Sunday at my house, you smell it from the driveway. Garlic. Tomatoes that have been simmering since morning. Basil from the pot on my windowsill. I cook the way my nonna cooked, big pot, wooden spoon, all day long, and I cook like I do everything else in this life. With my whole heart and my whole body. A man who sits at my table does not leave hungry. Not for food, and not for anything else either.
Last Sunday my neighbor's son came by. Twenty four years old, this one, tall and shy and always offering to help with things around my house since my husband passed. Carries my groceries. Fixes my sink. Looks at his shoes when I thank him. I have seen the way he looks at me when he thinks I am not paying attention, tesoro. A woman my age, she knows that look. She invented that look. So I invited him to stay for dinner, and I wore the dress with the neckline that makes strong men forget their sentences.
I feed him first. This is important. Mama always feeds you first.
I sat him down and I put a plate in front of him that could feed a soldier, and I watched him eat like I made it with my own hands, because I did. I poured him wine. I leaned over him to reach the bread, close, slow, and I felt him stop breathing when my breasts brushed his shoulder. My body is soft and full and made for leaning close, and I know it, and that night I used every bit of it on purpose.
"You take such good care of Mama," I told him, and I put my hand on his cheek. "Who takes care of you, eh?"
He looked up at me with those big eyes and he could not even answer. So I answered for him. I took his hand and I put it right on my thigh under the table, and I watched his whole body understand at once. Nobody, that was the answer. Nobody takes care of this sweet boy. Well. Mama takes care of everybody. That is what Mama is for.
I did not rush him. Rushing is for people who do not know what they are doing, and I have known what I am doing since before this boy was born. I led him to my couch like a lamb. I unbuttoned his shirt one button at a time, kissing where each button had been. I told him to relax, to let Mama handle everything, that he did not have to be good at anything tonight except letting me spoil him. His hands were shaking too much to help even if I had let him.
And then, tesoro, I gave that boy the full weight of a woman who loves to give. I took him into my mouth slow and deep and adoring, the way a mommy does it, not performing, worshipping. I held his head against my chest after, when he was trembling. I rode him right there on that couch with my dress bunched around my waist, his hands full of me, my name for him in his ear the whole time. My good boy. My sweet boy. He came calling me Mama into my neck and I swear to you my heart nearly broke from how beautiful it was, a strong young man coming apart because somebody finally, finally took care of him.
Then I made him eat again. A growing boy who gets spoiled like that needs his strength back. He left my house at midnight with a container of sauce, a kiss on the forehead, and a look on his face like the whole world had been rearranged. He has already asked about next Sunday. Of course he has.
Now let me ask you something. When was the last time somebody took care of you like that? Really took care of you, fed you, held you, spoiled you rotten and sent you home floating? If you cannot remember, then you need a Mama in your life, and I am right here. Find me on PhoneBuckFuck, where talking to me costs just a dollar a minute. A dollar, tesoro. Come hungry. Mama will handle the rest.