How the Women got Plastered and Patrick got Busted
Lubrican
How the Women Got Plastered and Patrick Got Busted
by Robert Lubrican
Bookapy Edition
Copyright 2007 Robert Lubrican
2nd edition edited 2023
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapters: Foreword | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15
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Foreword
There are ridiculous plots in books. This is one of those. But it's just for entertainment and because it's kind of fun to write something so off the wall and impossible. That's because it's completely possible in our imaginations. The other thing about silly plots is that it opens things up for humor that won't detract from the flow or break a carefully constructed "mood." I love humor and one of the best compliments I get is when someone tells me that something in one of my books made them laugh, and what that was. This is not to say I'm a humorist. I am not. I think lots of things are funny that other people don't, and vice versa. But I hope you laugh as you read this. That would make both of us happy.
Bob
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Chapter One
I have no idea how this happened to me, and I don't know what to do.
Okay, I know how it happened on a cerebral level ... I just can't quite believe it happened. I mean, how many almost-seventeen-year-old guys have seven women ... on tap, so to speak? Oh, sure, I know all almost-seventeen-year-old guys dream of getting to fondle and suck on seven women's tits, not to mention...
I'm getting ahead of the story, though. I'll just tell you what happened, when I was almost seventeen, and since then. Then maybe you'll understand why I'm so wigged out about all this, as my grandmother would say. My grandmother has a lot to do with this story, but then ... well ... you'll see.
I'm Pat, Pat Turner, and I'm a certified Mensa type genius. It all started when I got into the gifted program in High School, and got to go off-campus to the local State University, where I was allowed to take a class. I did that during the summer between my Junior and Senior years. I had always thought about being a doctor, so the class I chose to take was Biology, 101.
Well, actually, I suppose it started long before that. Technically, I suppose it started when I got caught staring at my mother's breasts. I know I used the word "tits" before, but that was because I'm so wigged out. Breasts deserve more respect than that. I learned that in the most intimate way possible.
My mother is Lonnie Turner. She and my dad got divorced when I was about seven. It was messy, and I don't see a lot of him. That has made it hard, because I'm the only male in the family, unless you count Uncle Danny and I'm not sure he counts. More on him, later. Anyway, I'm surrounded by women. There are my two sisters, Randi and Tabitha, or Tabby, as I like to call her, and then there are my two aunts, Aunt Vanessa and Aunt Christy. And, of course, my Grandmother is around a lot, since she only lives a few blocks away. She's Grandma Mona, and her last name is Turner too, because she got divorced, like my mother. I never even met my grandfather.
Divorce seems to be the family curse. Aunt Vanessa is divorced too, and my sister, Randi, was going to get married, but she and her boyfriend broke up a month before the wedding. She always says she was the generation to get it right - to kick the bastard out before they got hitched. She laughs whenever she said that, but her eyes aren't laughing. The other big joke was to call Aunt Christy the "black sheep" of the family, because she is happily married. Her last name is Mulligan. She didn't mind being the black sheep in the family. She said they have a lot of sheep in Ireland. She's not Irish, but adopted her husband's pride in where his people came from.
Anyway, my mom and her sisters are very close, so my aunts are always around, at least on a lot of evenings, and on quite a few weekends. Being the only male among six women is one of those good news, bad news kinds of deals. The good news is that, in this case, I was surrounded by good looking women. The bad news was they were all independent, and all of them except Tabby, who was only fifteen, and Aunt Christy, who was married, had a lot of mistrust for the males of the species.
I can't tell you how many times I heard, "Stop acting like a man!" That usually happened when I was trying to get my own way about something. Of course, the other thing I heard, pretty often, was "You're almost a man now... act like one!"
You can see how this might get frustrating.
I said all these women were good looking. I'll probably get in trouble if they ever read this. Actually, I'll have to run for my life and become a hermit if they ever read this. I should have changed the names and all that stuff, but it's too late for that now. Anyway, my mom is thirty-seven. She's about average height and built like a brick shithouse. They all are, really. Even Tabby, at fifteen, was well on her way to being curvy. Most of them, except for Tabby and Aunt Vanessa, have about the same shade of brown hair, though they all wear it in different styles. Tabby and Aunt Vanessa are blond. Me too, for that matter. Aunt Vanessa is thirty-four, and Aunt Christy is twenty-eight. Randi is nineteen, and goes to Wickham State University full time. Since I'm already in trouble for telling their ages, at least my mom and aunts, I may as well tell you Grandma Mona is fifty-four. She had my mother when she was really young, like seventeen, but then they did that in those days, so I suppose it's no big deal. She says Aunt Christy is her "marvelous little accident", because she only meant to have two kids. I think that had something to do with her divorce, but I'm not sure. Anyway, she also says that's why only Aunt Christy has stayed married. That didn't make any sense to me, until I also found out that my grandfather, who I never met, wasn't Aunt Christy's father. I wasn't supposed to find that out. More on that later.
I know this is sounding a little disjointed, but I have to tell you lots of things, to help you (me?) understand what happened, and I think of something else I need to say about every twenty seconds, so be patient. It'll all make sense in a little while. The other problem is that, despite me being a genius and all, there were all these things I didn't know about. Things happened and I didn't know about them until later, so this narrative will be sprinkled with that too. My English Lit teacher says I write really well, and she's one of the best teachers I have, so at least take her word for it, and read on for a while. I promise it will all make sense, eventually.
So, my mom, my grandma, Aunt Vanessa, and my older sister all think men were put on the Earth to make their lives difficult. And I'm a man, according to them, at least sometimes. You see how this is going. Aunt Christy is only a little more than ten years older than me, and she doesn't hate men. Tabby, at fifteen, just thinks I'm stupid, but I don't think that has anything to do with being male. I'm just her brother, so I got awarded natural stupidity.
I mentioned Uncle Danny and he's involved in all this, so you need to know that. He's married to Aunt Christy, is the same age as her, and he's Irish, with flaming red hair. The Irish have a reputation for their anger and wild emotional side, but he isn't like that very often. Not only that, he's the only man in the entire world, as far as I can figure, who is immune to the slings and arrows all the man-haters in my life throw around with great regularity. He ignores them, for the most part, but he's also a really nice guy, who can talk about anything, and do that while he repairs almost anything. He spends a lot of time at our house, fixing this and that. I'm not allowed to fix things, even though I'm technically a genius. I'm more "man" than I am genius, apparently.
They take out their frustrations on Danny. I'll give you an example.
One Friday night, the whole crowd was at our house. We have a home theater setup (which Danny installed, of course) and everybody had brought a DVD over. Then they sat around and decided what to watch. None of the man-haters go out on dates, and Tabby isn't allowed to date until she's thirty, according to my mother, who has never smiled once when she said that.
So, there we all were, gathered in the family room to watch a movie. Just because they hate men doesn't mean they all look butch. No way. They love feminine things, including lounge-wear.
Like most adults, they had things bass-ackwards.
When I was younger, and didn't notice women all that much, the lounge-wear was conservative. It covered everything. At least that's how I remember it. As I got older, and began to get very interested in women ... at least women outside my own family ... women who might actually be normal ... the ones I was exposed to constantly started wearing things around that can only be described as advertising their sexuality. You know the stuff I'm talking about. Skimpy stuff. Stuff you can almost, but not quite, see through. Stuff that emphasizes all the female parts. That kind of stuff.
There are some kind of mystical rules about this that men aren't allowed to be privy to. For instance, Tabby was wearing a T shirt one time that plainly advertised her nipples. She also had on a pair of panties, which was quite usual. Aunt Christy and Uncle Danny were coming over, and Mom made her change panties. The reason she had to change her panties, according to our mother, was that one could see through them. So Tabby put on another pair of bikini panties, which you couldn't see through, but that clearly showed her camel toe. That was fine. No see-through underwear allowed, but if you want to show Uncle Danny the shape of your pussy ... that's just peachy.
