Life Isn't Fair!
Lubrican
Life Isn't Fair
by Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2020 Robert Lubrican
License Notes
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*****
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
Chapter One
Life isn't fair. I learned that when I was barely sixteen.
I know, I know. All of you, out there in reader land, already knew that. You probably learned it when you were a teenager. But it was a revelation for me. If you think back on it, it was a revelation for you, too, the first time it hit you ... really hit you ... that there were things beyond your control that could have a huge impact on your life or future, and that the whole scenario just wasn't fair.
For me, it was when my mother opened our front door and caught me kissing Todd Giles ... with his hand in my panties.
I say "caught" intentionally, because that's how my mother perceived it. Never mind that he didn't ask me first. About groping me, I mean. I was kissing him voluntarily. I admit that. He's a great kisser. He's just also a miserable human being. I didn't know that then. Actually, I didn't know it before he put his hand under my skirt and into my panties and almost got a finger in me. And then I didn't have time to break that finger and set him straight because my mother caught us (again, her point of view) before I could react. At that point, things got out of my control.
I suppose it was partly my fault. I chose to wear a skirt that night. Todd took me to a barn dance and I wanted to be a teeny bit naughty by letting those panties show when I twirled. But it wasn't an invitation for him to molest me. He'd tried to touch my boobs before, but I always brushed his hands away from there. I'm not a slut.
But now my mother thinks I am. And my father, too, who didn't take a lot of convincing. He's grumbled at me for years about how I dress. My brother Tommy was only too eager to believe it. How did he find out? Well, my mother melted down when she "caught" us "almost having sex!" and screamed for dad, who about had a heart attack. He was dozing in his chair, "waiting up" for me with mom. And this was at least the fifteenth time I'd gone on a date. Geesh! Tommy must have overheard her wailing about how I wasn't a virgin anymore, and how no decent man would want me. Like that was imminent or something. I was sixteen, for pity's sake! I'd only had my driver's license for three months. It was going to be a little while before I got put on the old auction block and sold off to some college graduate with an MBA. That was my dad's dream; that I'd marry a stock broker and be rich enough to take care of him in his old age.
So there I was, right after the door opened and Mom said, "Cassie!", which was about to be followed by, "Come inside, now." I should have expected that, too. It was what a cop would have called her M-O, her modus operandi, when she knew I was back from a date. She gave me just long enough to say a few words and then called me in. I was, going, "Mom ... Mom ... it's not what you think, Mom!" and Todd, miserable human being that he is, just stood there grinning like he should be congratulated. I'm a little amazed I could even say anything, because I was also thinking about how what he'd just done had felt while he was doing it. I mean sure, he only touched me there for a few seconds, but it was the first time another human being had ever touched me there! Then Mom screamed and that insolent grin on Todd's face became a grimace and he took off running like the miserable coward he is.
And then Dad showed up, with Tommy right behind him, even though it was way past Tommy's bedtime, and the whole world went to shit.
Sorry. I don't normally curse. But the world, at least my world, really did go to shit that night. And there wasn't anything I could do about it, because nobody would listen to me explain anything. It was out of my control.
It wasn't fair.
Of course now that I'm older, and have had some heart-to-heart talks with my poor parents, I understand things better. Like the fact that my father, my stodgy old dad, with his beginning beer belly and receding hairline, was a virtual satyr when he was in high school, chasing every skirt he saw. Which included my mother's skirt. He nailed her when they were sophomores in high school. Then they broke up and he chased a bunch of other girls, which made my mother furious. So she catted around with other boys to make him jealous, even going so far as to arrange for him to catch her with another boy between her legs.
Yeah. My parents! You could have sold me the Brooklyn Bridge when Mom told me that. She was trying to justify how they reacted to Todd's attempt to "woo" me. And knowing that background, knowing that my mother was a slut, and my dad a complete role model for Todd, helps me understand why they reacted the way they did. But I didn't know that then. I didn't find out that information until I was nineteen, and a whole lot of life had tumbled me along like a leaf in a hurricane.
It's still difficult for me to sort it all out, which is why this may seem disjointed to you. I'll try to think about it and tell it in a more chronological manner from now on.
So, back to that night. I was banished to my room, and then ignored, while they decided my fate. I know I was ignored because Tommy came into my room (without knocking) with a grin on his face and triumph in his eyes.
