“All I’m saying, Leslie, is that the boy is a natural born athlete. He can play whatever he wants, and a football scholarship will pay for his college education, so why the hell won’t he try out for the team?”

I started to say something, but Jim continued the rant he’d been carrying on for the last five minutes, throwing his arms up in the air as if seeking an answer from God.

“I mean, for Christ’s sake, he was the best player on every team he played on — in soccer, football, baseball, shit, he was even the best one on the swim team and not bad in track either — until high school. What the hell happened?”

Jim swung his arms down to his sides, exasperated, seemingly at a loss for further words. Well, almost.

“I just don’t get it. I don’t fucking get it.”

“Jim,” I said, my tone recriminating.

“Alright, alright,” my husband acquiesced to my unspoken request to watch his language. “Come on, honey. He’s a big strapping boy and talented to boot. There must be something wrong. He should see a doctor or something.”

“He doesn’t need to see a doctor,” I stated firmly. We’d been over this before.

“I mean a head doctor,” Jim expanded, this time ignoring the tone in my voice. “There has to be a reason he lets all that talent go to waste. Think of the girls he could have,” he mused. “The best players on the college teams got all the good ones.”

I bit my lip. Jim was an average size guy, not quite big enough for the regular sports and lacking the natural talent anyway. However, he had tried hard and that had got him on the team but he hadn’t won any scholarships or, evidently, triumphed with any of the ‘good ones’. I turned and walked away. Realizing his error, too late as usual, Jim chased after me.

“Leslie, wait ... I didn’t mean it like that,” he cried, catching up to me and, grasping me by the shoulders, spun me around. “You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he repeated.

I nodded, looking down and to the side to avoid meeting his eyes. I was quite angry because I knew what was coming and I didn’t want to get into another fight. True to form, Jim couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“It’s just that, well, about the girls and all. Tommy used to have so many of them coming around and then, boom, three years ago not one to be seen. I thought girls liked..., “ I tensed and Jim reconsidered what he was saying, “I guess I don’t understand it. I mean, that’s about the time he quit playing, so..., “ he ended lamely, not quite finishing his thought, or at least not stating it out loud.

“Jim, we’ve been over this,” I said tersely. “Tommy is not gay.”

“I didn’t say...”

“Just because someone is gay doesn’t mean they can’t be good at sports.”

“Right,” Jim responded, although I knew he wasn’t convinced. “Right. So that can’t be what it is, but we’ve got to find out, for his own good,” he said, patting my shoulders. “Maybe you should have a talk with him, see what’s up with him. I can’t talk to him about it, he just gets all upset.”

I could well imagine, and who wouldn’t, with an accusing tone obviously suspecting him of homosexuality but not wanting to hear about it if it was really true. In reality, Jim wanted a strong denial and demonstration that it wasn’t true. Christ, even having cancer would be better than being gay in his eyes. By some twist of fate Jim and I, being of average size, had managed to birth a strapping son and Jim wanted to experience an athlete’s glory through him. It was so obvious it made me ill. Did he have any idea how much less I thought of him this past three years?

“I’ll talk to him, if that will make you happy, but only to ask if he’s going to apply for any scholarships,” I said.

“That’s great, Les,” Jim was suddenly all cozy, “but remind him that we don’t have enough money if he isn’t on a scholarship.”

“We have enough money,” I replied angrily, knowing he was trying to get me to coerce our son into doing what he wanted.

“I know, I know, but it will be better if he can get a scholarship,” Jim whined.

“Fine,” I said, tersely.

I left it at that. Further discussion would just end in a fight and my day was already ruined.

After supper, I waited for Jim to go to bed so I could have a talk with Tommy. Jim kept looking at me, during commercials that is. At first, I thought he actually expected me to initiate the conversation in the living room with him there but then he kind of gave his head a quick jerk to the right, indicating that I should take Tommy upstairs to have our little talk. Annoyed, I shook my head. This had to happen when the time was right. Surprisingly, I managed to convey that to my husband. Partly, anyway. He didn’t get the bit where he should leave so Tommy and I could talk.

The night wore on with Jim getting more and more impatient and clueless. Finally, Tommy got up to give me a kiss goodnight and went upstairs to bed. As he climbed the stairs, Jim looked at me like I’d screwed everything up and indicated that I should follow him. I shook my head.

