My Sister Jean - Chapter 16
BillyG (hayden@mindless.com)
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Jean's Confession
It was a warm morning, the type of warmth you know will
precede a hot day. I was aware of a vague malaise, a sense of
lethargy that was rooted in the sameness of the last week of
uncharacteristic heat. Normally the cooling breezes of the
Pacific, ten or fifteen miles over the coastal range, held off
the valley heat. Must be some kinda low trapped right here, I
concluded.
Still, I was feeling a bit restless and decided to take a
hike into the Open Space District contiguous with our home. I
wondered idly if Jean'd like to go with me, but she wasn't in her
room and the downstairs was equally quiet. Grabbing a hiking
stick from the bamboo rack, I walked out on the trellised deck in
the back and found my mom and Jean sitting in the half-shade,
looking out over the pond. They were leaning toward each other,
apparently having a whispered conversation.
Both were wearing white shorts and T-shirts, probably I
thought, to play tennis. It wasn't the first time I'd observed
just how much alike they looked. Both were tan and fit, each
with long, attractive legs. And that surprised me, for I'd not
really thought of my mother in any way but as my mom.
"Hi, ladies. What's happenin'?"
Mom hesitated a moment, finishing something she was telling
Jean and looked up. "Hi, yourself, dude. You look like you're
going to take a walk."
"Yeah. Anyone wanna walk with me?"
Mom answered, "A little later perhaps? I'm too settled
right now."
Jean smiled and said, "Me too, Billy. A little later?"
It was never easy for me to hear "No" as an answer, but I
knew that's just the way it was this morning. I told myself it
didn't have anything to do with me; they just had other things on
their minds.
Looking up at the early morning sun over the Eucalyptus
trees to the east, I replied, "It's a little warm now. But it's
gonna be hotter'n the dickens in a few hours. You know me and
the heat. Think I'll go for it now. Catch you later."
I loved the miles of Open Space above our house and I'd
rather walk with someone, but in the face of my teenage-impaired
tolerance for delayed gratification, I just couldn't wait and
took off up the hill into the redwood grove. Even in the
relative cool of the morning, I seemed to seek out the shaded
spots as I unconsciously choose to walk down into the wooded
ravine rather than up to the open country.
I'd discovered this trail - I thought of it as mine - my
secret trail, until the Open Space people had widened it and made
it more attractive. At first I had a resentment. I just knew
that it'd be overrun with hikers now that it was no longer a
secret. I needed have worried. In the years since it'd been
open up, I'd not seen a single person. So it had again reverted
to being "my trail."
The stream at the bottom was running full and on an impulse,
I pulled off my boots and dropped my feet into the coolness of
the runoff. As often happens around the sound of running water,
soon I had to take a leak. I smiled at myself, standing
knee-deep in the stream, my dick out, watching the arc of my
stream as it splashed into the water.
"How pleasant," I thought, and closed my eyes, feeling the
breeze and listening to the forest sounds. An image of Jean and
my mom, tanned legs stretched out, flashed and without choosing,
I fell into that reverie. They were both very attractive women
and I'd become fascinated, even mesmerized, with my sister Jean
in the past year. Actually, fascination is not a strong enough
term. Our natural affection and apparent mutual horniness had
led us into "almost doin' it" several times but so far we'd
restricted ourselves, mostly just talking about it with an
occasional sexual foray into limited but very intimate touching.
Except for the time she gave me a blow job . . . or the time I
kissed her pussy. Yeah, I guess you could say that was a tad
more than intimate touching, huh?
I slowly became aware that I'd stopped peeing and was
standing there, holding a now-erect cock in my hand. "You're
hopeless, Billy," I concluded, "a hopeless horndog."
Turning back to get my boots, I stepped on a round river
rock that suddenly turned, dumping me on my ass in the stream.
"Shit!" It was summer, but the runoff was cold!
I got up slowly, looking down at my soaked shorts, water
running out of my shorts, down my legs and thought, "No way I'm
going for a long walk this way. Guess I'll go back and change."
Returning home, Jean and Mom were no longer sitting on the
back deck, so I stripped off my wet clothes on the side deck and
before going in to change, I decided to take a soak in the hot
tub. "They must have gone to the tennis courts," I reasoned.
