Adventures In Nekkidness: Mother’s Boobs

My next memory of nekkidness involved my mother’s boobs. And I remember this because there were only two times that I saw my mother’s boobs. And both times were by accident.

I’ll start with the more pleasant of these mammories, and save the udder for when you’ve gotten used to the naughty nature of this narrative. Dig?

My mother and I used to bounce on her bed together, first thing in the morning. Didn’t everyone? On one of these occasions, one of her boobs kept popping out of her nightgown. Always the comedian, I could never let an opportunity like that just hang there.

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“Honk, honk!” went the boy’s hand on the boob.

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“Honk, honk!” went the boy’s hand on the boob.

She giggled and muttered, “Greg’ry . . . stop!” But she didn’t actually mean stop until after the third time. And then her tone changed on a dime from playfulness to I’m gonna kill you!

Looking back now, I can see that, at the age of three, I sexually harassed my mother. Whoops . . . sorry, mom!

Not to worry, though; she would get me back years later.