Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN

   by Holly Rennick

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   Urban legends have five characteristics.

   (1) Attribution to a reliable source never precisely specified, a
cousin, for example.

   (2) Embellished detail, often locational or "Last year".

   (3) Authority.  Rarely is an allegation presented, "It was discovered
that..." but rather, "A Harvard researcher discovered that..."

   (4) Unlikelihood the listener prefers to accept.  Neiman Marcus billing
some sucker $64,000 for a recipe?

   (5) A possibility of embedded truth.

   Have your students rewrite urban legends into short stories.  They thus
start with a decent plot, quite often concerning a hook-handed escaped
convict and two teenagers parked on a lonely road.  Make it scary, tell
them.  We don't want all their creativity invested detailing why the couple
was in the sedan.

   Here's the one called "Changing in the Sleeping Bag" or "Accidental
Intercourse".

   "At a well-known Kentucky summer camp, the campers play this little
game. The boys elect a girl and the girls choose a boy to share a sleeping
bag while they change into swimsuits.  The others keep their eyes out for
the counselors.  The couple jostles together as they wiggle out of their
clothes, trying to conceal evidence of wayward brushes.

   "But last year this one couple gets stuck halfway and the others gather
round to see why.  When their friends unzip the bag, each has one leg in
one suit and one in the other.  The two can't move without initiating
accidental intercourse.  So the other kids just zip them in again and watch
till it happens.  It was their first time and she got pregnant.

   "My cousin was there and saw them orgasm.  The girl really came!  My
cousin says that the kids who stayed afterwards said that when the two got
out of the bag, they were still so horny that they did it again on top of
the air mattress.  The girl really, really came!"

   PRIVATE EYE

   September 2, 10:05 AM.  My telephone, a $29 wall-mount with serpentine
cord, was evidence enough.  Evidence is what my line of work is about. 
Sheila Wright, Domestic Situational Research, (859) 764-4889.  I probably
should have attached the phone to the wall, but the instructions seem to
suggest some sort of special screw for wallboard and I'm not that
mechanical.  To be a private investigator one needn't be mechanical, but
one should note evidence.  I'm reasonably astute about a variety of things,
just not wallboard.

   Not chain-smoking while waiting for my first client doesn't fit the
detective genre, I fear.  But even if I did smoke, the Virginia Slims would
cost more than any fee I might make if the phone actually rang.  Half of
Stan's assets were enough to sustain me for a while if I didn't buy a $129
phone with indecipherable options about messaging.

   "Let Uncle Sam Pay You" lists IRS tests for business use of a residence:

   (1) Your business name on your mailbox in case an auditor visits.

   (2) A phone card for personal long distance, since they can check your
carrier.

   (3) Don't claim "client entertainment" when you and a girlfriend have
coffee.

   My other book from the library, "Investigation Science and Management"
by Helen Babcock, Ph.D., I'd studied extensively.  The woman author
includes such things not picked up from TV as,

   (1) Designing your business stationery with MS Word.

   (2) Use of wigs and glasses.

   (3) Including "and Associates" in your business name.  You may grow.

   (4) Keep things in lists.

   If the above evidence suggests an again-single female embarking on a
promising service-sector career in private investigation, you may have some
feel for evidence yourself.  Babcock says it's a growth industry.  There'll
always be clients wanting to clarify their spouses' relationships, I
figure. I'd have no insight into corporate spies or smugglers of endangered
parrots.

   INQUIRY

   "Hi, Ms.  Wright.  It's Allison."

   Allison?  Oh, of course!  Betty's Allison.  I'd known Betty since grade
school.  She'd married a fullback from the class ahead of ours and this was
their Allison.  Fifteen, I'd have guessed.

   "Allison!  It's been ages, honey.  So how you doing?"

   "Great.  Great.  No, that's why I called.  Not great.  You're really a
private investigator?"

   "In the process of identifying potential contacts." Babcock says to do
this early on.

   "OK.  I need some help."

   "From me?" momentarily forgetting that I was sitting in my office.  It
looked so much like my kitchen.

   "I need to know about domestic partnerships," she proceeded.  "For the
future, I mean.  I just had my period, so I didn't get pregnant,"
matter-of-factly.

   Sex is involved.  "That's good.  Well, all I can really say is that it's
still pretty much in the courts.  But why a domestic partnership?"

   "It'd be illegal for us to get really married."

   "The guy's already married, right?" suspecting a domestic partnership
wouldn't work either.  If married men want to screw around, leave the
15-year-old Allisons alone, damn it!

