this man so she wouldn’t even tell me about meeting Reggie for a while. I learned of his existence several weeks into their relationship. Momma mentioned her luncheon date in passing one day, and I told her that it was good that she had someone to take her out on the town, even if was something as innocent as a meal together.

Momma blushed. I asked her why she blushed and she shirked it off.

“Oh, my God, Momma! Is this man black?”

She nodded. “He’s a nice man.”

I smiled. Nice, hell, he had to be a saint.

“Reggie’s just a friend.”

Some friend! When I finally met him, he was a handsome black machinist in his late thirties who saw something sexy in a forty-six year old grandmother. I learned that my mother was having a love affair with a black man who was quite adept with his hands, and Momma eventually disclosed that he was even more adept with other parts of his body.

Naturally, I didn’t think that the two of them had gotten serious until I found out that, like so many of the heroines in my fictional stories, my mother confided in me that she thought she might be pregnant, and that Reggie might be the father.

I wasn’t shocked exactly, but I was taken aback. You don’t quite expect that from your own mother.

Apparently, Momma didn’t think she could still get pregnant. Turns out she was wrong. She carried the baby for a couple of months–worried to death that Daddy would find out about her pregnancy. However the strain of hiding her pregnancy, coupled with the stress of her age were too much for her, and she lost her baby somewhere around three months.

She felt that God had punished her for cheating on her husband, my father, and she broke it off with Reggie. They had been together for close to six months before she lost the baby. I know for a fact that she secretly pined over the loss of her baby and the loss of her lover for the close to fourteen years she had left to live. She finally passed away a couple of years back at the age of sixty-one.

Something in my head, a feeling of nostalgia, maybe a need to get close to her memory again, prompted me to try to get a hold of Reggie for the first time in ages–just to see how he was. Actually, I wanted him to tell me stories about my mother.

Reggie was surprisingly easy to locate. He still lived in the same downtown apartment after all these years. He had the same phone number that my mother had in her little note book that I’d confiscated before Daddy could get his hands on it.

Reggie told me over the telephone that for a while, Momma was literally the love of his life. He said that secretly he’d compared every other woman he’d dated to Momma.

“We all knew that she wasn’t really a redhead, Lyssa,” he told me. “But I thought she was the most exotic lover I’d ever found. And every time I’d climaxed inside her, I dreamed that the Lord would grant me one little miracle.”

I teared up. “Ohh, Reggie,” I sobbed. I remembered how miserable he looked sitting in the back of the church with members of my husband’s extended family. I was the only one who recognized him. But I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. He left immediately after the service.

He told me that morning that he’d been crushed by the loss of their baby, and subsequently by the loss of one of the greatest women ever to grace his life.

Dad outlived Momma by about eight months so my mother never really tried to get back together with Reggie again. But I told her lover that I believed that she really expected my Dad to pass away first. If he had, she would have returned to Reggie.

I have to admit that we both cried over her loss that day that I met him. This was close to four years after the fact. Now that I’m nearing the age Momma had been when he had met her, Reggie told me that in many ways I so reminded him of her. He told me that my mother and I had similar laughs [others have told me that], and that I have her gray-blue eyes. I also think that I have that extra bit of flesh clinging to my hips might have reminded him of the Momma he knew, as well.

We were still crying when this wonderful man dried my tears with his handkerchief–yes, a real handkerchief!—me the lady who keeps packets of tissues in her purse for sniffling children was given a real handkerchief. Afterwards, Reggie asked me if I wouldn’t mind kissing him for “old time’s sake.”

After I kissed him, I teased him and said that he just wanted to find out if I kissed like my mother. But then the cheeky devil replied, “No, that’s not it. What I’d really like to find out is whether you fuck like your mother.”

I blushed. Then to buy a little time to think, I urged him to kiss me again. It seems that Reggie’s about six or seven years older than I am, and he’s been single or at least left by himself for a couple of years now. That kiss showed me exactly what my mother saw in him so I kissed him once again just to be certain.

It’s hard for me to explain, but periodically I get an itch that’s very difficult to scratch other than to give into it. I’m pretty sure that we’ve discussed my rather sordid history, but needless to say, part of the reason that I’m such a unreasonable bitch has to do with my independent streak and, of course, a generous helping of bi-polar disorder–the creative person’s mental illness.

It also doesn’t help that my heels are naturally round.

I told Reggie that if I allowed him access to my body, then I’d demand to know more about his relationship with my Momma. Then I told him to drink some water. I made him drink a twelve ounce glass, and I had a glass of water as well. Since I began my research on rehydrating my body, one of the things I learned was that both men and women perform better when there is sufficient water in their system. For your information it helps men to maintain their erections and allows women to remain moister much longer.

We continued to talk about Momma even as we both disrobed, and I discovered that even as his love life moved on to other women, he still compared these ladies to my mother. “I’m telling you, Lyssa, that she was really terrific in bed,” he said. “Probably the best I ever had.”

