The Tailbone’s Connected to the…
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It’s not always easy to look back and see where something started. Particularly with a stiff neck — and boy is mine stiff just now (perhaps I am too old for nightclubs these days, even if I’m only mid-thirties). Perhaps if I write down my memories of events, then that will clarify where the true beginning was. Perhaps not, of course, but it might be kind of fun anyway.
Adam had been eighteen for a little over a month and we had just about finished cleaning up after the party. It’s not that he or I are particularly messy — as a single mum I’ve had to learn to keep things neat here with no man around to help, especially when Adam was younger — but that had been a hell of a party. I had stayed clear and left the house to the less than tender mercies of Adam and around eighty-five thousand of his friends. I had arrived home from the brief stay at my sister’s little house to find assorted friends in assorted states of undress and a rather inebriated son trying desperately to vacuum up the worst of the mess.
You might not believe it — and he sure didn’t for a fortnight at least — but I wasn’t mad at him. I wasn’t even too mad at some of the more unruly and underdressed ‘invitees’, and even figured that the sight of so many young women baring more flesh than you would normally see in Smithfield meat market on a pre-Christmas morning wouldn’t harm my often-shy offspring.
Adam had attended an all-boys secondary school, mostly thanks to my mother’s recommendation — go figure, as some say — and his (excusing the party-pun) exposure to females had been somewhat limited. No female classmates, no sisters, precious few inter-school parties, precious few visits to local clubs and societies. Which is not to say that at around fifteen my rather shy, young son had begun to display a very masculine interest in anything female. I noticed (but pretended not to) that there were all sorts of images appearing on his computer (he often left it on by accident when dashing off to school). I saw glamour models, pretty girls, less glamourous models with far fewer clothes, voyeur shots taken on beaches, shaved chimps — anything female (although the chimp thing was probably an exaggeration — it could have been a particularly horrid actress).
I certainly wouldn’t have minded in any way if he had turned out to be gay, but a tiny part of me would have wondered if I had contributed to that by sending him to the single sex school, and then I would have worried that he wasn’t really gay at all, just over-influenced by his testosterone-laden surroundings. And then I would have worried that… and so it went on. In any case, he was female-mad and, to judge by the occasional ‘crusty’ sock found under his bed, everything was in working order.
Given the apparent wildness of his eighteenth I was rather hoping he’d come out of it with a girl or two as ‘special friends’ but if anything happened on the night (and the soppy grin he wore for a week hinted that it might have done) then nothing continued on afterwards.
It was five weeks to the day after the bacchanalian fest when I slipped on a discarded bra — not mine, I might add — that I had just fished out from underneath a bookcase. I landed on all fours, but not the fours one automatically thinks of. I went from standing to sitting in half a second or less, landing on both hands and both bum cheeks all at the same time.
To say that I was surprised is a vast understatement and I must have let out an uncharacteristic (honest) yelp. Or possibly yell.
Adam dashed in from the garage where he was busy trying to pull an old motorbike apart and saw me staring up, wide-eyed, from the floor.
“Adam,” I managed after a few seconds, “What’s the name of that little bone at the bottom of your spine?”
“The coccyx. It lends weight to the theory that we were all descended–“
“I think I might have broken mine!” Really uncharacteristically I began to sniffle.
“Oh, mum, I wondered what the noise was. Um, you’d better try to get up if you can… go rest on the sofa?”
The pain was amazing and I yowled like the cat some people say I can be at times as I tried to move. I’m not a heavy individual by any means — only just over five foot, a hundred pounds wet — and I reached out for Adam’s hand knowing that he could help me up.
With infinite care Adam pulled me more or less upright and I raised my eyes to his — mine full of tears, his full of concern — “It really, really smarts!”
“I bet. It probably isn’t any more than bruised though — it will have flexed a bit when you landed is all. You’d better rest on the sofa… maybe kneel?”
I nodded, “You really think it’s just… bumped?”
Adam nodded, leading me one hobble at a time towards the cushions, “Like I said, it’s a bit flexible and just real painful if you catch it wrong.”
I winced my way onto the cushions, “Feels smashed to bits… is there any sort of test I can do? Like bending a finger to see if it’s broken?”
Adam shrugged looking away, he mumbled something.
