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Subject: INCEST "MY SISTER JEAN. Chapter 11-12" 483092
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/taboo.html
MY SISTER JEAN. Chapter 11-12
By Billy G
Chapter 11 -- Dry Humpin' (Continued)
Like so many of the good things in our lives, we take them for
granted. That was certainly true for me in my family. I took them
and their love for granted, for that is the way it always was. I
didn't think much about it, if at all. It wasn't something I had to
work for so I didn't give it any conscious thought.
That taking-for-granted was particularly true with my sister. Like my
parents, there was never a time in my life when she wasn't there, so I
was hardly grateful for them or her...at least not then. Because we
had an active sibling rivalry and because I was the younger, I often
lost. So, if you were to have asked me what I thought about Jean, I
suppose I might have answered that I didn't think about her at all,
except to wish she might immigrate to Saturn or some equally distant
and hostile place.
Yet the vagaries of my developing youth suddenly moved me from a
totally self-centered, largely insensitive and unaware young man to
some marginally more mature stance of appreciation for the goodness
and beauty in my life.
I had gone from being mostly unaware of Jean to that tingling,
hypersensitive consciousness where I thought of little else. There
was not a day that passed that I'd not thought of her, of her kindness
and her gentleness, and yes, if the truth is known, of her erotic
sexiness.
I frequently dreamed of her, usually erotic, and it often waked me
with an intense, near-painful hard-on. Add to that my walking-around,
day-dream state and you can see how I was preoccupied with her. Dazed
might be a better description.
It was almost too much. I didn't know the first thing about handling
the intensity of these feelings, so I did that which I'd always done
so well when I was in doubt. Emotionally bobbing and weaving, I tried
not to show my feelings -- those feelings that were bubbling and about
to overflow. Not that there were "downer" feelings...not at all.
They were just powerful and new. I was confused.
In the days and then weeks that followed our last unplanned and
largely uncontrolled sexual encounter, my sister and I had *both*
pulled back a little. There was no emotional "badness" connected with
this; we did it comfortably, without conscious decision as we had done
in some reflexive manner several times in the past. There was
something almost moth-and-flame-like in our behaviors. Perhaps
governed more by our hind brains, we were pulled toward each other,
longing, and in some ill-defined way, hungry for each other. Of late,
we often fell, unplanned and unanticipated, out-of-control, into a
heightened sexual awareness and more, into a sexual connection.
This frightened us. And it excited us. Neither found the paradox
puzzling. We were terribly attracted to each other, emotionally,
lovingly and now, with a sexual ferocity that simply frightened us.
So, in a silent acknowledgment of that fear, we'd stepped back just a
little. Oh, not so you'd notice it around the house, for we continued
our open-for-business-as-usual banter and interaction. Yet, we knew.
Sometimes a word, a gesture would ring in our minds and looking up,
we'd see the other staring and we would recognize that vulnerable,
uncertain look.
We knew at base what it was about. I did anyway. I loved my sister.
The uncertainty wasn't about that. It centered about our lust. We'd
danced around it, slowly at first, with a gradual opening and
increasing intimacy. Some time ago I'd confessed to her that I wanted
to make love with her. (Actually, I think I told her I wanted to
"fuck" her.) At once out, I wanted to bite my tongue. I'd have given
anything at that moment to take back those words. Not that I didn't
mean them. I did. But I knew I'd crossed the Rubicon with those
words and the felt a sinking feeling with the irreversibility of it
all.
Jean handled it well, at least on the surface of it; she was an
uncomplicated, up-front girl without guile. She had simply said
something like, "Me too, but we're not gonna do that, Billy. That's
incest." End of discussion. Or was it?
Clearly it wasn't, for that was the nidus of our emotional turmoil.
That we both wanted to "do it" wasn't the question. We'd confessed
that. No, the tension arose from the not knowing. The not knowing in
view of the wanting and that nagging voice coming up from the hind
brain that repeatedly urged, "Go ahead. Have a bite. It's just an
apple."
I smiled to myself and thought, "Lead me not into temptation. I know
the way myself."
Despite that sometimes-delicious pull into the last taboo, we
continued to be comfortable about each other. As long periods of
silence are comfortable among close friends, we had no feeling of
malaise around our unresolved passions. We were, both of us I think,
content in following the thread of our lives and our connection, not
knowing where it would take us.
