Good dreams are hard to come true (revised) [Full text]

A Dream Hard to Fulfill (Revised) Part 1
[Full Text]
Word Count: 9421
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This is a classic piece of random writing I read before. I've forgotten the original title, so I'm giving it a new one.
The original used "Peiyun" to refer to the mother, which didn't feel right, so I changed "Peiyun" to "Mama" throughout the text. I hope
the original author won't mind.
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The story of the prince and princess living happily ever after is a fairy tale, not a love story.
Great love stories are usually filled with setbacks and twists, and dreams are hard to fulfill. The more deeply and profoundly the love
, the more difficult it is to achieve .

Fate often plays tricks on lovers; those who love each other may not be a good match, and the one you love most may not be with you. This
kind of love gives people a deep and intense feeling.

Sometimes, in order to pursue true love, one must transcend worldly norms and common sense. The following
story takes place on a certain day in a certain place; it is an unusual, even impossible, forbidden love.

Safran said, "If a person loves someone madly, then all his sins
should be forgiven. However, those who are loving madly do not need anyone's forgiveness." (

I) The Old Place

...
Crossing continuous glaciers, traversing the coniferous forests of high mountains, fine snow fell, covering the sky and the earth. Occasionally,
a car would pass by, kicking up snow and leaving tire tracks on the snow.

My mother and I, enclosed in the car, drove along the winding mountain road, heading into the silent,
colorless depths of white snow and clouds. The snow-covered road was slippery, so we were extra careful. The remaining snow on the branches drifted down with the wind,
melting instantly on the windshield. The snow covered the road signs, so we relied on experience to feel our way forward.
On one side of the road was a mountainside, and on the other side was a sheer cliff with a frozen river below. In this... A white
world, tranquil, desolate, devoid of direction and time.

As we set off, my mother sat upright beside me, chin in hand, silent. Only
when the car left the city and entered the expressway did she allow me to gently place her soft hand in mine . With her other hand on the steering wheel, I carefully drove along the snowy road, determined to reach our destination—Lakeview Villa—
before sunset . 　　We had been here several times before, always during the off-season, and the receptionists all recognized us. Only we chose to visit this summer resort in the snowy winter. 　　" 　　Sir, Madam, welcome back." A warm smile bloomed behind the counter . 　　 I smiled back, but Pei Yun looked around, pretending not to hear. 　　"Honey, welcome!" I pulled her stiff body into my arms, and she reluctantly nodded. At the same time, she gave me a wink, pulled me aside, and said in a voice as soft as possible, almost a whisper, but with a firm tone: 　　"What are you doing? Don't you think I feel guilty enough?" 　　"I'm sorry, I just wanted you to be more natural and relaxed. This isn't our first time here . People all recognize us. 　　Actually, we come here because we don't want anyone to recognize us. But over time, we've become regulars, and with the conveniences of being a regular, we don't want to go anywhere else. 　　The memory of our first time here is vivid, like it was yesterday. And all these years, the lobby 's decor hasn't changed. Back then, I stood awkwardly at the counter, and she waited outside the lobby door , afraid to accompany me to the counter to register, lest someone question our background." Our furtive expressions made it obvious we were there for an affair. 　　A couple with an age gap, a mismatched pair, whatever they did would attract attention and suspicion. 　　Actually, no one would pry into our background. Even if we were here for an affair, what business was it of theirs? In 　　a place like a hotel, respecting guests' privacy is essential. Everyone is a passerby, everyone has a story. Check-in only requires providing basic information; it's not that anyone is interested in who is who or what their relationship is, but rather it's for police requirements. 　　We are another couple of lovers coming and going from the hotel every day. [href=http://www.687bo.com target=_blank class=infotextkey>Sexual relationship , the hotel is where these things happen. 　　The waiters can't just call a guest's female companion "Madam," they're professionally trained, unless the guest admits it themselves, or they have a good grasp of their information. My mother's identification document shows her husband's surname, and mine is Di. 　　 My mother, don't be embarrassed, you are. You, like me, follow another man 's surname. This isn't the first time we've appeared together in this place, when will I be able to stop letting you have those fluctuating feelings! 　　I gently put my arm around her shoulder, making just the right amount of affection to ease the suddenly tense atmosphere, to show the lady behind the counter, to confirm to her that my mother is indeed my wife, even though she's just borrowed . 　　The fact that she's willing to stand with me openly at the counter shows she's overcome a huge psychological barrier.] 　　"Will there come a day when we can meet without hiding it from others, without feeling guilty? I wonder. 　　To be honest, we do this for the thrill. Just like eating chili peppers, if the peppers aren't spicy, they're not good. 　　In this season, in this place, we don't have to worry about running into acquaintances; we can be carefree, and there's a sense of release and relaxation. The woman, being a woman, was still reserved, standing beside me, watching me fill out the registration form, afraid that I might make a mistake and reveal our relationship that we don't want anyone to know."

