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The next time I see him, I know it's working. I give him the big hug he's not sure what to do with, but he's actually bending this time, pliant like he really is made of flesh and blood not plaster and paint. The very first time I thought, My god, Margie didn't marry a man, she just went to Menswear and paid extra for the mannequin that was modeling these clothes. He squirted out into daylight, his mama slapped him to the tit, and that was the first and last hug he's ever had. Men are like cats, they have to be handled a lot when they're young. Otherwise they won't come and jump in your lap when you call them. They'll just sort of skulk around at the edge of the room, staring at nothing with their big wide eyes. Who wants something pretty in the room if it doesn't ever purr? You could just tell he came from a family that believed touching wasn't one of the five senses but one of the seven deadly sins. Like the big mean guy from the Old Testament is standing up there all poised, legs apart and arm upraised, ready to hurtle down that bolt of lightning. Little boy skins his knee and runs crying to his mama: don't comfort him, that's incest! I mean, read Genesis for what's not written down. You got your Adam, then you got your Eve, and soon enough, sure enough, along comes Cain and Abel. Okay, fair enough. But then all of a sudden there's all this begetting going on all over the place. What, is there like a blank page back there somewhere? Hey, there ain't but one way to bridge that gap.

This business of touching being a bad idea--no way! I well remember the occasion of my momentous discovery. There I was in the bath like any good cliché. I was still quite a few years away from being anything but a boy from chin to hips, but I had my finger down poking around the difference that did exist. Hey, this feels good. Hmmm, even better. Omagawd! that feels great! I kept on to the point where I thought, girl, you better quit this right now before you break something. And did I stop it? you may well ask. I most certainly did not! I came like a crazy bitch, shrieking like a little banshee. It's a wonder I didn't have the whole house pounding on the door. Fortunately they were all down in the den watching the t.v. turned way loud, some horror film with enough screams to cover my own. After that I decided to keep this new play confined to my own room. There wasn't all that ceramic tile, and a pillow will smother just about any sound.

The big event came one weekend when I was having a slumber party over at my best friend's. We were both thirteen and had recently become official women. It was that very night I realized not only was Renee no longer my best friend, she wasn't someone I even wanted to know. For Renee the greatest mystery of menstruation was why in the world blood should come out of her pee-hole. She was that uninformed. Here I thought we'd talk talk talk about boys boys boys, practice kissing, maybe get so excited we'd start fondling ourselves or each other. Instead she was up every five minutes making another fucking bowl of popcorn. Her only other planned activity was mooning and sighing over these magazines full of teen idols, without knowing why except that she was expected to. I'd been deflowered in the saddle at a riding academy the summer before, but in all other regards I was quite virginal. The only hands that'd caressed the new bloom of my body were my own. As for the deed itself, the details I knew were sketchy but a bit more accurate than most girls'. I knew that boys got big and hard, which was how the dance could begin in the first place. All that spunk and stuff wasn't in my vocabulary, but I did know that what happened to boys wasn't that stupid nonsense about them peeing up inside of you. I knew enough to know that glossy-stock paper wasn't going to do the trick for me. I had a feeling that if you pulled down their pants, all those airbrushed boys would be smooth as Ken dolls between their legs. That didn't seem very promising! After the old sow had consumed about twice her weight in popcorn, there was automatic lights-out. I lay there beside her in the bed, hopelessly wide awake. I thought about diddling myself right there and then, but I couldn't quite slip into the mood.

To say that Renee was snoring was just the first washing of color in a painting. The sound she made was the sound gravel would make if only it could speak. For awhile I was certain she had popcorn backed up clear into her gullet, that she was listlessly choking to death. I remember distinctly thinking that that would be absolutely the best thing in the world for her.

Alas it did not come to pass. And each breath she did give was filled with the stench of pig fat and burnt kernels. When she turned flatulent, that was my cue to go. I certainly was not feeling at all romantically inclined. Finally I decided I had to pee. I got out of that old bed. The first step to getting out of that old house was to get out of that fucking room! I hit the hall and soon made my business.