"You are in sooo much trouble," he giggled. He was fourteen ... and he giggled. That's how immature he was. Then he actually capered around, doing a little dance of joy. Why he hated me and loved my misfortune, I'll never understand. I never did anything to him! He would have pointed out all the times I dimed him out for breaking rules, or lying about something to Mom and Dad, but that was my duty as his older sister! He was an idiot, and somebody had to save him from himself.
Never mind. Don't get me started on Tommy. I chased him out, throwing my lamp at him. It was plugged into the wall and only went as far as the cord would let it, but he got the idea. Actually, it went a little farther than the cord would let it. It came unplugged and the room went black. I made a sound like a cougar and he fled. Maybe he thought I was going to bite him.
If he'd stayed ... maybe I would have bitten him. But nobody came to find out what all the commotion was about. I was being ignored.
I fumbled around in the dark, tripping over things as I went to the door. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I should clean up my room. I made it, though, and flipped the switch. I plugged my lamp back in, but it wouldn't come on. I figured the bulb had gotten wonky when I threw it and, since I didn't have anything better to do, unscrewed the bulb and went to get another one. We keep those in the closet in one corner of the kitchen, where my mother and father were still having their breakdown. I got yelled at for not being in my room, where I'd been sent, and when I held up the bulb and said it had gone out, my mother said, "Well, you deserve it!" and started crying. I went back to my room with the old bulb. I didn't feel like reading anyway.
It didn't blow over. My mother, remembering her own lack of teenage control, was convinced that the only solution was to send me to boarding school, one for girls only. Seeing as how it was the first week of June, however, that wasn't really an option, at the moment. So Dad rose to the challenge and called my mom's brother, who lived on a ranch in Montana, thirty miles from the nearest convenience store. That convenience store was in a town called Geraldine.
The ranch was also ten miles from the nearest teenage boy. My dad actually asked about that, and begged Uncle Bob to sequester me on the ranch until they could order a chastity belt.
He didn't actually say that about the chastity belt.
Then again, there were some parts of the conversation I couldn't hear.
I did not have a choice in this brilliant solution to an age-old problem. I'm talking about boys and girls being attracted to each other. My mother was so intent on not allowing me to become the old her, and my dad was so worried that all boys were like he'd been, that they sort of had the equivalent of an emotional stroke. They were paralyzed. By the end of summer, they would have healed from this stroke ... but by then it would be much too late for the virtue of their one and only daughter.
This is where the music in the movie goes: Dun dun DUN!
But it wasn't that dramatic. Not at all. It wasn't dramatic because neither me nor Uncle Bob had any intention of anything happening to my virtue at all.
It just happened. I'm not sure how. In fact, that's the whole purpose of writing this story. It's to help me figure out what happened, how it happened, why it happened. I'm going to re-live it in my memory, and write it down just like things happened, and think about stuff.
I have time. The baby isn't due for another month, but I was diagnosed with preeclampsia and the doctor put me on bed rest.
I keep getting ahead of the story, but I'm telling it from the here and now, instead of like diary entries. So I'll try to keep on track.
Uncle Bob wasn't enthused about babysitting an sixteen year old girl. We weren't a close family. I'd seen him maybe three times in my life, at family reunions, and never talked to him at all. My dad basically begged him to take me in, "Just for the summer, Bob, I swear, just until we can make other arrangements!" It sounded like I had AIDS and was being sent to a hospice to die while my bereaved parents arranged for the funeral.
I had tried several times to explain to Mom that I hadn't let Todd do that, but it was water off a duck's back. It had brought back too many memories of other boys, with their hands in her panties, and how much she'd loved it. She'd loved a lot more, too. There wasn't AIDS back when she'd done that, in the sixties. If there had been, she'd have been one of the first victims. I'm not being mean. She said that herself.
Anyway, it became clear that there was nothing I could say or do, and that my internment was going to happen. So I started collecting books I wanted to read, and music I wanted to listen to. I didn't plan on making waves in Montana. Who knew where they'd send me if I did that? A convent, maybe? I figured I could work on my tan. I could text my girlfriends and stay current that way. They were all horrified at what was being done to me. I found out later Todd couldn't get a date until school started because the girls boycotted him all summer. Just because of me! Is that friendship or what?!
Dad drove me up there. Maybe he was afraid I'd take off into the unknown if allowed to board a bus or plane by myself. You hear all those stories about teenage girls going to California to be "discovered" and becoming prostitutes instead. He drove straight through, because he had to get back for work. I wore my headphones the whole way. I had to do this, but that didn't mean I had to be civil about it.