Her doubts were unnecessary; the surnames on our identity cards proved everything. She was indeed a "
lady" with the same surname as me, although she was someone else's wife. The waiter didn't even look at it before
returning our ID cards. We were already regular customers.

"You want your usual place? No problem, you've made a reservation. I'll still give you the regular customer discount,"
the ever-smiling woman said tactfully.

We specifically requested a private house by the lake, with a fireplace, bar, and jacuzzi. The bedroom
had a skylight, which, when covered by snow, became a mirror hanging on the ceiling. It was the off-season, but
my mother was still worried and called early in the morning to make the reservation. We had fond
memories of that house and held a special affection for it.

Our large luggage had already been delivered to our house by car while I was filling out the registration form.
The waiter arrived early and lit the fireplace for us.

Without needing a waiter to guide us, we carried our light travel bags and walked along the lakeside... We walked hand in hand.

The fresh snow covered the ground, leaving our footprints deep in the slush. We had taken many wrong turns
to get here. We treated this relationship like a fragile object, handling it with utmost care.
On the path of love, we tread carefully, not allowing the slightest misstep.

Wisps of smoke rose from the chimney of our house, and rows of icicles, crystal clear, hung from the eaves and windows
. This was our temporary home. At the door, I couldn't wait
to embrace and kiss my mother. She only allowed me a light kiss on her cheek and lips before turning away.
Our breath fogged up, frosting our hair, hat brims, and my glasses.

I held her warm, winter-like smile in my hands. With warm, soft lips, I brushed away
the frost from her eyes. Fine snowflakes drifted down, landing on our shoulders. The mountains, embracing the frozen lake, opened
their arms to welcome us, a pair of migratory birds of love.

The fireplace warmed our hearts. Mother took off her thick, long snow coat, her graceful figure revealed before me
. The door closed; no one would intrude into our world. Our world was too small; though the world was vast,
only our two hearts, beating in unison, could truly contain us.

She smoothed her hair, went to the bar, and mixed two gin martinis. I watched her
focused and graceful movements as she cranked the bartender, as skilled as a professional bartender, yet with an added thoughtfulness that others couldn't match
. She had mastered the perfect balance. The sheer volume of her drink, enough to intoxicate me even before I've tasted it, is something I can't buy anywhere else—
the warmth brewed in every smile and gesture.

She opened the small freezer, picked out a lime, cut it open, placed it in a glass, added an
ice cube, inserted a plastic stirrer, and brought it over, sitting beside me.

We sat around the fire, watching the sparks dance. I pulled her close, and she nestled softly against
me, leaning close.

Now, stripped of worldly trappings, we truly felt like lovers.

Our sorrows of separation needed no words. Her brow relaxed, her eyes shimmering with
longing and adoration.

The fire burned ever brighter, hotter and warmer, and our passion, like moths drawn to a flame, fluttered wildly. I felt
my warm clothes were a burden. Shedding her

thick, sweaty clothes, revealing her broad chest, I proclaimed my masculine charm.

A blush rose on her face; I brushed it with the back of my hand, its heat burning. She turned her head away, then, like
a little girl, buried her face in my chest. I never considered it coy or
affected for a mature woman to show such girlish shyness to the man she loves. A woman's essence is gentleness—this
is not a derogatory term. Softness can overcome hardness! Love can make a strong mother revert to her childlike nature,
demanding the tenderness and care she deserves.

I reached into her collar, feeling her warm body, massaging her smooth neck, where
a woman's sweet fragrance wafted. I inhaled deeply, embracing her, wanting to inhale her feminine scent. Every

time we made love, her scent lingered on my body. With my eyes closed, I could recognize
my mother by that scent, feel her presence. Before, this scent was called maternal love; now, it's my love
.