I'd intended to go to the bathroom, but then I thought it better to just squat and piddle on the carpet. If it left a real mess, I figured they could always go out and buy a dog and beat it. Not really knowing what to do next, I wandered around through the rest of the darkened house. I thought of turning on lights the better to snoop through drawers. Instead I wound up in the kitchen. I knew I was supposed to feel like I'd just won first-place but I wasn't really thirsty, and I couldn't think of any food that wasn't repugnant. I thought about whipping up the final bowl of popcorn to seal Renee's doom. But just about then I stepped beyond the bend of the counter and saw the bar of light beneath the door on the other side of the kitchen.

This, I knew, led to her dad's study. I went over and opened it. He was sitting back to me on a small sofa watching t.v. It looked like some very low-grade detective film. "Hi Mr. Martin," I went, "find a good movie on t.v.?" I swooped around and swung into the couch, and barely had time to recognize that Mr. Martin had the top of his pants flapped open to the bottom of the zipper when I saw, nearly simultaneously, that the VCR was on and that there were quickly two detectives--man and woman--cornering two criminals--male and female-- in a vast warehouse of props.

I must have blinked when all the clothes came off, because suddenly the screen was fat with close-ups of lips and tits and fingers, then cunts and cocks. Maybe there was an oral- on-genital interlude in there. The most of it looked like an educational film on slaughter houses, but there was enough good stuff in there to make me realize I was still major bush league in the category of potential fun.

I was blushing and sweating. I'm sitting there in my nightie. Sure it's flannel, but frilled and cut way short and saucy. It's a curious blend of sleepwear, a conspiracy of designers and barely pubescent girls. And beside me is this man, Renee's dad no less. His hands are in his lap, harmless and motionless, seemingly intent on holding up what looks like a billy stick.

It didn't take too long for him to fuck me. Not to mention the fact that it didn't take too long for him to fuck me. He was decent enough to wear a rubber, though it was indecent how he didn't even have to stand up to fetch it. Immediately afterward he was insisting that I never set foot in his house again, except maybe Saturdays after lunch when he stayed home alone from the familial trek to the mall, ostensibly to mow the lawn. Listen, as far as I was concerned, my ticket out the front door was stamped one-way. I'd definitely been done better when I did the job myself. My main thought was that I'd be wanting a whole lot more of sort of that in my life, though not from that particular source.

As for this incest taboo, I think it is a bit overboard. If it makes for a strained family situation, maybe it's not in the best interest. But if it's two people saying Hey, this is fun! where's the harm? Avoid the unhappy endings if possible, as if that doesn't happen all the time anyway in more conventional couplings. Having a brood of monsters is a bad idea.

But hell, thump back to the Bible, that gap before there were suddenly all those patriarchs running around all over the place. If you combine theology and genetics, you come to the one conclusion that humanity itself is a vast race of inbred monsters. We stand on two feet, we feed on burnt cows. We engage in recreational sex. Actually, I was lying on my stomach, having consumed nearly an entire big bag of potato chips. As for the other, I wasn't hurting, but it had been awhile.

I didn't have any steady boyfriends. I'd learned not to even bother with boys my own age. They were all like bombs set too sensitive: you'd just be getting it out of their pants and they'd explode in your hand. Like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne, only to have the whole thing foam all over the floor. None of that fast food and a two-minute mile for me, thank you.

I found a couple of nice guys in the grille over at the community college. They were thicknecks to be sure, guaranteed Losers of the Future, but an evening with them would be fine dining, a good movie, then back to their places for the smooth hand of experience.

Of course, the whole business of a classy restaurant and a showing of a foreign film was intrinsically related to keeping me under covers. The guys knew they wouldn't run into anyone they knew any of those places, and wouldn't have to endure any cradle-robbing ribbing. They never invited me to their dances thank god or any sporting events double thank god.

They'd die to dive between my thighs, but would rather die than to be found out. That suited me just fine. My favorite response was one fellow who was actually hurt to find out that I wasn't at all hurt by this situation.

