

     My Sister Jean

          BillyG  (hayden@mindless.com)

     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     


     The Trip to Little Cayman - Chapter 18



          The movie had started in the main cabin and the American
     transcontinental flight from San Francisco to Miami had quieted
     for the first time since Jean and I had boarded.  Quite often
     when we'd traveled with our parents, and particularly with our
     status-conscious father, we had flown first class, but this time
     we were paying for the trip from our own meager savings and we
     were firmly planted in the main cabin. Had there been a steerage
     class, we might have been there, so strained was our budget.

          Jean and I were on our way to Little Cayman, south of Cuba,
     for a week of SCUBA diving.  We'd been to The Wall at Cayman
     before with Mom and Dad and as with most kids, we'd paid no
     attention to the cost of anything.  This time, our parents had
     given us permission to go there alone, but only if we paid our
     own way. Something about 'the value of the dollar.' Boy, was that
     an education!

          I was idly looking out the window, seeing nothing, and Jean
     was sitting next to me.  An older guy with a paunch and earphones
     on was quietly snoring next to her.  Glancing around, most of the
     passengers were either sleeping or caught up in the adventures of
     Mel Gibson.  It seemed like a safe time to talk.  I put back the
     arm rest between us and leaned over to Jean.

          "Are you surprised Mom let us go?" I asked.

          "Together, on this trip?  Because of our talk you mean?"

          "Yeah, that," I said.

          In a moment of mindless unburdening, Jean had confessed to
     our mom that we'd been fooling around with each other, but we
     hadn't 'gone all the way.'  Cripes, our secret was out!  I
     thought the jig was up, but I'd underestimated our mother.

          Subsequently, she cornered me. What could I do?  Partly in
     fear and partly because I didn't know how to lie well, I told her
     the truth, expecting the world to fall in on me.  'Your own
     SISTER?' Yet, she hadn't gone ballistic.  Actually, she remained
     warm and loving, reminding me of my responsibility to Jean and to
     myself and not threatening us.  Oh, we'd spoken of the potential
     consequences of our acts and the need to be mindful of our
     actions.  But she never once said, 'Don't do that.'"

          "Not really," Jean said after a pause.     "I mean, she does
     trust us."

          "How do you mean?"

          "Well, we've been truthful with her . . . about us, I mean.
     And she's always been out front with us.  She as much as told me
     that she can't really *make* us do anything . . . that we'll do
     whatever it is we're going to do, no matter what.  And she trusts
     that we'll be responsible." After a pause, she added, "Mom's
     always been good at that - making us responsible for our actions,
     I mean."

          "Yeah, I know that.  At least intellectually.  But
     emotionally, I'm still a bit surprised.  I guess I thought we'd
     get grounded, say for the next ten years or so."

          "Wanna hear another shocker?  Try this one on for size.  Mom
     insisted that I start taking The Pill.  'Not that I think you're
     going to do anything for sure, but you never know, she said.'"

          "You're on The Pill?" I asked, excited.

          "I just said . . ."

          "Then you couldn't get pregnant if we . . ."

          "Billy!  We're not going to DO anything!  How many times do
     I have to tell you that?  This was Mom's idea, not mine.  And in
     any case, it's not for YOU!"  Her tone was uncharacteristically
     sharp.

          I leaned over and whispered in her ear, "Okay, okay.  I get
     it. Don't get mad."

          Jean turned to stare at me, her eyes blazing and then she
     softened. "I'm not mad.  Not really.  I just don't want you to
     take me for granted, that's all."

          The attendant offered each of us a blanket.  We accepted and
     Jean spread her's over her lap before continuing.     "When I
     asked Mom if we could go on this vacation together, she never
     mentioned 'our situation.' She never said we shouldn't be
     together or that we shouldn't . . . well, you know."

          "Make love?"

          She glanced sharply at me. "Anyway, I told her we
     wouldn't. She shouldn't worry, I said."

          "What's that got to do with me taking you for granted?"  I
     asked.

          "Oh, I don't know!"  She sounded a little exasperated.
     "Just don't!"

          "Can I have your peanuts?"

          I watched the corners of her mouth twitch, trying not to
     smile. She recognized my paper-thin ploy to distract her, to
     change the subject.

          Handing me the small bag of peanuts, she said, "You owe me."

          "For the peanuts?"

          "No, you jerk.  For talking Mom and Dad into letting us take
     this trip alone."

          "Whatever your price, it's a bargain," I replied, settling
     back in my seat.