As I was folding back the cover of the tub, I heard the back
slider door open and then close followed by Mom's voice. I was
startled, not so much that I'd be caught bareassed - that was no
huge deal - although I don't think my mother had seen my bare
butt in a while. What startled me was a word or two I'd
overheard. Sounded like "something horny." I couldn't imagine
my mother and my sister having a conversation that included the
concept of horny. Shows how much I knew.
I stepped into the tub, making no effort to be quiet, but I
guess the noises I made were masked by their own conversation,
for they didn't acknowledge my presence as they settled into the
lawn chairs, just around the corner of the house from me.
The acoustics made no sense, but I was aware I could hear
them clearly, even the tinkle of ice in a glass. Just as I was
about to speak up to them, to let 'em know I was there, I heard
Mom say, "So, how long has this been a problem?"
"The horny thing?" Jean asked.
"That's the topic, I think," Mom replied with a smile in her
voice.
A chair scraped and then it was quiet for a long ten
seconds. Mom was patient, I knew. Finally Jean replied, "Gee, I
don't know, but I've been aware of these, um . . . feelings for
the last couple of years.
Another pause, briefer. "But now it's . . ." She stopped.
"More intense?" Mom offered.
"Yeah. Sure is. Sometimes it seems that's all I think
about."
"Some older people would say that's not a problem . . .
that's a blessing!" Mom laughed. Then asked, "So then, what IS
the problem?"
"Golly, Mom . . . you know. I'm, uh, itchy and restless and
I have these . . . you know, urges. And then I begin to think
I'm bad. That these thoughts are wrong. I just feel bad and I'm
all mixed up."
I heard the chair squeak and envisioned Mom leaning over to
lay her hand on Jean's thigh. "Baby, we've talked a little about
this before, but I guess it's time to share in more detail.
Remember what I told you, girl? Those are natural feelings.
They're right and they're good. There's nothing dirty or wrong
about sexual feelings. It's your humanness shining through. Most
of the discomfort and emotional pain people experience about
sexual things arise in their own heads. Keep it in the forefront
of your mind, baby. Sex is not a moral issue."
"Mom, I get that. Or at least I think I do. I accept
myself and I'm happy to be a woman and I'm really happy that I
have you for a mom. It's just that . . . well . . . it's not an
intellectual thing. Cripes, it's not even an emotional thing!"
"What thing is it, baby?"
"It's a physical thing! You know. Horny!"
As if slapping her forehead, mom said, "Oh! I'm beginning
to get it. You're *horny*. I mean, *physically* horny, and it's
bothering you, right?"
Where was Mom when I was suffering from an ingrown hard-on?
How come we never had this kinda talk? Probably because I never
told the truth, I thought as I sank deeper into the hot tub. I
*should* announce myself. This was sneaky. Yet, it was probably
too late to speak up now, I reasoned, so I just sat there quietly
and listened. My mind can rationalize almost anything.
"*Bothering* me is an understatement. I'm a nervous wreck
and don't know what to do about it."
"Does masturbation help?" asked Mom reasonably.
"Sometimes." Then Jean laughed and added, "And then
sometimes it seems to just feed the fires!"
Mom gave a wry laugh and said, "I know what that's like."
"You too?" Jean asked with a note of incredulity in her
voice.
"Well, it's not so bad now . . . but I remember . . ."
Jean interrupted, "So, what'd you DO? What do I do?"
"Baby, I've tried not to tell you now to live your life.
I've tried to give you principles by which to live. That's still
true. Just WHAT you do is up to you, but there *are* guiding
principles."
"Such as?"
"Remember I told you that among adults, sexual activity is
not a moral issue, that whatever they do is OK if they follow a
few rules. Remember the rules?"
"Uh . . . that we talk about it and not hurt each other?"
"Yes, that's part of it. There must be mutual consent. For
that to happen, you've *got* to talk about it. When I was young,
it seems that the rule was something like it's OK to do it, just
don't talk about it. Kinda the Braille approach to negotiation."
Interrupting again, Jean asked, "Are we talking about *doing
it*?"
Mom laughed again, that throaty, sexy laugh, and said,
"Well, that's only *part* of it. We're talking about sexual
activity, whatever it is. Doing it - intercourse if you will -
is just one of the sexual activities to which I'm referring.
Actually, I'm talking in a broader sense. Whatever it is we do
with each other sexually, we need to talk about it, to negotiate.
We need to make sure it's OK and that we're on the same page.
Probably one of the biggest mistakes we make in human
relationships is to assume we know what the other person is
thinking, and then worse, to *act* as if our assumptions were
correct."