Her pussy was kind of peachy, come to think of it.
Never mind.
Anyway, on the night I'm giving you the example of, everybody except Grandma and Aunt Christy were dressed like that. Uncle Danny sat down, reached for a throw pillow, plopped it in his lap, and said, "Christy, why do you keep bringing me over here? You know what these women do to me."
There were giggles.
Aunt Christy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're much more fun when you've been around them like this," she said, licking his ear.
"I feel like one of Pavlov's dogs," said Uncle Danny. "I get here and bam! - the reaction sets in."
He was like that. They were obvious about teasing him with their bodies, and he was obvious about noticing it. Except that he was a complete gentleman about it. He never made it obvious he was leering at anybody, and he carried on conversations like he wasn't hard as a rock. They all knew he was hard as a rock, but he was special, and it was okay for him to be that way.
"Speaking of reactions," said Aunt Vanessa, "When is it ever going to be my turn to borrow Danny?"
All the man-haters asked to borrow him from time to time, even Grandma, and everybody always laughed. Aunt Christy always promised to set up a schedule for them, or said she was still working on the schedule she'd started, but that it wasn't ready yet, so they'd just have to be patient. The poor guy sat there with a boner almost every time he came over, but of course, he knew it was all just fun and games. He was the only real man around, which meant all the women played this game of claiming a little bit of him, even if it was only to be noticed, or appreciated as good looking, or whatever. It was about as dysfunctional a situation as you could imagine, but it seemed to work for everybody. I don't know. Maybe Danny just liked to have a boner all the time.
The problem, was that they didn't pay any attention to me.
It's not that I wanted to lust after them or anything. But they were good looking, and there was a lot of flesh exposed, and it did affect me. Of course I was just "Pat", and nobody expected me to react like Danny did. And, of course, I couldn't react to it in any of the ways Danny could. Like putting a throw pillow on my lap. I'm telling you, it was torture.
Which brings me to the day I mentioned earlier, possibly the day it all started.
It was breakfast, and it was Saturday. I was sitting at the kitchen table, minding my own business, eating cereal, when Randi walked in, wearing what seemed like the official dress around our house - T shirt and panties. My mother was wearing the same thing, though her T shirt actually went to her hips, instead of exposing a pierced belly button, like Randi's did. She was fixing toast when Tabby came in, also in a T shirt and panties. None of them were wearing a bra.
So I stared. Any guy would, right? I like breasts. I never met one I didn't like. Well, actually, I hadn't ever gotten to really meet one, at that point, but you know what I mean.
I think I might have been daydreaming a little, because my mother's voice surprised me.
"Pat, don't stare at my breasts," she said. "It isn't polite."
I realized that was, in fact, where I was staring. There were two other women in the room, each with a set of breasts. My eyes slid to Randi.
"And don't stare at your sister's breasts either," scolded my mother. "What's wrong with you anyway?"
As I said, according to IQ tests I've taken, I'm a certified genius. My response was quite natural, from that perspective.
"Mom," I said calmly. "I'm a seventeen year old boy."
"No you're not," said Tabby, sounding triumphant somehow. "You won't be seventeen for another month."
I stared at her breasts for a few seconds. She actually blushed.
"It's rude, Pat," said my mother. "No matter how old you are."
I may have been a certified genius, but I was still only sixteen.
"So, how come Uncle Danny gets to stare at everybody's breasts ... and I don't?"
Well, it went downhill from there, but as I think about it, that may have been the spark that started the little glow that burst into flames, that turned into a conflagration that almost consumed me.
The glow, as it turned out, got going in my Biology 101 class. If you've never taken college biology, you may not know that part of the course of instruction is to track the changes in the human body over time. I mean long periods of time here. For instance, five hundred years ago, people's average height was five foot, four inches. People were lighter, and smaller overall, by comparison to people of today's world. The theory is that lifestyle had to do with that. Five hundred years ago people didn't consume twenty-five hundred calories a day. They also worked a lot harder, and went everywhere they went on foot, whether it was their own, or on top of some animal, whose feet did most of the walking. Basically, as people's lifestyles changed, their bodies changed too. It's part of what's called evolution.
Anyway, we had to do a term project. I thought and thought about what I could do, and I was thinking about it while I was sitting in traffic one day. The car in front of me had one of those magnetic ribbon things stuck to the back. It was pink, and it said something about breast cancer on it. I listened to public radio, from time to time, because you get a better spread of news, and that pink ribbon reminded me of a story I'd heard about the increase in breast cancer all over the world, and how nobody could agree on why it was happening. I didn't think I could do anything in the area of breast cancer itself for my project, but it got me to thinking about breasts in general.
I was also enrolled in a summer art class at High School, and the class took a field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. At one point I found myself in a gallery of paintings, and I noticed that, in all the paintings of nude women, none of them had huge knockers. In fact, most of them had decidedly small ones.
I looked around. There were women everywhere, and there were all sizes of breasts on those women, from flat, to huge. Genetics might count for some of it, but lifestyle had to be playing a role too.
Thankfully, my art teacher was a man, Mr. Barducci. I had a really good relationship with almost all my teachers. More than once a teacher had said "What an interesting question, Pat!" Maybe it was that, or my IQ, but, for whatever reason, I was able to talk to most of them on a level that was much more relaxed than the average student-teacher relationship. I went to find him.
"Hey, Mr. Barducci, can I ask you a question?" I asked.
He smiled and nodded.
"In all the paintings I see around here, the women all have small breasts. Did all women back then have small breasts, or did the painters only paint the ones with small breasts?"
He blinked. "That's an odd question," he commented. I think he was under the impression I was pulling his leg.
"No," I said. "I mean it. It just seems odd. If you look around, all the women around here have breasts of varying sizes. But not in the paintings. I'm taking biology at Wickham State, and that's what made me think about this."
It took him a few seconds to decide I was actually serious, and was asking a serious question, instead of just being a boy.
"Well," he said, bringing his hand up to his chin. "Actually, back then, a woman was thought to be more beautiful if she was heavy." He looked at me to see if I tittered. I didn't, and he went on. "You see, back then, people were so poor that they were rarely fat, so women who were heavy were those who were privileged. They had access to more of the comforts of life, and didn't work as hard, so they were considered more attractive than a woman like that would be today."
"That all makes sense," I said. "But it doesn't answer the question about the breast size."
"To be honest," he said, "I don't know about that. I do know you're right. Most of the famous paintings of nudes, including the paintings of imaginary women, like goddesses and such, all have modest breast sizes. I don't know why, though. That is kind of interesting, now that I think about it."
So now, besides just thinking about breasts in general, I was thinking about how, if old paintings were anything to go by, that women's breasts had been getting bigger and bigger as the years went by. Well, some women's breasts anyway.
But that's how evolution works. Some of the natives develop differently than others, and, if that development gives them an edge, then their genes get passed on, while the ones that weren't as successful fade out.
So then I got to wondering why, if it was an evolutionary thing, larger breasts would be preferable to smaller ones.
Now I admit, right up front, that if I was given a choice of seeing large ones or small ones, I'd ask to see both, but I also knew that, if it was an evolution in breasts, there had to be some kind of evolutionary reason that it had happened. Either that, or it was just a result of better diet, which allowed things to grow better than they had in the past.
The next thing I did was talk to my Biology professor. I called her Cat, instead of Caitlin, like almost everybody else did. Her last name was Ziersinnskannova, which was Russian. Her husband was an immigrant to the United States, and drove a truck. Nobody could pronounce her last name, so she just told everybody to call her Caitlin. She was really different in other ways too. She was very slim, and her haircut was just weird. Half her hair was regular, except that it was bright red - I mean lipstick red - and it fell to her jaw. The other side of her head was either shaved, or had a quarter inch of hair on it, depending on how she was feeling. She was incredibly smart, which may have had something to do with why the university would hire her, even though she looked a little freaky. I had to have her permission to get into her class, and she interviewed me.