There was a time, both before and again later, when I practiced a
studied imperturbability, a coolness on the surface that frequently
gave the lie to the cauldron beneath. I certainly didn't suffer from
alexithymia...that failure to recognize feelings when I had them. To
the contrary, I was in heightened contact with my feelings. As a safe
cracker might have sanded his fingertips, my emotional awareness was
crackling with sensitivity. What I didn't know was how to really talk
about them...my feelings. Jean always helped me out when I was stuck
like that.
"What are you feeling right now, Billy?" she asked as were walking in
the hills behind our home.
I'd been aware that her breasts were swaying inside her sweatshirt and
wondered if she had departed from her usual conservative attire to
pique interest or if she'd simply grown accustomed to me.
Picking up a rock, I heaved it as far as I could into the wooded
canyon and muttered, "Oh, nothin'."
"I've seen you do that a thousand times," she observed, looking in the
direction of the thrown rock.
"Uh...throw a rock?" I asked.
"Yeah. Or it's equivalent. When you're uncomfortable, you move. You
just can't stay still. You leave. Heck, I've seen you get up and
leave the room without ever getting out of your chair!"
There was no debate here and I knew it. We'd covered this one before
and she was concomitantly observant and accurate.
"So. Tell me. What's goin' on? You've been silent for more than a
week."
"Jean, I'm sorry," I said. And then glancing at her to make eye
contact, I added, "I'm not trying to be an asshole (as if it took much
effort on my part) and I'm not trying to punish you or anything like
that. I'm just not sure what it is that I'm feeling."
Jumping from stone to stone, we crossed the winter-rain swollen creek
and started up the other side before she spoke again. "I thought
that, but also know that if we don't talk about what's going on, it'll
go underground and ferment."
"Okay, okay," I sighed with resignation. I *knew* this was going to
happen. Then, taking the plunge, I stated the obvious, "Lady, you
*know* how moved I was when we...when you..."
Laughing, Jean finished my stuttering sentence, "...when I sucked your
cock?"
"You *do* have a way with words, you silver-tongued devil you." I
glanced down at the tight spot where her jeans were drawn into her
crotch and then up to her eyes. She'd seen me looking.
"Yeah, and *you're* the one whose always telling me to call a spade a
spade," Jean countered.
I sat on a fallen tree and looked back into the ravine. Jean sat
beside me her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin. For a few
moments the noisy jays made the only sound to be heard.
Not looking at her, I continued, "Well, whatever we call this rose --
or this spade -- that fact is that I keep thinking about you... about
us."
"Cut to the chase, boy. You mean us *doin' it,* don't you?"
Drawing back and placing my hand flat on my chest, I replied, shocked,
"Moi?"
"Yes, you! You horny jerk, you."
Then, in a moment of complete honesty, I admitted it. "Yes. All the
time. It's all that I think about." Then, rushing on, "I'm not
*asking* you to do it, you see...it's just that it *is* on my mind all
the time. You know?"
Nodding her head, Jean murmured, "I know." And then placing one hand
on my arm, she pulled my face around to look into my eyes and said,
"Let's not have this be the elephant in the living room. We both feel
it. We mustn't pretend it's not there. We've got to talk about it."
"All right, woman. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. How we
feel about each other and about our selves is no secret. Cripes,
we're both horny and all we can think about is screwing...at least
that's the way I feel. We've talked about it enough that we know, for
the moment anyway, that we're not prepared to actually *do* it. And
it would seem that we're not ready to enter the monastery or take vows
of chastity either. So..." I paused.
"Yeah-yeah...so?"
I've got her attention, I thought to myself. When in doubt, tell the
truth. "So...I propose that we continue as we have. No rules . . .
well, except one. For now, we won't do it. As much as I'd love to
really do it with you, Jean, we won't. Whatever else we do, we do."
"Whew! I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed...I feel
both."
"Me too."
"But what to you mean, whatever else'?"
"I guess I mean that I'll continue to act as I have. I can't help but
enjoy looking at you...or trying to get peeks of your butt... you
know, things like that."
"Touching?"
