“I can’t believe he’s leaving tomorrow,” I mused, touching myself, quite satisfied with how we’d finished this evening, how far we’d come this summer.

I let my thoughts drift back to where it all started. How the madness first took hold.

My husband Tom deployed to the Middle East that winter, leaving me a geographic bachelorette for the end of our boys’ senior year. All the neighbor kids hung out at our place, notably the boys. I wouldn’t admit it then, but there was a certain pride in being dubbed the ‘hot mom’ of the neighborhood; a textbook MILF in Tom’s opinion. At age forty-three, I stood five-foot ten, almost 135 lbs. Not that you could really tell without copping a feel, but my B-cup breasts were still quite pert.

Tom teased me when he first noticed Steven’s eyes linger a little too long and far too openly. They had just started their senior year. No possessiveness or fuss, just a snicker. He’d been eighteen once. He knew the look.

While the other teens huddled around the Xbox, Steven seemed to gravitate towards whatever room I occupied. His compliments started innocuously enough. “That dress is really nice, Mrs. Jamason,” he said. Quietly, so his friends couldn’t hear. As the weather warmed, so did his comments. “I love that bikini, Mrs. J,” he opined one day by the pool. One afternoon, while helping me with the groceries, when his hand slipped, I laughed it off, but called him out. “Watch it, buddy. You’re only seventeen.” Looking back, I’m still not sure why his age was the line I drew, rather than the fact that he was my son’s best friend, a boy I’d seen grow into a young man. Nonetheless, I was secretly flattered.

May came, and with it my son’s plan to give his buddy a memorable eighteenth birthday. None of us knew just how unforgettable it would be. Well, none of us but Steven.

The plan for a ‘memorable’ celebration was just a barbecue by our pool, with video games going on inside. I wasn’t one of those ‘cool’ parents who turn a blind eye to the beer cooler, so the party fizzled out as the sun began to set. But as the last few kids meandered home, the summer’s finest memory began to coalesce.

The day’s festivities had taken their toll, so I slipped into the hot tub with the stragglers, wine bottle in hand. These moments were when I missed Tom the most. It had been ages since I even bothered with a swimsuit in this hot tub, where Tom and I often initiated our most private moments. The laughter and video game gunfire from inside only emphasized his absence. One by one, the others left, until it was just Steven and me. I was somewhere between my second and fourth glass when I felt the water ripple, his hip brushing against mine. I didn’t move away.

“I’m eighteen today, Mrs. Jamason,” he said quietly.

“Does that qualify you as a man then?” I asked, a smile playing on my lips as I recalled how, just weeks ago, I had half-heartedly scolded him for being merely seventeen. In the back of my mind, I knew this was coming. His hand on my backside hadn’t been unwelcome, a fact I hadn’t fully admitted until now, sitting so close to him.

“Maybe not, but this could.” He turned and kissed me, careful, closed mouth, like he’d been rehearsing it for the weeks since my rebuke.

“Then happy birthday, Steven,” I murmured, leaning in to deepen the kiss. He stilled, caught off guard by my willingness. His hand eventually found the nape of my neck, pausing as if waiting for a sign to proceed. I parted my lips, granting him access. He searched my face, like a man expecting a barrier. Finding none, his fingers drifted to the bikini tie, giving it a gentle tug. The flimsy fabric floated away in the water. Tom’s challenge echoed, “I dare you,” from the depths of my memory. He had predicted this.

My ache for Tom morphed into something else, something forbidden. I rose just enough for my tits to clear the waterline. “Is this what you’re after, Steven?” He answered by leaning in, the warmth of his mouth found each dark pink nipple in turn, and the heat of it climbed straight up through my throat.

My fingers found the ties at my hips before I’d made any conscious decision about them. I hesitated there for a moment, thinking of Tom, thinking of my son inside. Then, not thinking at all, I slid them down my thighs to my knees. He had clearly thought through the kiss, but certainly not this.

Then, as quickly as it began, the patio door slid open with a ‘whoosh,‘ and Steven’s rite of passage abruptly paused. I fumbled with the strings of my bikini, fingers shaking as I secured the top back in place before anyone wandered over. My dark bush appeared at his eye level for an instant before I pulled my bottoms back into place. A flush of contrition heated my cheeks. What was I thinking? I kissed Steven lightly, almost chastely, a stark contrast to the moments before.

Stepping out of the hot tub, I felt the cool night air like a slap. I wrapped a towel around myself, suddenly self-conscious as his gaze followed me. My smile felt false, plastered on for the benefit of the lingering guests. I couldn’t look them in the eye as I bid them goodnight, my voice too bright, too loud. I steered clear of the jacuzzi and Steven for the rest of the evening, my mind a whirlwind of confusion, but remarkably not regret. I had not felt this alive since Tom departed in February.

In the weeks that followed, Steven’s visits became more frequent, his hands finding ways to linger on my hips, his eyes tracing the curve of my neck as I washed dishes at the sink. I’d catch him watching me, remembering what I’d shown him, what he’d tasted. “Steven,” I’d warn, but his name on my lips was more surrender than resistance.

At night, I’d lie in bed, aching for Tom’s familiar touch yet unable to shake the ghost of Steven’s lips on mine, the memory of eager hands tugging at my bikini strings. Summer loomed, and oddly, I lamented the fact that he would soon have fewer reasons to be around the house. Jobs would keep them busy until college began in the fall.

June arrived, and with it, graduation night. My boys were out with their friends, scattered across town at various celebrations. I was home, dressed down in shorts and a t-shirt, the flicker of the television keeping me company.

A familiar knock at the door. Steven never rang the bell. Despite my reservations, my body tingled. Thirteen minutes later, my t-shirt was crumpled at the foot of the stairs, my shorts draped over the footboard. Steven sprawled next to me, naked, face flushed and breathless. Mortified. Finished almost before he had even begun. Yet his virile shaft pointed skyward, glistening with my essence. Ready for a second chance that I was more than eager to provide. I slid my finger up my slit to taste his hasty deposit.

An inauspicious beginning for sure, but he had all summer to vindicate himself, and oh my God did he. That night marked the beginning of what I came to think of as his true education before college.