          Still, I thought it seemed a little unreal, almost too good
     to be true.  It just didn't fit my concept of how things worked.
     After we'd confessed to Mom our sexual desires, it didn't fit my
     preconceived notion of the usual parental response.  But then
     Mom's responses often didn't.  I couldn't remember how many times
     I'd screwed up, expecting to catch hell, only to have her give me
     one of her calm talks.  Inevitably, I'd end up taking more
     responsibility for my stuff than I wanted to. Didn't she know?  I
     just wanted to be totally irresponsible and do the things I
     wanted to do and when I wanted to do 'em.  That was usually right
     NOW.

          I suppose our taking this vacation together wasn't all that
     much different from the times we'd spent home alone together, I
     reasoned. Yet, the sex addict in me wanted to put some other spin
     on it.  Like we'd been given permission or something.

          I looked over at Jean.  She had her seat back partially
     reclined and was quietly resting, eyes closed.  I watched the
     rise and fall of her bulky sweatshirt.  To be truthful, I was
     really watching the rise and fall of her breasts, seeing them in
     my mind's eye, full and heavy, yet extraordinarily firm.  Jean'd
     told me that the women in our family all were blessed with firm,
     youthful breasts.  I could only speak for Jean, a peek once or
     twice at Mom and oh yes, our Aunt Peg in the hot tub. Yeah,
     they'd all have been picked out of titty line-up as being
     related.

          Unconsciously, I made it my business to check out Jean.
     From long practice, I'd come to accurately recognize when she was
     wearing a bra, as she was today.  It wasn't that her tits sagged
     or anything obvious like that. It was more I think that her bra
     pushed the sides in a little, maybe so they didn't get in the
     way?  But more I noticed subdued movement.  She was missing that
     subtle sway when she walked.  As we were carrying our shoulder
     bags toward the departure gate today, she'd caught me checking
     her out.  She flushed, smiled and then nodded in silent
     confirmation at my unasked question.  Jean'd once admitted that
     she was pleased that I always checked her out.  I thrived on
     small encouragements like that.

          Just a bit later, a young girl in a micro skirt dropped
     something in front of us and as she bent over at the waist, I saw
     a flash of red. Jean nudged me and smiled.  Red panties.  Were
     they thongs I wondered? And why red? Had her boyfriend instructed
     her in how to dress when she met him at the airport?  That and no
     bra, I'll bet.  My imagination ran on.  He'd told her to trim her
     pubic hair, rouge her nipples and leave the top buttons open.
     Man, I was just getting warmed up!

          "Billy, come on back!"

          "Uh . . . yes . . . my mind wandered for a moment." I said
     sheepishly.

          She smiled and said in a low voice, "The whole airport could
     see that."

          The trip to Miami was best described at tedious and we
     arrived almost on schedule.  Between planes, we called home and
     left a message that everything was going alright.  Jean bought a
     few post cards and I mostly looked at the dark-skinned,
     good-lookin' girls gliding and swaying about the airport.  I
     loved the colors of all the people.  Even the airport colors
     looked like something out of a TV Program about Miami.  Watching
     one particularly exotic girl jiggle past me - I imagined from
     Havana - I had an image of dusky-skinned teenage girls rolling
     large cigars on nubile firm thighs.  I didn't know if they did it
     that way, but I liked the image.

          Jean nudged me in the ribs and whispered in my ear, "Lookit
     the ass on THAT one!"  It was one of those small-waisted,
     firm-cheeked honeys that wore jeans so tight, it defied
     understanding.  I mean, how in hell they get 'em on, anyway?

          I turned and smiled at her, making a brief salivating look.

          "Down, boy," she advised.

          "If I could WILL it down, my life would be simpler."

          "If you could only will it UP . . ." she countered, then
     looked away, blushing.

          "It'd always be up . . . at least around you." I finished in
     a slightly louder voice.

          "You!"  She pretended mock indignation.

          The Cayman Air flight took off on schedule, an unusual
     occurrence, I thought.  The relatively brief flight over Cuba and
     down to the Caymans was uneventful, the very best type of trip.
     When we landed in Grand Cayman, the air was sweet and warm and
     the people friendly and colorful, but still, we thought of the
     tourist part of that Caribbean island much as we thought of Miami
     Beach, which is to say, not very much.  We were anxious to move
     on to a more remote, less developed part of the islands.