"Yes, touching...if you'll let me that is. I'll not stop wanting to,
but I won't try to force you to do anything you don't want to do. If
we can't agree that it's okay, that neither of us is going to be hurt,
then we won't do it. How's that sound?"
"God, Billy...if we only could! If we could be open enough with each
other. I we could just say how we feel and be able to talk about
things, it'd be so-o cool."
"Tell you what, Sis. If we don't try, it sure won't happen. Maybe we
won't do it very good...maybe we'll mess up from time to time . . .
even a lot, but if we don't *try,* we'll have given up, don't you
see?"
"Billy, you sound just like Dad! 'You've got to try your best and
when you fall on your butt, pick yourself up and try again.' You
sound just like him."
"I hadn't thought of that, but yeah...I've heard that mantra before."
Then, touching her cheek, I asked, "Well?"
In a low voice, Jean said, "Billy, I've got that deep-down feeling
that this is a first step of a journey that may take us a long, long
way. Part of me is so excited and another part of me is scared silly.
But yes...I'll do it. I'll do my best, that is. I have no idea what
I can do and what I can't, but I guess that's why we're starting this,
huh?"
"I don't know about that, Sis. Mostly I'm thinking about getting in
your pants."
She slugged me on the arm. "You ARE an asshole, you know that?"
Laughing, I pulled her to the ground and we rolled and tumbled over
the soft cushion of pine needles, ending up in that classic I-got-you
position...me straddling her chest and holding her forearms to the
ground beside her head.
"Why didn't you wear a bra?" I asked in a teasing tone.
"What'ya think? To get your attention, jerky boy?"
"Remember Mardi Gras? Remember the beads and how the girls would pull
their shirts up, showing their tits? And you wouldn't?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I remember that. So?"
"So, now you're gonna!"
"What!?" Bucking unsuccessfully, Jean quieted after a moment, out of
breath. "If you think I'm going to pull up my shirt..." and then she
shrieked.
I was holding both wrists above her head and was slowly pulling the
bottom of her shirt up, tickling her ribs in the process.
Suddenly she stopped struggling and looked at me, unsmiling. In a
small voice, she said, "Billy, let me."
I cocked one eyebrow and looked at her. She just nodded. I let her
go. She reached down and pulled the bottom of her sweat shirt up,
slowly. The white under swell of her breasts were followed by the
prominent nipples, pulled upward by her elevated arms. With the shirt
pulled up to her chin, she asked, "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Nodding, I tentatively extended the index finger of one hand and,
holding it right above her nipple, I looked at her and asked, "Okay?"
"Yes. I *want* you to touch them. I want you to look at me. I ache
for you to touch me, Billy."
With a feather touch, I traced a line from her axilla up across the
swell of her breast and then around and around the areola, not
actually touch her nipple.
Jean arched her back, pushing her breast toward me and with a half
groan, whispered, "Ugh...that's so good...please...more . . . touch
it, Billy...please touch it."
With the tips of my fingers, tenting the breast, I slowly pulled up on
her surprisingly firm tit, lightly finger-milking her but just short
of touching her engorged areola and turgid nipple. Again and again,
lightly, tracing a feather-touch, up and down. Her hips began to
stir, to roll slightly under me. I became acutely aware of that old
familiar stirring with myself.
"Harder! Billy, harder!" she groaned. "Touch me, dammit."
"Jean, I love your tits! You've got the sexiest tits I've ever seen."
(I was relieved that she didn't remind me that I'd not seen many and
hadn't touched any...other than hers.) I leaned down and with the tip
of my tongue, I touched her nipple. She jerked upward, mashing her
breast on my lips. Opening my lips, I began to suck on her nipple.
"Don't tease me, dammit. Bite me. Bite me a little."
Afraid to hurt her, I placed her nipple against my upper front teeth
and with the tip of my tongue, pushed her erect nip against the sharp
edges of my teeth, alternately soft and then firmer, never actually
biting her.
"Oh, God, Billy. MORE. Harder. I can feel it down in my pussy . .
. all the way down there...there's a connection from my breast to my
womb. Jesus, it's good! Oh God, oh God, it's so good."
I slipped down and pushed my pelvis against hers, never losing contact
with her breast, continuing to nibble as we slowly humped against each
other. Her legs fell open and I knee-walked between them, grinding my
trouser-imprisoned hard-on against her pubic symphysis through her
jeans.