Uncle Bob wasn't there when we arrived. Maria, his maid, was the only one around. She said, "No English" in a thick accent and handed us a note. In it, Uncle Bob said he was fixing a fence and for us to make ourselves at home until he got back. Maria took me inside. Dad left my suitcases on the porch and drove away. It was almost dark when I heard tires crunching gravel. I was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, with a blanket wrapped around me. It was pretty chilly in Montana. This dark pickup (it would turn out to be rust-colored) clanked and coughed its way around the barn. The lights weren't on, but the setting sun was shining through the glass. I could see a single occupant in it. I'd been admiring the sunset which, I had to admit, was pretty phenomenal, so I just sat there, waiting.
This tall, gangly guy got out of the truck, looked around like he expected to see his brother-in-law's car, and then trudged toward the house. I was easy to see. The setting sun was on me like a spotlight.
"You must be Cassie," he said. His voice was mellow. I couldn't see his face because that setting sun was spotlighting his back.
"And you must be Uncle Bob," I returned.
"Your dad leave already?"
"Yup. Had to get back for work."
"He always is in a hurry," said my uncle.
"My dad? You mean the one who procrastinates about everything?" I asked.
I didn't see him grin, but I heard it in his voice.
"I guess life changes all of us. You eat, yet?"
"I didn't think I should be that much at home," I admitted.
"Nonsense," he snorted. "You're one of the herd, now. I'm starved. Let's get some vittles. I can't wait to hear your side of the story."
"My side?"
"There's always two sides to every story," he said. "I've only heard one of them about what got you here."
That's when I relaxed for the first time since Todd Giles shoved his hand into my panties.
I think, in retrospect, what made me like Uncle Bob so much was that he was the first adult to treat me like I had a brain. I had complete freedom, the kind of autonomy a kid dreams about, as long as I wasn't doing something that was likely to hurt me or one of his animals. That sounds odd, when you factor in all the chores and jobs I got assigned. Let's see. There were so many things. I'll try to remember them all but I might miss a few.
He had chickens and they laid eggs. I became the egg lady. Maria had been doing that. Maria was probably delighted I was there, because I took a lot of work off her back. I had to feed both dogs, and put out food for the cats where the dogs couldn't get to it. He had a few goats and sheep that he let run around free for the most part, but every once in a while they had to eat some kind of vitamins or supplements or some such thing and I got assigned to go catch them and lead them back to the house on a rope, where he took care of giving them their medicine. There was a peacock on the ranch, too, but all he did was sit up on the roof of the barn and make noise. I didn't have to do anything with him except throw out some feed for him once in a while.
I had to brush down the horses each day and I actually learned how to milk a cow. You had to do that twice a day. I learned how to drive a tractor, and what the various implements I could hook up to it did. I helped while a calf was born when it got all turned around in its mamma's innards.
Maria did the dusting inside, but I had to sweep the porch daily. I had to do my own laundry (though not his) and since he didn't have an electric dryer, I had to learn how to hang stuff up on a clothes line.
Hmm. What else? Oh. Riding fence, looking for breaks in the barbed wire. I did that a lot. He said I helped herd cattle, though all I really did was sit on my horse while it capered about and the dogs ran around barking like crazy. Oh. I handed him tools. I must have handed him a thousand tools. And then there was the garden, which grew wonderful, tasty vegetables, but also grew lots of weeds. I bet I pulled a zillion weeds that summer.
There was more. Maybe I'll remember it as the story goes on. And looking at what I just wrote, I know it sounds strange to say I had all this freedom, but I felt like I did. Part of that was that I could say what I wanted to and he didn't yell at me. He might disagree with me, or argue with me, but he never put me down. I could wear what I did or didn't want to wear. One example of that was that I hated my bras. All of them. I have learned since then that I just had the wrong ones, but back then all I knew was that they squeezed and pinched and hurt. And the first time I left one off and Uncle Bob didn't say anything, or make me go put one on, it felt fabulous. I should say here that it was obvious whenever I didn't have a bra on. I have these nipples that are constantly stiff. They didn't tingle or anything. Not then. They just stuck out a mile. I don't know why. They just grew that way.
