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Looking back now, from the jaded and cynical temple of middle age, I can honestly say that I’m not ashamed. It took some time to get to this place, of course, and with everything going on my life lately, with the divorce and the loss of my job, I really do think that a lot of what should have boiled up years ago is finally starting to surface. I’d just never dealt with it before and, to be honest, I probably wasn’t ready to.
Family dinners every week have gotten fewer and fewer since I’ve made my peace with what happened. I say to myself that it is because I don’t have the time, but I know that’s a lie. It is because I feel like their eyes are always on me, judging, and no matter what I say or do, how content I am with the past, nothing could ever fully wash away that stain for them. They can see it, obviously. It is everywhere, hanging like a taut rope between us. It was always there, lurking, like a shadow just below the surface, and now it sits in the room with us, ominous and dark.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t really be too hard on myself or my sister. We were more or less just kids, I know. With our family growing up in a small bungalow and with everyone becoming a teen at the same time, it was almost inevitable that something would happen. From the tension in the air, some days, I’m surprised we made it out alive. Outright fist fights were actually common with my brothers, considerably less common with my sister (of course) but no matter how virulent the spat seemed at the time, we made up minutes later because like most larger families, we were also our own best friends.
If someone had asked me at the outset who would be the one in the house to finally crack and do something stupid with our sister, I’d have had to put money on my older brother. I’d always toed the line with school, with women (no, girls at this point, I have to honest) but he was not quite there, if you know what I mean, and what was missing was that part of the brain that allows you to self-edit, to control the worst of those impulses. Years later, he would cause issue after issue with my girlfriends until we eventually had it out over the inappropriate touching, barely disguised innuendo and the leering. He would definitely be culprit number one.
My younger brother, on the other hand, was a real Lothario, so I had no illusions about him. He could get better looking, more ardent lovers with just a quick trip down the street on most days. No, his plate was full.
Now, though, I can see that it was inevitable that it was me. Shy and intelligent, I never really fit in with the normal crowd at school and frankly stuck out in almost every way in the general populace of the town. Most people went straight from High School into a job at one of the local plants and never gave the notion of education a second thought. If they could do enough math to calculate what was left after the mortgage for beer on the weekend, they were happy. My sister and I, however, burned just that little bit brighter than the rest. She didn’t care as much for school as I did, at least at the time, but you could see that we both at least liked learning. I craved it and for her it was a pleasurable pastime, but we were in the same general ballpark.
And that, is ultimately is what brought us together.
It sounds odd, but I can thank my early sexual success to Jacques Cousteau, the famous marine biologist. We had his entire book series so when school let out and the first two weeks had rushed by and we were already done all the wonderful things that should have lasted us all summer, out came the books. I was the comedian, so it was my job to slap as many hilarious voices on the various marine animals as I could, creating stories and plots and twists that would have the rest of them in stitches. As we got older, that low comedy was less and less of a hit, but they still asked me to bring it out on occasion when they were feeling nostalgic.
And on the day I first felt it – the big it – my sister Michelle and I were the only ones home, bored out of our trees and in the first flushes of adolescence. She was lying on her stomach on the living room rug, kicking the floor repeatedly while she lay her head sideways over her arms. I stretched out like a cat, taking up almost the entire couch. I’m rather short, so this was a feat, let me tell you. The day was so slow, the ticking of the clock started to put me in a trance when she started kicking, unconsciously, in time to the ticks.
“I’m bored.”, she said. She didn’t need to tell me, I could hear it in her voice.
‘Yeah, me too.”
“Got any money?”
“I blew my allowance last week, so … no.” She knew that and I let some of my irritation slip into my voice.
“Fine”, she said petulantly. There was one of those long silences everyone dreads, and then she continued.
“Wanna do the voices?”
“Oh, Jesus, no.” I laughed but, to be honest, part of me wanted to. It was my thing.
“Come on. You know that you always like it once bahis firmaları we’re started. I’ll even pick your favourite book, S-T. Sharks, sea snakes, snapping turtles … how you can resist?”