With both hands, I cupped her breast, continuing to suck and nibble.
She bent her knees and thrust up at me repeatedly, grunting and in a
barely audible voice, chanting, "Oh shit...oh shit...oh shit."
The compelling vortex of our desire pulled us again, out of control,
into a headlong flight through the endless limits of some inner space,
spinning and falling into that almost painful moment of intense
pleasure where our boundaries were blurred, then lost. I couldn't
tell where I ended and Jean began. We were one for a moment, in some
blinding light of fulfillment. Then, sometime later, we tumbled out,
dazed, lightheaded and confused onto to the pine-needle bed of our
"almost doing it."
Slowly I became aware of our ragged breathing, out of sync and of the
sweat trickling through my hair. I'd rolled off Jean and was laying
beside her, one leg still trapping hers. For several minutes we
didn't move, didn't talk, just glided down the back side of that
mind-bending emotional peak.
Finally Jean spoke. "JE-SUS KEY-RIST!" Even the mildest profanity
carried an additional impact when it came from Jean, for she rarely
employed crude words much less profanity.
With my usual post-orgasmic cleverness and wit I answered stupidly,
"Wha-a-t-t?"
"Boy! Am I glad I was dressed."
"I'm not glad, but why are you?"
Turning her head, she looked at me and with a warm smile she said,
"Once again we've charged into some out-of-control place, you and me.
I thought we *might* fool around just a little, but I never imagined
this. I can't understand how these things happen to me, you know? "
Again, with catchy wit I asked, "What things?"
"Don't play dumb with my, guy. You fool lots of people, but *I* know
who you are. I'm talking about my complete lack of control when we
get together. I never planned on what we did...that...what do you
call it anyway?"
"Dry humping?"
"Yes, that. It just happened so fast. The next thing I knew my body
had taken over and I wanted you inside me. I couldn't stop my hips.
I didn't even *want* to stop. That's what I mean...out of control.
Who knows what would have happened if we woulda been naked?"
"It's too wonderful...too sweet to even imagine, Jean."
"Yeah. Well, that's why I'm NEVER gonna get naked with you alone. If
you ever see me without any clothes on, don't *even* come near me.
Hear?"
I just smiled at her and looked down at her breasts, still exposed.
She poked me in the ribs and repeated, "You hear me, Billy?"
Laughing, "Sure, sure...yeah, um...I hear you. The next time I see
your bare butt I'll just grab my woody and run in the opposite
direction."
Quietly, seriously Jean added, "Billy, I don't want you to run from
me. You know that. Run TO me, but please don't take advantage of me.
I just know I won't be strong enough when I should be."
Damn. I hated that. When she transferred responsibility to me in
asking that I help her, I was screwed. I couldn't fall back on being
a brainless kid and not to blame for my actions. Shit! Who said
growing up was all that much fun?
Touching her cheek I whispered, "Jean, you know I'll be there for you.
I'll always honor you. My horniness is small change when I compare it
to my love for you. You can take that one to the bank, girl."
Brushing the tell-tale pine needles from our clothes, we started back,
holding hands a little of the way. I can't remember when I ever felt
better.
Chapter 12 -- Surprise Under the Pillow
After our last near-hit-near-miss encounter, my sister and I had
almost no time to consider our lives much less our sexual attraction.
The demands of school and our otherwise busy social lives grabbed all
our energy and attention. The glances and poignant smiles served to
remind us frequently of the pull we'd come to acknowledge but our
natural cautiousness coupled with our jam-packed lives served to
buffer our lusty appetites. Yet we had opened a door of intimacy that
was never to close for all the days of our lives. In a dozen small
ways, we were more affectionately connected, open and trusting than we
even knew.
Our mother, sensitive to the moods in our family, had not failed to
notice that our one-time sibling abrasiveness and competitiveness had
given way to a softer connection. I suspect she was relieved. I
wondered if she might see anything beyond the surface. She did so
often.
Pouring orange juice one morning at breakfast, Mom commented, "I want
to tell you kids that it's so much more peaceful around here since you
two became friends. My brother Jim and I did the same thing when we
were about your age."
The same thing. What'd she mean?