Nowadays they do tingle sometimes. Like when I squeeze them, or when someone else squeezes them, and especially when somebody sucks on them. But that's getting ahead of the story again. My point is that my stiff nipples didn't create an uproar at the ranch, like they would have at home. I could curse if the occasion called for it. Like when my horse went too close to a fence and the barbed wire tore both my jeans and leg to shreds. Well, maybe not to shreds, but it felt like it.
That was the first time, by the way, that things got intimate between me and Uncle Bob. That's not the word I would have used at the time, but it's the only one that seems to fit, now.
Back in the real world they'd have cut those jeans off of me in a frantic medical manner. Not Uncle Bob. He ordered me to shuck my jeans so he could survey the damage. I stood there on a July day, wearing a checkered shirt and just my panties, while he fussed with my leg. He had stuff in his saddle bags to treat such wounds and he slathered on this goop, running his hand up and down my lower leg. The stuff stung, but then dulled the pain, so I was happy. I wore those jeans the rest of the summer, by the way. I cut off the damaged part and made them into shorts. Back in the real world they'd have gone in the "medical waste" bag and been burned.
So he'd seen me in my panties, and the world hadn't turned upside down. I should point out that I'd been riding a horse all morning, which had pushed the gusset of those plain, white, cotton panties up between my labia. So seeing me in my panties meant he saw a distinct camel toe. I didn't see that at the time, but he did. He looked at my boobs all the time, but that was no big deal. Every guy I ever met since I hit puberty spent time looking at my boobs. That's because I could give a young Dolly Parton a run for her money in the boob department. To me, they're just boobs, but guys seem fascinated with them. Uncle Bob was no different, except that he whistled a lot. They were just little bits of air that made noises as they went between his teeth. About the fourth or fifth time he did that after looking at me I asked him about it.
"Why do you do that?" I asked.
"Do what?"
"Whistle. You do it all the time."
"That? It's just an old habit. I didn't even know I was doing it. Sorry. I'll try to stop."
"I didn't say it bothered me," I said. That was another thing about Uncle Bob that I liked a lot. I could say something semi-confrontational like that and he didn't take it personally. You could just be honest with him, and that included when you were honestly perturbed about something.
"Then why did you bring it up?"
"I just wanted to know what it meant," I said.
"Oh. Well, that involves a truth you might take offense at," he said.
"What?" I was confused. What could whistling have to do with either truth or taking offense?
"Well, you got sent here for being a normal girl, right? I mean doing what normal girls sometimes like to do."
"No," I said, my voice level. "How many times to I have to tell people I didn't let Todd grope me?"
"Right," he said. "See, the problem your parents have is that they have a somewhat checkered past and, with your looks, it's easy to believe you might want to do something like that."
"What?" I felt heat come into my voice. "What does what I look like have to do with anything?"
He wasn't upset by the fact I was yelling.
"Have you ever seen a sunset, or maybe the mountains, with snow on them, and just been in awe of how beautiful they are?" he asked.
Well, sure I had. But since that had nothing to do with anything, I didn't feel like being cooperative. So I just jutted my chin at him and stared at him.
"When that happens to me, I whistle like that," he said. "It just means I'm a little in awe of how beautiful or amazing something is."
I blinked. My mouth opened, and then closed again while I blinked some more. My mind was all discombobulated. I knew this because it almost sounded like he was saying I was beautiful and amazing. Like a sunset, or the mountains with snow on them. I guess my confusion showed, because he made it crystal clear.
"Sweet thing, you're just a joy to look at. Them titties of yours make a man happy just by getting a chance to see them." Now he blinked. "Covered up, I mean," he added, uncomfortably.
"My titties? I can't believe you called them that!" I said with honest outrage.
"It's just a word," he said, all nonchalant like.
"It's misogyny!" I accused.
"That's not true at all," he said, completely calmly. "Misogyny is the dislike of, contempt for, or ingrained prejudice against women. I have no contempt for you. I like you just fine, and I'm not prejudiced against you at all."
I should note here that Uncle Bob had a degree in animal husbandry or some such thing and was neither a hick nor stupid. He talked like he was both, sometimes, but I think that was just an act. Then he went on and tried to ruin the erudite manner of his little speech.
"I merely said you have a great rack, that I often find amazing and fun to look at."
I knew he was messing with me, but at the same time it made me feel good for some reason. Had any other male on the planet told me he thought my "rack" was superb I'd have kicked him in the balls. But coming from Uncle Bob, it felt different, somehow.