When Tommy disappeared down the hallway, Jim asked, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s no good talking to him with you here.”

“Well, why didn’t you ask him to go upstairs?”

“Oh right, like that would seem natural.”

“It doesn’t need to be natural. Just ask him why he isn’t applying for a football scholarship,” Jim rolled his eyes.

I rolled mine back at him. “No wonder he gets upset when you talk to him. Do you want to do this yourself?”

Jim backed down, easing back into his chair. “No,” he said.

“Alright then.” I sat back on the couch, realizing for the first time that the muscles in my arms, legs and neck were strained to the breaking point.

A few minutes passed before Jim spoke again, “Well, aren’t you going to go upstairs?”

Christ, he just didn’t get it. “In a minute or two,” I said. “I’ll let him get ready for bed first.”

“Oh,” Jim said, disappointed, not understanding why that would make a difference.

“Jim,” I looked him in the eye. “Don’t even think of listening at the door. You stay down here until I’m done.”

“Of course,” he replied, indignant.

I knew then that’s just what he had planned to do.

Tommy’s door was not quite closed. I reached my hand inside and knocked on the inside of his bedroom wall without looking in.

“Yeah, Mom?”

I pushed the door in a couple of inches and poked my head inside.

“Whatcha doin?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, facing the computer. “Just playing a game. Come in.”

Tommy kept playing on the computer without turning to look at me. He had already changed for bed and was wearing his bathrobe. I walked up to him and rested my hand on his shoulder, now so broad and strong. As he played, killing this and that on the screen, I swept my eyes around the room. The shelves were full of trophies and the walls were covered in pennants, at least, the parts that hadn’t been replaced with rock posters.

I couldn’t help wondering myself. What had turned Tommy off sports? He used to live for it. Could Jim be right? No. I knew it in my bones that Tommy wasn’t gay. As his mother, I would know and I’d be doing everything I could to make him feel alright about it. But he wasn’t. So what was it? I knew that I didn’t have any more of a clue than Jim did.

I ran my fingers along Tommy’s shoulder and up the right side of his strong neck, tickling his ear and fluffing his hair.

“Mom,” he cried. “You just got me killed!”

“Sorry,” I apologized.

I left his side and sat on the edge of his bed, facing him. He started to play again, ignoring me. He knew I wanted to talk about something — otherwise, why would I be hanging around in his room? — but he was willing to wait for me to come out with it rather than prod it out of me. I smiled. He had always been a quiet, patient boy, especially when he was little. The operations when he was so young had forced a quiet life at first, ruling out vigorous play. But years later he had become quite the rugged little fellow and, looking at him now, I imagined he could be a tough customer if he wanted to be.

I was about to speak when a flickering shadow caught my attention. I went to the door and peeked into the hallway. Jim was backing away from Tommy’s door. The downstairs lights had been turned off. I glowered at my husband and quietly mouthed, “Fuck off!”

Jim put his hands up and backed right into our bedroom. I continued nailing him with my cross eyes until he pushed the door shut. Quietly, I did the same with Tommy’s door and returned to take my seat on his bed. I watched him play for several more minutes.

“Tommy,” I spoke softly to get his attention.

“Yeah, Mom,” he acknowledged my voice but didn’t afford me any additional attention.

“What college are you are planning on going to?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“I was just wondering if you were thinking about staying here or going away.”

“I’m not sure yet”

“Oh, ok.”

I was quiet for another minute, swinging my right leg over my left knee, and gazing disinterestedly around his room. Tommy kept playing, ignoring me, and I knew he just wanted to get rid of me but only because he knew I wanted to talk about something. My eyes landed on an old picture of him with his best pal.

“What ever happened to Ricky?” I asked, as nonchalantly as I could.

“Rick,” Tommy said.

“Yeah, Ricky.”

“Rick,” Tommy repeated.

“What?”

“Rick. He likes to be called Rick now.”

“Oh. Well, what ever happened to Rick?”

“He’s still going to school.”

“I haven’t seen him for a long time. You used to be such pals.”

I waited for Tommy to respond but he didn’t say anything. He kept playing but I noticed his hands were more tense on the keyboard and mouse, mirroring the look on his face.