   "No.  It's just Wesley.  It was accidental intercourse at camp."

   I processed that one.  "It sometimes seems like it, honey.  You think
you can just rub..."

   "No.  It was because how we were putting on our swimsuits."

   "Accidental intercourse?  Wanna come over to my office?" It sort of
looks like a kitchen, though, I noticed.  "Better yet, meet me at
McDonald's for lunch."

   I'd have a little time to research "Accidental Intercourse".  Babcock
calls this the Literature Phase.  Hello Google.

   INVESTIGATION

   September 2, 12:15 PM.  I was planning to start with an individual
interview, as Babcock suggests, but Allison showed up with Wesley in tow.
We got our Happy Meals and found a booth in the corner.  (I couldn't
remember if I was supposed to boycott MacDonald's fries, so I partook.}

   Allison: 5 feet, 7; 125 pounds; brunette, shoulder length, ponytail;
braces; Tommy Hilfiger attire, by the self promotion; retro Doc Martens; a
little white bra, straps apparent.
Wesley: just slightly taller; 150 pounds; blond, combed upward,
presumably in the style of a music idol; a little Clearasil; jeans; light
blue turtleneck.
I began, "So I'm going to ask you just one question.  Ready?  Did you

have sexual intercourse together?"

   They nodded.

   "Two questions, actually.  Why not fess up that you got carried away,
like happens to everybody?  It's a major thing to tell your moms that you
had sex, of course, but at least you know that they've done it too."
(Actually, Allison, I didn't add, your mom was plenty pleasured by your
age. I knew a lot myself, but more from listening.)

   "It wasn't our fault," replied Wesley with conviction.  But, like
Babcock says, never trust what clients first tell you.

   For teens at camp, I told them, it's very, very average to have sex. 
It's well documented.  Almost every girl when I was there did it the night
we had the big campfire and played capture the flag afterwards.

   (I didn't tell them that I snuck all the way to the enemy prison and
grabbed Larry Gleeson's hand so we got freebies back.  I thought he'd might
take me behind the archery range and make me make out and get relaxed, but
he found Bonnie Sue Krebbs, instead.  So I didn't have sex, but could hear
the squeals.)

   Allison agreed about it happening at camp, but said that they weren't
playing that kind of game.  They were just changing into their swimsuits in
a sleeping bag and their legs got mixed up and they got stuck together.

   "Huh?" my professionally restrained response.  From my own camp days, I
recalled that your sleeping bag was where you dressed if you didn't want
people to see everything.  But together?  I found the mechanics a bit
confusing, the pantlegs and such.

   "We'll show you, Ms.  Wright," volunteered the girl, "so you can explain
it to Mom."

   Noting Wesley's doubtful face, she added.  "Don't worry, Wes.  I'll
remind you how.  Ms.  Wright's seen it a thousand times in her cases."

   I didn't correct her that I was in what Babcock call's the "ramp-up
phase." The book lacked a list of what to note during copulation, but I'd
use my clipboard to note the main points.

   "I guess I do have a bed in my office," I allowed.

   Wesley still didn't look that convinced.  "Err," he started.  "What if
I..."

   "Come?" supplied his partner.  "You will for sure," grinning.  "Me, too.
It's how we're wired.  Maybe you should wear a rubber though, since it's
our second time."

   "No, I don't mean that.  What if I can't..."

   Allison read his concern.  "Don't be silly.  I'll do a strip-tease." She
thought a moment, looking at me.  "Mrs.  Wright can help, maybe, undo some
buttons on her blouse, I'll bet."

   I wasn't too sure about that, but I didn't want to squelch confirming
how the accident happened.  Besides, I'd be undoing my buttons as a
professional investigator.

   "Of course," I agreed.  Babcock says that you must blend into the
situation.  It wouldn't make sense for me to be entirely dressed.

   "You think, Ms.  Wright," continued Allison, "that maybe you could help
with the rubber, us still being almost beginners?"

   As if I'd risk a client's pregnancy?  "Of course, kids.  There're a few
tips you ought to know." I'd think of something.

   "Uhh," interrupted the boy.  "Maybe we just ought to drop the
investigation.  After all, it was sort of an accident."

   I faced him squarely.  "What you're forgetting, Wesley, my legal duty.
It's really quite impossible just to leave the case unsolved."

   "Oh," he glumly acknowledged.

   LEGAL REMEDIES

   Before figuring out the real story, they needed to know the difference
between a cop, a lawyer, a judge, a jury and a Domestic Situational
Researcher like myself.  Babcock calls this Anticipating the Remedy
Contingencies.  Here's where this thing could go, if not properly
investigated.