I told him, "Hey, you take me out and show me a good time, then you take me in and show me a real good time. Why the hell would I want to hang out with all your stupid friends?"

When I got tired of these dull guys, since I baby-sat for fun money, I had a steady diet of my favorite dads.

The Hobarts were big cocktail party maniacs, though he came to be a big fan of plain tonics with a twist when he learned it was worth his while to keep his equipment in working order.

The man had been blessed with the deluxe model, and he'd bothered to read the directions. They'd get home, a house torn from the pages of Nouveau Tacky Dream Home, and basically he'd grab a gold-plated monogrammed bucket, squeegee her out of the car seat, then pour her into bed. It was nearly embarrassing, but fortunately she was too much a lush to ever question why it took him an hour or so to run me home when the distance was a quick five minute walk.

The sex was great, but even the backseat of a big car gets to seeming seedy and cramped after a while. And I never did like the ritual return from the bedroom, Mr. Hobart jingling his keys with a leer, "Hey hey, baby, guess it's time for me to drive you home!" Just for that instant, I would regret every moan I'd ever let him hear. Not that I wouldn't go on and moan a whole bunch more a few miles down the road.

I can't say I was particularly upset the night that kept dragging later and later until the police were knocking on the door, there to explain the tragedy of the Hobart's car being wrapped around a bridge abutment. I later got the full story from the snoopy daughter of the couple who were in the backseat getting a ride.

The crash left them rattled but well in the land of the living.

Mrs. Hobart had grabbed the steering wheel and given it a big bad yank. They'd been fighting in the front. Apparently, the stupid jerk never bothered with a quick wash after leaving me. And one night, proving that in this day and age miracles do still happen, she'd stirred out of her coma enough to decide she wanted some action.

Darting down, she'd found him shrunken and sticky and stinking of a fragrance that wasn't her own. I suppose thinking such a thought was such a great strain on her brain that it simply shut down and she passed back out, and then didn't remember anything until the next time she was suitably massaged by the magic elixir.

At any rate, I was on duty that night as usual, so I guess my little twat wasn't in the line-up of suspects. That closed the cover on that book rather neatly. I couldn't have orchestrated a better ending myself. And it was all for the best, seeing as I'd started scheming some dreams for Mr. Keith. I mean, the Hobarts' children were actually a matched set of mean-spirited, spoiled, nearly insane little terriers that I was on the verge of strangling anyway. No doubt they met with a more kindly demise at the shelter than they would have soon found at my hands.

Mr. Keith was another on my regular rounds. By contrast, he was well-dressed, well-spoken, well-mannered, well-intentioned, well, well just about well-everything.

He was intelligent and handsome, his house was very nice without a trace of ostentatiousness, and his children were two little darling angel girls. The whole aura was of some heaven blessed television situation, the flaw in the gem being that several years back, Mrs. Keith had been swiftly put through the pacings of some raging cancer. He'd mourned properly and worked through his grief, then dutifully set out to do right by his girls and himself.

I could not figure out what the problem was, but the poor man was the world's biggest flop at dating. None of the ladies he went out with would consent to a second show. I got to wondering if he was endowed with a Vienna sausage or what. But it seemed there could hardly be time for that to come out for consideration. It got to be that an evening out for dinner and the theater would take about as long for him to drive over, get the door shut in his face, then stop for a drive-thru burger on the way back.

I mean, he would literally be back within the hour. I'd barely have the girls in bed. I'd begun to suspect that he wasn't even going out on dates at all after awhile. He'd just go wander around for a bit and then come home early, after which we'd wind up chatting for hours--on the clock, mind you. But not once did he commit any sort of indiscretion.

I started getting more than a little antsy, so one evening I let him come home and catch me playing with myself, arranged so that the first thing he would see walking in the door would be a full view of my swampy crotch. Boy was that all the nudge he needed. I was quickly sitting on his baby four or five times a week.