I pressed, “Is he still with that really cute girl, Shannon? She was such a nice girl?”

Tommy’s jaw bulged and I knew he was grinding his teeth but didn’t say anything.

“Tommy?” I said, in response to his deafening silence.

“No.”

“Oh,” I said, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward, pushing my dress between my knees. “What about that other girl, the dark-haired one? She was quite pretty too. What was her name? Weren’t you and Ricky, I mean Rick, double dating?”

There was a long silence during which Tommy’s jaw bulged even more and the muscles in his arms stood out in stark relief against his sleevless t-shirt. He didn’t want to talk, that much was quite evident. I was about to get up, had even put my hands on my knees to help push myself up, when he surprised me with an answer.

“Linda, and yes, we were double dating.”

“Oh,” I lifted my hands, then let them settle gently onto my knees again. “What’s she up to now?”

Tommy pulled his hands back away from the computer. Looking down into his lap, he said, “I don’t know.”

There was another awkward silence. I waited it out, not making any move that would look like I was leaving. Finally, realizing that I wasn’t going to go, Tommy spoke.

“Look, Mom. I think I know what this is about. I don’t want to apply for a football scholarship, or anything else, because I just don’t want to.”

“I wasn’t ... I didn’t..., “ I stopped, realizing I was being facetious.

“And you can tell Dad that I’m not gay!”

Tommy was staring straight at the floor, avoiding my presence. I felt terrible. He was so upset. Obviously, it bothered him that his father thought less of him but his own mother, coming here on such an errand. Well, that was just too much.

I felt awful. I could see he was trying not to cry and tears welled up inside me. I started to get up but Tommy turned toward me and I felt pinned to the bed.

“You really want to know?” he cried. “You want to know why I quit sports?” he repeated more quietly, getting up. “You want to know why?” he demanded, walking toward me. He stepped so close, his feet were on either side of my knees. Towering over me, he hissed, “I’ll tell you why”.

With that, he swept his robe open and thrust his pelvis toward me. He wasn’t wearing pajamas, I noted, something I should have known. I hadn’t washed any pajamas for him for years. All he was wearing was a pair of black boxers, the thin stretchy kind that look like cycling shorts. I turned my head away, aware that I was looking at the front of my son’s underwear, something that wouldn’t have bothered me years ago but which now felt wrong and embarrassing.

Tommy yelled, “This is why, Mom!”

He grabbed my head and turned it back to face him. I was too flustered to see whatever he was trying to show me.

“Be quiet. You’ll wake your father,” I said, inanely, blushing and feeling confused.

“I don’t care,” he hissed. “Look! There’s your answer, right in front of you.” Tommy whimpered, and my chest tightened in sympathetic pain. “I’m not gay. I’m not anything!”

He sobbed then and I looked up just as my son’s chin dropped onto his chest. Tears trickled from his tightly shut eyes. His grip loosened and I turned away, raising my arms to encircle his legs and pulled him to me in a comforting embrace. Tommy leaned toward me, accepting my solace, his hands dropping to the back of my shoulders. He cried softly and I hugged him tighter. That’s when I felt what I suppose he meant me to see, what I hadn’t noticed. It pressed into my ear.

It was just a bump, not much more than that. At first, I thought it was a large boil or a cyst and wondered if he had a medical problem. Why hadn’t he told me? Was it painful?

I tried to pull away so I could turn my head and look to see what ailed my son but Tommy pressed my head tighter to his groin, pushing the cyst even tighter against my ear. It pushed over sideways and Tommy pulled my head the other way, forcing straight again. That wasn’t a cyst. It was much more than a bump if it could be bent. I struggled to pull away again, desperate to see what was afflicting my boy but he held me that much tighter, swaying to and fro, forcing my head to move with him but immobile relative to his groin.

Tommy’s crying had given way to a ragtag series of gasps interspersed by harsh, raspy breathing. He was swaying faster now and rubbing the side of my head against his affliction.

“Oh my God, Tommy,” I cried. “Let me see it. Let me see what’s hurting you.”

“No, no, no, no,” he wailed, furiously rubbing himself against my ear, almost painfully.

“Please, son. Let me help you. Let Mommy help you,” I wailed too.

