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Before you southerner's make fun of us Yankee's again, I want you to think about this thread.
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There I was, deep in the Yankee land, living in Sanford, Maine. My downstairs neighbors had a couple of friends who would come over and visit frequently (they lived next door), Fred and Barbara. It was a may/December romance, Fred being much younger than Barbara. Fred's brother, Brian, would also come hang out with my neighbors while they worked on whatever POS car they'd traded for that week. One day, while I was sitting outside, my downstairs neighbor told me about Fred and Barbara.
When Barbara was a young teenager, she'd had a couple of sons out of wedlock and, being unable to care for them, her parents convinced her to give them up for adoption. Fast forward sixteen or so years, and Barbara met Fred, a much younger man to whom she was instantly attracted-a feeling which was apparently reciprocal. Fred and Barbara dated for about six months, having sex quite a bit during that time, before discovering during a conversation about family history that Barbara was Fred's mother. Now, most people would take this chance to suck start a shotgun, or at least wash their body with an industrial sized barrel of bleach before moving across the country. Not Fred and Barbara, though. Nope, they decided that their mutual physical and emotional attraction was more important than something as trivial as society's views on incest. Instead of backing up and regrouping, Fred and Barbara moved in together, living as mother-son / boyfriend-girlfriend. As my neighbor explained to me at the time, during the intervening years from the discovery of their relationship and the time the story was related to me, Barbara had had at least three miscarriages of Fred's babies. They were actively trying to conceive. I moved soon after, happy to have never returned to that town for anything beyond a visit.