The reason I called her "Cat" was because, besides her last name being unpronounceable, she called me "my little genius" in class, which pretty well ensured that I wouldn't make any college-aged friends. I didn't really mind though. I was just there to get credits and find out whether Biology was my thing or not. And she let me get away with calling her Cat.
She was sitting at her desk, going over papers.
"Hey, Cat," I said, announcing myself.
"Well if it isn't my little genius," she said, looking up. The front of the Dutch boy cut of her hairy side tended to fall across her face, so you could only see one of her eyes. "What kind of fascinating discussion are we going to have today?" she asked, smiling.
"I need to ask you something about breasts," I said.
Her expression didn't change. "Go ahead," she said.
So I told her about the museum, and my conversation with Mr. Barducci, and my thoughts on whether it was environmental, or genetic. I ended with my question. "So does a larger breast make more milk? Or maybe better milk?"
She laid her pen on top of the pile of papers and leaned back. Now I could see both eyes.
"There are sometimes issues with production," she said, her voice in that kind of drone that means a person is speaking from memorized facts, "however, none of them have anything to do with size." She folded her arms. "Large breasts may produce more milk, however, the only situation that would be critical in is if there were multiple mouths to feed. The average baby can't consume what the average breast will produce. Some almost always goes to waste. Women with quite small breasts almost never have issues with producing enough milk to feed a baby."
"Great," I said, ready to leave.
She held up a hand, signaling me to wait.
"In most cases, a woman's breasts adjust production to the rate at which her baby feeds. If the baby eats often, her breasts produce enough to feed often. If there is longer between a baby's natural hunger cycle, her breasts will produce more slowly. In either case, though, there is usually extra, regardless of the size of the breasts."
"Okay!" I said. "Thanks!"
"One moment," said Cat.
I must have slumped, or something. She snapped at me, the first time she'd ever done anything even remotely like that. "Don't be impatient!"
"Sorry," I said. When you're a kid, and nothing is really at stake, you always apologize to an adult, even if she's a weird looking adult. I stood there and waited.
"Is this related to your term project?" she asked.
I nodded.
"I expect great things from you, Pat," she said.
"I'm only in High School," I reminded her.
"No, you're not," she said firmly. "You're in my class ... a college class. I have great faith that you will do something interesting and illuminating."
"Do you want me to tell you my plan?" I asked. "I haven't got it firmed up in my mind."
"No, I want you to surprise me," she said. "I just wanted you to know I have great faith in you, that's all."
"Thanks," I said. I meant it. She might look weird, but she was smart, and I knew that. Plus she was an adult, and adults didn't tell you stuff like that all that often.
"You can go now," she said.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
So, eventually, I thought up this project, wherein I would try to design a test to see if big breasts was an evolutionary thing ... or not.
What I figured was that, if men were attracted to a woman with larger breasts, then that was the purpose they were serving on the evolutionary scale - to attract a mate. On the other hand, if men were not attracted that way, in some identifiable way, then I would hypothesize that it was just a function of lifestyle.
Obviously, the way to start, was to get a bunch of men lined up, and give them choices, and see how that turned out.
Of course, when you're only sixteen, it isn't as easy as that. The first thing I thought of was getting pictures. But where does a sixteen year old get a couple of hundred pictures of breasts. And it had to be pictures of only breasts, and not the whole woman. If there were other identifiers, that could skew the results.
I thought about putting an ad in the paper, saying I needed to take pictures of a couple of hundred breasts. I gave that idea up almost as soon as I thought about it. Even if a bunch of women answered the ad, they might not be the ones I needed, and I was sure they'd want to be paid. I didn't have any money. And, even if they agreed to do it for free, that assumed I wouldn't be attacked by some jealous husband or something, and that I wouldn't get raided by the cops during the photography sessions.
It was a good idea. I just had to figure out a way to pull it off. The glow of that idea lay in my mind, and I worried at it, like I was trying to chew a piece of beef jerky.
Then, on another Friday night, the answer was suddenly presented.
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It looked like T shirt and panty night at the Turner house. Everybody but Grandma was there, and Aunt Vanessa was staying the night in Randi's room. The only woman not dressed in a T shirt and panties was Aunt Christy, who had on a T shirt and terrycloth shorts, which was just about the same thing. There were breasts everywhere, and I suddenly noticed that they were ... different sizes.
I got a book, and opened it, sitting back in an arm chair. I held it up so I could look over the top of it, and look around.
Tabby was the smallest, and, in my opinion, about the same size as those women in the paintings. Of course, she was the youngest too but in the 21st century, the age at which girls exhibited almost full maturation, body wise, was lots younger than it had been in the past. In other words, if I was establishing a database, of sorts, I thought it was okay to put her in it. Randi was next biggest, just a little smaller than Aunt Christy. My mother and Aunt Vanessa were about the same size, though my mother's breasts looked heavier. She was older, of course, and that might account for that. I wondered what the shapes of all those breasts looked like. I mean I wondered if they were the same basic shape, only larger and smaller versions. That seemed likely, since there was a genetic factor here. I thought about Grandma. I knew she had them, of course, but I hadn't actually stared at her breasts.
I got excited as I thought about this. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I got excited about the breasts themselves. But that wasn't it. At least not then. I had the full range of breast sizes, right there in my own house. If I could get photographs of them, and line them up, my test subjects would have a full line of breasts to look at, and could then choose which set was most attractive to them.
I got so excited about it I talked to my mother.
Well, I started to talk to her. Then it kind of fell apart.
"Mom?" I said the next morning. It was Saturday, and there were just the two of us in the kitchen, so far.
"Hmmm?" she responded, from the stove.
"You know that class I'm taking at college?"
"Yes," she said, not turning around.
"We have to do a term project," I said.
"Yes," she said, still stirring scrambled eggs.
"I thought of one, but it's kind of weird. I really think it could be cool ... but it's weird."
There was a radio on, on the counter, playing oldies. Something came on and she started swaying her hips in time with the music. She was wearing her short robe and panties again, which wasn't at all unusual. I watched her butt move, and felt myself respond to that.
I looked away. This wasn't at all what I was trying to do.
She turned around, an eyebrow raised.
"And?" she asked.
Her robe had a tie on it, but it gaped a bit where the closure went between her breasts. I realized I was staring at them, and averted my eyes.
"Maybe I could talk to you about it later," I said, chickening out.
"What's wrong with now?" she asked.
"Tabby might come in," I said. It was a lame excuse.
"And why couldn't Tabby hear about this project of yours?" she asked.
"It's ... kind of adult," I said, digging myself in deeper.
"Adult?" She sounded surprised. Why did everyone in this family think of me as a little boy? "What kind of adult?"
So I haltingly launched into an explanation of how we talked in class about how bodies change, and why, and how I went to the museum, and how I noticed that all the models in the pictures had small breasts, and how breasts seemed to have gotten much larger since then, and how that had to mean something.
I didn't give her a chance to break in. I think I was babbling a little. Anyway, at one point, she just moved the pan to a burner that wasn't lit, and sat down across from me, staring at me like I'd grown a third eye.
I rambled on, telling her my idea of taking pictures of breasts, to show men, so they could choose which kind appealed to them more, so I could tell if it was evolutionary or not, and about then, Randi walked into the kitchen.
"Shit!" I thought. Why couldn't I have been more organized about this, so I could explain it more quickly?
Of course Randi had no idea what I'd been talking about. She ignored the two of us at the table. My mother's mouth was hanging open.