"OK, I'm with you so far. What else?"
"Of course, we need not to hurt each other, or allow
ourselves to be hurt."
"Hurt? Like in getting a disease? Or hurt as in physical
hurt?" Jean giggled. "Like spanking?"
"Both. We'll return to things like spanking in a minute,
but it's clear, I hope, that you've got to be very, very careful.
Sexually transmitted diseases *are* a big deal. You've got to be
willing to talk to your potential sexual partner about their
sexual history as well as your own. You have a right to ask for
proof of a recent AIDS test and, when you're sexually active,
you've got to be willing to show your own proof."
Then, signaled by her low laugh, I detected that Mom was
switching mental gears.
"But what I was thinking about at the moment was sexual
*play*."
"Play?"
I knew what *I* thought of when sexual play came to mind,
but I couldn't imagine what my conservative mother was alluding
to.
I heard Mom take a deep breath and then let it out slowly,
as if preparing to launch into a difficult topic.
"Baby, I always knew we'd have this conversation, but I
hadn't planned on it this soon. I kept putting it off, I suppose
waiting for the right moment. I guess this is it."
"What, mom?"
"I've always told you that we're only as sick as our
secrets, that honesty will set us free. Still, there are parts
about being an adult, and more, being a parent, that seem to
require some measure of restraint. I always thought I'd tell you
some things when you had a need to know."
"Mom! You're beating around the bush. That's not like you.
Like you always say to me, 'Spit it out.' You were talking about
sexual play. What do you mean?"
"Yes, play - as in erotic power exchange. You know, your
dad and I tease each other about this when we think you two
aren't around, but I know you've overheard us, haven't you?
"Uh . . . I guess . . . maybe a couple of times."
"A couple of times per week would be more like it," Mom
suggested, laughing. Then, a little more seriously, she went on,
"Your dad is a very strong man, even a dominant man. I consider
myself a strong woman - and I am - but when your dad and I play,
he's the dominant partner, the Top if you will."
"And?"
"I meant to have this talk with you someday. Now appears
like a good time. When we play - and we play a lot, your Dad and
I - I enjoy being the little girl. I like to be told what to do.
Perhaps it gives me permission to do the naughty, the forbidden,
things I'd really like to do anyway. Then, I like to be tied up
at times. I love the feeling of helplessness. And - this is a
little embarrassing - I like to be spanked!"
"Really? Bare bottom? How embarrassing. Does it hurt?"
"No, baby, that's the point. It's pleasure. I love it.
It's a huge turn-on. The whole thing works only if there is trust
and love and understanding, and most important, communication.
Without that, we're left to our own imagination, and for me,
that's a dangerous place to hang out.
"Oh, if he struck me in anger, it would hurt. I'd really
hurt. But it's done with love and I love it . . . I love the
intense sensations. I once heard a woman describe herself as a
sensation slut and that gave me a shiver, because . . . well,
because I could relate."
"Wow. That's . . . uh, far out. I mean, that's really
neat, Mom! I had no idea. Tell me more."
"Baby, I'll tell you as much as you want to hear, but first
I want to get on with the principles of good sexual behavior,
OK?"
Rats! I thought my parents were so conservative that they'd
never done anything and now I was hearing of an exciting side of
their personalities of which I knew almost nothing. I wanted to
hear more.
"OK. No hurting then. Of course, that seems only right.
What's so difficult about that?"
"Usually not much, but sometimes we really have to look
within ourselves and question our motives . . . to be careful
we're not hurting someone when we think our motives are good. I
don't know about you, but my ego often wears blinders."
"Yeah, I can see how my ego gets in the way sometimes too.
What else?"
"Well, the next thing is a bit more abstract, but we've got
to be careful not to be exploitive."
"Mom, I know what "exploitive" means, but how's it apply in
this case?"
"Let me give you an example. Let's say you've agreed to
have sex with someone - and *having sex* doesn't necessarily mean
having intercourse. I regard all sexual activity as "having
sex." OK? A sexy conversation can be viewed as having sex.
Mutual masturbation can be viewed as having sex."
"OK, I get it . . . it's a definitional thing."
"Yes, and for purposes of our conversation, that's how we'll
define it. Anyway, let's say you've talked this over with
someone, you both want it and you agree you -'re not going to
hurt each other. Now here's the rub. You're 18 and he's . . .
let's say he's 12."
"Mother!"