   (1) The police could arrest Wesley because he's the boy.  "Maybe it's
just second degree rape or something," I wondered.  I wasn't sure about the
degree, but something serious.

   (2) They could sue the camp for lack of due supervision, or whatever,
because the camp would have insurance for accidentality.  (I just made up
the word, but I'm sure attorneys would use it.) Just like for a camper
falling out of a tree.

   "But here's the problem.  An accident," quoting from my Literature Phase
printout, "is a fortuitous circumstance, event or happening; an event
happening without any human agency, or if happening wholly or partly
through human agency, an event which under the circumstances is unusual and
unexpected by the person to whom it happens; an unusual or unexpected
result attending the operation or performance of a usual or necessary act
or event; chance or contingency; fortune; mishap; some sudden and
unexpected event taking place without expectation, upon the instant, rather
than something which continues, progresses or develops; something happening
by chance; something unforeseen, unexpected, unusual, extraordinary or
phenomenal, taking place not according to the usual course of things or
events, out of the range of ordinary calculations; that which exists or
occurs abnormally, or an uncommon occurrence." I was lost too.

   I cited the Michigan Judicial Institute.  We'd have to allege "an
unintentional or accidental sexual contact or penetration that occurred
under what is normally thought to be lawful circumstances, such as
performing a medical procedure, bathing someone, or changing a child's
diaper, to name a few such circumstances." But putting on swimsuits?

   But even if they won, their lawyer would screw them for more than they
accidentally screwed each other.

   (3) A judge could decide what the law says.  But in Northland Insurance
vs.  Briones, the California Court of Appeal held that there's no such
thing as "unintentional child molestation", "negligent harassment",
"negligent stalking" or "accidental intercourse".  You can't argue with a
judge.

   (4) A jury could decide who's to blame.  But I reminded them that a jury
awarded $500,000 to a lady who spilled MacDonald's coffee on herself, so
who knows?

   (5) So you're of course right to start with a private investigator with
a domestic specialty, I assured my clients.  Sometimes, private
investigations are private for a reason.

   "OK," agreed Allison.  "We'll go with you.  All we need to know is if we
can be domestic partners, like I said on the phone."

   I made a note to myself to get a little notebook to keep track of my
billable hours.  Babcock says it's really hard to remember afterwards.

   CONFESSION

   So why call it an accident?  Police, lawyers, judges and juries would
have a field day.  The only answer that came to mind was that they somewhat
believed it.

   Then something in Ann Landers sparked the hunch that would prove to
break this case open.  "OK, kids.  I'll need to do some investigation. 
Allison, I'll need you to loosen your belt.  Don't worry; nobody can see us
back here."

   She paled, probably envisioning some sort of DNA sampling.  I've read
they do that, but Babcock stresses traditional sleuthing methods.

   "Just lean forward, honey, and pull it out just enough for me to see the
hem of your underwear."

   She must have been somewhat surprised, but her mother must have told I'm
a detective.

   Lavender cotton briefs.  Hunch supported!

   I was hesitant about my next check, but I had to find out.  "Same thing
for you, Wesley.  Pull out your belt just enough to show the top of your
shorts."

   I guess he figured he could deck me if I tried anything weird, but after
all, I am a detective and we were in MacDonald's.

   Lavender jockeys.  Hunch confirmed!

   Having read Ann Landers about today's tags of teenage sexuality, I was
direct.  "Now you can level with me, or we can waste a lot of time.  Yes or
no.  Are you homosexuals?"

   Their mouths dropped and Allison took Wesley's hand.

   They both nodded.

   I hoped they were enough impressed as to not further conceal pertinent
information.  Babcock says to either act dull so they drop their guard, or
really smart so they quit trying to fool you.  I'm the smart type.  (The
Ann Landers angle was from my own reading, not something suggested by
Babcock, I might note.) But this would be a difficult case, to be sure.

   Realizing the futility of concealing the truth from a professional,
Wesley stepped in.  "OK, so it wasn't exactly an accident, but we didn't
get carried away like you suspect.  The other counselors made us."

   "Made you?"

   "'Cause we're not straight," he reminded me.

   "OK, then.  Let's start this thing from the start." Motives usually
explain what investigators investigate.  Babcock says to get the Background
Information.

   BACKGROUND

   Allison began.  It was Madonna kissing Britney Spears and Christina
Aguilera on MTV and later how Aguilera put her tongue down Britney's
throat, according to Britney, that got everybody talking about girls
smooching.  (I didn't point out that Madonna's being twice the age of the
starlets makes it more like child molestation, Britney being not quite a
girl, not quite a woman.)