We came together very tentatively, almost shyly. My hand seemed dainty and small as I reached down to grip Reggie’s wonderfully thick, blunt and long black penis. It was a simple matter for me to guide him into the soft and open tissues of my loins. He was eager to reciprocate, and in a matter of seconds, my mother’s lover had filled my cunt to overflowing capacity.

I’ll never forget that he moaned when we began making love and murmured, “Oh my God, you feel just like her!”

At first I thought to tell him: “Reggie, you can’t tell a woman that she feels like someone else,” but then I realized that he meant it totally as a compliment. I have gained a bit of weight with my last three babies and I haven’t taken the weight off like I’d have liked (although now, with the exclusive water intake, I am losing pounds, but in all the wrong places). So physically I’m built a lot more like Momma was built when Reggie knew her–especially since he knew her Biblically.

I stayed with Reggie all afternoon and into the early evening. At fifty-something, he’s not really up to more than one or two encounters in an afternoon, but we tried several times anyway. It’s amazing what a little patience and an application of enthusiastic lips and tongue can do to revive a limp soldier. It all seemed very sweet and gentle, and it felt very poignant for both of us.

I don’t usually get “the guilts” concerning my little indiscretions, but I also get terribly chatty–so I have to share these things with people I trust, until I find a way to integrate my feelings into a story. Of course I usually make it a more dramatic rendition than real life, but as I said I have a need to tell somebody. I had a good time learning about who my mother really was from her boyfriend. The rest of the evening was, well–you might say it was gravy.


After Easter Sunday:

Once again that strange itch got under my skin. I needed to see Reggie one more time. I got my kids off to school this morning, I called Reggie to see how he was doing.

He had to work all morning, but he was able to get off in the afternoon; so I asked him point blank if he wanted to meet at lunchtime. He too was a bit taken by surprise, but then let’s face it, I said the word and I’m pretty sure that’s how he took it.

There’s an Amerihost Inn north and west of Grand Rapids. It’s about halfway between him and me so we agreed to meet there. I arranged for a neighbor to baby-sit my three little ones, as I wanted Reg all to myself today.

The drive took less than twenty minutes. I arrived first so I reserved the room with cash and then called him on his cell to let him know the room number. Then I went to the mirror and freshened my make-up and decided just how I wanted to greet him. You can imagine Reggie’s surprise when he let himself into the motel room and the only thing he could see waiting for him was a naked five-foot six white brunette partially draped in a hotel towel and wearing four-inch high heeled open-toed sandals. No, they weren’t satin slippers.

Reggie’s fairly tall, balding, with close cropped hair, and his face is usually clean-shaven. His deep cocoa skin looks almost unblemished, yet still a bit rugged. He has these big dark brown eyes that you always remember fondly once you meet him.

Needless to say he let this huge smile cross his face at the sight of me. “I see subtlety is the key word for today.”

I kissed him, and then he kissed me. I began to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. We kissed several more times, as I continued to disrobe him, but today Reggie was all about exploration. He asked me if it would be all right if he kissed his way all up and down my body.

All right? Wow! Let the kissing begin!

Oh, ladies, you would have enjoyed all the attention I got. I stopped thinking about time after about fifteen minutes and just let his wide lips and probing tongue find all the places on my body where he wanted to go.

We got a bit carried away, and he bit me on the fleshy inside of my breast. I yelped.

“Hey,” I said. “How would you feel if you glanced down and saw your wife with an impertinent little bite mark next to her areola?” The bite didn’t hurt in the least, but it sure as hell looked sexual in nature.

We snuggled together for a while, and he crawled up over me, still exploring. Reggie started slipping a probing finger up into my cunt. Then he put in two fingers and then three. I felt a dizzying high while his fingers probed me–totally disorienting. He caressed my pussy very lightly outside, and then he’d probe inward and then pull his hand out again. He must’ve made that switch at least a dozen times before I just closed my eyes and tried to enjoy the delightful feeling. He put his hand on my cheek, and then his other hand traced my breast where he’d bitten me, and then another finger started to probe up into my openly moist pussy again.

Wait a minute! I opened my eyes and saw his hand close to my face, and then I saw his hand at my breast, but I realized that the touch of the finger at my pussy couldn’t have been a finger at all. I squealed and giggled! With both my hands, I grabbed his buttocks and pulled his thick cock deep into my body. Then I greedily grinded my naked hips and abdomen into his exposed front.

Reggie chuckled. “That trick always worked on your Momma,” he said. “It’s nice to find that I can still charm a woman that way.”

Charm? Wow! Try seduce. “It’s a wonderful surprise,” I told him. “Thank you.”

We didn’t talk much that first time. We just carefully matched our muscle movements until both of our rhythms became totally compatible. We didn’t cum at the same time, but as my body shifted into my own climax, I heard Reggie grunt and gasp. My mother’s lover began to pant frantically over me, and suddenly, warmth flowed and seeped up where I couldn’t see the result of his climax, but I sure knew he was in there.