Separation is the price of love, and we will compensate each other with the most passionate lovemaking. I'm not in a hurry
to unwrap this package of love that has already been delivered to my hands. Opening it immediately would certainly be pleasurable. However,
I plan to tease her, thaw things out, and train her body and emotions to the most excited state. Some days
, she's eager for lovemaking; she'll tell me she wants it. We've loved each other so deeply, to this point, that her body and soul have been given to me

without reservation . So, on other days, although we...
There are plenty of opportunities to meet, but due to circumstances, we must
interact under different identities and relationships. This not only fails to soothe our longing but also creates a
long-term repression, which I

cannot bear. I fear that one day, I might develop a split personality. I don't need to immediately feast my eyes on my lover's naked body, because I will be able
to see her body through her clothes even after I remove them. The curves of her body, the softness of her breasts, and the contours of her nipples are all
precisely etched in my memory.

I suddenly have a thought to test her feelings, to see who can suppress their desire first?
Who misses whom more? Who needs whom more?

My mother has always intentionally tormented me; there's always a hint of seductiveness in her eyes and brows. And with her...
At her age, she deliberately flaunted her curves, including the outline of her large breasts under her low-cut dress and
the depth of her cleavage, swaying them at the angle most advantageous for my voyeuristic gaze. With a third party present, she immediately concealed herself.

An outsider, someone completely unfamiliar with us, would see that this mother, despite her
restraint, still couldn't resist flirting in front of her son, her eyes and brows brimming with desire.
The son, on the other hand, was very close to his mother, treating her with gentlemanly manners and meticulous care. What would they think?
Would they suspect our relationship might be unusual? Those around us, however, paid no
attention. Our close relationship facilitated our affair; for example, we could visit relatives together and travel together
.

A woman's heart is like a needle at the bottom of the sea; her intentions are like a riddle to be deciphered, never explicitly stated. You must guess correctly
before you can take a step forward. But if you misjudge, you're doomed. I pondered for a long, long time, and
it seemed I had a clue, but I dared not take that step. No son would ever think of love and sex in that way;
I even hated having such dirty thoughts about my mother. I went to a priest for confession
, dousing myself with cold water to calm my desires. But she still haunted me day and night like a ghost,
impossible to shake off. Only when I could follow my instincts and drive my impulses did we finally find ourselves on the same path
.

My mother, unable to bear the heat of the stove any longer, wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead, sat up, lifted her
sweater, and revealed a long-lost expanse of snow-white skin and delicate, rounded wrists before me. A woman
doesn't need to reveal all three points to be alluring. Of course, I would act like a gentleman and help her undress.
Her arms, clad only in a bra, were raised without any guard, revealing her armpit hair. After I pulled off her sweater, her arms
fell naturally, and the bra straps slipped down one after the other. Her hair was loose, messily covering her lips
, making her look sexy like she had a mustache.

Her deep, long cleavage, between a pair of seamless demi-cup bras, held the love I sought.
The outer edge of most of her exposed breasts formed a pair of misaligned brackets, one curved against the other,
the other protruding from the other end of the cup. Her breasts, unrestrained, pressed against the soft silk,
bursting forth. The drooping straps were not pulled up, giving the illusion that her bra might fall down at any moment.

In reality, she was a woman with refined manners, privately trained in the arts. You haven't seen her elegance in a cheongsam;
she's even more graceful than Maggie Cheung in one in Wong Kar-wai's "In the Mood for Love." If I
were a painter, I would definitely use her as a model for a painting of a lady. However, I would paint her nude, because
there are no paintings of naked ladies in China; those paintings of nude women are called erotic paintings.

Mom stirred her martini with plastic, took a sip, and savored the taste.

I raised my glass to her, a toast and a salute.

"Mom, thank you. I admire your courage in acknowledging our love and accepting my love. My
unrequited love has finally found its place." This was the "dialogue" I had prepared for her.

I opened my mouth, but couldn't find the words, so I paused.

Mom raised her glass to clink with mine, her breasts simultaneously thrusting forward. Her bra, without straps,
slipped, and a faint nipple inadvertently peeked out.

"Let's drink tonight. Cheers!

Our forearms are intertwined, we tilt our heads back and drink it all in one gulp.

We can't escape the past, and we have no tomorrow. Only today, this moment, she belongs to me. And I
belong to her too. In love, we are not afraid, we are not afraid to love, to love each other without hesitation, and
we are not even afraid of what we still have—fear.

For tonight, let us cherish it.