   "So I told Wesley that I'd decided to be a lesbian, 'cause I knew that
he'd understand."

   "Because I'm gay," explained Wesley.

   "That's why we're best friends.  We're exactly different and exactly the
same," clarified Allison.

   "Keep talking," I ordered.

   "We're not dangerous or anything," argued Wesley, a bit defensively.  "I
may be gay, but I don't let some fag mess with me.  Us guys just goose
around sometimes, you know."

   "Really," attested Allison.  "He's perfectly cool.  Maybe we're not into
each others' bods, exactly, but we do everything together."

   "Everything?" Perhaps she'd unravel this story herself.

   "No, not everything, like that!  Just regular stuff like basketball and
baking.  Honest, he never touches me on purpose except when we're whacking
each other with cushions or something.  We're not interested."

   "Not interested in what?"

   "You know, sex.  Maybe we feel each other up a little when we're
wrestling around, but it's more just a curiosity.  Even lesbians know about
boners and stuff.  Anyway, a gay guy understands how to play with your
boobs right."

   "It's not because I'm trying to," jumped in Wesley a bit defensively. 
"We're playing WWF Slo-Mo."

   "What's that?"

   "You know, with the radio on so her folks won't hear.  When a song stops
we freeze right where we are until the next song starts."

   "And we pretty much know when the end of each song's coming up,"
explained Allison.A

   "You're holding hands," I noted.

   "So what?  That's because we might become domestic partners.  It's not
like how I'd hold hands with a girlfriend," she blushed.

   "So, just for the record, not for your mom," I followed up, "you do have
girlfriends?"

   "You mean lovers, right?" She brightened.  "I'm planning to."

   "You two know about orgasms from, you know, maybe something you learned
in the shower?"

   Wesley avoided my eyes, but nodded.

   Allison wanted the record set straight.  "In the bathtub, actually."

   "And it was like that when you did it?"

   "Better, actually," volunteered the girl.  "But since we're gay/lesbian,
it was a one shot deal.  No, I mean that Wesley shot a buncha times, five
it felt like to me (right, Wesley?).  It was a one time deal, him shooting
a buncha times." She looked at him for confirmation.

   "But we still might want to be domestic partners some day.  That's why I
called you.  Everything you read about domestic partners looks like it's
just for two girls or two guys.  It's discrimination," she mused, but then
had a happier thought.  "Mr.  Saxton, our Principal, says that if somebody
will start a Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgendered Club, we can get federal
grant for field trips and stuff!"

   "Field trips?"

   "Or maybe conventions!  If we go, we'd have boy-girl roommates so
nothing would happen.  Me and Wesley would sleep together, right Wesley? 
We'd have our own shower, even."

   SCENE

   "So let's go back to the incident." Babcock says to note the scene.

   There were eight assistant counselors and as tends to happen, pairings
evolve.  Hank and Clarice were the "best looking" and "most popular". 
"Dominant male and female" came to my own mind, but I didn't want to lead
the testimony.  Jon and Marti were both into swimming.  Sean and Jessica
each had steadies back home, so were just going together for the summer.

   Wesley and Allison were the leftovers, but that was OK.  When the
counselors paired up, most often after campfire or during free hour, Wesley
and Allison could talk.  Once Marti saw them climb up into the lifeguard
tower.  Her exaggerated conclusion that they'd been making out was actually
OK, the two agreed.  Why go to a bunch of effort claiming that you weren't
doing exactly what everybody else would have been doing?

   "Actually," admitted Allison, "I sorta thought Marti might be worth
getting to know a little better.  She kinda had that look about her.  But
maybe it wasn't anything.  Or maybe if there was, she didn't know it yet.
In Health Ed, they say it takes years to decide."

   "But things started going wrong," reflected Wesley, "when Hank looked in
my trunk and saw my magazine."

   "It wasn't bad or anything," Allison hurried in.  "Just about fashions.
Ever heard of GQ?  Mostly sport-coats over tee-shirts."

   Wesley finished, "So Hank makes this joke to the other guys."

   "Like you're some sort of molester," consoled Allison, holding his hand
still.

   "And the girls, not Allison, I mean, the others, it's like, 'Do you like
makeup?' And 'cause Allison and me hung out, maybe she's weird too."

   "Like maybe I'll French kiss the assholes," pouted Allison.  "Bet a
quarter Marti would have before the magazine thing.  What would a gay and
lesbian do, anyway, except talk?"