“Thank you for letting me come inside of you Lyssa,” He whispered. Then he lightened his tone. “So did you take the kids on an Easter egg hunt yesterday?” he asked.

I was caught totally off guard. “What?”

“I saw on the news where swarms of children were combing the grounds of St. Bartholomew’s looking for Easter eggs.”

I giggled. “Did you?”

“Uh-huh.” he replied. “So anyway, I thought maybe we could do that, today.”


“Sure,” he said. “If you want to supply the egg, I’ll send a swarm of little ones out to hunt for it!”

I threw my arms around him and hugged him close. I just couldn’t stop laughing, and each laugh caused my vagina to gyrate and tense inside. I laughed until I softly came one more time.

We made love one more time before we both had to leave, but I had to get out of the hotel and head for home by three-thirty. I didn’t hear much more about my mother, but apparently, I’ll do just fine as a stand in.


You know, I hadn’t really thought about it before, but the living often celebrate death with a grasp for more life. I think that it’s much more than the beer commercials might call gusto.

We went to Mass Sunday morning to take the children and to pray as a congregation for John Paul II, and we all had a tearful, individual cry for his Holiness. Sunday afternoon Perry asked me if I’d like to go to bed with him and, of course, I said yes. I cried softly as my emotions switched back and forth between this intimate celebration of our marriage, and some of the sadness that reverberated through the day.

I took care of my children on Monday and a good part of this morning, when I got a call out of the blue from Reggie. He knew Momma was a devout lady, and he was worried as to how I was taking the Pope’s passing. I told him how I’d been feeling, and he asked me if I wanted to come and visit him on Tuesday so that we might spend some time together.

It made me grin. A lot of people were trying to cheer me up and they all wanted to cheer me up he best way that they knew how. Of course, sex is often the best way to cheer me up.


I hadn’t worn fishnet stocking in ages, but I was dying to try out a new pair I saw at the store. So during my Sunday shopping at one of those superstores, where you can get groceries and a thousand other things, I picked up some real fishnet stockings—you know the kind that are actually pantyhose with a very wide and trashy bad taste mesh.

To say they made me look like a tart was a bit of an understatement. Once I got the kids off to school and arranged for a babysitter for my toddlers, I finished off my wardrobe with a satiny gray blouse over a black bra and my charcoal gray skirt–not quite a mini, but a short skirt by anybody’s standards. Finally I decided to wear a set of black business pumps and a charcoal gray suit jacket.

Reggie and I met at a hotel restaurant for breakfast. Surprisingly, he was dressed very businesslike as well. We ordered lightly–I told him to make sure he drank water to offset that coffee he ordered, and we chatted. I think my waitress was a bit confused, she was polite enough, but since this place was more of a “White Customers” hangout than a big place for diversity, and since I was dressed like I was dressed, she couldn’t quite decide if I was a whore or some little thing from the typing pool that one of the black bosses picked up.

“I think she’s trying to decide if I’m going to let you fuck me,” I said.

“Are you?” Reggie grinned.

I smiled. “Of course, I am, silly.”

Somewhere around eleven o’clock, we drove to Reggie’s apartment and as you can guess Ulyssa got out of her clothes–well, everything except for the black fishnet pantyhose and my black high heels–very quickly. I strutted around for Reggie like some sort of internet tramp for five or ten minutes. We fell into a lovely pattern of both kissing and heavy petting.

“Did you know I pressured your mother into having bareback sex with me that first time?” he said, as we kissed.

“Just the first time? I know she thought she was safe from getting pregnant,” I replied. “I would have figured you went bareback every time.”

“Most of the time.” Then he sighed. “We both liked it that way.”

“Like mother like daughter,” I said.

“Why didn’t you come along years ago?”

“I wouldn’t take you from Momma,” I answered. “I’d never do that to her.”

Eventually Reggie took a pair of scissors and he very carefully cut a large hole in the crotch of my black fishnet pantyhose. I could tell that he was fighting the urge to dip his face, lips and tongue into the soft flesh just beneath where he’d snipped open the hole.

Then he asked me to leave my black heels on as he picked me up and carried me from his living room. I wasn’t so worried about falling, as I was worried that he’d over exert himself, but he was fine. Reggie took me into his bedroom so we could snuggle and play on the bed. We obviously did more than play.

For one thing he no longer fought the urge to sink his nose and lips into my intimate tissues. But he cut that short. There was something in the air that made both of us demand the other person’s body subvert to both of our needs. We hadn’t seen each other for over a week—and we wanted to fuck.

It was a curious sensation feeling the weight of his thighs and hips through the mesh of my fishnet stockings. However, it had been a long time since I’d experienced crotch-less underwear the way it was designed to be enjoyed. Reggie loved that foot fetish look of me there with my legs spread, but with my high heels still on.

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