Tommy was bucking his hips into my ear frantically now. He sounded like he was going to have a heart attack. I quit struggling, feeling that I was only making things worse. I had just gone limp in his hands when he expelled his breath in a long, loud groan.

“Ohhhhhahhhhhhhhhunnngghhh.”

A very warm wetness pulsed against my ear, then again, and again. Tommy’s hands fell away, pushing me to the side, and he flopped onto the bed beside me, crying in anguish as I bounced up and down in response to his weight crashing onto the mattress. A muffled whimpering started and I knew he was crying with his face buried in the blankets.

I was shocked! I put my hand up to my ear but pulled it away before I touched it, my mind struggling to understand what had happened. He had ... he ... Tommy had ... rubbed himself, on my head ... rubbed himself to ... he’d come in my ear!

I turned to look at him but stopped myself. I stood slowly but almost fell, feeling dizzy, very dizzy. How ... I stumbled away, crying, catching myself, straightening, then staggering stiffly to the door. I don’t remember opening it. I was in the hall, in the dark, feeling my way to my bedroom, finding the door and opening it.

Thankfully, the room was dark. Jim must have turned off the light in the hallways and the bedroom in a snit over the rebuke he received from me earlier. Thank God. I stumbled to the bed and crawled in, turning my back to my husband. I felt him getting up on his elbow, leaning over me.

“Well, what did he say?”

“Never mind.” I meant to speak evenly but tears welled up inside me and I choked back a sob.

“What’s wrong,” Jim asked.

“Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I knew it,” he cried. “I knew it.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. I felt empty inside. What had just happened? Tommy had masturbated, no rubbed himself, against my head. I put my hand up to my ear. It was wet and my face on that side was damp and sticky. My God. He had come in his shorts, against my ear and on my face! Jesus, oh Jesus. What was I going to do? I pulled the covers over my head and hid under them. I never wanted to get up again.

As I lay in bed alone the following morning, I thought about what had happened. Since it still seemed surreal it was difficult to sort out my thoughts but I came to several conclusions and consequent resolutions. First, Tommy was mortified by the size or shape of his penis. I hadn’t seen it but surmised it was more likely the former than the latter. I needed to find out if we were dealing with a size or a deformity issue. Second, Tommy was definitely not gay: Gay men do not get excited to orgasmic release by rubbing themselves on a woman’s face. Jim obviously thought my reaction to his queries confirmed that our son was gay. Until I could figure out what was going on, it would be easier to do let Jim continue with his erroneous belief because, short of Tommy banging every girl around, it would be too hard to dissuade him. Third, I needed to contact the original doctor to ask about the long term effects of Tommy’s operation shortly after he was born. My memory of it had faded but I thought the doctor had said everything would turn out ok.

I rushed downstairs to prepare an early breakfast for Tommy. I wanted to catch him before he left so I could at least reassure him that things were ok between us. I didn’t want that sordid memory festering in his mind all day. What was done was done. It was simply an accident, and no big deal but I did want to talk to him about it tonight.

It turned out that Tommy had got up and left early without eating breakfast. Jim, who was up, didn’t even speak to him. I tossed my second resolution out the window, engaging in an argument with Jim that Tommy wasn’t gay. Jim didn’t put up much of a fight but I could see his mind was made up. It ended with me yelling at him as he left the house that it didn’t matter if he was gay or not anyway, he was still our son. Not my brightest moment.

My third resolution was resolved more successfully. I rushed and picked up the phone. I had been waiting for three hours for Doctor Killen’s return call.

“Yes, it is. Thank you so much for returning my call.”

“Yes, we moved from there five years ago and have been here since then ... Yes, he’s very healthy. You can’t believe how big he’s grown ... Well, six something, he grows so fast it’s hard to keep track, and over two hundred pounds ... No, I’m not kidding.”

“Yes, that’s right. That’s why I called. I wanted to ask you about the operation ... That’s right. I thought everything was supposed to turn out fine, or, how was it you said it, ‘He should catch up at puberty under the pressures of the normal body changes’ or something like that.” I was amazed how that sentence popped out of my memory and I was positive it was substantially correct.

“Well, I don’t know for sure.” I laughed into the phone. “No, I haven’t see him naked since he was five or six.”