“Oh, we’re too old for that shit.”
“Hardly. If I like it, I’m obviously not too old for it.” She had me there, and I knew it. Art is always in the eye of the beholder, not the artist.
“Fine, but bring it up here.”
And it was right then, when she rolled back over her head in a reverse somersault and then pranced (there is no better word for it) to the bookshelf like a pixie, I just saw her differently. I can’t explain it or even attempt to put it into words, but something slipped aside at that moment and let me see her, really see her, without the veil of being her sibling. All the old fights and hatreds just … slipped away. I knew something important had happened, but I was far too naive to really understand what until this all came rushing back a week ago. Nonetheless, that part of the story will come.
She pranced right on back, dropped the book into my lap and gave it a good double tap in an exaggerated show of satisfaction. I cracked the book, cleared my throat in an equally hammish display, and got to work. As I started, she slipped in beside me and slid the book so that it covered both our laps. I don’t know if it was my new found appreciation for her or what, but I was on fire. I was creative and funny, gesticulating to go along with the characters, moving my body around and restructuring my face so that I lived the characters and not just sounded like them. It’s that day when I draw back and think that I might just be a good actor someday. Someday.
And the next thing you know, two hours had slipped by. The book was nearly done, my creativity had hit its limit and she had laughed herself to the point where she could hardly keep the book steady enough for me to see the pictures. Partway through, she had become the book holder because I had gotten that animated.
And when we stopped, winding down like a watch, I suddenly became acutely aware, almost painfully aware, that her leg was touching mine along it’s entire length and that there was a vague feeling of heat and sweat between us. I think she noticed the change in the look in my face because we both got really quiet all of a sudden and the tension skyrocketed in about two seconds flat. I don’t know if that was the first time she had ever felt sexual tension, but I know that it was certainly my first time, and it almost took my breath away. Not really knowing what was going on, I turned to look at her, breathing like I had just run a mile.
And she stared back at me, just for a second or two, and I could see the flush in her cheeks and neck. I couldn’t help myself and I slid my gaze down onto her upper chest, which was pinkish and moving nearly in time with my own.
And she pushed herself off the couch with a flourish, hand on my thigh for balance, and took off to her room, prancing again. A vague “Thanks” was tossed out just before she hit her room and closed the door. Snap. The tension was gone, just like that.
I guess introductions are in order. I’m Jack. For the sake of anonymity, let’s just call me Jack Kerouac, though my writing has to be, at best, considered seriously deficient in comparison to my namesake. My sister is Michelle, as I’ve told you. We all called her Mitch.
That little awakening happened when I was fourteen and she was thirteen. Minor thing, yes? Probably happens in virtually every house where the kids are close in age and opposite sex (sometimes the same sex, I guess)? But the famous adage is that the greatest oaks grow from the smallest acorn, and this turned out to be oh so drastically true.
From that day forward, she grew in me like a seed, month by month, year by year. It wasn’t always the most salient thing in my head, but it was always lurking in the back of my mind, haunting me as I’ve said, and that’s the best description for it.
Life being what it is, I managed to put it out of my mind for what seemed like an eternity, but as I’ve said … small house. It was bound to happen again.
And this time, if anything, she was the instigator.
I had to pee, really badly, and tore home from school so that I wouldn’t pee my pants. It was touch and go because the school was roughly ten blocks from our house, but I’m a pretty good runner and about halfway the running itself started to help me keep my mind off the inevitable. I made it home (just) and with a crash, I near slammed the door out of the way, partly flung my book bag to the ground and bolted up the stairs two at a time. Jamming the bathroom door open in a rush, I drilled my sister in the shoulder knocking her sideways by about a foot. She had her hair in a curling iron, getting ready for work, and she screamed as the hot iron graced her scalp. She was hitting me with her free hand, still trying to get a decent curl, as I forced my way past her, kaçak iddaa plopped down on the seat and let it loose.
It was the best thing that I’d ever felt. I didn’t even care that she was in the room, to be honest, it was THAT good.