          From past experience, we reserved some trepidation for the
     connecting flight from Grand Cayman to Cayman Brac and the short
     jump to Little Cayman.  We remembered it as a chancy and
     casually-run affair.  An unusually tall, former
     horse-transportation aircraft converted for human use served as
     the Mexican bus equivalent of the local island shuttle. Well,
     kinda converted as we remembered and our memory served us well. I
     looked around large, stall-like interior of that curious plane,
     half expecting to see an old, dried-up horse turd kicked into a
     dusty corner but the only thing I saw was a crushed Coke can and
     some candy wrappers.

          fter landing on Little Cayman, almost a grass strip carved
     out of the jungle, we taxied to the terminal.  That's an
     overstated name for the small wooden shack sitting next to a
     weedy graveled area.  With only twenty- some permanent
     inhabitants on the island, there'd be no taxi cabs, but I needed
     have worried.  A moderately rusted and beat-up old pickup that
     belonged to Pirate's Pub was there to meet us.

          Surprisingly, all our gear made it through the multiple
     plane changes. As surprisingly, Jean traveled almost as light as
     I did, in marked contrast to our aunt or our mother.     "Casual
     clothes, that's all I packed," Jean assured me.  Even without
     tanks and weight belts, the rest of the gear was heavy, bulky and
     clumsy. That was the price, we'd been taught, for the safety of
     taking your own gear on a dive trip.  I was pleased when several
     guys standing around swarmed over our gear and loaded it into the
     truck and it appeared they were pleased with the tip.

          Pirate's Pub was run by a delightful, robust, full-of-life
     lady from Texas named Gladys Howorth.  She'd studied in several
     internationally known culinary institutes and her meals at
     Pirate's Pub were justifiably famous. Still, for all of that, I'd
     not have traveled so far just for the atmosphere and her cooking
     alone.  It was the Wall I was after. I've heard that there are
     three premiere dive spots in the world, at least for wall diving.
     There's the Red Sea for one, then parts of the Great Barrier Reef
     were highly ranked and finally, in our hemisphere, there's the
     Wall off Little Cayman.

          I read that the Wall dropped off into the depths, falling
     6,000 feet straight down.  That was academic, of course, but what
     made it so fantastic was the impossible-blue waters there with
     constant 100 feet plus viability. That together with the rich and
     varied marine life in and around the pockets and caves on the
     Wall made for some of the most spectacular diving anywhere.
     Happily, there was no drift current as in Cozumel, so you could
     hang out anywhere without having to work against the drift.  If
     the Dive Master became confidant of your abilities, you could
     dive alone with your buddy and return to the boat when you were
     ready.  Rarely did we have dive groups larger than six to eight
     people and often, there'd be as little as four.

          We'd been to the Caymans a couple of times before with our
     parents and friends.  Jean was a strong swimmer and a naturally
     talented diver. We'd been diving buddies for years and were very
     comfortable with each other's abilities.  We just floated around
     effortlessly using so little air, often we were in the water for
     fifteen or twenty minutes after other folks had depleted their
     tanks' air supply.

          "Think Margi's still here?" Jean asked on the ride through
     the jungle. She'd had taken off her sweatshirt and was down to a
     skimpy sleeveless T- shirt.  My arm was over her shoulder and I
     had a good view of the top of her white bra as well as a good
     portion of her cleavage. It never ceased to thrill me.

          Margi?  Margi had been a small, very attractive female Dive
     Master who came from Colorado.  We'd met her last year.  I'd
     developed a crush on her then but aside from recognizing me as an
     experienced diver, I don't think she even know I was alive.  She
     was a couple of years older than Jean, and that put me out of the
     running.  Some good-looking 'older guy' had monopolized much of
     her time when we had been there the previous year. No, I hadn't
     forgotten Margi.

          "I hope so, but doubt it.  They've had a new Dive Master
     every time we've been here.  They're such a bunch of gypsies."

          "Would you like to *see* her again?" she asked, grinning at
     me. We both remembered the time Margi had been helping a sea-sick
     diver into the boat and  couldn't tend to a broken bikini bra
     strap.  I couldn't see the diver, just Margi's full breast.  I
     remembered how tan she was, except her breast which was
     startlingly white.  Mostly, I remembered her nipple.  It had been
     very large, thick and meaty, jutting out from her pebbled areola.

          I whispered in her ear, "Remember her nipple?"  I may have
     been talking about Margi's breast, but it was Jean's I was eyeing
     as I peered down her shirt.

          "I KNEW that's what your were thinking, you hound dog!"

          Jean loved to play the innocent, obliquely referring to
     something sexy and then pretending moral outrage.  We knew the
     game well.