Another laugh. I lied, “It’s just the way he’s been behaving ... Well, he was very good at sports but has been avoiding them for the last few years ... Yes, that’s what I suspected. It must be terrible for him to be in a locker room with the other boys going through all those changes ... No, he didn’t say anything but I imagine he was teased quite badly if what you say is true.”

“So what went wrong? I thought you said it would ‘drop’ — is that the right word? — of its own accord ... Ok, so it should have been pushed out as the body went through its changes. So the question still is, what went wrong?”

I tapped my foot and twisted back and forth as I listened to Dr. Killen’s explanation.

“Does he masturbate? Well, I don’t know, I guess so ... No, I never caught him ... Well, a couple of times there was evidence on his sheets, but not often.”

Dr. Killen spoke for a long stretch.

“Oh, I see. So he probably didn’t feel the typical urges as strongly? ... Ok, then. So there’s still hope?”

“More than that,” I echoed his voice. “A very good chance ... just a little encouragement ... I see. So, then why, um, wouldn’t have ordinary masturbation worked?”

I laughed out loud. “No, Doctor Killen. I didn’t think just yanking on it would do the trick.” I laughed again. “Speaking of tricks, what do you suggest? Should I hire a hooker to dance around in front of him to provide this ‘encouragement’ you’re speaking of?”

“Well, ok. I’ll give it some thought, not.” I laughed again. “Thank you so much, Dr. Killen, you’ve been so helpful ... Yes, I’ll tell him. We’ll talk about it tonight, don’t worry ... Yes, I’ll get back to you and let you know how it goes ... Yes ... Thank you. Goodbye.”

So, I needed to talk to Tommy to assure him everything would be ok, in time, but first I had to make sure that size was the problem. That night for supper, I would crush a couple of sleeping pills and spread the powder over his dinner in case he didn’t hang around after supper for our traditional hot chocolate before going to bed. I wanted Tommy to sleep deeply tonight.

Tommy tried to avoid supper and Jim didn’t make him come downstairs which was quite out of the ordinary for him. I was furious with him but more concerned about Tommy.

“Jim, if you want this problem to be fixed, you treat your son the way you always do. I talked to the doctor today and this is a problem we can sort out. It will take a little time but he said Tommy will get back to his normal self.”

“He said that?”

“Yes. He told me what to do and said it may take a week or two or it could also be months, he didn’t know for sure because every case is different.”

“But he ... you ... can fix it, right?”

“Yes, I can fix it.”

“Great. Ok, where’s that kid.” Jim walked to the bottom of the stairs and yelled, “Tommy! Get down here for your dinner.”

“I could have done that myself,” I said.

At the dinner table, Tommy seemed nervous at first but his father was unexpectedly friendly, almost too friendly. Obviously, I hadn’t said anything to him about what happened and moreover, I clearly wasn’t as upset as he thought I might be. Gradually, he relaxed and we had a nice dinner together, one of the most pleasant for a long time.

I crept down the hallway toward Tommy’s door late that night, a small flashlight in my right hand. At the door, I turned to look back at the open doorway of my own bedroom to make sure it was still dark. So far, so good. I listened with my ear against the Tommy’s door. Turning off the light, I carefully twisted the knob and pushed gently, opening the door a couple of inches. My ears strained to capture the sound of Tommy’s breathing. Great. He was asleep. Quietly, I opened the door and stealthily approached his bed, crouched over, one cautious step at a time.

I hovered over my son, making sure his breathing was deep and regular. He was definitely sleeping heavily. Carefully, I pulled the covers down and folded them over his legs, leaving his upper body naked. Shielding the flashlight from Tommy’s eyes with my hand, I turned it on and directed the light down there, at his private parts.

Damn! He slept in his shorts. I shone the light right where his dick should be but could only discern a lump under the black shorts. It seemed large enough. Maybe this was all for naught. No, I reminded myself, he may be big enough but not well-formed. He’s super upset about something down there. Shit. I would have to actually look.

Steeling myself, I put the flashlight down on the bed, carefully inserted my fingers behind the waistband of Tommy’s shorts, and tugged. Two minutes later of timid tugging, I had my son’s shorts almost down to his thighs. Only the part over the lump remained. Strangely, I was elated with the difficulty in getting the shorts over the lump, which now seemed larger than it had originally looked. Size wasn’t going to be a problem. Whew! I wasn’t facing an insurmountable issue. The shorts suddenly gave way. I picked up the light and, after checking to make sure Tommy was still sleeping, illuminated the problem.