"Like I said," I muttered, darting a look at Randi, "maybe we should talk about this later."
"We'll talk about this right this instant!" my mother gasped. "If you think I'm going to let you go off and take a bunch of pictures of naked women, then you have another think coming, mister!"
Randi turned around, a box of cereal in one hand, and a very interested look on her face.
I flushed. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it.
"That's not it at all," I said hastily. Too hastily. I was, after all, suggesting that I needed pictures of breasts. My mother's reaction to that didn't bode well for the rest of my "plan".
I stumbled on, in a panic. I should have just shut up, but I didn't.
"It's not like I was going to go out and ask strangers to let me take pictures of their ... to take pictures of them," I whined.
"Well, then," asked my mother archly. "Just who, exactly, did you plan on taking pictures of?"
"Couldn't we talk about this ... privately?" I begged.
"Young man!" she barked. "You have just informed me of your intent to take pictures of naked women! We'll talk about this right now!" she insisted. She was agitated.
"Not naked women," I complained. "Just their breasts!"
Randi started laughing.
"I knew men were perverts," she howled, "But I had no idea my own brother was one of them."
I put my head in my hands, my elbows on the table.
"Just their breasts," my mother repeated. "And whose ... breasts ... did you plan on taking pictures of? As you may have just heard me say, I'll not have my son out soliciting strangers to get a peek of their breasts, and take pictures of them!" she thundered.
"Not strangers!" I wailed, lifting my no doubt blotchy face. I was in full panic mode now. "Yours!"
That wasn't at all how I wanted to broach this tender subject. I dropped my face down into my hands and moaned.
There was a moment of silence, so long, that I began to wonder if I had magically gone deaf.
"Mine!" Her voice rose to that range you hear at operas ... you know ... the one that can break glass? Her horror at the idea was so obvious that I had to mitigate it somehow. Again, I opened my stupid mouth.
"And the others," I squeaked.
"What others?" asked Randi. She was obviously loving this.
"Yours," I gasped, "and Aunt Vanessa and Aunt Christy and Tabby. Grandma's too." I almost passed out as the words left my lips. "They're all different sizes!" I gasped, sealing my doom.
I knew my life was over. If I was only grounded until I was thirty, I'd be the luckiest guy on earth. I got up to flee. Who needed breakfast now? It was probably better that I hadn't eaten anything. If I had, I'm quite sure I'd have thrown it up.
"Where are you going?!" screeched my mother. "You get back here this instant!"
All that did was make me run faster. I tripped on the stairs, and fell, banging my shin painfully. I almost welcomed the pain, as I crawled up to my room.
Chapter Two
I found out later that my mother intended on dragging me, kicking and screaming back to the table. Randi stopped her. While I was hiding under my covers, upstairs in my bedroom, Randi told Mom to calm down, and dragged everything out of her that I'd said.
This was one of those times in your life that people talk about when they're twenty years down the road ... the ones where you laugh like crazy about it then - twenty years down the road - but it was just mortifying when it actually happened. Maybe Randi recognized that. For that, or some other reason, she told me later that she went to the fridge and got my mother a beer. At seven-thirty in the morning. And she said my mother slammed the whole thing too! All the noise had awakened Tabby too. She shuffled past my door right about the time I was climbing into bed and pulling the covers over my head. I think her showing up in the kitchen, wanting to know what all the shouting was about might have helped calm my mother down a little bit too.
Anyway, not at all like the man I was trying to be, I cried like a baby under the covers. I was still sniffling, and thinking about ways to kill myself that wouldn't hurt too much, when there was a knock on my door, and I heard it open.
You can't stop the sniffles just because you want to. I tried hard. I rubbed my nose practically off, under the covers, but it didn't work.
I felt somebody sit on the edge of the bed. I hoped whoever it was didn't have a meat cleaver. I had my back to her, and if the first blow cut my spinal cord it might just leave me paralyzed.
"Boy, you sure know how to liven up a lazy morning," said Randi.
"Go away," I mumbled, sniffing some more, despite my best efforts.
"Guys don't cry," she said, swatting me on my hip. I was lying in a fetal position.
"News flash!" I yelled. I didn't have the energy to keep yelling. "They do when they do something that stupid," I moaned.
I felt her hand on my hip again, but she just lay it there. "I wouldn't call it stupid, exactly," she said. "Ill-advised, maybe, or not well thought out. Ridiculous comes to mind, but not stupid."
"Mom thought it was stupid," I mumbled.
"You're not stupid," she said calmly. "You're the only genius in the family."
"Most famous geniuses go crazy," I moaned. "I know how they feel, now."
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Come out from under there and talk to me." Randi's words sounded harsh, but not her voice.
She didn't give me the chance. She pulled at the covers. I wasn't expecting it, and when I grabbed for them, I missed. I had to settle for covering my head with my arms.
"Stop it, Pat!" Randi barked. Then she goosed me.
I ended up on the floor, looking up at her accusingly. She had a grin on her face. It did nothing, whatsoever for my ego.
"Okay," I finally said. "Make fun of me and then get out!"
"I didn't come in here to make fun of you," she said. The smile vanished off her face, like smoke in the wind.
"You didn't?"
"No, Pat," she said soothingly.
"Why are you here, then?" I asked.
"I'm here because you are the only genius in this family," she said. "Mom told me what you said ... about the project ... and I know you're too smart to just try to pull something. That means you really were thinking about a project."
I might be the family genius, but Randi was no dummy.
"I was," I moaned. "I really was!"
"I know that," she said smoothly. "Mom will eventually figure that out too."
I blinked. She was right. Mom was no dummy either.
"You want to talk about it?" asked Randi. "Maybe we can fine tune this goofy idea of yours, and salvage things."
"If it's so goofy, why do you care?" I asked.
Randi sighed. "I'm in college, you dufus," she said. "I know how hard that is, and how unlikely it is to distinguish yourself from the thousands of other people just like you." She reached out her hand and helped me stand up. "And I know I'm never going to be special, like you are."
"I'm not special," I muttered.
"Yes you are, and you know that," she said firmly. "I've known for years that you're going someplace ... someplace important. You're going to be important some day. Can you blame a girl for wanting to have a little piece of that? ... for wanting to be involved with something that helps her genius brother explore his potential?"
"Really?" I was astonished. Randi had never said "Boo" to me about things like this before. I thought she spent most of her time ignoring me, and the rest of it not thinking about me.
"Mom is resting," she said. "Why don't you explain your idea to me, and we can talk about it, and maybe come up with something that won't shock the pants off her so much."
She patted the bed, beside where I was standing.
"I can't promise anything," she said. "It may be a stupid idea ... but I doubt it. You don't come up with all that many stupid ideas. You never have."
Randi was a Chemistry major, and I respected her for that. I knew she worked hard, and carried a killer load of classes. She didn't have time for anything else, except the confabs we had on Friday nights. That was about the only time she took for herself. She didn't date, but then, after what happened with her almost-marriage, and the academic load she was carrying, that wasn't so strange.
Which is how I ended up telling my older sister all about all the things I'd thought about, and my theory that bigger breasts had to have something to do with either evolution, or lifestyle.
She listened patiently, and asked a few questions. When I got to the part where I explained how impossible it would be for a sixteen year old boy to amass a quantity of the right kind of pictures, and how I had noticed that, within my own genetic pool, there existed a wide variety of breast sizes, she smiled, but it wasn't a mean smile.
"So you've been checking us out," she said.
"Only for scientific purposes," I blushed.
"Yeah ... right," she said, still smiling.
"Mostly," I whined.
"At least you're honest about it," she said. The smile faded a bit.
"I didn't explain it very well to Mom, I guess," I said.
"I don't know how you could, when she's going ballistic," said my older sister.
