"Mom, can you go any faster, Mom?" My son, Scotty squirmed excitedly in his seat, straining against his seat belt as he would lean over to peer at the minivan's speedometer and repeat the same question he'd been asking me for nearly an hour. Of course, his eyes would wander from the speedometer to my partly bared breasts, my meaty tits bouncing as we drove down the interstate, barely contained by my black bustier that I'd struggled to get back into at the adult bookstore in the city.

I was amused by my son's insistence that I speed. His mild neurological condition, a form of Aspergers Syndrome, kept him from...