"Get off your high horse, miss. It's happened. Lot's of
times. But that doesn't make it right. He's too young. He might
think he knows what he wants, but he can't really know. If you
had consensual sex with him, that'd be exploitive."
Jean laughed and said, "Alright. So I can't get it on with
Johnny."
Johnny was the boy next door. At 15 he was a year younger
than I. I held my breath.
"Johnny's a cute kid and he *looks* older than he is. Heck,
he looks older than Billy, but I know he's not as mature. I'd
put Johnny on the borderline . . . as least as far as age was
concerned. But I'd not pick someone like him for different
reasons. I think of him as a kiss-and-tell kind of guy. You've
got a reputation to take care of, girl."
"OK. Johnny's out." Jean then laughed and added, "He
doesn't blow my skirt up anyway."
By this time, I was almost frozen in my fascination. I
couldn't believe how open and candid my mom and Jean were being
with each other. I wished I could be that way with my dad, but I
thought of him as too stern, too busy, too unavailable. I
wondered if Mom would ever let me chat with her? Cripes, every
time I thought I was so sophisticated, so cool and knowledgeable,
I discovered how little I knew. There was probably a lesson in
there somewhere, but I was too caught up in the excitement of my
eavesdropping.
Mom continued, "Let's not get too abstract here. We're
talking about *your* problem. What I'm trying to tell you is
this. Being sexual is OK. More than OK, it's good. You've just
got to be careful in life. You've got to take care of yourself
as well as be respectful of those you care for. This make
sense?"
"Hmmmm . . . I guess, in the abstract. I mean, I'm so darn
horny and masturbating does help, but not for long. I feeling a
deep need for . . . well, I not really sure for what, but I think
I'm ready to start letting down my defenses around the boys."
"Baby, it's been my experience that beyond some emotional
point, my well-considered intentions go out the window. My, uh .
. . my pussy thinks for me. So you might think you're *starting*
to lower your defenses and suddenly you'll find it's a done-deed,
a fiat accompli. Now, I'm not saying that there's anything really
wrong about that, save for a couple of big considerations. Like
sexually transmitted diseases - which can affect anyone - and the
really big one, pregnancy."
"God, Mom . . . I wasn't thinking . . ."
"That's just it, baby. You weren't thinking and when *it*
happens, it won't happen because you've given it a lot of
thought. Believe me, it happens! And our awareness is largely
after the fact. Our denial is nothing more than a
head-in-the-sand stance, a refusal to see life as it really is."
"You sound like you've been there."
Jean said this with a provocative tone of voice, as if
daring Mom to tell the truth. And then I wondered, "Had *my*
mother really experienced anything like this, or was she
preaching from some how-to book?"
Mom paused, then replied, "I have. It's no big secret and
I'll share it with you, but not right now. It's tough enough
staying on the topic. And the topic is: Sex and Birth Control!
It may not be clear to you, but it is to me. It's time for you
to see a gynecologist - you can see mine if you want - and get on
the pill."
"Gee, that sounds like I'm admitting I'm planning on, you
know . . ."
"No, it's admitting that you're a sexual being, a human
being and it's just good sense. Jean, you're just like me and
sooner or later it's gonna happen."
And then, as if to honor the statistical unlikeliness of
such a possibility, Mom added, "Even if it turns out you don't
need it."
"Mom, are you giving me permission to get sexual?"
"You're almost an adult, Jean. You don't need my
permission. I know that you're going to do what ever you need to
do, permission or not, and that's especially true for sex.. I
just want you to be a responsible woman."
"You have this conversation with Billy, Mom?"
My ears shot up. How did *I* get into this topic?
Mom laughed again, seemingly not shocked. "No, I haven't,
and I can tell from his sheets that it's time. I had hoped that
his dad would, but I don't think that's going to happen. I know
you and he are very close. You two ever talk about sex?"
I held my breath.
Jean exhaled loudly. "Yeah. Quite a bit, Mom. I trust
Billy and I think he trusts me. He's my closest friend."
I didn't think Mom knew just how close.
"I understand that. My brother Jim was my closest friend.
Still is for that matter, except for your dad. We shared all our
secrets with each other. I'd expect no less from you two."
"Mom, did you . . . well . . . did you ever have any
*special* feelings about your brother? I mean, any sexy
thoughts?"
"Of course, baby. Anyone who would tell you that he's not
had thoughts about family members is in denial or lying. It's
natural."