"So it really is a stupid idea," I suggested, to save her from having to do it.
"I don't know," she said, tilting her head a little. "Actually, I find the whole question very interesting. I don't know if this is a valid way to answer it or not, but it is intriguing. I do know that, despite what men say, breast size is important. I used to just be mad about that, but the way you put it makes me think I might have been a little hasty."
"Why would you be mad about it?" I asked.
She snorted. "To some men, all I am is a pair of breasts. And men make judgments about women based on their breasts. That isn't fair. A woman can't do anything about what her breasts look like, and that makes it very unfair to judge her based on that."
"You're wrong," I said.
She arched an eyebrow at me.
"What I mean is that it happens for a reason. There has to be a reason why some men think small breasts are better, and some men think big ones are better. And, whatever that reason is, wouldn't you want to know? I mean that could make a huge difference in how you interact with men ... couldn't it?"
"I don't see how," she said. "They either like my breasts, or they don't. They either see my breasts, or they see me. I, personally, would prefer that they see me, and not my breasts."
"But that's not realistic," I said. "Men do pay attention to breasts."
For some reason I looked at hers. I kind of liked hers.
"Yes ... they do ... don't they," she said, her voice wry. I looked up to find I had just been caught staring at her breasts. "Why do I feel so naked all of a sudden?" she asked.
"Maybe because you're not wearing a bra?" I suggested. "And because all you have on is a T shirt and panties?"
She actually blushed. "I suppose we are a little ... relaxed ... around you."
"And Danny too," I reminded her.
"That's different," she said. "Danny is safe."
"I'm not?" I asked.
"Not when you look at me like you just were," she said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"It means you looked at me like a man ... and not my little brother," she said.
"Well, you are a woman," I said, defending myself, "and not just my big sister."
She looked at me, her gaze level. She was still a little pink around her neck.
"I can't help but think that part of your ... plan ... is to get to see my breasts ... our breasts ... naked," she said.
"Well of course!" I said, frustrated. "How else can I get photographs for the project?"
"I meant you wanted to see them as a man, and not as a ... researcher." Her face looked a little pinched.
I thought about that. She had given me a break. She had listened to my idea, and hadn't laughed outright at it. She was actually willing to discuss it on a scholastic basis. I at least owed her the truth.
"Okay," I said softly. "I admit it. You're all babes, even Mom. Any guy would love to see you naked. There! Does that make you happy?"
She blushed again. "It shouldn't," she said softly. She looked me up and down. No woman had ever looked me up and down quite like that. I felt like I was being examined and evaluated to determine whether or not I was fit to be called a man. "But, in an odd, kinky kind of way ... it does."
I know I must have looked like I was having a heart attack, because she laughed. Then she fanned her face with one hand.
"I'm going to have to keep an eye on you, little brother," she said, giggling. "When you get to college full time, you're going to be dangerous!"
She got up and left then. I watched her buttocks rise and fall as she walked to the door. She looked over her shoulder, to catch me again, and paused.
"Why on Earth it makes me feel so good when my own little brother looks at me like that is beyond me," she sighed. "Don't you do that to Tabby. You'll scare her spitless."
Then she was gone, and I was left wondering what, exactly, had just happened. My attention was suddenly drawn to a part of my body that, an hour earlier, I was afraid might be removed by my mother, perhaps with a rusty knife. I stared at my own underwear.
I may have forgotten to tell you. While my sisters, mother and aunts all ran around in panties, it wasn't unusual for me to run around in my jockey shorts too. It was all a part of the cultural sub-set that was our little family. We were relaxed around each other, and had been for as long as I could remember. Modesty just wasn't an important part of our sub-set's value set.
I looked down at my jockeys. The bulge was unmistakable. My dick was hard as a rock. I had no idea how long it had been like that, but I had been standing in front of Randi for at least five minutes, while she sat on the bed. It had to have been there when she turned around, just before she left, and warned me about scaring Tabby.
I'd gotten a hardon for my own sister!
And she knew it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I slipped out of the house a little later, and didn't go back until suppertime. My Mom was at the stove again. This time she had on slacks and a blouse. Tabby was already seated at the table, which was already set. Randi was in the den, studying, as usual.
Tabby looked up and grinned.
"You are in so much trouble!" she yipped happily.
My mother turned around.
"Where have you been all day?!" she almost yelled.
"Um ... just ... out, I guess," I said.
"You're supposed to tell me where you're going, so I won't worry about you when I can't find you!" said my mother angrily.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't think you'd want me around."
She looked stricken, like I'd said she was ugly.
"Why not?" asked Tabby, very interested, now. Obviously nobody had told her about my ... presentation ... that morning.
My mother handed Tabby the big spoon she was holding.
"Stir the beans," she ordered.
She took my elbow and marched me into the living room. Once there, she suddenly hugged me tightly.
"I love you, darling," she said to the back of my head. "I'll always love you. You could never, ever do anything to make me stop loving you."
She pushed me back. Her eyes were shining, like she was about ready to cry.
"I was worried about you. I didn't know where you were, or if something had happened to you."
"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it this time. "I just ... was embarrassed, I guess. All I did was hang around the video arcade and walk through the mall." I didn't tell her that I'd taken another informal survey of breasts. I hadn't learned anything, but I got to see a lot of breasts.
She wrapped me up in her arms again, and this time I hugged her back. She had on a bra, which I noticed, for some reason. I felt her breasts crushed against my chest, and cursed at myself for feeling them.
My mother pushed me back enough to kiss my forehead.
"Just as long as you know I'll always love you," she said. "No matter what cockamamie ideas you come up with."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
That was it. She didn't yell at me any more. Tabby asked if I was grounded for going off without telling anyone where I was, and Mom barked at her for poking her nose into my business. Tabby sulked for a while, but got over it. Randi came to supper and acted just as normal as the day is long. Nothing about my project idea was discussed. I thought the whole thing had been forgotten.
I thought that for the whole next week. I kept thinking about it myself, of course, but from the perspective of how it would be done, and whether or not the results could actually be analyzed in any meaningful way. But it was mostly just a mental exercise. I didn't talk to my biology professor about it. I figured that, like a lot of ideas, it would never get off the ground. I wondered if just working up the idea for a study would be enough to count as a whole project.
The next Friday night, everybody gathered for the Friday night confab, just like usual, except for the fact that Grandma was there too. She didn't usually watch the movies with us, because she didn't like violence, and action adventure movies were big with the rest of the Turner women, for some reason. I once thought it had to do with seeing men getting shot, or knifed, or whatever, but then realized that was really jaded.
The only ones not there yet were Aunt Christy and Uncle Danny, and when they arrived, I knew something was up, because my mother told Danny to take me out for ice cream, and spend some quality time with me.
"Stay gone for at least an hour," she said, as if she had the perfect right to order him around. Aunt Christy just looked interested, and kissed him goodbye.
When we were in the car, Danny asked me: "What's going on?"
"You got me," I said.
"You in some kind of trouble?" he asked.
"I was, but not anymore," I said. "At least I don't think so."
"What kind of quality time are we supposed to spend?" he asked.
"Beats me," I said.
"What was this trouble you were in?" he asked. "Maybe I'm supposed to talk to you about that. You know ... give you some fatherly advice or something?"
"It's embarrassing," I said. "You don't want to hear about that."
"Try me," he said, easing around a corner toward Baskin Robbins.
I thought about the risk I would be taking if I told him, but then I thought about how maybe a man's perspective might actually help, so I went through the whole thing again, explaining the project, what it was supposed to do, and finally, who I had chosen for the photographs. We had been sitting in the Baskin Robbins parking lot long enough, by the time I got done, that the security guard was taking an interest in us.