"It is completely inappropriate for you to stare at my breasts," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. After all, I happened to be wearing a mostly white T shirt at the time, and my nipples looked like they were trying to claw their way out of the shirt, into the sunlight.
"That is culturally true," he said, "but seeing as how I'm a man, it's unlikely I'll be able to avoid doing it in the future." He smiled. "Just being honest and all. And that's my point. Culture has convinced us that when a girl looks like you, she's involved in sex. She has to be. Why? Because the viewer wishes that he or even she could be involved in sex with that girl. Why do you think super models are super models? Because everybody wishes they could have sex with them. After all, somebody's having sex with them, right? It just has to be that way. That's one of the reasons your parents thought you were letting Todd grope you."
Now this particular incident happened after he'd seen me in that shirt and panties. So as I lay in bed that night, I thought about that. He'd whistled back then, too, but I thought it was at the wound on my leg. Wasn't it?
I decided not to ask him about it. I wasn't sure I needed more truth right away.
I watched him after that. He looked at me all the time, and sometimes it was "that way" if you know what I mean. Well, if you're a woman you know what I mean. But it didn't bother me, because it didn't feel like it felt when other men ogled me like that. He was just this guy I liked a lot who liked looking at me. I wasn't scared. I didn't think anything would happen. And nothing did happen ... except he looked a lot and whistled sometimes.
Maybe two weeks later, while we were out on the gator with fence mending supplies, I asked him about it.
"So you think I'm this hot babe, right?" I said, suddenly.
"Don't let it go to your head," he said, glancing sideways at me. His eyes went to my boobs, which were bouncing wildly under my shirt as the gator hit bumps. I ignored him and went on.
"So if I'm so irresistible and hot, how come you haven't tried to put a move on me?"
"Well, let's see," he said, slowing down next to a sagging wire. "There's the fact that you're my niece, which would make it incest. And then there's the fact I'm old enough to be your daddy, though I have more sense than your actual daddy. Then there's how it would be incest. Then there's the part where I haven't had a woman in years, and would probably make a fool of myself. Then there's the incest angle. Oh, and how about the fact that the average girl your age thinks of men my age as being fossils. Oh, and it would be incest. And seeing as how women all seem to think men only want one thing, if I tried something with you I might get accused of being misogynistic."
I ran all that through my brain and realized he'd never said, "Because I don't want to," or "Because I don't think of you that way," or "Because I think it would be better if we were just friends."
Now mind you, up to this point, I had never thought of my uncle as a potential partner in things sexual. He was rugged, and nice, and warm. I liked him, probably more than I'd ever liked another adult. I respected him, too, which also put him in a different category than most adults I'd met. He was as strong as an ox. I had never seen him naked, of course, but had the impression he was pretty buff. But I didn't think of him as being ... sexy. I did think of him as being "older". He was, after all. But I would never have put him in the same category as my father, in terms of age. My dad was a geezer, plain and simple. He was going to fat, getting bald, and would never hop, skip, or jump again, most likely. Uncle Bob, on the other hand, could climb a tree as well as I could. He could chase down a calf on foot, hop in and out of the saddle, and work from sun up to sun down. As I stared at him, I realized Uncle Bob was a ... man!
"Man." It's a word with many meanings. You can be a man, by virtue of your age. You can be the man, by virtue of wearing a badge. You can have a manly appearance, but be completely juvenile in your outlook and actions. You can be a faceless part of man-kind. But then there's a special category of "man" that conveys something almost mystical. Sometimes that's called by the completely unsatisfying term, "real man."
In movies, "real men" are portrayed by actors like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, Dwayne Johnson, Mark Wahlberg, LL Cool J, and the list goes on and on. But it isn't the actor who signifies a real man. It's how he behaves in the role. Uncle Bob behaved like that.
So as odd as it sounds, sitting there in that gator, beside a sagging strand of barbed wire, and my uncle, that was the first time I felt a sexual thrill about a guy.
"So let me get this straight," I said. "Basically, what you're saying is that, if it wasn't for the fact that I was your niece, and that it was incest, you might make a move on me."
"I did not say that at all," he said.
"No, but that's what you meant, right? Between the lines, I mean."
"Maybe you are like your mother. It sounds like you want me to hit on you," he said. His eyes dropped to my chest again.
"Now we're talking about things I didn't say at all," I said, smugly. "Wait!" I said. "What do you mean I might be like my mother?"
"Never mind that," he said. "I was just runnin' my mouth."
I remembered another remark he'd made that I had meant to ask him about, but never had.