“What? Adam bahis firmaları please speak clearly — this is really sore.”
“I said you might be able to feel if anything’s out of place.”
I nodded and went to reach back. I was wearing a long, flowing skirt but there were a lot of layers of material wrapped around at waist level. The second I tried to probe under that a pulse of pain had me yowling again.
“Oh fuck… oh my god, sorry but oh that hurts!”
“It’s okay. Mum, is there anything I can get you? Painkillers?”
I shook my head, “Just… you really sure it’s not smashed up?”
“Only pretty? Adam! It… it needs checking out!”
He stepped back, “Shall I call aunt Stephie?”
“She’s twenty miles away and anyway she’ll be working today! Can’t you just have a quick look?”
We were never very open around each other, clothes-wise, but right then I had no doubts that he needed to look even if he would have to pull my skirt down to do so. He was only Adam, my boy, anyway. That didn’t mean he didn’t demur at first though.
“I’m not sure I would know what to look for or feel…”
“Adam, it was you who told me all about the cyccox-thing anyway!”
“Coccyx, but, well…”
“Just… please, Adam?”
I turned to face the arm of the sofa, away from my son, and felt a gentle touch just above my waistband. The hand withdrew.
“Seems fine, mum.”
“Adam! I may not know what the f… damned thing is called, but even I know that if it’s halfway up my back I have a serious problem here so either do it properly or phone an ambulance!”
“Where’s the phone?”
“That was a joke! Oh god, Adam, this really does hurt! Please just look properly!”
His hands went back to my lower spine then moved onto the ruffled skirt. There was a genuine probing sensation but the skirt was so thick that I couldn’t even feel much pain. “Adam? Unzip the skirt and push it down a bit, okay? I know it’s probably embarrassing, but oh honey I need this checked like yesterday.”
He muttered and mumbled until finally the zipper slid down and my skirt was pushed maybe an inch lower. He might have been embarrassed but I was in too much pain to care. I yanked — gingerly, if there can be such a thing — until the skirt slid off my butt.
Adam’s low whistle put the fear of heck into me. “What is it? Is it obviously busted?”
“No!” he took a deep breath, “I mean no, it’s all… that is I think there’s a bruise developing but it looks per… really just fine!”
I reached back and without the tangle of the skirt I could touch the throbbing bone through my skin and my panties. “Is it supposed to be this lumpy?”
“Looks good to me. I don’t mean good, I mean fine! I just–“
“It’s alright, just chill!” My heart was slowing down now I was pretty sure that nothing was smashed up, and I even started to appreciate why my firstborn — only-born — was clearly in full-on embarrassment mode. Here was his mother, bum in the air, skirt round her thighs, little white panties on show and she’s asking him to play look and feel with a bone that curled under her. “Just, er, have a quick check with your hands and make sure it’s all fit, okay?”
There wasn’t much relaxation going on behind me when the clearly reluctant fingers of my son very gently brushed over my panties and the redundant tail bone beneath. I wasn’t so cruel on his sensitivities to force him to be more thorough, just asked him whether it really was fit enough.
“It’s fine, mum.” His voice barely wobbled.
“Help me get the skirt back up then and we’ll see if I can sit down on these cushions.”
With a few yelps and winces, I was covered up and sitting in record time. Poor Adam couldn’t even properly look me in the eyes before he dashed off to attend to his bike once more and I can’t say I was too disappointed that he left me alone so fast. The pain subsided very quickly after I was settled again and I made a mental note to thank Adam for his help later. I’m not sure if I did, as it happens. I later checked the view he must have had (from my bed looking back into the mirrored wardrobe doors), but even then, in my thin white cotton knicks, I never once thought that he would have really seen anything but his poor mother’s bruised butt.
The bruised tailbone incident was unusual at chez moi, but unusual and remarkable are entirely different things. So maybe I got the category wrong.
Just a week later, though, the ball, if that’s the right word, was on the same but different foot. The rug that had rested diligently and warmly at the bottom of the stairs, never moving an inch, decided to ruck itself up on one corner, and the woman who had diligently and with much sweating practised balance exercises tripped apex over butt and — you guessed it — landed squarely on her rump once again.
Once again, Adam dashed in to find me peering up gloomily and tearfully from the floor.
“You slip again mum?”