I pulled my mother into my arms again and kissed her hard, and she obediently accepted. I put my fingers into
the bra cups that were almost completely pressed against her skin, groping in the soft, narrow space,
crackling slightly, igniting the spark of desire.

(

II) A Sin

When my mother let me kiss her lips like a lover for the first time, she said in a thick Shanghai accent
, "A sin!"

It was a sin!

The deeper my love for my mother, the heavier my guilt. Because besides my wife, I also have to face someone else—my mother
's husband, my father.

It's extremely unusual for my mother to be in a relationship with someone else. I respect my father; although he's not
good at expressing his love, he's fulfilled his duties as a father. I love him too. But to secretly
flirt with and sleep with another woman behind his back—if he found out, he'd be furious. I've truly committed a heinous act!
If
I were my father, I would have expected my mother to have an affair, because there was never
any chemistry between them, never any spark. Among their generation, this wasn't a big
deal. But a lonely wife can easily have her heart stolen by a man who cares for her.
He would never have imagined that his wife's "affair" was with their son.

But my mother isn't like other women who live their lives with or without love.
She's not satisfied with the status quo and wants to find life outside her lifeless marriage. Using her

son as a guinea pig to test her own attractiveness seems immoral, but it was perhaps
the most convenient method for her. I was the second man closest to her. A son can be an
ideal lover molded by a mother according to her own needs and demands.

Truly, I was too foolish, oblivious to her constant hints. Because I dared not even consider that aspect
, never deluding myself into things beyond my reach. I can't blame her for not letting me see through
her heart sooner, for making me unjustly flee from her eyes burning with desire, as if fleeing
the fires of hell.

So, I found a girl who was devoted to me and married her. At the time, I
had no shortage of men willing to marry me. On the wedding day, my parents came and stayed at my new home.

At the wedding banquet, my mother opened my eyes to what true beauty and elegance were;
the Shanghai beauties described by Pai Hsien-yung and Eileen Chang came alive before my eyes. She wore a dark red floral brocade cheongsam with a mandarin collar,
made by the most famous Shanghai tailor in Chinatown. The cheongsam's slit was high, revealing her thighs, and
she wore red high heels and an embroidered shawl, attracting the attention of all the Chinese and foreign guests
. She stole the show even more than the bride in her low-cut wedding dress. She seemed unusually excited, drank a lot of wine, and flitted around the room—
a happy occasion for getting a wife, after all. However, she didn't even glance at the bride.

On their wedding night, late at night, my bride was asleep. I heard someone moving around in the house.
I got up to check, and in the living room, Pei Xue's lonely figure, wearing a bathrobe, sat on the sofa, holding a wine bottle,
humming an old tune.

"It's late, why aren't you asleep yet?" Sitting down beside her, I noticed she was sobbing.

She didn't answer, continuing to chug her drink. I snatched the bottle from her, forbidding her to drink anymore.

"Don't drink anymore, you've already had too much today."

She said, "Don't worry about me. Go back to your room."

"Mom, are you alright?" I tried to comfort her gently.

"I'm fine, I don't need your fake concern." She cried even harder. "

Why are you crying? Who broke your heart?" I stretched out my arm, placing it on her bare shoulder,
gently and tenderly asking her. "

It's you, you made me cry."
"
What...did I do wrong?"

"You're playing dumb." "

I really don't know." "

You've ignored me. Why are you so cold to me? I wander around all day, all for
you!"

"Mom, what did you say? You..."

"Don't you understand? Do you want me to say it out loud?"

"Mom, I..."

"You heartless stone, you don't care about me anymore." Her head rested on
my shoulder, her sweet voice captivating, making me dizzy.

