

     MY SISTER JEAN

     BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)

     ________________________________________________________________


     Chapter 11  -- Dry Humpin'


          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 hardon.  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 finger tips, 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."

          "OK, OK," 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 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, "OK?"

          "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 hardon 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 was wanting 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 woodie 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.


     END 11