When the first rush of relief had cleared, but I was still going, I looked up, and caught my sister’s eyes in the mirror above the sink. It stretched the length of the vanity, so I could see her from the waist up, in her bra and skirt, her face clearly set in a mixture of disgust and anger and more than a little bit of adrenaline from my sudden entrance.
“Fucking tool … did you have to burst in like that? I’m probably going to get a 2nd degree burn on my head, you moron.” OK, so this part wasn’t so sexually charged, but she worked up to it.
“Sorry, Mitch, I just had to go so bad and the bathroom downstairs is screwed up again.”
In tandem, we said, “Dad’s plumbing.” and started to laugh.
She leaned her elbows down on the counter breathing out heavily to try and push a bit of hair out of her face with her breath, then caught my eye again.
“I thought you guys peed standing up?” The tone of her voice was different, quieter and less angry.
“Well, if you hadn’t been in here, I might have stood up, I guess, but I’ve got some class. Not much but some.” Right then, I shuddered that great shudder I get when I have to go really badly, like a shiver.
“Why did you jamb it down in between your legs like that?”
It was a really odd question, to be honest, and she caught me by surprise. “Uh, because I’d pee all over the wall and floor if I didn’t.” Self conscious all of a sudden, I leaned forward, trying to hide the tiny bit of pubic hair I just knew that she could somehow see.
“You know, you don’t have to sit down with me.” That old tension, gone largely for a couple of years, was back in an instant, at least for me.
And without a word of a lie, I did probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. I was done, so I just … stood up. I pulled up my underwear and pants, staring at her the whole time, and she kept looking from my face to my groin and back again. It was only a second or two, but by the time I was up and out of the bathroom and on about my day, I was plainly throbbing.
After that, the “incidents” as I call them, started to get more numerous and came more often. Always of a sort that an outside observer would most likely interpret them as platonic in nature, but with enough sexual energy to power the town if someone could recognize it and tap it.
I walked in on her in the shower, again to pee, and watched her jagged silhouette in the frosted glass, just varying shades of pink, but with darker patches I hadn’t really thought of before, as she moved around washing. Through the glass, I could see the general shape of her breasts, oddly pointed and not rounded I had always envisioned. As she bent over to do something with her legs, I could see the curve of her ass shifting oddly back and forth as she moved, vastly more imagination than reality with that distortion, but I was in heaven.
Then there was the day she needed a hand stretching because she was still coming off of a gymnastics injury and had stiffened up. She was on her back, doing the sideways splits in the air, and it was my job to force her legs out. I’m sure she could have done it with her legs on the floor and me pushing down on her back to force her closer to the floor, but this was fine, let me tell you. She was in the plainest of sweat pants and a t-shirt, but as I lorded over her, pretending to be serious and ogling her the entire time, I felt like I could just reach out and touch her, really touch her. She was that beautiful. That connection between my hands and the inside of her knees was seminal – a starting point – and all I had to do to turn this little sentence into a paragraph or even something more, was to … move my hands down. I can’t tell you that my heart thudded in my chest. For much of it, our eyes were locked together and while I still felt like a lech for staring her up, sometimes frankly gaping at her breasts and crotch, she never seemed offended or even put off by my looking. In fact, the look on her face was more curiosity than anything. I think I was the first boy who had ever openly desired her, and seeing that in my face was likely a revelation for her. By the time we were done, she had developed a wet spot on her sweats and I knew with a glance that the feeling was at least somewhat mutual.
One particularly close call was the day where we were again bored, but this time armed with the new Sears catalog, flipping idly to kill time after school. The other brothers had screwed off to god knows where and Mom wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours. I turned, deviously but without any forethought whatsoever, to the bra and panties section. I was in one of those moods, where boundaries were meant to be broken, and I was forcing the issue and I knew it. She caught my intention, kaçak bahis I think, and asked me bluntly what I was doing showing her this section.