Mom chatted on about her teenage life. Jean and I looked at each
other, then she glanced at Mom and, looking again at me, raised an
eyebrow as if to ask, "Do you suppose Mom and...?"
For a moment I was shocked. Mom? Then remembering the lusty sounds
we sometimes heard coming from my parent's bedroom, I smiled to
myself. Jean and I had then decided that our parents probably had
done "it" more than twice. Shrugging my mental shoulders, I thought,
"Why not?"
Returning to the present, I became more aware of my mother, of her
dress. She was wearing a light robe and several times as she was
gesturing I'd seen her breasts move under it. I thought, "Christ,
Billy, you are a real perv. Your own mother!"
In a silent mime, Jean's eyes opened in astonishment and she put her
finger tips across the surprised "Oh" of her open mouth...just as Mom
looked up.
"What?" Mom asked.
Quick to recover, Jean replied, "Oh, I just remembered that I forgot
my French book at school."
Jumping in, attempting to divert Mom's attention, I asked, "Did you
and your brother fight a lot, Mom?" I wasn't interested in their
fighting as much as the possibility of their connection. Not that I
expected she'd tell us much, but perhaps we could beat around the
bushes a little.
Laughing, she remembered, "Sure. Just like most brothers and sisters
I guess -- but you know, we really loved each other."
Jean and I looked at each other again. You know, that silent "look"
that says, "Hmmmm." Then I looked at Mom's breasts. Jean glanced at
Mom and then slowly shook her head in silent remonstration.
Continuing, Mom added, "You know your Uncle Jim. He's a strong,
take-charge kinda guy now, but he was a little younger than me when we
were kids. Still is for that matter. Why, there was a time when I
could beat him up." Then, looking off into some unfocused middle
distance, she shook her head and added ruefully, "That didn't last
long. He grew up fast!"
Jean snorted her juice through her nose, remembering, I supposed, the
play on words we'd often used, about my "growing UP." Picking up her
napkin, she dabbed her face and fake sneezed to cover her
embarrassment. "And then what happened?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. I used to bully him and then he grew up, more than
just physically. He matured and became a man, like over night, and
then he started to tease me, even though he was younger."
"Did it bother you? That change I mean?" I asked, thinking of how my
relationship with Jean had changed in a similar way and wondering just
what *had* gone on in Mom's younger life. The truth was, I'd ceased
to think of her as a chaste, puritanical person sometime ago. I
*knew* she was sexual with our Dad but I suppose I thought he had been
the first and the last, her only. That limited view of my mother's
humanness was slowly giving way to a more realistic acceptance of her
as she probably was. The thing was, I didn't know how she *was*. I
was more than casually interested...more than I wanted to admit to
myself.
Mom continued, "Well, at the time I didn't want your Uncle Jim to
know, but secretly, I was pleased. I mean, he was so strong and so
smart. He could just *fix* things and he began to take care of me. I
liked that." She paused, buttering her toast. "Once there was this
guy -- a real jerk, obnoxious and mean, who was always teasing the
girls -- saying dirty things about them. Well, this guy said
something about me once -- in front of a bunch of guys --something
dirty I think. Jim heard about it and walked right up to the guy --
who was bigger than him by the way -- and said, Don't *ever* talk
about my sister,' and without another word, smashed him right in the
nose."
Jean gasped, "Really, Mom? Uncle Jim?"
"Yep. I was there. Saw it all. The guy fell back. He grabbed his
nose. It was bleeding all over the place. He was crying and saying
he was going to kill my brother. Jim walked up to him again and
again, without another word, punched him right in the stomach. Down
he went. Stayed there too, cryin', slobberin' and cursin'. But he
didn't get up. Your uncle said, Yeah, yeah. You'll *shit* too, if
you're well fed. Get up if you want some more, asshole.'"
Then hearing the words of her own account, Mom reddened and glancing
at us, added, "Oops. Pardon my French."
"Far out," I said, even more impressed with my uncle.
"Oh, my...I never heard that story," said Jean. "That's really
something." And then turning to me with a smile, she asked, "Would
you fight for me, little brother?"
"I guess. I mean, I *might*," and then turning to Mom added, "If she
wasn't so darn strong and mean already!"
Jean threw her napkin at me and yelled, "You shit! I am not! MOM,
make him stop!"