A strange atmosphere filled the air, my heart pounded, and I held a burning desire within me, gentle
yet intense, slowly melting me. I couldn't help but reach for her, my comforting hand on her arm
transforming into a hand of lust, sliding down, down, caressing the soft curves of her waist. That wasn't enough to
satisfy my desires; it
moved further and further down, inch by inch, between her soft, warm thighs, until it reached the place on her body that I most fantasized about,
overflowing with desire like a flood. My manhood, brimming with an astonishing power, stood erect,
pointing high at her... 　　"Oh my God, we shouldn't..."
She 　　lowered her head, silent, not stopping my unrestrained hands from roaming over her body. 　　"Stop me! I know you will..." 　　Her warm, soft body nestled against my chest, filled with boundless grievances, as she poured out her heart to me. 　　She said, "You make me cry. Tonight is your happy night, but it makes me feel lonely and desolate. I need a chest to lean on, someone to tell me they love me. This is a special day; everyone is asleep , just the two of us in this living room." Whatever you want to do, I'll do it, because I 'm just a little woman, and sometimes I need comfort... 　　To this day, I still don't know where I got the audacity—or rather, the audacity of lust—to dare to flirt with my own mother like that, unbuttoning her nightgown and revealing her cleavage. There, a fragrance stronger than wine wafted over. I was terrified, grabbed the bottle from her hand, tilted my head back, and gulped it down. I silently prayed to God to forgive my sins, and then went to commit that heinous crime, to take my mother to bed on my wedding night. 　　What a sin! 　　Does anyone have any sense of morality or shame? 　　I must admit, not long ago, in our bridal chamber, the person I imagined making love with her had already melted solidly in my arms, everything unfolding before me, completely begging for my love. My 　　lips pressed against her bare arm, wandering over her most sensitive and sensual shoulder, the curve of her neck, and behind her ear. I found her warm, soft, slightly trembling lips. 　　She parted her lips, revealing her teeth, allowing me to find the mark of "mischief" on her warm tongue. 　　In a dreamlike state, she lay quietly on the sofa, trembling as she surrendered to me. My hand, guided by its touch, reached the place it craved, unbuttoning her robe. Then , slowly and carefully, I pulled off her silk panties—more fragrant and sensual than the ones my bride wore on our wedding night—down to her feet. This was a banner she had hung in my heart, something she often intentionally left in the bathroom, or unintentionally exposed, allowing me to peek, to discover, to smell— her femininity. 　　I looked at her, capturing every change in her eyes, and she looked at me too. We didn't look at each other's bodies, exploring each other only with our hands. I touched her smooth, sweaty shoulders and back, then moved deeper into her cleft, reaching her firm, round buttocks. While sucking on her incredibly elastic breasts, I kneaded the inside of her thighs, parting her legs—she was more willing to part for me than my bride. We forged a path, unimpeded, leading straight to my destination. 　　When I entered her, she trembled; in her eyes, I saw my long-hidden desire and our mutual fear. Then, she lowered her eyes, pressing her flesh against mine, her body erect, clinging to me, seeking her own satisfaction. In her warm, safe haven, I swelled, swelled, thrusting and penetrating deep within her, forgetting the passage of time in that swirling, sensual vortex. A 　　muffled moan escaped from beneath me, from the boundless darkness of the night— the cry of a woman, flesh and blood. I had made this woman, my mother, my lover—a thought that filled me with dread and trembling. 　　My mother's eyes and her kisses never left me. Every glance, every change in expression, every movement and reaction of her body during lovemaking was clearly etched into my heart. Did she, when making love with my father, or during childbirth, furrow her brow, bite her lower lip, and call out and moan like that ? 　　And yet, I couldn't even remember if my bride had experienced an orgasm with me on her first night. Even her image was blurred. 3) Perhaps it wasn't easy— 　　only after making love with my mother did I realize it was something I should do. 　　In the deepest moment of the night, my body sheltered my mother, sowing the seeds of love within her womb.

Son. We shouldn't have loved each other, much less have become one, naked and vulnerable. Once we stepped across this threshold
, it was a doomsday, a point of no return.

As dawn broke, the grave mistake was made, and I suddenly realized who my true love was. Without her, my love
was gone.

My beloved, limp beneath me, sweetly whispered,

"I think you just gave me an orgasm."

Those words captivated me; I became convinced that loving her was the purpose of my life, because if
I didn't love her, no one else would.

And so, we became lovers, as if we had loved each other for eternity. She began to tell
me many things, about herself, about her love life, about her sex life. She said how much she missed
me, how much she longed for my attention. Even a glance from me, or ignoring her and walking away, would fill her
with turmoil and unease. What else could these be but sweet nothings? I doubt anyone but me
would have heard my mother say these things to him.

Love is such an inexplicable thing; affection transcends age, and generational distinctions cannot extinguish it
.

The simultaneous occurrence of loving and being loved generates sexual arousal, and orgasm is
the product of this chain reaction. The sexual climaxes she experienced, and the taste of being loved, all came from me—
how absurd it sounds, yet it's the truth. Her sex life with her husband was always routine; they even had children
, but it was all unremarkable. Over time, she came to believe that this was life's inevitable consequence, and that this was enough
to make a woman lose all hope for sex.