Balls. The lump was all balls. That’s all I could see. Holding the light with one hand, I used an extended index finger to push Tommy’s balls this way and that looking for the cyst. I leaned closer, my face almost touching him. There. On top of his balls was a lump that looked to be the normal size for the head of a cock, maybe even a bit larger, but there didn’t appear to be a shaft underneath it. Could this be the cyst?

I touched the cyst with my finger. Tommy murmured in his sleep and I froze. He resumed sleeping and I chuckled to relieve my tension. How would I explain this if he woke up? His mother, sneaking into his room at night with a flashlight to fondle his cock? I laughed out loud. I couldn’t help it. That did it. I collapsed into a fit of giggles, stepping back, crouching over to hold my stomach with one hand, the other over my mouth, and settled on the floor, silently wrenching my guts out.

Eventually, I got myself under control and hovered over my son again. Gingerly, I pushed the cyst about and was shocked to see the shaft of a penis beneath it, connecting it to his body. Oh my God. The cyst was the tip of his penis, averaged sized or better, but it was supportee by this tiny little shaft no more than an inch long. Oh, my poor boy. How he must have suffered in those locker rooms. No wonder he quit sports. Can you imagine, every day, going to school, knowing the other kids were laughing behind his back. It made me so mad.

In my anger and anguish, I forgot that I was pushing Tommy’s little cock around, almost like I was stirring a pot. Under my attention, the little guy stiffened up proudly, like a cartoon boner. Well, he functioned correctly, it was just a matter of degree.

I pinched the head between my thumb and index finger and slipped down to the thin little stick underneath. I tried to jack the poor little thing but there wasn’t really enough room to slide up and down, so I just rolled it back and forth, as if I were pinching my own nipples.

What the hell are you doing, Leslie? I asked myself.

I’m being his mother, I responded defiantly. Somehow, there must be a way to make this right. The doctor said most of his penis shaft had been abnormally tucked up into his body at birth but it should have fallen sometime during puberty, rendering it to a normal length. Obviously, that hadn’t happened. The doctor had said repetitive, extreme excitement, as typically experienced during puberty, should have done the trick and may still do but ordinary masturbation wouldn’t work. It had to be pushed out, naturally, under extreme titillation. So, I’ll excite it a bit. No one will ever know so what can it hurt? And it might help.

Tommy’s breathing had changed. He was murmuring, probably having one hell of a dream, I thought, smiling wickedly. Surprisingly, I was enjoying this. I let my fingers slip gently up and over Tommy’s normally sized head — no, it really was larger, bigger than Jim’s anyway. He seemed to really like that, judging by his dreaming sounds. It didn’t take long for him to become quite excited and I knew he was about to come.

Shit. I hadn’t meant to go this far. Well, the doctor said extreme excitement. That meant coming, at least for a male. I cupped my palm over the tip and continued rubbing the tip with my fingertips. No sooner had I covered it than a blast of warm, sticky goo landed on my nose. Another and another. Fuck. In the dark, I had missed his shooting hole and the big balls behind his tiny cock blasted several ropes of goo all over my face.

Now, look at the mess you’ve made, I chuckled, then burst out laughing.

I fell back onto the floor, one hand over my sticky mouth, trying to suppress further giggles. Mother of fucking Murphy. What it takes to be a mother.

I got up. Tommy was still sleeping and breathing normally. I retrieved the light and went into the hall to get a towel out of the bathroom. Returning with a warm and wet facecloth, I cleaned my son up as best I could and pulled his shorts up. As I crept back into my bed, I severely admonished myself, That was a silly, silly thing to do, you stupid woman.

I would have to sit down to have a long talk with Tommy and broach the topic of his problem. I had to let my son know what the doctor had said, at least that it was expected to be a problem until he was eighteen or so. There was no reason to mention the original prognosis that it should have been resolved during puberty. Tommy wouldn’t know that and it would just upset him. I would just act as if his behavior the other night had reminded me about it and we needed to talk, that everything would be ok.