Danny didn't say a word through the whole thing. When I was done, all he said was, "You're shitting me, right?"
"Nope," I said sadly. "I screwed up, huh?"
"Something's wrong here," he said.
The security guard tapped on the window, and Danny rolled it down.
"Anything wrong here?" asked the man, trying to sound official, and ominous.
"Yes," said Danny, "but it doesn't involve you."
"You can't just sit here," said the guard importantly. His hand caressed the mace at his belt. I felt really glad they didn't give this guy a gun.
"We're just talking," said Danny. "We're going to get some ice cream, but there are other things more important than that right this instant."
He rolled the window back up.
"Like I said," said Danny, ignoring the security guard, who was tapping on the window again. Danny's fingers drifted to the button and the door locks engaged. "Something's wrong here. Your mother sent you out with me to get ice cream."
"So?" I asked.
"So, why aren't you grounded, or hung from your heels from the ceiling or something like that? Why are you being rewarded with ice cream?"
"I think they forgot all about it," I said. "Randi came in afterwards, and talked to me for a while. She wanted to know the whole story."
"And you told her?"
"Yes," I said. "Was that okay?" I didn't tell him I'd gotten a boner for her. Some things you can't talk about, even during quality time.
The security guard started banging on the window with his fist. He was yelling at us. Danny pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. I saw him punch a nine and then the ‘one' button twice.
"Yes," he said into the phone. "I'm a customer at Baskin Robbins, and there's this crazy guy, dressed up like a security guard, and he's threatening us. I think he has a weapon, but I'm not sure." He listened for a minute. "Roger Cranston. We're in a blue Chevy Malibu. Yeah, the guy is foaming at the mouth and beating on our car right now. We can't even go in to get any ice cream. Can you send somebody over here? I'm really scared this guy is going to do something crazy!" He listened again. "Yes, Baskin Robbins, on third street. Can't you hear him?" He held the phone up to the window. The security guard went ballistic and started thumping on the top of the car. Danny put the phone back up to his ear. "See what I mean? This guy's dangerous. Oh shit!" he yelled suddenly. "I don't believe he's..." He punched the off button in the middle of his sentence.
Danny smiled and waved at the security guard. We heard sirens. The security guard looked up, and then smiled widely.
"You're gonna pay now, mother fucker!" he yelled as three squad cars screamed into the parking lot. The guard started running toward the nearest car, pointing back at us. Suddenly he pulled up and stood very still. A cop had gotten out of his car and had his pistol trained on the guard.
Danny rolled the windows down again and we heard the guard pleading, trying to tell them we were the bad guys. The cops kept yelling at him to get on the ground, and show them his hands, and freeze, all at the same time. Finally one of them came running in from the guard's blind side and tackled the guy. He was immediately swarmed by five more cops. I saw at least three sets of handcuffs flashing in the sun.
Danny started the car.
"Let's try Dairy Queen, what do you say? I feel like a Peanut Buster Parfait."
I giggled for a block, looking back at the scene of the crime, whatever the crime was.
Danny started talking about my situation again.
"They're up to something," he said. "Like I said, any boy who asked to take pictures of his mothers, sisters and aunt's tits would be drawn and quartered in any other family." He frowned. "Shit!" he said. "Mona's over there too!"
"Grandma?" I was confused. "So what?"
"Don't you get it, sport? They're talking about all this. That's why they kicked us out. They are, as we speak, discussing what to do about you."
"No way," I gasped.
"I bet they are," he said, pulling into Dairy Queen.
We got out and went in right away. You can only call 911 so many times before they begin to remember you, and get surly. He got his Peanut Buster Parfait, and I got a Blizzard, and we sat at a table, back in one corner.
"Why would they talk about it?" I asked.
"If it were any other family, I'd say it was to educate everybody on how dangerous and unstable you are, so they can take steps to stay away from you. But I married into your family, and I've spent every fricking Friday night over there for the last year and a half. Your family isn't like that."
"Okay," I said. I agreed with him, after all. "So what are they doing?"
He looked thoughtful. "I bet they're kicking it around to see if they want to do it."
"No way!" I gasped, choking on a very small piece of Oreo cookie in my Blizzard. "Mom almost exploded. And Tabby was there when we left. Grandma too!"
He shook his head. "You poor boy. You've lived with them a lot longer than I have, but you've been blinded by the trees. You can't see the forest." He took a big bite. "Your family is made up of the most avid teasers and exhibitionists I've ever met in my life who weren't certifiable lunatics. The thought of flashing their precious titties at strange men, even if it's in anonymous photographs, would appeal to them all, including Tabby." He grinned. "In fact, I suspect that Mona wouldn't mind shaking the world up like that either. She's a little more conservative, but some of the hello and goodbye hugs she gives me are downright pornographic."
"So you're not ticked off that I wanted to take pictures of Aunt Christy's boobs?" I asked.
He had an odd look on his face. He chuckled, but it sounded forced. "You have no idea. The woman is a hussy. If I didn't know better, I'd swear she uses ice cubes on her nipples before she goes out in public. She just likes to show off. They all do. I know she doesn't fool around. She just does it to get excited or something. I swear the others do it too."
"They sure do around you," I agreed.
He grinned. "I get a great show every Friday night. All I have to do is mind my manners, and it will go on for years. And, when I get home, Christy is so turned on that she's frantic to get me in bed. It's a great life, if you can get it."
"So..." I said uncertainly, "what do we do now?"
He looked at his watch. "We wait thirty more minutes, and show up with ice cream for everybody. You play your cards right, little buddy, and you just might get an eyeful."
"You think so?" I asked, astounded.
"I'll bet you the cost of the ice cream," he said confidently.
I didn't take the bet.
Chapter Three
Just act normal. That's what Danny had told me to do as we pulled up to my house. We carried in two big cardboard things with all kinds of ice cream packed in them. The women were all watching a movie. Even Grandma.
They made all the appropriate sounds of pleasure about the ice cream, but then ignored us, and went back to watching the movie, which was about halfway over. Danny sat down by Aunt Christy, who kissed his cheek and snuggled up to him. My mother patted the couch, between her and Aunt Vanessa, but didn't say anything. I sat down.
You know that saying about a nervous cat in a room full of rocking chairs? That's how I felt. I noticed Tabby kept looking over her shoulder at me. She was lying on the carpet, right in front of the TV. Her fifteen year old butt was showing, encased in a pair of pink panties that clung to her like a second skin. She had a look on her face that I recognized. It was her "I know something that you don't know ... and I'm not telling!" look. I began to think Danny was right. They had talked about ... me ... the newest problem in their female lives ... and what to do about it.
What I had no clue as to, was what they had decided to do about me.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I finally got a clue when the movie was over and Aunt Christy got up and told Danny it was time to go home. That was unusual, since they usually stayed until early in the morning. He didn't ask any questions, though, merely shooting me a look with a grin attached, as if to say, "Buck up, little buddy, I know I'm right."
All the other women sat there. When I started to get up, my mother put a hand on my thigh, keeping me there.
"We want to talk to you," she said, as Aunt Christy and Danny closed the front door.
"Me?" I asked, trying to play dumb.
"Yes, you, mister college researcher," she said, her voice flat.
"Oh ... that," I said, still trying to play dumb.
Tabby sat up and swung around, sitting Indian style on the carpet. Her panties clung to her camel toe, and she paid that no attention whatsoever.
Grandma took the floor, verbally.
"Randi explained your project to us all," she said. "It seems quite unusual."
"I guess so," I admitted.
"Let's say that, just for the sake of argument, you got to do your project. What would the photographs actually show?"
It was odd, but suddenly I was feeling lots better. Danny had been right so far - they had discussed it. I still didn't know if they would sign on, but nobody had yelled at me anymore, so I tried to think like a researcher.