          When we arrived at Pirate's Pub, the efficient crew had us
     moved into our room in a jiffy.  We'd asked for two adjoining
     rooms, but knew we'd take whatever was available.  I was tickled
     when Gladys put us in a single large room with two double beds.
     Our quarters was one half of an octagonal building in the palm
     trees quite near the beach.  I remembered how soothing the waves
     and the night sounds were there.

          "Well, babes, it looks like we're stuck together.  Mind?"

          "Of course not, but don't get any ideas," she replied, not
     looking at me as she swung her luggage onto the bed.

          "Jean, ideas are all I have." I protested, opening my large
     carry-on bag. Filling the drawers and sorting out gear, I added,
     "You don't think I can really stop *thinking*, do you?"

          Jean held up some brief, sheer panties I'd never seen
     before, and studied them for a moment.     "It's not your
     *thinking* that concerns me, big guy."

          "Where'd you get those?"

          "Victoria's Secret.  And you know what I'm talking about."

          "Hot!"  I paused and then continued, "And no, I don't know
     what you're talking about.  Sex, sure.  And us.  But what about
     it?  I thought we had a deal?"

          A little while back we'd agreed to explore our sexuality,
     out of the closet as it were, just as long we honored each
     other's limits.  That of course meant mostly me respecting her
     limits. I'm not sure I had any. At least I hadn't bumped into
     them yet.

          Jean stopped unpacking and just looked out the screened
     window at the filtered light reflected off the water.  Periods of
     silence were common between us and I didn't pay any attention
     until I saw her shoulders shake. When I walked in front of her I
     saw her eyes were screwed tight and a couple of tears were
     running down her cheeks.

          When my shadow crossed her face, she opened her blue eyes
     that were shiny wet and just looked at me as she brought her
     fingers up to her face.  I gathered her into my arms and held her
     without speaking.  She sobbed silently for a few minutes and then
     put her arms about my neck burying her head below my ear.  I ran
     a hand up and down her back, softly kissing her hair and making
     crooning sounds.

           "I'm sorry, Billy.  I know I'm being such a bitch.  You
     don't deserve that.  Thanks for your patience with me."  She
     hiccupped and then laughed.     "And yes, we *do* have a deal.
     That hasn't changed.  Tell you what, I'm a little bit scared and
     my period's about to start.  I always get a little 'touchy' for a
     day or two this time of the month.  God, I *hate* to think I'm a
     PMS-er! Can you put up with me?"

          I almost asked her what my choices were, but held off,
     thinking she didn't need any of my sophomoric humor.  Instead, I
     continued to hold her close and said, "Jean, there's not a
     serious problem on the horizon. Think about it.  We're alive and
     well, we're together, and this is the first day of a to-die-for
     vacation.  I love you . . . you know that, but I want to say it
     anyway. There's no agenda.  We can dive or not dive. Sleep or not
     sleep. Wanna be with me?  Cool.  Wanna be alone a little, that's
     cool too."

          "Oh, Billy!  I don't what to be alone!  What ever I say . .
     . however I act,  I came here to be with you.  Don't leave me,
     promise?  I'm sorry I've been a shrew, but I'm feeling better
     already.  Maybe I just had to let the bitchiness out, huh?"

          Nodding, I said, "All I really know is how I feel and that
     works for me, babe.  The letting it out, I mean.  If I carry it
     around, stuffed, not letting go of it . . . well, it just
     festers.  I can maybe hide it for a little while, but it'll erupt
     if I don't own it.  Know what I mean?"

          She nuzzled my neck before letting me go and then spinning
     around, she said something like, "Whew . . . I feel so much
     better.  Thanks, Billy."

          I sat on her bed and picked up a pair of her lacy panties.
     Holding them up to the light - I could almost see through them -
     I commented, "This is how all this started, what, a couple of
     years ago?"

          Jean gave me a particularly wicked smile and said, "They're
     the *clean* ones.  I'm *wearing* the ones *you* want, you perv."

          I was pleased to have the old Jean back and told her so on
     the way to the main house to register and see if we could get a
     late snack.  Gladys keeps an open bar for her guests and while we
     didn't drink much on a dive vacation, we stopped by to see who
     was there.

          "Why, it's the two porpoises," sang out a woman's voice from
     back of the bar. "Welcome back," yelled Margi, loud enough for
     everyone to hear. As often follows a loud noise, it suddenly
     became quiet and I was aware of the curious stares of several
     people.

          Margi typically didn't wait for a reply.  She ran on,
     "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Billy and Jean, two of the nicest
     people, first rate divers and if anyone needs help and I'm not
     around, ask either of them."