His dates became walking out the front door and around to the side of the house to watch for the light in the girls' room to go off. As for his dating dilemma, all I could figure was that he hadn't ever met a woman to match his schedule, who wanted to fuck before going out to dinner, then again on the way to the theater, and then a nice long nightcap at the evening's end. It got to be were Mr. Keith wanted to hire a second sitter so we could have a go in the garage before the girls went to sleep. I knew I'd have to make other arrangements once he started hinting at marriage. First I gave him the dash of cold water, reminding him that I still wasn't legally old enough to consent to sex. And then I hooked him up with Ms. Spill, a lovely divorced friend of my mother's who was rumored to have an absolutely rampant appetite. The way some women buy their panties labeled by day in packets of seven, well, Ms. Spill would buy them in sets of seven, so instead of Monday-Tuesday- Wednesday-etc. she'd have Monday-Monday-Monday-etc. It wound up being a perfect second marriage for the both of them.

Anyway, there I was on my stomach on the floor watching television, my younger brother behind me hogging the sofa. It was late, our parents were already asleep, and we were both dressed for bed. I was done with all that flannel and nightgown shit, doing just fine with a t-shirt and panties. I knew damn well he wasn't paying much attention to the movie.

He was young enough that what with the variables you couldn't be sure. But I was sure that he'd crossed the threshold--the signs were all too obvious. In the past year he'd become secretive and surly and suddenly interested in doing all his own laundry.

I mean, the kid was forever locked up in his room, and he was washing his sheets like five times a day. I didn't need to look to know what sort of bedtime reading he'd have slipped under his mattress, but I did. Very much the advanced preparation course of studies. I hadn't even considered you could do anything more than poop with that other hole. If his eyes had been his cock, penetration would have been achieved.

I was pissed off enough at him to start to twitch a little just to torture him. You know, scoot around on my pillow to get more comfortable, feeling my tee ride up another inch or two, the panties pull a little tighter. I surprised myself to realize that I was getting more than a little turned on. Finally I shivered and tugged everything back down, then barked back without turning my head, "Give me the afghan, I'm getting chilly." I knew he'd refuse. "Come on, you got the whole sofa, give me the damn afghan." Of course he said no. I got up and stomped over there to get it. No way would he surrender it, especially at this close range. He was leaning with his knees up; even with his legs straight he'd be making quite the little pup tent. I yanked that cover off. He was still contained in his pajamas, but there was no mistaking what was contained therein.

I watched the flush spread up his neck to the tips of his ears. It was so cute! "Oh my, what have we here?" I took my voice down to a husky whisper, "Don't you know what to do with that? Because I sure do." At that, the damn thing bobbed around and poked out the fly all by itself.

I giggled, self-consciously but shamelessly, "Say, I bet that's not the only trick that thing can do." I bent down, opened wide and said aaah.

I'd barely touched tongue to tip before I had a mouthful and a half. I swallowed, licked my lips, then gave it a big long kiss. My panties were on the floor. "Okay," I said, straddling him and scooting up to his face, "now you kiss me and see what happens." The boy may have had no direct experience, but I was delighted to find that he'd been studying those instruction manuals. And what he didn't know, he learned real fast.

His eyes were hardly the only part of his face glistening when I lifted myself back up. By then he was standing well back at attention. I slid off his bottoms, peeled off my shirt, then nestled back down for a long slow ride. That whole summer was one long slow ride. The horny little bastard would jump me at the breakfast table if he had half a chance. And if he did, I'd let him. Mostly he didn't, simply because I found it impossible to wake up before lunch. My bed was very warm every night, and my room just stank like the seashore. And what a smorgasbord would awake me at noon. Needless to say, I had him doing my laundry as well. Which he was happy to do.

I'd be leaning over the washer and we'd unbalance the load. Christ, our parents got so worried they nearly sent him to a psychiatrist to figure out why their mopey little adolescent son was suddenly cheery as a Christian all the time. I led them away from that line with lies. Don't question, just be grateful. Like, and show your gratitude with a big increase in my spending money, since I'm the one he's been banging his nuts off with. Keeping them drained and dry and the size of peas.