“Is kaçak iddaa it your…?
“Coccyx.” I nodded, the first tear spilling down my cheek.
Adam had evidently had time to come to terms with the previous incident. He offered me his hand after fist dragging the sofa close by, settling me on my knees as gently as he could.
“You need me to check again?”
I nodded again, “Please.”
“It’ll be just the same you know?”
The first sign of reluctance was growing so I quickly quashed it, desperate to have my coccyx checked, “”I know, I know, but it hurts like mad again and so soon after last time… jeez, it’s even the same skirt!”
Adam’s hands moved to my zipper, “Really sure?”
I gave a third, adamant nod, “I need to know!”
“You’re the boss,” he managed, and I admired the way he was covering his embarrassment this time.
Or so I thought, anyway — and maybe he was. Who knows?
This time my zipper was down in a second or two and it was Adam who eased the skirt down my thighs. My panties were a little briefer — bikini style — but I figured that would make it easier for him to check me. I was even grateful to feel his rather tentative touch as he didn’t hesitate to make sure I was okay this time.
“Well?” I asked after a few seconds.
The fingers moved off me fast, “Um, all great. I mean all in order!”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank god. I thought I might have done even more damage.”
“The, er, bruising will get worse I guess, but just that.”
“Okay. Help me get the skirt on then and I’ll rest it like before.”
Sure enough, Adam helped me up, leaving the skirt pulling until I was upright to make it easier, carefully holding the waistband away from my bruised bone before zipping me up and settling me down.
“You might consider putting some of that witch-stuff on it for the bruise, mum.”
“Witch-hazel? Good idea.”
Adam went to say something else but stopped himself.
“What is it, son?”
And with that he dashed off.
Later that night I used the bedroom mirror to help me apply the liquid, chuckling briefly when I considered how I’d almost asked my super-embarrassed son if he would do it when the slip had happened…
For the next few days I was kind of glad I hadn’t. My normally affectionate son was taciturn, surly even. It reached a head on the following Saturday.
“Mum, I just don’t want to, right?!”
“Well if you want the desk you’re going to have to help us!”
“Forget all the buts and just face up to it. I need your help and it’s you I’m helping anyway. It’s as simple as that!”
“That car is tiny!”
“I don’t care. You want the desk, your aunt Stephie needs to get rid of it and my tailbone is still too sore for us girls to do it on our own.”
It was a simple equation. My sister was getting rid of a desk that Adam had wanted for years and we were moving it here in her, admittedly small, car. I needed his strength to shift the old wooden unit and we had very little time. It was a remarkably quiet and surly son who helped his mother and aunt load up the old Nissan.
By the time we were finished, the car looked as if it had been split in two. Both rear seats had been flattened down but the top section of the unit was still wedged upright all the way from the back of the vehicle to the front screen.
“I’ll stay here then,” Adam suggested when it was clear that there were only two seats remaining.
“On no you won’t,” Stephie said. “We’ll need you to help us get it into the house at the other end. It’s raining already so it can’t be left out while I ferry you lot and in any case I haven’t got time. My little sister is just that — little — and since we’re driving there along the lanes no one is likely to see two people on the same seat so she can sit on your lap for the journey. It’ll only be half an hour or so. Okay with you, Allie?”
She shrugged, “Sure. No worries here and we do need Mr Muscles when we get back.”
“Shut it!” Stephie and I said it together and laughed. I pointed to the car, “Go and sit in the passenger seat and get comfortable. I’ll follow when you’re ready.”
Mr Muscles, lacking any form of sparkle, slouched over to the Nissan.
Stephie turned to me, “Sure you’re okay with this?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She gave one of her wry smiles, “He’s a growing boy is all. It’s going to be squashed up in there.”
“Oh, there’ll be room!”
“That isn’t quite what I meant,” she shook her head and led me over towards the car, “Just make sure you’re comfortable with this.”
I gave her a puzzled frown and walked around to where Adam had taken his place and was staring at a distant scarecrow. I crouched into the car backwards and settled on my son’s lap, passing the seatbelt over my shoulder and offering it to Adam to buckle in. It clicked closed just as Stephie, hidden by the top of the unit, fired up the rattling engine.