"Well, I'd have to crop the photographs so that the only part of the trunk that showed was from the navel to the collar bones. There would be a background, of some kind, the same in each photograph. I don't know if color, or black and white film would be better. That might take some experimentation."
"So, there would be no chance that the ... models ... could be identified?" asked my grandmother.
"Only if there was some identifying feature ... a mark or a mole or something ... that someone had already seen," I said. "In real life, I mean." I looked around. "It's possible that somebody like that might recognize them."
"Who, exactly, would see these photographs?" she went on.
I didn't have firm numbers, so I winged it. "I don't know how many men I'd have to use to get a viable test bed," I said. "I also don't know where I'd get them yet, but they'd have to be a group that included men of various ages. For the sake of argument, I'd have ten teenagers, ten twenty-somethings, ten thirty-somethings and ten forty-somethings."
"None older than that?" she asked.
That seemed like a strange question. But I had an answer.
"Well, the idea is to see what attracts a male of breeding age. I don't think men older than fifty or so are still in that category ... are they?"
My grandmother stared at me. "Breeding age," she repeated, as if that were interesting. "I suppose you're right, but men stay interested in sex almost all their lives."
"Yes," I agreed, "but that doesn't have anything to do with evolution. Men above viable breeding age don't affect the population anymore."
"How old would the women be, then?" she asked, leaning forward a little.
"That's different," I said. "Age doesn't matter with women, in the sense that, if a woman beyond breeding age attracts a male, she actually pulls him out of the gene pool. She can have an effect on evolution. Imagine, for the sake of argument, that suddenly, the only attractive women were all in their sixties. All the men would be drawn to them, and the women of child-bearing age wouldn't have any children. That would have a tremendous effect on that society."
My grandmother stared some more. I was looking at her so much, I had no idea what the other women were thinking. They were all quiet as mice, though, so maybe that was good.
"You really have thought this through quite a bit, haven't you?" asked my grandmother.
"Yes," I said. "It isn't a joke."
"I believe you," she said. "Now, why don't you go get ready for bed. We women have some more talking to do."
I slept in my jockeys, which meant that "getting ready for bed" meant taking the rest of my clothes off, which would take what, maybe ninety seconds? But it was obvious they didn't want me around while they decided, as Danny had predicted, whether to be my models or not. I wasn't surprised my grandmother was there. She was the matriarch of the family, and still wielded a lot of power. What did surprise me was that Tabby was there. At only fifteen, I was amazed they'd even consider letting her take part in the conversation, much less the project.
I went to my room, stripped to my shorts, and lay down to read a comic book. Nobody came, either to tell me what they'd decided, or to put an ice pick quietly through my temple.
Eventually, I fell asleep.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The next day was Saturday, so I slept late. I didn't get up until nine, when my stomach drove me to the kitchen. It seemed awfully quiet, which is probably one reason I was able to sleep so late. When I went looking for people, Mom was sitting, curled up in an easy chair, in the living room, reading a book. She was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
"Where's everybody else?" I asked.
"They decided to give us some privacy," said my mother, looking up at me.
"Privacy? What for?" I asked.
"I'm going to be your first model for your project," said my mother. She didn't seem to have any emotion about it at all. It was as if she were announcing that the light bulb I needed to replace a burnt out one with, was in the cabinet.
"Wow!" I said.
"You sound surprised," said my mother.
"I am surprised," I admitted.
"You think we wouldn't support you in your studies?" Now some emotion crept into her voice.
"It's not that," I said hastily. "It's just that it was such an unusual thing to request..." I shifted from foot to foot. "I guess I just thought nobody would go for it."
"So," she said, standing up. "Where are we going to do this?"
Now, if they'd have warned me that they were actually going to go along with my crazy idea, I'd have thought it out a little better. I had a camera, and I knew I had some film around somewhere, left over from last year's vacation to Colorado. I didn't have a tripod, but when I was dreaming all this up, I figured I could get one of those pretty cheap at Wal-Mart or somewhere. I guess what I'm saying is that I had sort of half ass planned this, but the women had whole ass agreed to it. That's a weird way of saying it, I know ... but ... well, you'll see.
"I don't know," I said, unthinkingly, while my brain tried to speed up.
"What do you mean you don't know?" she asked, in mother tones. "I thought you had this all planned out."
I thought about backgrounds. My mind picture had cloth as a background. Don't ask me why. The only place in the house that had lots of cloth was my mother's bedroom. She had drapes in her room, instead of curtains, like all the other bedrooms. There was a bay window in her bedroom, six feet wide and five feet tall, with a bench you could sit on, if the drapes were open.
"Your bedroom," I said, voicing my thoughts.
"My ... bedroom," she repeated.
I explained about the drapes.
"Oh," she said. "Okay, then."
Imagine yourself as an almost seventeen-year-old kid, who has just been told that, in a few minutes, you're going to be taking pictures of your mother's naked breasts. Kind of puts a different perspective on it, huh?
My legs unfroze, and I went to get my camera. I tried to think of where I'd left that extra film, and got a little panicky, until I got lucky and found it in my junk drawer. That was the top right drawer of my chest of drawers, where I stashed stuff I couldn't figure out where else to put. It had all kinds of stuff in it ... a screwdriver ... a medal I won at a cross country meet ... five or six foreign coins I'd gotten here and there ... an extra cable for the VCR ... stuff like that. And two rolls of film.
I got them out and looked at them. 400 ASA black and white. Not the best thing to take portraits of anything with. Great for taking quick shots on vacation, as the car sped along, but for boobs? It was all I had, though, and I couldn't see me going back to my Mom and telling her we needed to run down to Wal-Mart before she showed me her boobs. By this time, I don't think I was actually thinking about this quite like a research project. In that room down the hall were some naked breasts, and I was going to get to look at them. If I didn't actually do that, quickly, it would all disappear in a puff of smoke. I would have known better, if I'd have stopped to think about all this, but my hormones wanted nothing to do with stopping and thinking.
I grabbed my camera and hustled down to my mother's bedroom. I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't to see her just sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for me. She had this funny sort of look on her face, like she was a little confused, or something.
"I have to load the camera," I said, stupidly. She just looked at me.
Two minutes later I was standing there, waiting. She was sitting there, waiting too. There was a powerful lot of waiting going on in that room.
"What do I do?" she finally asked. She sounded nervous. Why that surprised me would make a nice philosophical discussion, but the fact was that I was surprised.
"Well, I guess you have to take off your shirt," I said, wisely.
"Yes," she nodded. "I suppose so."
Her fingers went to the buttons, and I felt eyestrain already as my eyes tried to climb out of my head, watching skin come into view as each button was undone. Her bra kind of ruined the anticipation, but then I had stared at pictures of women in bras for hours, in the catalogues around the house, so that wasn't too bad either. She had on a sturdy, plain white bra. Her hand went behind her and the bra lost its tension. It didn't look all that different. I mean it looked like a bra full of breasts, but it was more relaxed or something. I swear it caused me to relax a little bit too. My knees quit shaking, anyway.
She did some kind of shoulder shrug, and the bra fell forward ... and...
There they were.
Just like magic.
Now I know that you women out there think that boobs are boobs. You wouldn't put it that way, and I probably shouldn't have either, but that's what some of you think. You think every woman has them, and they're no big deal. They're there. You either like yours, or you don't, for whatever reason.
But the fact is that each pair of breasts is as different as fingerprints. Fingerprints all look pretty much the same, unless you pay attention to all the little lines and stuff. Fingerprint experts are fascinated with all those lines, and whorls and ridges and stuff. I was no expert, but, looking at my mother's breasts, I suddenly knew that I could become a breast expert, whatever they are called, and I'd never tire of examining a pair.