   She went on, "So all of us went hiking to Big Falls the day between
sessions.  The boys stripped to their underpants and jumped in, so we did
too.  Plus bras, I mean." She giggled.

   "We were just splashing around, was all," clarified Wesley. 
"Afterwards, we all went to different places to dry in the sun.  Us two
just stayed on the rocks, since we didn't need to be private.  And then
after a while, they came back and asked us how it went.  I said, 'Fine,'
and Hank said 'So how come she's not naked?' and I didn't answer.  Then
they all started laughing and saying we were probably virgins, even."

   "Which we were, honest!" interjected Allison.

   "So then somebody started to push me over against Allison and pretty
soon they were sitting on us and we were all squished together."

   "Anything happen?" I asked point-blank.

   "No, not really," responded Allison.  "We were in our underwear and
everything."

   "Meaning?"

   "I just," admitted Allison without looking at Wesley, "you know, Wesley
was pushed against me and I, you know, could sorta feel his bump, I mean.
But it wasn't his fault, how it got."

   I turned toward the boy.

   "Oh, no, Ms.  Wright!  We were just squeezed together, was all.  Maybe
some of the other girls rubbed it, but they were careful their boyfriends
didn't see.  Allison was trying to keep them away, was why her hand was
there."

   "Assholes," commented Allison, who then hastened to resolve their
predicament.  "They let us up, like it was all this big joke.  They let us
rest together first, though."

   THE INCIDENT

   "It was later, maybe three or four days," recounted Allison.  "One of
the girls said, guess what's behind the sports field?  We went to see and
they threw a blanket over my head.  A camp prank, they told me.  When they
took it off, Wesley was there too and the boys were holding him.  Right,
Wesley?  And then they said that we had to make out.  We said no, but the
girls said they'd steal my shoes, so Wesley said, OK, and gave me a little
kiss.  That wasn't good enough, Clarice said, so he had to do it on my
mouth.  It wasn't like Britney's kiss, really!" her rue not totally hidden.

   "And then they told him that he had to feel me, second base, you know. I
said, no, and then somebody pulled up my shirt and my bra and made him. 
They could all see!  I'm not that big, actually."

   "But she's my favorite size," offered Wesley gallantly.

   "He was nice and gentle," showing me Wesley's hand.  "Like this,"
passing his palm over her chest.  He looked around nervously, but didn't
resist.  "'Cept, of course, it was on my skin.  Don't worry, Ms.  Wright,
we're gay/lesbian."

   Then her voice darkened.  "And then they said we had to get naked
together and we got really scared.  But they pantsed us anyway.  We were
fighting, but they didn't care.  They made us look at each other, but it
was pretty hard to tell much, 'cept for how big it was."

   She set her hands to show me about 12 inches, then made it a bit
smaller.

   "They're actually pretty interesting," she advised.  I'd agree.

   Wesley blushed and Allison gave his hand a squeeze.  "Don't worry,
Wesley.  My mom said Ms.  Wright has a license and everything."

   (Actually, I plan on getting a license.  Babcock says that it's just
necessary if you get hauled into court.  We wouldn't want the police
involved, if we could help it.)

   "You already knew that Wesley gets big?" I ventured.

   "Sure," she agreed.  "From when we goose."

   "Explain," in my best investigator voice.

   "You know.  You're wrestling or something and then you're goosing each
other."

   "And he's big?"

   "After we goose for a little bit."

   "Perfectly normal," I allowed, and then ventured further.  "Do you
mutually masturbate?"

   The two looked astonished.

   "It works for all sexual orientations," I explained.

   Allison considered the possibilities.  "You mean doing it together or to
each other?"

   "Maybe just together for starts," I recommended.  One should learn the
other's preferences.

   Wesley blushed when Allison grinned and looked at his zipper.

   They hadn't, I concluded, but maybe they should.

   "It's not like we'd be really having sex," Allison judged.

   "After all," I added, "you're best friends.  But we're here to talk
about your accidental intercourse."

   Allison returned to her saga.  "But then was when I knew it wasn't just
some joke because we were different.  They'd brought a sleeping bag and if
we wouldn't do it all the way, they'd make us.

   "We said, no, they couldn't, and they put one of our legs in each
other's underpants and made Wesley, you know, be between.  The guys felt me
up while they were doing it.  Even between my legs!  Hank sorta knew how,
which kinda made a difference.  Don't worry, though, I didn't let him get
past the front part, you know, the..."

   "Yes, I know," I assured.  "Especially if he sort of knew how."

