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She was neither voluptuous enough to embarrass me, nor doughty enough to shame me; compact and trim, she moved with an efficiency and lightness I'd always taken for granted.

I thought at the time that her sexual passion must be like a movie monster than rose up in the dark and melted through the solid steel doors of her normal mother-character; it had certainly frightened me in the same way.

But now I think that her struggle was not in keeping her sexual passion out but in keeping the protective mother-character safely inflated for her children.

In that sense, I suppose, we all eventually discover a secret side to our parents--sexuality, weakness, and all too often, dreams lost or abandoned.

It was an enlarged black-and-white photo which my father had taken when she was in her early twenties, back when he had a keen interest in photography.

It appeared to be early evening, and my mother was sitting on a dinette chair in their small D. She looked quite dark and sultry, with her spaghetti-straps and bare arms, and her silky hair pinned up with a bamboo clip.

She did not look girlish or waifish like many young Asian women do, but solid and sexy. Her expression was aloof, with a hint of cool dare; or perhaps, I realize now, it was a post-coital snapshot and her flat expression was one of glazed satisfaction.

Or perhaps she was annoyed that my father had snapped the photo at all. On the spur of the moment, I performed a simple experiment.

To my dismay, she still looked uncomfortably sexy. It was then I had the first suspicion that my mother was different than the other mothers in our circle of family friends.

I imagined all the ancient year old parents I knew could still enjoy a late-night tumble now and then; I could see sex as a release or weekly pleasure for them.

But I began to wonder if sex was more than just occasional recreation, or earlier, procreation, for my mother; perhaps it was what had powered her.

Lest this sound like yet another tale of repressed womanhood flowering in sexual discovery, or another sappy tale of wild passion driving yet another good soul to ruin, let me say that my mother has never struck me as repressed or even suppressed.

What I find admirable in her secret life of sexual fulfillment was her sense of duty to herself, her children and her husband. When I first read her memoir-as-novel, I was of course devastated by her infidelity, and saw not a sense of duty fulfilled but simple betrayal.

But as I have left my idealistic years behind, and indulged in my own secret life, I have discovered that she fulfilled her duty to herself with uncommonly good sense and a parallel care for her family.

Her infidelity did not intrude on her family, and apparently when it threatened to do so, she ended it. She neither sacrificed her own selfhood, nor the sexual life of her marriage, nor the security of her children.

She did what she needed to stay whole enough to parent. I should say immediately that I made a slip of tense a moment ago; I said that mother liked sex tremendously, when in fact I have little reason to doubt that she likes sex tremendously, and may well enjoy it with someone in addition to my father to this day.

My queasiness remains, I suppose, as perhaps it should; I have no desire to know who she makes love with or how many times she does so.

And she, of course, would never breathe a word of it to any of us, perhaps especially not to my sister.

I have also been thinking lately that my father may not be the quiet, ignorant cuckold I once took him for. Now I think that he loved my mother well, and made love with her well, and therefore he knew that weeks or months without touching were not in her nature.

Yet his sense of duty, and to some degree his ambition and love of the intelligence trade, required him to be stationed overseas on remote assignments for months at a time.

And his sense of love and duty required that he not ask my mother to hole up somewhere nearby, just for his occasional comfort; nor did it let him ask for a fidelity that would be broken, along with his trust.

Instead, I think, he said nothing, and trusted that my mother would find a decent man to make love with, and spare him both the details and pain of any emotional bond that would threaten their marriage or plans to have children.

There was, after all, nothing to do but trust her. For her part, I think she did likewise, trusting my father to wear a condom when loneliness and ardor became wearisome, and likewise trusting him to keep his sensual pleasures safely separate from his feelings of love and devotion for her.

And when, as her book suggests, her boss asked her to make love with him, she also agreed to this, my father was, if not relieved, then unsurprised.

I think now that whatever discomfort the image of his sexy wife splayed under another man no doubt caused my father, he preferred it being another Japanese-American man to any other.

What outraged me when I first read her book, and now causes me to smile with wonder at her naughtiness, was her apparently guileless pleasure in maintaining two lovers when my father would come home on leave.

Now, having experienced it myself, I believe her lack of guilt evidences an inner confidence which I greatly respect, especially when compared to my own conduct.

My mother, I sincerely believe, assessed who she was, the love match she made with my father and the career paths she and my father had chosen, and made a clear-eyed decision of what would sustain her through the times apart.

Cleaving off her part-time lover during his leave probably struck her as needless and perhaps even phony; to her, I think, duty to the secrecy that bound and protected them both was neither hypocritical nor immoral.

Indeed, it was perhaps the boldest form of morality and duty a married couple can share; the point was not to hurt or humiliate your partner with the mechanics of what kept you whole in their absence.

From references in her book and odd bits of recounted family history, I gather that my parents decided to start having children when they turned twenty-five.

They may not have understood all that it entailed, but they wanted them just the same. I gather my father stopped using condoms during his visits.

I imagine her lover complained about using them, as did the lover in her book; and so, shouldering the birth control burden herself, she began using a diaphragm with him.

In the very scene I first turned to in discovering her memoir-novel, the heroine is languorously enjoying a second lovemaking session on a hilltop picnic towel.

Her sense of spiritual completeness causes her to hold her lover to her, to capture the full joy of unity with Nature.

Later, as they lay snuggled together, still warmly bonded, she wonders if her sense is premonition; and despite her usual precaution, it does seem the soft circle of rubber was dislodged in the perfect afternoon of lovemaking.

Thus, did I enter the world. This realization took some years to sink in. Everyone had always commented that my brother and I looked like my mother, while my sister took after my father.

This apparent contradiction was the source of a long-standing family joke. By carefully piecing together snapshots and the accompanying timeline, I believe that within days of missing her period, my mother flew to Turkey and spent a long weekend with my father--sufficient explanation for my birth eight months later.

In any event, my slightly premature birth was unremarkable. Her lover certainly bore a resemblance to her husband, but not strikingly so.

Without becoming too dewy-eyed, I think my mother responded to the duty she undoubtedly felt to her unborn child.

She paused, trying to remember any difficulty, and seemed to fail. Most of the time, I sneak out of bed to the toilet at nigh where we normally meet to do the dirty thing.

I will deliberately wake my husband when he is at the pick of his sleep, informing him that I was going to the toilet. I would always make sure I get back to the room within 5 minutes, but I tell you, I often return satisfied.

I know that the very moment he gets hold of the truth; he will throw me out of the house. The father is just so comfortable with what we are doing, as he has never discussed the negative side of our rough game with me.

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