There might have been eventual complications except that there was a time frame already rigidly emplaced. His special summer school would end exactly when I went off to college that fall. Fortuitously, my final weekend in town coincided with what our parents historically called their Lost Weekend, an annual event that tended to blur into the several days before and after the definition, in which they and a couple couples they were famous friends with motored a few hours away to a big lake and a rented houseboat. Around the time I was old enough to be the designated baby-sitter in our household I comprehended as much as I cared to about what that whole scene was about. For that final year, I planned a festival of so-called sin. As the dutiful daughter, I was sitting on the baby on the hour and the half hour. While they were off swabbing the decks or whatever, we were busy profaning every surface in the house. I would set my alarm, and the poor boy would wake up to find his wet dreams bursting into reality. While they on the water were gorging on grilled everything and gallons of cocktails, we barely stopped for a crust and a sip. I'm not sure what surprised him the most: that a girl could scoot down and redirect him to that other hole, or that a finger tickling up his could make his withered weary thing rear and roar like a stallion within moments.

We were up way late that last night, setting records that still stand in my book. Having fucked away the morning like cats, we had a long languorous bath together, then lunched like royalty. Then by mutual agreement, we dozed away the afternoon, our rest continuing well into the evening. After that was my treat. My treat, and decidedly my pleasure. I kept count and kept clock. And kept control. I had 47 orgasms, from mild and smiley to where the cresting of pressure was nearly enough to burst my eardrums out and send blood shooting from my nose. He was moaning and groaning throughout, pleading and threatening to kill me. I made him wait six hours, and when I finally let him explode I was afraid for fifteen minutes that his heart had burst. He was willing it, murmuring, let me die now, please, let me die now.

We whispered and sighed until nearly dawn, enjoying a last slow quiet fuck along the way. Before he left to be in his own room when our parents dragged home, I informed him, "You have the knowledge now. From now on, any girl you want, all you have to do is coax her into going your way. But be wise and beware and be choosy with this power," I intoned, feeling at the time that I was sounding like an oracle in a bad movie, "because once you get a girl in your bed she'll never want to leave." Several days later I was ensconced in my new dorm room, and it was quite a number of years before I saw my brother again. For other reasons, I'd purposely chosen a college so far on the east coast that I never need go home again. The distance was so great that not only was it impossible to come home for Christmas, I could barely manage to send a card. By that winter, I'd secured a summer job just a spit from campus. Four years later I was deciding on graduate school-- the scholarships and grants and work-studies sounded much better that some dumb long-term job--when my brother went off to college in the nethers of the west coast for reasons undoubtedly similar to my own.

I began to view doctorates as badges to be sewn on your sleeve. The only restriction seemed to be the length of your life span's sleeve. He paced his engagement so that he had his Masters in his pocket first. I was too far afield to attend the ceremony, though I did break with my postal phobia to ship them a nearly priceless--which I'd managed to secure at nearly no price--carved jade interpretation, albeit abbreviated, of the Kama Sutra. I'd thought to include a note admonishing the couple not to open it until the honeymoon. I received an exquisitely engraved thank you note, written and signed in her hand. The text of the note was a staccato of exclamation marks. It wasn't until three years later that I got to meet and greet the happy couple. Happy was hardly the word. I'd unfortunately placed myself within close enough distance to be shamed into attending a family reunion. My brother and his wife and I shared adjoining rooms in the hotel. I wasn't surprised to find she was A+ in smarts and wit and personality. Genial and friendly and warm. And the packaging!