   "They tied Wesley's hands around my back with my bra.  It would have
been more comfortable if they hadn't."

   "What about your hands?" I wondered.

   "They made me hold them around his back.  So when they had us like they
wanted, they zipped the sleeping bag around us.  If we fought too much,
we'd just be fighting each other."

   "So where were your hands now," I persisted.

   "Around his back still.  I didn't want to embarrass him by touching
something I shouldn't."

   She thought a minute.  "Wesley was on top, so I kinda laid flat so we
wouldn't roll or anything."

   She thought some more.

   "It was real tight in there, the way he was protecting me.  He just
kinda kept getting bigger and the way it pointed made it accidentally make
love to me.  Right, Wesley?"

   I looked at the accused, though Allison's accusation was hardly meant to
be such.

   "I didn't think it would go in very far," protested the accidental
penetrator.  "But Marti sat on my butt and pushed."

   "I knew she wanted to lay me," agreed the victim.  Returning to her
more-immediate partner, "And it hurt like shit, but once he was in it
didn't so much.  If I twisted too much to the side, it might have.  So the
only way I could move was up and down."

   "You know, Allison," I consoled, "sometimes when you're in a dangerous
situation, the safest thing to do is to cooperate."

   "That's sorta what I was thinking," she agreed.

   "So, Wesley, it got hard and just sort of found his way in?" I still
found it a bit hard to believe.

   "Marti was pushing on his butt," Allison explained.  "But Wesley's
really strong and didn't let her rush it, it being my first time."

   "That was good, Wesley," I complimented him.  "You not letting Marti
hurry it."

   "It slid better when Allison got..." He paused, searching for the word.

   "Lubricated, we say.  It's how a girl tells you she's ready."

   They both nodded, probably adding a word to their vocabulary.

   "We're lucky that we're about the same size," explained Allison.  "The
same size opposite ways, I mean, if that makes sense."

   "That's always good," I agreed.  Then turning to Wesley, "It's not your
size that's most important, though.  It's how you use it."

   "The thing was," added Wesley after a moment's reflection, "I decided
that maybe it was better to fake it so'd Marti would get off me and we
wouldn't squish Allison."

   "And I decided that maybe I should fake it so they'd quit bothering us,"
added his partner.  "But we sort of faked out each other, too."

   "It wouldn't be fair to make her come, just herself," clarified Wesley,
in case I didn't follow.

   "So you were both faking it, but thought the other one was having a real
one, so you did too," I summarized.

   The two nodded.

   "And by then," justified Allison, "it wasn't like we were virgins,
right? And it gives a guy blue balls if he can't finish."

   "And maybe psychological problems," I added.  "You were right in letting
him finish."

   I turned to the boy.  "And if you don't help her finish, too, a girl
gets frustrated.  It's something that boys don't think about enough."

   "He made sure I didn't get messed up," reflected Allison.  "We're best
friends."

   "So who orgasmed first?" I needed the full story.

   "You mean, 'came', right?" Allison wanted to be sure.

   "Or 'climaxed'," I provided.

   "We both did at the same time!  We didn't want to look like dummies."
Allison brightened at the memory.  "Afterwards, we could feel each other's
heartbeats, even!  I guess it was kinda good how they'd gotten my bra off."

   "They told us it was just to get us experienced and now we were all the
same," concluded Allison's inadvertent lover.  "But everybody knows you
can't just change your orientation like that."

   "So how come you gave me this baloney about changing swimsuits?  Really
weak."

   Allison had her reason.  "You can't tell on your friends, Ms.  Wright.
Sean and Jessica were pretty cool about it afterwards.  The four of us went
back up to Big Falls and they said since they'd seen us, we could watch
them."

   "Are we talking sexually?"

   "It was perfectly fair," judged Allison.  "They were a lot better,
though, 'cause of practice."

   "It was pretty hard to see, unless you got right in there," added
Wesley.

   "So was that all?" I wanted to be sure.

   "Well, afterwards Hank wanted to do it with me," admitted Allison, "but
I said, no way, or I'd tell Clarice." She looked at Wesley a bit crossly.
"And Marti goosed Wesley under the dining-hall table."

   "I was passing the oatmeal," Wesley offered in defense.

   "It gave him a boner," explained his accuser, "but he didn't come or
anything."

   "Want some advice, Allison?" I offered.

   "Sure."

   "Get on the pill.  Accidents will happen."

   Babcock says to summarize your findings.

   (1) They were together in a sleeping bag, in accordance with their
initial testimony.

   (2) They weren't changing into swimsuits, as opposed to their initial
testimony.