By the way, I found out later there was a guy named Timothy Burr, back in 1965, who came up with a whole system claiming he knew why various features of women's breasts reveal their character. He wrote a book about it titled "BISBA". I keep meaning to get a copy, but never have.
Anyway, back to my Mom's breasts. Hers were round and full. Imagine putting a cantaloupe in one leg of a pair of panty hose. It would drop to the bottom, and stretch the leg material tight. Her breasts stretched her skin like that. That skin sloped down to two cantaloupe sized orbs that hung there on her chest. Other breasts push the skin away from the chest, but this wasn't like that. They didn't sag, exactly. That's not the right word for it. But you could hold both of them in your hands, and make them wobble up and down, or back and forth. You could make them bang into each other, and lift them up. If you did that, and just let them go, they'd fall, bounce, and hang there.
I had heard, somewhere, about what women call "the pencil test", where they put a pencil under their lifted breast, and let the breast drop. If the breast keeps the pencil there, they have "saggy breasts". That's about stupid. My mother's breasts would have held a Cuban cigar, easily, but there wasn't anything saggy about them. They were just big, beautiful, full breasts. They looked perfect on her.
I noticed the nipples, which were a muddy kind of brown color, set on larger circles the same color. I knew about nipples, of course, but, like most people, I thought they all looked pretty much the same, like women think breasts look pretty much the same. Nipples are very unique too, though, most of the time. My mother's had fed three babies. I don't know what they looked like before she did that, but now, they were very sturdy looking things, just a little smaller in diameter than my own little finger, and maybe as long as the fingernail on the same finger ... about a third of an inch, I suppose. There was nothing delicate about these breasts. They were eminently functional. Everything about them screamed for a hungry baby to be present in the room.
My stomach growled. My mother blinked, and I could feel a blush on my face, even though a growling stomach is quite common.
"Where do you want me?" asked my mother. She was a little pink herself.
I suddenly realized I wanted her pressed to my face, and felt a hysterical giggle building inside. I clamped down on it and concentrated on trying to act professional. That only brought the giggle closer to birth.
I turned away, fiddling with the camera.
"Over by the window," I said. I had to clear my throat. Somehow every bit of saliva had been sucked out of my mouth into the surrounding air.
She got up and I watched as she walked to the window. I had seen her walk from this place to that at least ten thousand times, but it had never been like this. Those breasts swayed and bounced.
I suddenly realized that I was in my usual sleep attire ... my jockeys. I looked down and, in horror, saw that it looked like I had taken a wooden dowel and jammed it in my underwear, with one end against my body and the other against the fabric of the shorts. Of all the superheroes in the world, I had always wanted to be Superman, until now. Now I wanted to be the invisible man.
I looked up to see my mother calmly looking at me. She didn't say a word. I don't think I ever loved her more, in those few seconds, than I had ever loved her in my whole life. She didn't even smile.
"Do I just stand here?" she asked, quietly.
"Uh ... yes..." I croaked.
I pulled the camera up and looked through the viewfinder. Her whole body was visible. I knew I had to get closer if all I was going to get were the breasts. I stepped closer and closer until they filled the view. I had my other eye closed, and wasn't aware that I had stepped to within two feet of her. I had a variable length lens on the camera, 28 to 70 millimeters, and it was adjusted to wide angle. If I'd have been paying attention, I could have stood six feet away and zoomed in on them. But I wasn't paying that kind of attention. Not then.
I pressed the button and the breasts went white as the flash went off, a split second before the view went black, and then returned to normal. I let the camera go down a couple of inches and looked over it. That's when I realized how close I had gotten. I knew there would be nothing on the film but a blob of light, that close to reflective skin, and backed up.
"Is that it?" she asked, moving.
"No!" I yelped. "I ... ah ... need to take them from different viewpoints," I managed.
I backed up and started paying attention to the camera. I ended up taking ten or twelve shots, to get what I wanted. What I wanted were two from the front, one each from an offset position to each side, and one each from off her shoulder, beside her. I forgot to have her move around, so that the drapes were always in the background, which is why I had to expose a dozen shots to get six pictures.
I realized I was done, about the same time I realized I wasn't sticking out in my underwear so much, and then realized I didn't want to be done yet. It was a little confusing.
"Let me think for a minute," I said, lowering the camera and just looking at her. She looked calmly back at me. I saw her eyes lower to my groin, and then wander back up my torso. I thought about having her get on her hands and knees, to let them hang down. A man wouldn't normally see them like that, so it wasn't really a valid part of the project ... but I sure wanted to see what that looked like.
"I guess we're done," I said reluctantly. I didn't know it until later, but my voice sounded sad.
It was about then that I realized the whole project had one huge flaw in it. Men might look at these pictures, to decide if these were the breasts that made them want to keep the species going, but they'd never see her like this for real. I mean it was possible that one of them might eventually see her like this, but at the point where a man is choosing his mate ... she has clothes on. Even if he chooses his mate at the swimming pool, she has at least a bikini on. Men don't get to see the breasts, until they've already chosen the woman, and gotten her to the point where she'll actually show them to him! This was a stupid idea!
I wanted to pound my head against the wall. What was I supposed to do now? I had just taken pictures of my mother's breasts. She had been patient while I displayed a boner, which was obviously for her. I was, apparently, scheduled to take pictures of all the rest, which I thought was a wonderful idea ... except that it would all be for nothing. Professor Cat would never buy off on this project. She'd see the flaw in it right away!
"It's not that bad, sweetie," said my mother, walking to her bed. She ignored the bra and picked up her blouse and shrugged into it. Her breasts did the most gorgeous wobbling and shaking as that happened. Her eyes raked down me again, and I looked to see the dowel back. "Even though it's totally inappropriate for you to react that way," she said, "you make me feel very good." She buttoned the blouse, and walked over to me. She kissed me on the forehead. "If you get an A on your project, I might even let you look at them again." She giggled, turned me around, and pushed. "Now, go do whatever it is that boys do these days, and get rid of that thing, before Tabitha and Randi get back. You're going to have to wear something to control that when you take their pictures too, by the way. I know you're just a normal, growing boy, but it might be disturbing to them."
"Yes, Mommy."
I actually said that. Can you believe it? I can't believe I said that.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I didn't know what to do. There was a fatal flaw in my plan, but that plan had been approved by all my models. I didn't want to just dump the whole idea. I admit that part of that was because I wanted to see all those breasts. And I did have to have a project, even if I ended up getting a low grade on it.
Randi was next. I was in my room when I heard the door slam and she and Tabby came in. There was the murmur of voices, and I wondered what Mom was telling them. A minute later Tabby opened my door without knocking and stood there, looking at me. I had, in fact, masturbated after I got to my room, but that had only taken maybe thirty seconds. Just remembering those breasts was enough to get me off in record time.
At the moment, I was reading an old Mack Bolan paperback. I'd found a box of them in the garage, back amongst the stuff my dad had left behind when he took off ... or was kicked out. I didn't know much about him. Neither Mom nor Randi would talk about him. But he'd left this box with books in the Executioner series, and quite a few of the Destroyer series too, along with a bunch of westerns, by Louis L'Amor. I liked them all. Beating off had given me my sex for the day, and now I was getting my ration of violence.
"What!" I said, looking at Tabby.
"Nothing," she said, sticking her chin out.
"You want to close the door?" I asked acidly.
"No."
She left, leaving the door open. I was thinking about getting up to close it when Randi walked in.
"Well, you actually did it, huh?" she said.
I looked at her. She was wearing a T shirt, and her nipples were popping through.
"Yeah," I said.
"I didn't think you'd actually have the courage to go through with it," she said.
"I didn't believe Mom would actually let me," I said back.
"I'm next, you know," she said, putting one hand on her hip.
"No, I didn't know that," I said. "I didn't know there was a list."