Covering my head with one arm, I held up the peace sign with the other
hand and quickly said, "Sor-ry. Didn't mean it. Honest. Peace.
Peace?" Then, turning to my mother, I added in a stage whisper,
"She's cute when she's mad, isn't she?"
Mom leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her
eyes and voice softened. "You two remind me *so* much of me and Jim,
I can't get over it." Her nipple were poking through her robe. I
tried not to stare. I failed.
The voice in my head asked, "Did you and Uncle Jim fool around, Mom?"
But the voice that came *out* of my head asked, "You guys ever double
date, Mom?"
She smiled that special smile of remembrance. "Sure. Lots. We'd
share all our stuff with each other. He always had an opinion of the
guys who'd ask me out. Some were okay and some were not. And he'd
always ask me about the girls *he* dated. Things like..." and then
she suddenly stopped talking, seemingly embarrassed.
Stepping into the embarrassed silence, I said, "That hasn't changed.
If it wasn't for *my* wise counsel, Jean'd date some real weirdos, I
can tell you that."
Jean surprised me, for she didn't argue. "Yeah, Billy knows a lot
about the guys that I don't...that girls don't in general." Turning
to me, she added, "I appreciate your caring, Bro."
Jean was picking up on the direction this was taking. We worked well
together that way. But we knew Mom was no patsy and we didn't want to
be too obvious. We just knew she'd shut up like a clam if she picked
up on what was in our heads -- my head anyway.
"Mom, could you talk to Uncle Jim about...uh...about your feelings
and..." she finished lamely, "and...things?"
Mom, sensing Jean's discomfort, forgot her own and laid a hand on her
arm. "Sure, baby. We could talk about everything. That's why it was
so special."
Uncertainly, Jean asked, "Really? Everything?"
Glancing at me a moment, Mom answered Jean, "Yep, everything."
"Even sex?" I asked, trying not to sound too eager yet knowing I was
edging into new ground.
Mom hesitated. I could tell that she felt she'd been accidentally
pulled into this self revelation but couldn't cop out now. "Yes.
Even that." Then, putting her napkin on the table with a gesture of
firmness, she leaned forward a bit and added, "Sometimes, *especially*
that. I mean, if you can't talk to your own brother..." and then she
made a dismissive gesture with her hand and looked upward, as if for
confirmation from above.
"Yeah," I agreed.
"Yeah," Jean echoed, "Your own brother..." and then she tailed off,
not quite sure just what she was agreeing with. She looked at me and
wrinkled her nose as she cocked her head...her sign language that
asks, What are we talking about, anyway?'
"Sex, Jean. We're talking about sex. Remember?"
Mom, suddenly seeing our discordant thinking, threw her head back and
laughed. "You two..." she began and then wiped a laugh tear from her
eye, "you two are like Abbot and Costello."
"Who" I asked.
"Who's on first," Jean prompted.
"What's on second, " Mom continued and they both laughed at each
other. At my expense, I was certain.
"Come on, ladies. What is this, geriatric week? We were talking
about sex, remember? How'd we start talkin' about baseball of all
things?"
Placing her hand on my arm, Mom said, "I'm sorry, Billy. You guys
started it. You just got me giggling. I'm a little embarrassed, you
know. I'm not used to talking, well...so frankly with you two." And
then, as if to cope with her uncomfortable position, she added
quickly, "Anyway...anyway, I must go down to the 'flatlands'." This
was our name for any part of the surrounding area not in the foothills
where we lived.
This conversation was over I knew, at least for now. I was
disappointed and relieved at the same time. On the one hand, it was
kind of thrilling to hear something of our Mom's early life, but on
the other, it was so foreign as to be strange and a little
uncomfortable. We were just becoming comfortable with our own
sexuality. Considering Mom's was almost too great a stretch.
Dabbing her lips again, Jean started to get up and then paused,
looking at Mom. "Remember I said I was going to stay with Aunt Peg
sometime?" Without waiting for a reply, she went on, "Well, she's
invited me over for tonight. It's okay for me to go over, isn't it?"
Moving toward the kitchen door and hardly pausing, Mom answered,
almost absently, "Sure, baby. Say hello for me, won't you?" And then
she was gone.