   (3) They did each have one leg in one pair of pants, another in the
other pair, in accordance with their initial testimony.

   (4) Wesley's penis did work its way inside Allison, also in accordance
with their initial testimony.

   ...(5) Their act was successful, not covered in their initial testimony.

   After putting their mutual loss of virginities in context, "Just one of
those things along the highway of life," I reassured the pair.

   Allison beamed, leaned over her burger wrappers and gave me a kiss.  A
really big kiss.  Actually, I realized after a moment that she was working
all around inside my mouth.  Teenagers can be so exuberant.

   "Really, you shouldn't, honey!" after she finished with me.

   "Well Madonna likes to with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, and
they're about the same age difference as us."

   I agreed that it was quite nice, but, after all, I'm a private
investigator.

   "Some private investigations are best kept private," Allison reminded
me. If I'd had my more-professional business suit, she'd not have seen my
nipples.

   I couldn't help it, I defended my self, but I didn't come or anything.

   COLLECTION

   Babcock notes under Collection of Remittances that clients may be unable
to settle their account.  As Betty's my friend, her daughter's bill's not
the sort of issue that you push.  I suppose I should have had them pay for
my Happy Meal, though, an out-of-pocket expense.  As noted earlier, I have
some savings, so income just means more tax forms.

   "I'll tell you what, Allison.  A kiss that sweet makes my fee
half-settled." She giggled and it occurred to me that such opportunity
shouldn't be squandered.  "Wesley?  Do you know that way, how Allison did
that?"

   "Not really, Ms.  Wright."

   "Well then Allison, to celebrate everything turning out fine, maybe you
could give Wesley one too?"

   She beamed at me.  I wasn't sure if she really winked my way before
turning to her friend and catching him full mouth.

   "People might see!" he protested after they were satisfied with their
efforts.

   "Hey, Ms.  Wright?  Can I ask you something?" still licking her lips. 
"How'd you guess that Wesley and me were gay/lesbian?"

   "Lavender underwear, honey."

   "Lavender underwear?" She thought a moment and then grinned.  "You got
it mixed up with jelly bracelets.  It's different.  Lavender undies means
we're still choosing."

   WESLEY ALONE

   And I was still due half my remuneration!

   "Allison, hun, you can head on home.  I've got a few follow-ups for
Wesley and you've probably got homework."

   After her goodbyes (in which I nailed her with my tongue and made her
giggle), I turned to the boy.  "Let's go out to my car where nobody's going
to listen."

   (Babcock says that people are more willing to talk in a vehicle.)

   Extracting myself from the booth, I gave his arm a nice up, over and
down, the full cup.  Accidentally, of course.

   Wesley took the passenger side, but I had such trouble holding my
clipboard with the wheel in the way.  "Here, trade me places," I
determined.

   Sliding across a guy's lap, you can't really judge his equipment without
wiggling down rather unprofessionally.  You can tell something, however, if
he lifts up.  (Babcock doesn't say this, but girls know.) In Wesley's case,
he lifted, just a little, sneaking a brush of my butt.  Fair trade.

   Comfortably resettled, I nuzzled my knee against his as if it didn't fit
under a Civic dash.  he steering wheel left him no place to back away.

   "Just a few more facts for the file."

   "Whatever you need, Ms.  Wright."

   (Whatever I need?  It's not that complicated, my boy.)

   "Sheila," I corrected.  "First of all (and you might just as well be
frank with me), you've never had homosexual intercourse, right?  You know,
butt stuff." Start with a fastball.

   He was appalled.  "No way!"

   With what I hoped appeared to be an absent-minded, it's-sure-warm-today
gesture, I undid my top button.

   He looked the look that's supposed to look as if you're not looking.

   "I'm very relieved," I offered.  "HIV, you know," leaning enough to keep
his attention.  "Stay out of goosing contests, just to be safe.  With boys,
I mean."

   I casually rested my clipboard-holding hand on his knee while I twisted
a bit nearer.

   (Babcock says that you get the best information when your subject sees
you as an ally.  Only as a last resort should you resort to duress.  Given
Wesley's size, I wasn't sure how I'd actually force him to cooperate.  Plus
it would be unprofessional.)

   "OK," he agreed

   "So when the counselors were tying you up and everything, what did the
girls do to you?" I pursued as I took the clipboard with my writing hand
and dangled my free fingers on the inside of his leg.

   "Nothing much" Wesley pretended not to notice that I'd found the seam
that runs upward.