"And you said my parents had a checkered past. What was that about?"
"Cassie, don't go poking your nose where it might not be welcome. Your parents had their problems, like everybody has problems. Let's just leave it at that."
"That's not fair!" I yelled. "You can't say things like that and then not explain them!"
He kept resisting, but I wore him down. That's when I learned a little about my parents' wild, unbridled sexual activity when they were my age. Uncle Bob had had a ringside seat to it all. My mother would confess to details later, as I already said, but Uncle Bob gave me the down and dirty of it.
"Well, just because my mother acted that way doesn't mean I would," I finally said.
"If I asked you to take that shirt off, would you?" he asked. He wasn't looking at my boobs, now. He was staring straight into my eyes.
"If I asked you to take your pants off, would you?" I rejoined.
"I'm wearing underwear," he said. "You're not. Isn't the same thing."
I felt a shiver go down my spine. I wasn't sure what was going on here. All I knew was that I had started it. And he wasn't running away, all scared and proper.
"I'm just trying to figure out how to feel," I said, trying to rein in what seemed like something that was getting out of control.
"I get that," he said. "And that means you're vulnerable. It would be kind of inappropriate of me to take advantage of you when you're vulnerable." He smiled. "That's why I behave myself around you."
"But if you didn't have to ... it wouldn't bother you?" I wasn't sure what I was trying to do.
"If you're asking if the concept of incest with you bothers me, then no," he said, calmly. "If you're asking if I think you're a little girl, and therefore not worth my time or energy, then that's no, too. If you're asking if I think something going on between us would work, I'd have to say I doubt it. Do I understand that you could be curious? Sure. Is it complicated? You bet your pretty little ass it is. Now, that fence isn't going to fix itself. How about we table this discussion and take it up later?"
I think it was the ease with which he said all this, like we were just two friends talking about some issue, that set my mind at ease. While we tightened up that strand of fence, I thought about things.
By the time we got back to the house, I had decided that some part of me wanted men to notice, and appreciate, and yes ... want me. But I wanted all that from afar. I wanted to be adored like most of those supermodels are adored, by people who would never actually interact with the object of their desire.
What I didn't want was the complexity and complications of being adored close up and personal, like Todd wanted to do. I might want it some day, but men were currently banned from adoring me up close and personal.
Well ... most men.
There was only one man I could think of who might be exempt from that.
Uncle Bob.
Chapter Two
The conversation had been tabled, so I didn't bring it up again. I wasn't the president of this confab, or whatever you wanted to call it. Uncle Bob tabled it, so he had to be the one to bring it up for further consideration. That was the way I felt.
On the other hand, after two days went by and it didn't come up again, I decided I might be able to encourage him to bring it back up.
This is when, that summer, it got too hot in the house to wear the pajamas my mother had packed for me. I should explain, here, that modesty reigned supreme at our house. Bare skin was not welcome at the table, or in the living room, or anywhere outside the bathroom, for that matter. My parents had apparently "gotten it out of their systems" as kids, because they didn't engage in lots of hugs and kisses and little interchanges of public displays of affection. My brother and I both wore pajamas to bed. That's all I'd ever known.
But Uncle Bob had seen me in my panties.
So I decided a T shirt and panties could become my "summertime" pajamas.
We fixed the fence on a Tuesday. I wore my new PJs on the following Thursday night.
I had no reason to show them to him. We normally just went to bed when it got late. We didn't engage in the "Good night [so and so]" thing, or do good night hugs, or any of that. Usually, both of us were tired and after supper we just took a shower and went to bed. Both of us read in bed, but I never made it more than a few pages before I dozed off. I suspect it was the same for him.
It was for this reason that I decided I needed to go get a good night hug. It was an excuse to appear before him in my new jammies. I admit it. I wanted to see what his eyes did. It did not occur to me that Uncle Bob might be one of the millions of people in America who sleep in the raw. I didn't know about them, back then. I thought everybody owned and wore pajamas.
When I breezed into his bedroom he was bent over, facing away from me. He was in the process of raising his right foot out of his boxers. His cock and balls were hanging down like some odd, stumpy middle leg. His ass was so white it looked like paper.
"Oh!" I yipped, completely flabbergasted by what I was seeing.