"Oh crap!" I grumped with no little disappointment. "I was looking
forward to us watching a movie or something. We haven't spent *any*
time together. We never even talk any more." My tone was almost
petulant.
Jean was unmoved. Laughing, she said, "Oh Billy, don't worry. We'll
talk again...promise. In fact, I'll call you tonight from Aunt Peg's
house. About eleven?"
A phone call wasn't what I had in mind, but it was clear that was all
I was going to get, so I tried on a little gracious acceptance. I
tried, but it didn't fit well.
Jean left a short while later and I moped around, trying to stay busy.
The late morning and afternoon were taken up with self-appointed
chores that helped me stay out of a dangerous place, my mind. Years
later someone was to tell me, "Bill, *your* mind should be used for
amusement purposes only."
Still, I spent the early evening feeling sorry for myself, convinced
that I was unloved and largely unlovable. I've always been struck by
my capacity to move from joy one moment to self-pity the next. When
I'm in a good place, those extremes amuse me, but when I'm in some
self-centered dark hole perched firmly on the pity pot, it seems
decidedly not funny. Moreover, I am quick to assume that not only is
it a bad situation, but that I'll be stuck there forever. No half
measures in my thinking!
Holing up in my room, I put on an Enya CD and sank into the luxuriant
and mystical sounds that reminded me so much of Jean. Enya's lyrics,
woven into the tapestry of her sound, washed over me:
"If only I could stay with you, my train moves on, you're gone from
view,..."
Whatever loving and aesthetic side I might have had, the side that
loved the *spirit* of Jean, was simply pushed aside by the power of my
erotic imagery. Somehow, fueled and driven by the haunting melodies
of Enya, I sank into the sensual torpor of my reminiscence.
If I had thought my images might somehow be visible to others, I'd
have been embarrassed. But safe within that secret place in my mind,
I reveled in the richness of my erotic recall. As if etched in stone,
the picture of Jean, standing with her back to me, flashing her
pantied butt, came and went as a subliminal image. The curve of her
back, the soft roundness of her womanly hips, the dimples above her
gluteal muscles and the shadowed nether regions where the thin strap
of her panties cupped her mons...these mental pictures rolled through
the interstices of "Shepherd Moons."
The one time I'd had the opportunity to *really* look at Jean's nude
body, it had registered and imprinted in my memory with extraordinary
detail. The filtered afternoon light in her bedroom had slanted
across her torso, seeming to pronounce and deepen the natural shadows.
Her breasts were somehow fuller, heavier, the nipples even more
prominent. Refracting the already diffused light, the almost
invisible, downy hairs on her belly were highlighted and became a
penumbral shadow above the soft, curly down of her pubic hair.
Without the jutting prominence of a pubic ledge, her belly curved
smoothly in a soft arc to the darkened region between her thighs. In
my mind's eye, I could see that her rich auburn pubic hair, while not
extensive, was thick and full and curly. I knew what was hidden
there, between her long, slender thighs. I'd seen it once, close up
as she had urinated on a dusty Sierra trail, facing me, in broad
daylight. My mind's images flashed back and forth as a lens snaps
into near- and then far-focus. First one. Then the other.
I was delighted and tormented and excited, all at once. We'd agreed
we would have a "limited sexual connection." We'd abandoned any
pretense that we weren't attracted to each other, but under the lash
of our own sense of propriety and some nameless fear of doing wrong,
we'd agreed that whatever else we did, we wouldn't go all the way.
Yet, that remained so tantalizingly ill-defined. Hanging in that
ether of vague boundaries, I found myself almost agitated with desire.
The hours passed, despite my intolerance for delayed gratification. A
few minutes before 11 P.M. Jean called. "Hi, dude! Miss me?"
"Naw," I lied, "I forgot all about you. What's up, woman?"
Her laughter picked me up. "You lyin' sack a'....Your nose is
growing!"
"That's not all that's growin'."
"Well, big boy," she began in her Mae West imitation, "if you'll check
under your pillow, we'll see if we can help it grow a little more."
"What..." I began. But she interjected: "I left you a little
present. Check it out and I'll call you back in a little while."
Click. The line went dead.
Still holding the dead phone to my ear, I pushed up and turned back,
looking under my pillow. There was a pair of Jean's panties. They'd
been worn. Under them was a note.
Continued...
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