Freud Was Right

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Sophocles.  Freud.  Even Jim Morrison knew it.  Mother I want to fuck you, but only metaphorically.  You meet a woman and she feels like home.  The both of you have no plan for long-term commitment, just something casual.  Your pheromones match.  The way she speaks.  Her body language.  The way she fits perfectly when you spoon.  Give it no name, but say things like, “I really feel a connection with you.” In the middle of the night, naked, clinging, sweating in bed.

Months go by.  Bring her by your work, and don’t know how to introduce her.  She is your girlfriend, of course.  You officially ask her that night, sweaty and intertwined.  Obviously, yes.  Talk about not knowing how to introduce her, and how the both of you have been playing it cool.  On New Years Eve, she’ll say, “You want to say it?”  And you both say it. “I love you.” You kiss and laugh.

Only later do you realize how similar she is to your mother.  About the same height.  Dark complexion and brown hair.  The same smoldering temper.  She gives you a hard time the same, like when you blush when you make a really dirty joke.  “You’re turning all red.  Oh, you’re so cute.”  And just like your mother, you cuddle with her.  Your mother’s soft breasts suckled you and held you close with love.  And what adult—regardless of gender or orientation—doesn’t find the idea of a warm breast soothing.  Imagine being a baby, cradled and coddled.  Safe and warm.  Loved.  People do ecstasy to feel this unconditional love.

As a child you sat on your mom’s lap in the mornings before elementary school.  She in her comfy chair in the front room, coffee steaming on the wood table next to her.  Now you put your head on your lover’s lap when you’re tired when you’re watching TV.  She soothes your hair, makes you feel safe.  And your dad trained you well.  You were the little helper.  Moving heavy items.  50 pound bags of kitty litter or dog food.  Reaching tall items.  You were a kiddy-do and now you’re a honey-do.  You comfort her too, when she lays her head on your chest and exhales, safe and warm.

But the funny thing is, just like your mom, your girlfriend can get you in trouble.  Especially once you live together.  You must “ask permission” by communicating with your lover that you will have friends over, what you’re doing with your time, or where you’ll be.  Failures of communications turn into arguments.  And since you do or say things that to you seem alright, though based on your lack of communication, you are punished.  You sometimes feel as if your woman is domesticating you.  And she is.  Your girlfriend and your mom have both described you as “clueless” on numerous occasions.  Men just see things differently.

There is no lust in motherly love, as there is with adult relationships.  But the cuddling.  The caring for.  The looking after.  You want to protect her.  Be there for her.  Make her laugh.  And the unsaid eventual goal of most relationships is lifelong companionship and family.  As a child, who helped you when you were sick?  Listened to you when you were sad?  Applauded your success?  Laughed and enjoyed life with you?  Your mom.  Your family.  Now you’re an adult.  Who worries when you take a bike ride after dark?  Mothers you when you are sick?  Wants the best for you and holds you accountable?  Your girlfriend.  Your wife.  Your companion.  You could create a family, and have some dirty-freaky sex.  Women are dichotomous creatures.  You suspect your mom could’ve been a freak.  She likes to shock.  Like on your sister’s birthday dinner, a few years back.  Your sister’s friend asked, “How’d you and Mike meet?”

Your sister said, “It was a blind date.”

“Yeah, we went to a party.” Mom said.

“Really?!” Your sis is shocked, “I thought you went to that 50’s diner in Redondo.”

“That’s what we told you, but we went to a party.” Mom laughed, “And we ended up in the bedroom!” Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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