          Margi rounded the bar and ran into my arms for a bear hug.
     As usual, she was wearing a pair of shorts and a loose T-shirt
     sans bra.  I wondered if she even owned a bra?

          I asked her, "Do we get paid for that?"

          "What's your price?" she whispered in my ear.

          "You and me to go diving alone some time this week." I
     returned in a similar whisper.

          "Did he ask you to go diving alone with him?" Jean sang out
     in a voice not heard by more than half the room. "He was hoping
     you'd be here, Margi."

          Margi smiled at me and with a broad wink said, "That right,
     big boy?"

          Before I knew it, Margi took Jean aside and they immediately
     fell into a heads-together conversation.  Their body language
     suggested I talk with someone else so I introduced myself to a
     bearded bear of a man who was sipping a drink and chatting with a
     sun-bleached, tan woman I guessed in her thirties.

          "Hi.  I'm Ian and this's Jan."  Turning to her, he added,
     "Sorry Jan, I don't know your last name."

          he extended her hand to me and gave me a dazzling smile.
     "Jan'll do. Margi told us today that you and Jean were expected.
     She thinks highly of both of you and your wife."

          I laughed. "Jean's my sister."

          Ian added, "Yes, there's a strong resemblance in your eyes
     and mouth. You've much the same facial bone structure."

          "That may be, but I don't see it.  All I see are the
     differences."

          We looked over at Jean and Margi.  Jean was sitting back in
     her chair and her skimpy T-shirt hugged her breasts and prominent
     nipples.

          "Yes, there *are* some differences," observed Ian as he
     looked at Jan and me with something approaching a leer.

          "Ian doesn't miss much it would appear," said Jan with a wry
     smile.

          Neither do I, I thought as I ran my eyes over her shirt
          front.

          "And neither do you," Jan added.

          I held my hand palms up and looked up to heaven for support.
     "Busted," I said.

          We chatted for a few minutes until Jean returned and said,
     "Billy, we're all checked in and I've got us some snacks.  I'm
     really beat. Think I'll go back to our room and nibble before
     crashing.  You?"

          "I'm tired too.  I'll go with you."  Turning back to Jan and
     Ian, I said good-night and, "See you in the morning."

          Walking back through the palm trees I could hear the
     electric generator chugging away in the distance.  I'd forgotten
     how isolated this place was.  I wrapped my arm around Jean's
     shoulder and asked, "What were you and Margi talking about with
     such intensity?"

          "Wouldn't you like to know?"  Her smile underscored her
     teasing, yet there was again a faint edge to her voice.  I fell
     silent, oddly put off a little.

          Just before entering our room, Jean stopped and asked,
     "Well, wouldn't you?"

          "Like to know?"

          "Yes, I thought you be dying to know what Margi said."

          "Yeah, I suppose I am, but to tell the truth, I'm feeling a
     little disconnected.  You're my best friend and I'm picking up
     strange energy from you.  I'm so used to being on the same
     wavelength, I don't know how to behave when we're not."  I paused
     and then went on, "Shit!  I don't know.  Maybe it's me.  Do you
     think it's me?  'My being a jerk?"

          I'd learned that no matter what the other guy said or did,
     anytime I was upset, it was axiomatic that something was wrong
     with me, that I had a part in it somewhere.  Usually it meant I
     wasn't accepting life on life's terms. Things weren't going my
     way and I was being petulant.

          "You're right, Billy.  Things *are* off kilter a little.  I
     feel it too.  You know what I think it is?"

          "No, I don't guess I do," I answered, a bit more interested,
     for Jean's ideas were often right on.

          "Think about it.  Here we are, together . . . actually,
     sleeping in the same room . . . with all this history behind us .
     . . that moth and the flame history. We've been flirting with
     each other forever it seems. Mom knows.  And we know that she
     knows.  I'm on the pill.  Cripes, Billy!  I'm scared witless.  I
     think you are too and that's what's wrong with us.  That's the
     tension we're feeling, don't you think?"

          "It's certainly true that despite my resolve not to have
     expectations, they creep into my mind.  You know, I've told you
     about the sex addict guy that lives in my head?  Well, he's up
     there having a field day while the good guy, the rational guy is
     frightened.  Wanna call a time out?"

          "Good idea!  Mom always told us we could start our day over
     anytime we liked.  Let's start our vacation over, okay?"

          "Deal!  And Doctor Billy prescribes a good night's rest,
     starting right now."