“It’s that kind of day. A day to make love with someone special.” God, I was so corny. I didn’t even really know what the words meant, but I knew I meant them, at any rate, and with a huge dash of daring, I bent over and actually licked the page, right at the crotch of one of the models. Any reasonable woman would have howled with laughter and ran for the hills.
Not my sister, though, and for this I will always love her. She gave me a weird look, and then touched her finger to the saliva spot on the page, dragging her finger down as if she was finger painting the model’s leg. As she did it, she leaned in to me and her left breast brushed and then pushed openly against my arm. Slowly, as if she was working up the courage, she slid her hand over to the edge of the catalog and then under, and I could feel her hand’s warmth against the inside of my thigh. I opened my legs as an invitation, utterly hard … and then the doorbell rang.
Cursing inwardly, we both got up and went to the back door, only to discover that our small neighbor had come over to see if we wanted to play. We gave each other a look that said volumes and told him that we were kind of busy and that Mom was going to be home, soon, for dinner. Try as we might, we couldn’t get him to leave and I could feel that power ebbing from us as we sat on the steps trying to convince him. In then end, we succeeded, but we had just settled back in the couch, most of the tension lost, when we could hear the crunch of the car tires on the gravel in the driveway. Fuck.
Finally, there was the glorious week in the summer of graduation where we drew lots to see who could sleep in the tent trailer in the driveway because of how hot the house was. By sheer chance, my sister and I got the same lot and totted our stuff out to the trailer to play house. For about half the week, I sat in agony in my end of the tent trailer while I imagined her at the other end of the tent trailer, equally pained, both of us pining for the other. I’d listen like a demon, trying to catch some hint that she wanted me to come over or, better yet, that she was coming over to me. All I ever heard was the deep breathing of someone dead to the world. By the fourth day, however, the tension had built up again and we both knew it. I took a chance and changed openly in the center, light on, barely turning away as I got down to my underwear to climb into bed. My cock throbbed and I was wet at the tip, the moisture showing right through my underwear. I could barely contain myself to keep up the illusion that this was all just normal behavior.
And after I was in bed, she changed openly, too, stripping down to her panties and bra, then turning her back and taking the bra off before slipping on her t-shirt for bed, nipples frankly jutting out through the shirt. Of course, we couldn’t keep our eyes off of each other the whole time and I spent almost as much time staring at her face and eyes than I did her body, to be honest. The expressions of lust on her face were astounding to witness. That night, we both masturbated at our own respective ends, slipping each other little hints of our activity. Her little cry as she came sent me over the edge.
On the last day, once again the tension thick in the air, I wandered around in a haze all day, anxious and yet expectant. I knew I had to move this forward, even just a step.
I again took the lead and this time took my underwear right off, acting about as nonchalant as I could, my cock jutting out and nearly dripping onto the floor with my lust. It was in the shadow of my body, but I knew that she could see the silhouette and she stared like she was trying to bore holes into me. When I saw that, I turned, fully into the light, and let her get a really good look, for the first time ever. I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared and yet more turned on in my life. My cock just sat there twitching, for at least a couple of minutes while she ogled me, eyes wide.
When it came time for her turn, she amazingly followed suit and stripped off her panties, albeit initially a bit more shyly than I had and I had the chance to see, for the first time, my sister … completely naked. The minute her panties came off I could smell her from a few feet away. It was like a heady perfume that I couldn’t get enough of. It was just dark enough in the patchy light that I couldn’t get a really good glimpse, but I saw her pubic hair as she stood up and then I saw the look on her face. Her expression was a mixture of lust and fear, and I hoped that my own fear hadn’t come through that visibly. I guess she caught my look, because she half smiled, turned to face me so that the front of her body was now in shadow, lifted one leg up onto the bench, and reached down to touch herself, slowly. For about a minute, she masturbated, right in front of me, mere feet away. I could hear the moisture and popping, but as she came to a point where orgasm was near inevitable and she stopped herself right on the edge, lowered her leg, shaking like someone who had run a marathon, and fairly stumbled back to her bed.
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