She said I gave her hope for love. Loving her might not be easy. Because she wouldn't stop
hoping; those who have hope never grow old. My mother's love sometimes resembled a young man's infatuation,
demanding that you devote all your energy to her, especially in bed; she wanted my full attention. A

man's prowess, when used on a woman, requires her cooperation and appreciation. Whenever my mother
compared my father's and my sexual prowess, I felt a sense of vanity. What my father couldn't do, I
could. I became even more convinced that what I was doing was right, that only I could make my mother happy. We had to
constantly find more reasons to support ourselves, to convince ourselves. Only then could we live, for each other.

"You know more about sex than Dad. If only you could be her coach," she said.

I practically felt like a hero, rescuing my mother from her misery. My penis immediately
became erect again, begging my clueless father to pay off all the debts he owed my mother. Those debts would never be paid off
.
From that moment on, we were mired in an illicit affair.
During our honeymoon, I planned a trip with my mother. After returning, I found
an excuse to come to this resort for a unique honeymoon.

Only in this snow-covered resort could we make love freely.

These memories flashed through my mind like a rapidly searching image. I didn't notice that my mother's nipples
were hard and swollen under my fingers, as if they would be ripped off with another twist.
"
You've been touching me here for too long, it's making me numb and sore," she reminded me, pulling me
back from my reverie.

"Oh, really? I'm sorry," I kissed her again.

The kiss was light, the tongue warm, the love intense. She returned a kiss, a kiss that reddened her buttocks; I knew
she couldn't wait any longer. She

pulled my hand out from under her bra and placed it between her thighs; she needed caresses down there too
. My erection was also extremely aroused, and if I didn't let it out to breathe, it
would explode.

I would let Mom know what she could do to me from the waist down. Because I didn't need to hold back,
it would boost her confidence. She had complained about why her husband wasn't interested in her.
Whose fault was it that he was so slow to react? I gave her the affirmation a woman needs—that a man younger than her
could still be captivated by her.

Long-suppressed desire burned like firewood in a furnace. Mom made no secret of her need and longing for me
, constantly kissing my manhood. We both looked forward to this moment, when we could indulge in
physical pleasure. "Love me.
"
This was what a completely liberated Peiyun said to me, a stark contrast
to the restrained, neurotic woman who had just stood at the counter. 　　I could only stammer, because I wanted to hear more explicit words, from my mother's mouth, directly saying to me :
" Fuck 　　me! Crush me!" 　　She would even say such vulgar things to get the love she wanted. She was so humble in front of her son, so desperate for pleasure; it pitied me, how could I bear to mistreat her? 　　However, I still followed a fixed routine, paying attention to every detail, like social etiquette , when making love with her. After all, the woman I was having this physical relationship with was my mother, and she deserved different treatment. 　　Women constantly want men to tell them they love them. And every time she wanted me to tell her I loved her, I proved it with actions. Actually, our love can't be said, nor does it need to be! For my mother, as a woman, telling her I love her, telling her I want to make love to her, is actually harder to say than to do . Even she herself admits it. A 　lover and a mother, a mother and a lover—a dual identity, her nakedness before me without any cover—should absolutely not be taken for granted. In the older generation, some couples felt ashamed to be naked, even in front of their spouses, while wearing clothes during sex. When she and her father made love, were they both naked? I never asked her, but I imagine they slept in their pajamas and made love while clothed. But how could they do it while clothed? I can't imagine. Now, my mother and I make love; she's a mother, shouldn't I protect her?

What should I leave behind? When making love in bed, should I worry about her being different from other women, and
whether I should leave any clothes on her? After all, a woman is a woman. When she's making love to you in bed,
she's no different from any other woman. It's not that she won't do it, but if she's going to, she'll do it properly, not half-heartedly.

It's just that some women are impatient, stripping naked and rushing at you for love. My mother
wouldn't do that. She always waits for me to undress her, leaving it up to me whether I undress her completely.

Then she can say:

"You took off my clothes!" "

You wanted to have sex with me!"

"It's all your fault!" This is the psychological defense mechanism of a mother having sex with her son. Psychologically, it's better
, as if it lessens the guilt of betraying her husband and committing incest.

I'm happy to admit this fault, it's like taking credit for myself. I've never achieved anything, never
done anything meaningful, and this blame is placed on me, like a crown, a halo. This

is my masterpiece!

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