After my mother claimed me as hers, and the rules got sorted out, she balanced the differences between being a helpless mommy p**** addict with letting me come by for repeats of the thanksgiving kitchen counter bendover f*** when my father was out or passed out in his recliner. Her reasoning was that she needed to strike the right balance of letting me feel like a man with her need to know that she could control things. If she came to me, it was to solidify control. If she told me to come over, it was so I did not become impossibly submissive. Before the day came that she welcomed me into her marital bed as an equal, a lover, or eventually giving me control over her sometimes submissive side, it was an either or extreme, not much in the way of middle ground. She was right about one thing. I had neither the interest nor the energy to seek anything out with another woman. She once told me that it is a woman’s or a mother’s responsibility to keep her man or her son well drained to prevent them from their own inevitably bad choices. She said that she knew most modern day women would show hostility towards such an effort to maintain a partner’s loyalty or a son’s maturity in check, but that that lesson was driven into her by her grandmother. She told me that she found joy and fulfillment in keeping me focused on her, but that since my father jad lost interest in her as a woman some time ago, she needed to help me learn to me a man and lover for her when she needed.