It wasn’t kaçak bahis a minute later before I realised what Stephie had meant by being squashed up against Adam. My skirt was thin cotton but had been pushed high on my thighs when I wriggled into the car. With the lack of space in the old Japanese clunker, the side of my left thigh, bare flesh now, was pressed very close to the front of Adam’s soccer shorts — which were becoming noticeably firm.
Even then, it took me another minute to realise that the proximity of my bruised butt on his lap was creating an altogether natural but almost alarming reaction in his shorts. I started to chatter away about anything, trying to ignore Adam’s right hand which had to rest on my back, warm through my blouse and his left which was apparently trying hard not to touch my bared knees. Every bump and pothole had me inadvertently wriggling a little on his lap and by the time we were little more than halfway home he was undoubtedly rigid.
I felt for him — by which I mean I sympathised with his plight! It was all perfectly normal and natural but must have felt so weird for him (if it felt even a tenth as weird as it felt for me) and eventually I had to dip my head and whisper that I understood what with the proximity and that I knew it was normal for a healthy young man.
Even as I started to chatter away again so Stephie could hear me, I could feel Adam relax a little. His right hand began to hold me there rather than rested on my back, and his left held my knees in place. He didn’t even flinch too much when we bounced over a cattle grid and I almost slid off his lap. Feeling the tension ease I no longer kept tugging my skirt as far down my thighs as it would go and didn’t even pull a fraction away when that hardness of his ground against my bare thigh once or twice.
I was a bit bemused at first then we arrived and he dashed off, red-faced and claiming he needed to use the toilet.
“Looks like someone was more squashed than he was comfortable with,” my sister remarked.
“Oh, Allie, sometimes I despair of you!”
Then, while we waited for Adam, she told me what she suspected. About hardness and things.
I didn’t really believe her. I think.
That ‘I think’ might have remained an idle consideration — I just didn’t have the nerve to raise the issue with Adam in conversation during the days that followed, and for his part my son avoided me at seemingly all costs.
Might have done. Then came silly party.
The silly party was actually my thirty-sixth birthday party. For reasons that still escape me (really), my sister and a work colleague of mine got together to organise a meal followed by a few drinks and an old-fashioned disco in the local pub. That almost horrified me when it was announced but as time passed I found myself really looking forward to something so retro and yet full of possible laughs.
My sister had invited the few family members who still talked to the ‘weird sisters’, and my work colleague, Maisie, had invited a few workmates and some acquaintances who often appeared at works functions. There was a mix of ages and a substantially lower mix of genders, and even Adam and a couple of his friends were called to attend.
It started out being a thoroughly lovely evening. The meal, a very unoriginal but very much appreciated Indian mix, was followed by the retro disco and seemingly gallons of free wine. In my smart little party frock (smart and sexy, Maisie and others agreed), I imbibed, danced and even joined in an impromptu and somewhat raucous karaoke session. I was grinning from ear to ear, the centre of attention but a very willing one for once. Guys I knew and barely knew asked for dances and I bopped and swayed a few times.
And that was when the problem started.
It was a guy I’d seen before but barely knew. He was somehow related to one of my colleagues and for the first few hours he seemed to be just fine. But then he started to get a little ‘handy’ during a slower dance, his fingers slipping down to my butt despite me pushing him away a few times. I walked away in the end and was almost back to the bar where Stephie was waiting with a fresh glass of something that used to be a grape or twenty when I saw her eyes widen.
A fraction afterwards I felt a heavy hand on my arm and a voice saying ‘Oh, come on, darling!’, shortly and alarmingly followed by an equally heavy hand cupping one cheek of my butt.
I was just about to turn and tell the slimeball to, rather impolitely, go away when I heard the sound of a fist hitting flesh. It wasn’t like any of the silly sounds you hear in the movies, no ‘smack’ or ‘clap’ or even ‘crunch’. The sound was dull but deep and accompanied by a noise something like an asthmatic dog farting. I imagine, anyway.
The hands dropped away from me and I felt, rather than saw, the obnoxious handy-man slump to the floor. He was on his knees by the time I finally spun around, but I barely registered him there as I found my Adam, my son, glaring down at him, waving his hand up and down.
He looked up at me, “I… sorry but this pig was… oh god, look I’m sorry mum, but… shit!” He spun and dashed through a clearly appreciative crowd growing around us.
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