He whirled and that stumpy, middle leg swung out from his body and, for a brief instant, pointed at me before it kept going, drunken and unable to stay upright. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I thought "sausage" and "worm" and "hot dog" but none of those fit. Worm was the closest, because the skin looked like the skin of a worm, but it was too short and fat to be a worm. My dad had taken me fishing with him one time, and the night crawlers we used for bait were long and skinny.
"You wanted something?" he asked. I could tell he was trying to act normal, but was flustered. That actually made me feel a little better.
"Um ... I ... ah ... came to get a ... um ... good night hug," I stammered.
"Dressed like that?" Now I heard something closer to his normal voice. "This is new," he commented, further.
"It's too hot to wear regular pajamas," I said, weakly.
"Do you still want the hug?" he asked.
I finally lifted my eyes from his penis. He was smiling at me! Laughing at me!
"Should I put my pajamas on first?" he asked. "Or is this good enough?"
"This isn't fair!" I blurted.
"Fair? What does fair have to do with anything?" he asked.
"You've done all this kind of thing before," I complained. "You know how to act, what to do. And you shouldn't laugh at me."
"I'm not laughing at you," he said. "Uh oh."
I heard something in his voice when he said "Uh oh" that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"What?" I asked, looking around. I expected my parents to jump out of the bathroom, yelling, "Surprise!" and then seeing us like this and having two whole litters of kittens.
"You may recall how I said you were ... ah ... cute?"
"You never said I was cute," I argued. "You said I had a great rack."
"I was telling the truth," he said.
If his eyes hadn't flickered downwards, I might have stood there for a long time, clueless. But when they went down, they didn't go to my breasts. They sort of just jerked down and then right back up. So I looked down, too.
We had a section on human reproduction in health class. I'd never seen one, but I knew in theory what an erection was. Suddenly, I was looking at my very first one. I only got a glimpse of it, though, before he turned his back to me.
"It would be inappropriate for me to hug you like this," he said. "Good night."
I wanted to argue with him. I wanted to stay there. I wanted him to turn around and face me again. I wanted ... more ... except I couldn't articulate what "more" meant, even in my own mind. And I knew he was embarrassed, and that if I stayed, he might get mad. I didn't want Uncle Bob to be mad at me.
"Night," I said, and I turned and literally ran back to my bedroom, like some scared little girl.
I plopped down on my bed, trying to be disgusted with how badly everything seemed to have gone. I couldn't be disappointed, though. I had seen my first penis. And it had gone from soft and short and floppy, to an erection. I knew what that meant, in a cloudy, misty kind of way. Guys got erections when they were turned on. Guys got erections when they wanted to have sex. Except I also knew that boys at school got them all the time. Girls - at least some girls - looked for them, like people on boats go whale watching. There were little signs that a boy might be stiff in his pants. Guys thought they were being clever by carrying books in a way that covered their groins, but who does that naturally? Your arms hang at the sides, not in the front. You'd see a guy grab his crotch and move things around. Or you could just see a bulge that had definition, in terms of length. One of those girls I mentioned might nudge a friend and dart her eyes towards a guy, and whisper, "Thar she blows." Then they'd giggle.
But with the number of "whale sightings" that routinely went on at school, it couldn't mean all those guys were in the middle of an "I want sex!" episode. So I wasn't sure exactly how to interpret Uncle Bob's boner. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about it. Slowly, I came to the conclusion that it had been because of me. I didn't know if it was my new PJs, or because he was naked and I was there. I had a hard time believing that me just being there could result in that. I was "there" a lot during the day and I'd never seen any indication that he had a whale in his pants. Of course I hadn't looked for a whale, either.
Thinking of whales made me suddenly think of "Moby Dick." I'd read that the previous summer. The "dick" comparison made me giggle, and then laugh, until I turned over and buried my face in my pillow so he wouldn't hear me.
Eventually I turned off the light, but I was too excited to go to sleep. I had masturbated before, but only rarely. Once in a while I'd get fired up, usually after seeing a romantic comedy at the movies.
I did that now, and thought about Uncle Bob's whale. I grinned, but didn't giggle.
It felt wonderful. I could feel warmth flooding my body and I kicked off the covers, spreading my legs. My panties felt confining, so I pulled my knees up and tugged them off. I felt lewd, with my legs spread wide, even though it was dark. Usually I just rubbed my clit until I felt enough delicious tingles that I was happy. I wasn't sure whether or not I'd ever had an actual orgasm. That's like answering the question, "Have you ever been in love?" How can you tell? I mean there's no sign that pops up in the sky that says, "Congratulations, Cassie! You're officially in love!" There's no sign for the other, either.
