Mothering Fights

Last night I went to the races with an old flame of mine, Rob. I say flame – the image I am conjuring up is that of a cheap lighter... Not so much a constant warming presence as an intermittent provider of a spark. Rob and I are fuck buddies, to coin a phrase.

So yesterday, in a rather unusual way for Rob and I, we actually went to an event. Usually it’s a slightly tipsy phone call at ten to midnight and youknowtherest. But not this time! This time there was an actual event, an event that we both attended... Together. And this wasn’t just any event. This was the World famous Windsor Races. What do you mean you didn’t know Windsor had...? Never mind. We got there just in time for the race for horses which “will have been too weak and backward to run as juveniles”. So. Not exactly Ascot, but it was fun.

I lost 25 quid almost instantaneously betting on The Cute Horses With The Funny Names, or the Ones Ridden By The Most Irish-Sounding Jockey... The Ones With The Longest Odds were also high on my list (“Imagine if I won £255 just from one bet...”). I am not a natural gambler. Rob, on the other hand, is a natural gambler. His horse won every race. It was infuriating... He tried not to be smug about it, but when I suggested I could wallpaper a room with my now useless betting slips, he actually gave me a pitying smile. The bastard.

Another unusual element of the night - alongside the retarded horses, and Rob and I both starting and finishing the evening in each other’s company – was the presence of Rob’s mother. I had not been expecting it, and wasn’t really in mother-meeting mode when I arrived in Windsor wearing a virtually see-through dress, with enormous sunglasses on and no knickers. I imagine she didn’t take too kindly to me... Only made worse by the fact that she is a psychoanalyst – she must have been having a field day.

As the evening wore on, I managed some semi-normal chatting (all the while hoping it wasn’t too obvious that I had no pants on) and it became apparent that Rob is the apple of his mother’s eye. At one point she referred to him as her Prince. I assume not the artist formerly known as... It was all a little bit... well, gross, to be perfectly honest. I was looking forward to going home and getting into bed (with Rob, of course), and putting my gambling debts and all mothers on Earth out of my mind. But no such luck. Rob unveiled his plans for us to stay at his mum’s in Windsor (“Oh, that’ll be lovely” *fume*) and off we all went.

Back at the house, and Rob’s mum disappeared upstairs only to reappear and announce that my room was ready. My room? Ahhh... My room. I had been placed in the spare room, a safe distance down the hall from Rob. Would I be needing a towel? Anything to clean my face (/presumably, soul)? Well then, Goodnight.

I wasn’t really sure what to do... I sort of lingered around the landing. Was this a test? I didn’t know whether to just go to Rob’s room and risk a row, or go to the spare room and risk having no sex. Luckily Rob came out of the bathroom as I was dithering at the top of the stairs and herded me firmly towards his bed.

As we started having (very quiet) sex, I could hear his mother going up and down the landing... I wondered how much longer she would be awake for? And then... “Rob?!”

I adopted a sort of rabbit-in-the-headlights frozen stance on the bed. Wassheabouttocomeintotheroom?! Oh God, please don’t let her be about to come into the room...

Rob shouted “What, mum?!”, after which point a rather frantic conversation passed between the two of them in their mother tongue (Rob’s from Iran). I didn’t know the exact translation about what was being said, but suffice it to say I think I can now guess the Iranian for spare room. Or maybe that word was ‘harlot’. Anyway, it got said a lot.

The conversation (fight) finished when Rob (rather petulantly, I thought) shouted “It’s FINE, go to BED!”... This was followed by the sound of mummy's tiny feet shuffling off up the landing. We lay in silence. “Was that about me and the spare room”... “What? ... No... No, of course not.” The liar.

I contemplated getting up and moving beds after Rob fell asleep, so nervous was I about seeing his mum in the morning at breakfast. Perhaps I could slip out of the house altogether and just run away into the dark Windsor night?! Needless to say seconds after the sex was over, I fell asleep. In Rob’s bed. *dun dun duuuuuun*... I am the worst, least subtle son-shagger in all of the history of the Earth. The final nail in the coffin of the burgeoning friendship between Rob’s mother and I came this morning when she came in to wake him up for work. Yes, that’s right. So over-mothered is Rob, aged 25, that she bought him breakfast in bed at 7am.

Imagine her suprise...

Needless to say I did not get a cup of tea. Awkward! I’ve never really had the separate room issue before (mind you, I rarely stay at people’s parent’s houses...) - I thought it was a sort of Hollywood device to pad out the scripts of films like Meet The Parents. Apparently in this case life immitates art.

I imagine Rob’s had a phone call today from his mother, with a fairly succinct psychoanalysis of myself thrown in for good measure. I am intrigued. I want to know what she made of the harlot debasing her little Prince... I intend to find out. I’ll keep you posted.

BeDJ