Tits like silicon can only aspire to imitating. Meaty but still slinky, legs like that. Waist and hips out of a painting. An ass, in the vernacular, that just won't quit. Her face would make the cover of any month of Vogue run off and ruin their mascara. But as far as the looks went, it was like no one had ever bothered to tell her, and she'd never seen a mirror. Too often I've witnessed the general truth that the more luscious the packaging, the meaner the contents. Gorgeous women who dole out their passion in direct proportion to the latest weight of karats on their fingers. It was rather refreshing to watch her in action. What I found rather amusing was mostly viewed with mortifying embarrassment. They'd been married for enough years the flame under the pot of love was supposed to have been turned down to just an occasional simmer. There weren't any extraneous rings to slow down her fingers, and every moment she pretended no one was paying attention, she had her hand slipped down the front of his pants to fondle her personal Excalibur. There was quite the party all night long in the next room. I had to smother myself with the spare pillow and diddle myself to sweet dreams. At the big breakfast the next morning, their eyes were just beginning to glaze over with sleep. I nudged my brother, "Sounds like you learned your lessons real good." He just gave a little grin. Then his eyes widened and his grin grew larger. Other parts of his anatomy were evidently enlarging as well. Even unflappable me was a little shocked when I realized that that unstoppable slut had her hand in his lap and was discreetly jacking him under cover of the tablecloth. Then I noticed that she was staring around his profile straight at me, with a long languid smile. It was precisely those unmoving lips which answered the question I'd been harboring unasked. The two had obviously kept no secrets from each other. And likely there would have been a little tap-tapping on the connecting door if I'd been able to alter my itinerary and stay over an extra night.

That would have certainly been an evening so well worth the effort that I've been juggling the logistics of another meeting ever since. Generally in such situations, if a woman is willing to share her man, she's panting to share herself as well, which is always pure delight as far as I'm concerned. While the configuration might seem opposite of ideal, I'd say it works out about equal. The instances when I've been the one girl have been grand. If you get the timing right, you can find yourself getting fucked almost constantly all night long. And not to mention the treat I've experienced of reaching the peak with my cunt, butt and mouth stuffed with cock. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a hell of a lot of cock. Imagine creaming like crazy while they all explode in unison. The problem is that guys are so shy about each other. They'll applaud each other but I guess it's too homo to go the half-step further. I could lay back with my hands behind my head and come like a tiger just watching two guys getting acquainted. The furtive, tentative exchange of hands on foreign members evolving into a hard sucking sixty-nine, but that's a rare sight indeed. That's what I like best about being with another couple. You reach that point where the guy's lying back looking so sad and spent. The fantasy of his life, albeit a common one, has come true, but now he's blown his wad and is recumbent in sorrow that the show is over. The two of you have been playing around throughout. Now you face each other. You each possess succulent lips and soft nimble fingers and pretty breasts topped with nipples still erect and aching. It's only natural. Your breath is still heaving. As you kiss and fondle, the air is heavy with the muskiness of sex. Your vulvas are still full and flush from hearts pumping like mad. One of you is dripping that big load of sperm, so of course the other bends down, and surely one good lick deserves another. Naturally, the sight of two women's heads buried in each other's thighs is enough to make any dead man groan and live again. Or two women plying and playing his cock with dueling tongues. When all else fails, the old tickle the prostate never does. Even if the boy never does get bouncing again, it hardly matters. He's got a fully equipped mouth and a pair of dancing hands which he's not going to let go to waste, and then it's like having three girls tumbling in the sheets. And that's something I'd never pass up. One of the most wicked pages in my memory scrapbook involved a Memorial Day weekend at a lake-side cottage with two perpetually horny women. Assuredly, every single moment of that weekend was memorial. I don't even recall the lake itself. But the problem with the All-Female Revue is that too often there's an implicit totality of commitment that's just not my piece of cake. I mean, it's the icing, delicious and super sweet and I will lick the whole bowl clean, but I'll always be wanting to fill up on a big old piece of the cake itself. Sometimes I want my legs to be spread wide apart because there's something crammed up between them. A couple of skinny wriggly fingers don't fill the bill, and call me a traditionalist, but I have absolutely no interest in having a big buzzing tube of polystyrene shoved up my twat. Battery-powered isn't the voltage of my dreams, and the idea of looking down and seeing a power cord trailing away like a rat tail to the closest outlet, well, my major concern is about sexy not safety. I've seen those pliable rubber monster dicks up close, and all I have to say is you'd never be able to wash the smell of it off you.