This time, though, the tip of my middle finger went in me a little bit, and it felt good, so I pushed more in and something itched, so I scratched, hooking my finger and wiggling the tip. I knew nothing about G spots back then, but have learned since that I had one. I still do, too, and my G spot is my friend.
I think the reason I went so much longer this time was because I was so worked up. Seeing Sandra Bullock kiss Hugh Grant is one thing. Seeing a real, live erection that you caused is entirely another. And it was the first time I had scratched my G spot, even if I wasn't aware I was doing it.
Anyway, no sign was needed, because I had an orgasm. There was just nothing else to call it. It was like the difference between stepping out and feeling the sun on your skin, and then feeling a second degree sunburn. Except it didn't hurt, of course.
The problem was that my voice made it sound like it did hurt. I wasn't even aware I was yelling until the lights went on and Uncle Bob was standing there, stark naked, but without an erection. The worm was back.
"What's wrong?"
His voice told me he was worried. I froze when the lights went on, and held my breath by instinct or something. There I was, sprawled like a slut, with my finger in my pussy. Part of my brain said, "He's still naked! That's interesting." Then a bigger part of my brain felt shame and horror. My body was just thinking about curling up in a fetal position, when he flicked the light switch and the room went dark again, except for the rectangle of light his silhouette was in.
"Sorry," came his disembodied voice. "Carry on."
Then the door closed and it was completely dark again. My body actually kept going, but my knees only bent and I rolled on my side. I relaxed and realized my finger was still inside me. Carry on?! What the heck did that mean? Who said things like that? Carry on? And why was he still naked?
I felt energized, suddenly, not sleepy at all. There were a whole bunch of questions bouncing around in my head. "Why was he still naked?" kept bouncing to the front of the line, but then it would get pushed aside by, "Why didn't he make me stop?" His reference to carrying on was obvious, in terms of meaning, except it made no sense whatsoever. Adults didn't approve of masturbation. Everybody knew that. That's why people did it in secret. My parents would have freaked out, had kittens, and then had heart attacks on top of all that if they had caught me with my finger in my pussy. I believed that with every fiber of my being.
But Uncle Bob had said he was sorry! Sorry for interrupting me? Not possible! Sorry that I was obviously a hopeless, depraved slut? More likely, but unlike him.
I was worried. I was afraid that him catching me like that meant our relationship was ruined. Would everything be awkward from now on? I still had months to stay. I knew my dad had written to Uncle Bob that they were having trouble finding a boarding school that they could afford. I'd seen the letter lying on the table. In it, my father had asked how much of an inconvenience it would be if I had to stay a little longer. That would mean I'd have to start school in Montana. Uncle Bob hadn't said anything to me about all this, though. Apparently there were negotiations going on, and I couldn't ask about them because I obviously wasn't supposed to know. I didn't want to get caught snooping.
I got agitated and I think maybe my mind started to freak out. If Uncle Bob kicked me out, I didn't know where I'd end up. I kept thinking "convent" except that we weren't Catholic. Did convents take non-Catholic girls?
I got so worried that I came to the conclusion that this needed to be worked out now. I looked at the clock on my night stand. It was ten PM. On the ranch, that was "late" at night. Back home, I wouldn't even be in bed, yet. But I needed to beg and plead not to be sent home, or to some other equally dismal place.
So I went to talk to Uncle Bob about it.
All this reflection seemed to have taken ten of fifteen minutes, in my mind. By that, I mean I felt like that much time had passed since he flipped off the light and left in disgust. Looking back on it now, I realize it was more like two minutes. I know this because when I pushed his door open, he was standing there, jerking his cock like he was trying to rip it off his body. I got there just in time to see him arch his back and groan, and then a stream of white leapt from the tip of his penis and arched up into the air before landing in a white line on the wooden floor in front of him. He grunted and reloaded his organ exactly like he reloaded the pump shotgun he used to shoot at crows out in the pasture. Another line of white followed the first, except it didn't go as far. He pumped again and this time just a three inch squirt came out. He kept pumping, but all that happened was the tip drooled some semen and he gasped for air. His eyes were closed and his face was towards the ceiling while all this happened. Then he leaned forward and, somehow, I knew he was going to open his eyes and see me. I realized I hadn't put my panties back on, and was standing there in just my T shirt. Instinct made me duck back and pull the door almost closed.