And then, as an afterthought, Mom added, "Jean, I'm baring
my soul to you and I'm feeling a little uncertain myself. I
don't want to drift into revealing the confidences of others.
But I'll tell you about *me*. Yes, I've had lots of sexy
thoughts."
"I sometimes . . ." and she trailed off.
"Sometimes have thoughts about Billy?" asked Mom.
"Whew!" An explosive gust of air and then a long pause.
"Uh . . . yeah . . . and even feelings, I mean sexy
feelings." And then Jean rushed on, "He's a neat guy. He good
looking and well built. He's kind and thoughtful and he knows my
moods better than anyone . . . and when he gives me a hug . . ."
"Get's your juices flowing, eh?"
"Mom!"
"Jean, Jean . . . remember, I've been there, done that.
It's natural, baby."
"You and Jim?"
"Sure. He still turns me on. Don't tell your dad, though,
OK? I mean don't tell *anybody*!"
"I won't tell if you won't tell."
Then after a another short pause, Jean added, "But there
*is* something I'd like to tell you, Mom. Actually something I
*have* to talk about and you're the only person I can talk to."
I could hear the wind blowing in the oak trees. Where was
Jean going with this, I wondered?
"I have a confession to make. I just gotta share this you
or I'll bust. I feel so darn guilty, I can't stand it."
Mom's voice got softer. "What ever it is, Baby, it's OK.
I'll not judge you. My job is just to love you. There is
nothing, absolutely nothing under the sun you can tell me that
will change that."
Without pause, Jean blurted, "Billy and I have had sex, Mom!
I don't mean that we've *done* it . . . you know, had intercourse
or anything like that, but we have touched each other."
Oh-shit-oh-dear! At this point I felt a leaden weight in my
stomach. Busted! Grounded! Probably forever, if I wasn't run
out of town on a rail first. Jig's up. I waited for my Mom to
scream.
Instead, Mom said, "I'm not surprised. In fact, I'd have
been surprised if you hadn't. You know, I live here too. I'm
aware. I've seen you two. I've seen how you act around each
other. I even told you that you remind me of myself . . .
especially when I found your panties in his bed."
Jesus! I thought I had hidden those. I immediately
wondered, how might I lie my way out of this one? When I'm
confronted, blind-sided like this, the *last* thing I think about
is telling the truth. My first instinctual response, after
suppressing a survival desire to run, is to make up a story, one
that'll get me off the hook. Then later, I have to spend so much
energy backing out of the corner into which I've firmly implanted
myself.
"How do I remind you . . . you and Jim . . . your brother?
You mean . . you've had similar . . .?"
"Sure. Shocked?"
"Kinda . . . but not really. Actually, I'm pleased. Even
thrilled. I don't know . . . kind of makes *me* OK."
"You *are* . . . you are OK. And I love you, Jean."
Jean started to cry and I could hear Mom making comforting
sounds. The next little bit was lost to my ears. I envisioned
Jean crying into Mom's shoulder . . . Mom patting her.
Then Jean blubbered, "Oh, my . . . I don't know why I'm
doing this, but I'm so relieved and so happy. I feel so loved."
"Want to tell me what you've done, Baby?"
"You won't get mad?"
"No, this isn't about getting mad and you're not being
grilled. What we all need are safe places. Places where we can
share our secrets. Believe me, the more you share with me, the
better you'll feel. Just keep in mind, I love you and I'm not
judging you. I don't so much need to hear this as you need to
share it."
I was feeling like a shriveled-up prune by now, wanting to
run and hide, disappear from the face of the Earth. Glancing
down I noticed my dick had disappeared!
Jean rushed on, "Well, it started off as an accident. At
least, I think it was an accident. Anyway, we were doing the
laundry and Billy got hard - he was looking down my shirt - and
then he rubbed off on the table looking at me, and then later we
talked and he showed me his . . . and I couldn't help it . . . I
showed him mine, and . . ."
"Whoa. Slow down a little. Take your time. Breath."
Jean was on a confessional express and couldn't be slowed.
"Mom, I'm so excited, I want to get it all out at once.
Anyway, Billy was always listening to me pee in the downstairs
bathroom - I knew that. I didn't understand it, and I knew it
was naughty, but I guess it thrilled me. He said it turned him
on. Sounds dumb but I guess that made it exciting for me.
Anyway, when we went to Fourth of July Lake last year, I let him
watch me pee one day. God! Is that kinky or what?"
"Oh, I don't know. Sounds like a chip off the old block."