       She gave me a high five and we walked into our room.  Without
     lights, we turned down the beds and I went into the john to take
     a leak.  When I came out, I could see Jean's shadow in bed.  I
     wanted to hug her good-night, but was still feeling a little
     tender and, afraid of rejection, I slipped into my own bed.
     "'Night, Jean."

          "I can't believe you're not curious about what Margi said
     about you." Jean provoked me, assuring my night's sleep.

          "About me?  Did you guys talk about me?"

          "Well, I didn't get to say much.  Mostly Margi talked.  I
     did tell her that we didn't have secrets from each other and
     suggested that she not tell me things she didn't want you to
     hear, but she said, 'Oh, what the hell,' or something like that."

          "Jean!  You're gonna drive me batty at this rate."

          "Well, she's definitely interested in you."

          "Yeah, right.  Last year I couldn't get her attention.  She
     was always hanging around with that other guy."

          "You mean he was hanging around her!  Oh, she was aware of
     you alright, but because you're younger and a guest, she was
     afraid to let you know."

          "Let me know what, for cryin' out loud?"

          "That she was . . . uh, interested in you."

          "I admit it.  I'm dumb.  What does 'interested' mean?"

          "Maybe this'll help, my stud-muffin brother.  She asked me
     if you were a virgin."

          Oh Jesus!  You didn't tell her, did you?"

          "You bet I did.  Girls are worse than guys when they think
     they're getting someone, some guy, for the first time."

          "And you think she's gonna get me?"

          "Only if you're willing, big boy . . . only if you're
          willing."

          "And, making believe all of this is true - which I doubt -
     how do *you* feel about this?"

          "I'm jealous.  I'm thrilled too, but I'm really jealous."

          God, I'd *never* understand women!

          "Jean, part of me is pleased.  That you're jealous . . . I
     mean, that you care that much.  And another part is asking, about
     WHAT?"

          "Don't ask me to explain this, Billy.  I don't understand it
     either. I guess I'm jealous that you're interested in her . . .
     that's part of it.  But more, I'm jealous that she can do things
     with you and I can't."

          "Do things?  Like in . . ."

          "Yes!  Like in!"

          Jean fluffed up her pillow and then slammed it down, turning
     away from me.  In the dim light, I could see the sheet had pulled
     up and exposed her tan back side and the her white panties.  Or
     were those panties? No, that was Jean's pale ass I was staring
     at.  She was naked as a jay.

          'd worn my briefs to bed, more out of propriety.  Or was it
     embarrassment?  I never wore underwear to bed and suddenly I was
     aware of my hardness, bent in my shorts.  I pulled them off
     slowly and dropped them by the side of the bed.

          I spoke at her back in a low voice, "I've been trying to get
     into your pants for half my life it seems.  You're the sexiest
     woman in the world to me.  I'd do anything for you and you're
     jealous of some woman who's older than you even, who asked a few
     questions about me.  Talk about driving beyond your headlights!"

          She flounced back, facing me.  Darn, now I couldn't look at
     her butt. "Oh no I'm not!  Women *know* these things.  She's hot
     for you.  She's already asked if we could get together tomorrow
     night."  And then she mimicked Margi's deeper voice, '. . . so we
     can get to know each other better.'  I know what she wants to get
     to know better!"

          My dick, I hoped.  I saw no inconsistencies in that.  I knew
     I loved Jean and was terminally hot for her, but my dick was
     interested in every good lookin' girl on the horizon.  That had
     nothing to do with love or anything like that.  This was all
     about my desire to penetrate some girl's soft, wet and itchy
     pussy.  Fuckin' in other words.

          "That might be nice.  Do you wanna?" I asked.

          "Heck yes, I 'wanna'," she replied, now mimicking me.     "I
     like Margi too.  She's fun and outrageous - braver than me and I
     know we'll enjoy her. But I'm still a little jealous. Don't
     worry, it won't stop me from having a good time."

          Then, turning away again, she concluded, "Now go to sleep,
     won't you? I'm completely worn out and I'll get cranky if I don't
     get a night's rest."

          The muted washing of waves on the beach drifted through the
     palms and I could hear the soft night sounds as I lay back, hands
     behind my head, looking at the ceiling fan slowly turning.  Where
     was this going?

          The only thing I knew with certainty was that it wasn't
     going the way I had dreamed it up.  But then, things rarely did.
     The upside of that disappointment was grounded in the reality
     that when things didn't turn out the way I wanted them, what I
     got was far better than what I wanted.

          Grasping my hard-on through the sheet, I fell asleep.


     End 18






