I Danced For My Son

I was a widowed mom with a son I knew would never grow old and probably never grow up. He had CF along with other genetic issues. We both accepted that reality as much as we could and treasured every day. He was precocious and g*fted intellectually, and I was seldom surprised by what he knew or was able to learn. We could always be honest with each other.

One day while my son was resting in his room he texted me a photo of myself from before he was born. It was me on the pole -- I was an exotic dancer back then. He knew about my past, and I knew there were a few old photos of me someone had put on the net, so I wasn't too unsettled. Under it he'd typed, "Please don't be mad, but you were so sexy."

I didn't want to make a big deal out of it. I texted back, "Thank ya, hon."

A few minutes later he texted another pic of me from the same club, but a little more explicit. This time there was just one word: HOT!

I probably should have ignored that, but I texted, "Yeah, but that was a long time ago."

He texted, "No, you're still hot. Where was that at?"

I told him what club it was, and we got into a back and forth text about dancing. I kept it technical, answering his questions about my routines, my costumes or lack of them, my measurements, tips I received, and so on.

Before long it was time to help him clear his lungs of mucus which had to be done several times a day.

When he felt like talking again, he said, "Mom, listen. I'll bet you could still dance."

I laughed and said no, I'm too old, I don't have the moves anymore, and nobody wants to see my assets.

He said, "I bet you could. You could do it right here. Set up a pole here."

I told him that wouldn't be appropriate and I wouldn't be comfortable.

He said, "Why not? It'd be cool."

I didn't say anything and started to walk out.

He grabbed my arm and said, "Look, Mom. I'm never going to any clubs. I'm probably never even going to have a girlfriend. Please. This won't hurt me. Please."

So, I bought what he told me he'd like to see me in. Blue denim super-short cut-offs, a red blouse tied under my breasts, and silver platform stiletto mules with a clear strap across the toes. I put everything on and looked at myself in my bedroom mirror. I didn't look half bad for a 36 year old if I do say so. I hadn't had any cosmetic surgery and didn't need it yet. I kept to a healthy diet, worked out, and my tummy had no paunch. The "girls" didn't sag much either, and my buns were still holding up. I put up a pole up in my bedroom and practiced some basic routines. I was surprised I remembered even that much. For the music I chose an extended version of The Rolling Stones' "Miss You."

On a day when my son was feeling especially good, I had him set up the pole in his room and turn on the music. When I heard it, I went into his room, winking and pursing my lips at him as I strutted and minced toward the pole. He was smiling and already clapping, lying propped up on pillows with the pole a few feet from the left side of his bed. I did the obligatory one handed swing all the way around the pole, then wrapped my leg around it and spun a bit. I let go and put my hands on top of my head as I backed into it and slid down into a squat, bounced a few times, then came back up. I twerked and jiggled then bent down low and grabbed ankles. I swayed and writhed to the beat as I caressed my body from my calves up past my breasts.

I knew a strip tease was part of what he wanted, so after a few more pole techniques, I started slowly unbuttoning the top of my blouse. His eyes got big and he nodded his head really fast. I winked and touch the tip of my tongue to my upper lip as I slowly undid one button after another. Before he could see too much, I turned my back to him and whipped the blouse off, still swaying to the music. When he saw my back was bare with no bra-strap, I heard him clap. I crossed my arms and covered each breast with my palms as I turned back around. I danced for a while then took my palms away. I could tell he was a little disappointed because I was wearing pasties on my nipples, but he didn't say anything.

I traced my index fingers down my midriff and and hooked my thumbs in the front of my cut offs. I gave him a sultry look as I undid the button. I used my thumb and forefinger to check the zipper to make sure it would slide easy when I was ready. It didn't. It was stuck. I kept dancing, and when I jerked it loose, one of my pasties fell off. My son squealed and laughed, and motioned with his hand for me take off the other one. I figured what the hell, he's seen one, he might as well see the other, so I took it off.

I shook my shoulders and pushed out my chest, then turned my back to him again. I unzipped my cuttoffs and pushed my butt toward him and swayed. I hooked my thumbs in the belt loops and inched them down and stepped out of them. He clapped and hooted when he saw my bare buns, but I think he was once again disappointed by the thong-strings around my waist. I must have been closer to him than I thought, because the little scamp pinched and slapped my butt. I turned my head around and said, "Hey, buddy, no touching the ladies! This is a respectable club!" He loved that and laughed.

I turned toward him again and danced, snapping my fingers and showing off my moves. He pulled out a fake money $100 bill from some board game and held it up. I stuck out my hip and let him put it in the string of my thong. I think he might have pulled a little on it -- anyway, it slipped some and he got a glimpse. He put his hands together in a praying stance, tilted his head and mouthed, "Please, please." In another "what the hell" moment, I pulled the tie on my thong and let it fall. It was then I remembered I hadn't waxed there. My snatch was a little stubbly, but I don't think he minded. He had another bill, so I danced away from him, slipped out of one of my mules, stretched out my leg and took it from him with my toes.

About that time the music faded and I did one last twerk and stopped. He said, "Oh god Mom, that was great, thank you, thank you so much! Just one thing, you got to promise to do it again soon, really soon." I promised and quickly got dressed.

I didn't get the chance to dance for my son again. Later that week he went into the hospital and never came out. He died on Thanksgiving of that year.

It's been nine years. I'm married now to a wonderful man and have two grown stepdaughters whom I love. We're all going to have Thanksgiving together today. I'm grateful for what I have now, but I'm still bitter about the cruel hand my son was dealt. I think about him all the time. I'll never tell anyone what I've just confessed, but I'm not sorry or ashamed of it. I'm glad I was able to give him something of the life he would never have.