"Dad?"
"Yes, but we're not talking about your Dad. We're talking
about you. Again, I'll tell you things about me, but your Dad's
stuff is his stuff. I feel free to talk about myself, but not
your Dad and not my brother. Understand? Now, anything else?"
"Yes. It get's a lot more intense. Like, I love flashing
Billy, you know? I flashed him wearing next-to-nothing at
Victoria's Secret. Wow, Mom. I felt all squishy inside. I know
it gets him hot and that gives me a sense of power. Makes me hot
too. Weird, huh?"
"No. Not at all weird. That's what exhibitionism is for
some folks, Jean. Just another sexual game. More and more it
seems, you're just like me!"
"Well - this is getting more intense, Mom - one day I took
his thing in my mouth! I don't know how it happened. It just
did."
Mom didn't gasp. She laughed. "You mean you sucked his
*cock*, don't you?
I gasped. Jean gasped.
"Yes . . . I guess that's what I really mean. It's just
that I'm not used to saying . . . things like that . . . and when
I hear *you* say it . . ."
"So, tell me, what's Billy's part in this? He the victim or
the perp?"
"Hah! Billy the victim? Hardly. He may act soft
sometimes, but he's tough as nails. I don't want you to think
that he took advantage of me. He didn't. I wanted it. All the
time, I wanted it just as much as him. Even more I bet!"
"So did that stud-son of mine touch you, get you off?"
"Oh yes! Several times. We even had phone sex once. What
a hoot! And a couple of weeks ago I asked him to trim my . . . my
pussy . . . my pussy fur. There! I said it. PUSSY!"
"Did he?"
"Trim my pussy?" Laughing. "No, we never got to it. Once
he got down between my legs . . . well, one thing led to another
and he . . . he sniffed around and . . ."
"He went down on you, right?"
"How'd you know?"
"He's his father's son."
"And that's pretty much it, Mom. I've *wanted* to do it
with him. All the time. But we haven't. I'm afraid to. I want
to and I'm afraid to. But I love getting sexual with him. God,
he thrills me! I wish there were some way we could just play
with each other, satisfy each other, and not really, well, you
know . . . not really do it."
By this time I didn't know whether to strut or flush myself
down the drain. I just shut my eyes and scrunched down further.
"Baby, I'm glad for you - glad for your emerging sexuality
and mostly, for your willingness to tell the truth. Incest is
*really* a loaded topic. We can talk about the philosophical
issues, and mostly, that's what they are, philosophical issues.
We can talk about the practicality of your situation . . . or the
lack of it.
"I'm not going to tell you that you're right or that you're
wrong. It's not about that. It's about feelings. And, as I've
often told you, feelings aren't right or wrong either. They just
are. The only intrinsic evil I see in life is an incapacity to
love. Still, I want you to promise me something . . . that
you'll go slow, really slow with this."
Jean cried some more. I got all choked up.
"Oh, God, Mom. I feel so much better. I still don't know
what to *do*, but I feel better, so much better. Thanks"
"Good. Now the next thing we've got to do is drag Billy out
of the closet. If he's anything like you, he's dying his own
deaths."
Little did they know. Death sounded like a viable option at
that moment.
"What can we do? I mean I can talk with him. I *will* talk
with him. He's got to know that I told you our secret. But then
what? Will *you* talk with him, Mom? He has the same fears and
the same concerns I have. I know. We talk about it. And I know
you'd be *so* much better than Dad."
"I suppose I *could* - might even be fun - and Jim might be
better. Except he's away on a trip and won't be back for too
long. Let me think about this, OK?"
I could hear them pushing back the deck chairs as they stood
up, ready to leave. Suddenly, unplanned and completely unbidden,
I called out, "I'm in the hot tub. I've been here all along. I
heard the whole thing. I'm sorry."
Christ! What did I *do*?
Two heads looked around the corner at me scrunched down in
the tub, almost out of sight.
I ran on, "I'm sorry for eavesdropping. I didn't mean to be
a snoop. When I came back, you weren't here and I just jumped
into the tub . . . then you came out and began talking about sexy
things. I lost my head. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to listen to
your private conversation."
Jean and my mom looked at each other. Jean was red. No
more than me.
My mother broke the tension. She looked at Jean and said,
"Well, I guess this resolves *who* is going to talk with Billy."
Then looking at me, one hand on her hip, she smiled and
asked, "Well, stud . . . ready to spill the beans?"
END 16