   While Babcock distinguishes between procedures of private investigation
and law enforcement, I could argue that frisking a suspect might be
included in either.  Everyone knows that a suspect might have a weapon in
his waistband.

   "Maybe like this," sliding lightly up his thigh.  He jerked, but didn't
bat me away.  "Trying to keep you down." When my fingernail came to rest
against the flap over of his zipper, I flicked the fabric.  As Babcock
points out: effective interrogation maintains pressure.

   "I don't think, Ms.  Wright, Sheila, I mean, that..."

   "I mean, keep you from escaping," I clarified.  "Not keep you down,
like, you know, responding."

   The boy didn't know what to say.

   "Don't worry, Wesley.  It's my job to figure it out." I tried to sound
reassuring.  "Just answer my questions," creeping a fingerprint over what
was now a lump.  "Anyway, they had you pinned."

   My next finger summated, as poor Wesley sat frozen, his eyes darting to
see if we were visible to people on the sidewalk.  As my hand was low
enough, the passerbys hadn't a clue.

   "Or maybe this.  It's better." I followed with the heel of my hand. 
Light with the fingertips, firm with the palm; Babcock talks about
changeups.  When I pulled my hand back to confirm his development, Wesley
wasn't furtively looking around; his eyes were shut.

   He was cooperating.

   "So let me get it straight, what was going on with the girls," I purred.
I was getting it very straight, thank you.  "You were dishing a little
back, I'll bet."

   "Not really...  I mean not like they were doing," he admitted, opening
his eyes and looking at my hand.

   "Show me," I ordered.

   "I can't..." but before he explained why not, I drew the back of his
hand to my ribs.

   "I need to understand," I insisted, returning to my investigation. 
"Don't worry, I'm wearing a brassiere," which I'd think he'd have
recognized, the way I'd pressed him against its underwire." "Brassiere"
sounds more professional than "bra".

   "Are you sure?" He was pretty uncertain.

   "Just show me how you were getting even," I insisted.

   He gulped and palmed my underside, finally letting his fingers move over
the front.  I wasn't sure if he'd expect an investigator to get hard
nipples, but he didn't seem to think it improper.

   "Keep showing me so I'll know," I requested.

   His eyes again raced around the parking lot to make sure nobody was
watching before he squeezed.

   "Good," I affirmed.  "No, don't stop.  I mean you do it quite well."

   But as I could hardly keep below the windshield, maybe this wasn't quite
the right situation.  I pulled down his wandering hand and sat on it.

   (Babcock says that a private investigator may constrain a subject who
poses bodily threat.  It would be dangerous if somebody called the police
on us, I figured.)

   "That's how you helped them, then," I confirmed after re-establishing my
authority.  "Nice and gently.  Now think how they helped you.  Maybe this
way?" Catching his ridge between thumb and forefinger, I slid down and up
before he could squirm away, noting its admirable quality.

   His hand remained trapped.

   "Or like this?" I continued, applying the inside of my wrist.

   He seemed unwilling to discuss his own condition, which if I may say so,
was as hard as a hammer handle.

   "Which?" in my business voice.

   "That way, I guess.  I mean, sorta that way," he clarified, knees enough
parted for met to cup his balls.  (I couldn't feel them individually, of
course.)

   "Because they had your pants down, right?  Not all this material in the
way," somewhat frustrated by his fabric.  "Did it feel cold, the fresh air
on you?"

   "Sort of."

   "We could loosen yours," I suggested.  "You'd be more comfortable."

   "No, don't."

   "Absolutely not, out here in the car.  And don't worry, Wesley," I
assured, "How we discuss the case is totally confidential.  Just keep your
knees apart."

   "Promise?" His wiggle was already rhythmic.

   "You got it, mister," now working him swiftly through the denim.  The
questioning was going well.  "I can see why Allison thought you were so
good."

   "She did?"

   "Some guys just have the size.  You're lucky."

   I don't suppose he was actually that remarkable, given what some girls
claim, but it seemed pretty large to me.

   Now I had my thumb hooked over his belt buckle.  If I didn't get him
into the open air, it would be easy enough to slip inside.  I wanted to
watch, though, so I'd understand the timing better.

   "So you just responded," returning to my questioning.  "They probably
knew how to do it pretty nice, those girls, right?"

   "Sure." Wesley was trying not to breathe.  "Clarice, anyway."

   "I figured she might." Thinking a moment of Babcock's definitions,
"Larceny," I ruled.  "Trying to get something that wasn't hers.  Of course
she had the advantage of you being pantsed." If my handwork ended clumsily,
I wanted some excuse.

   I'd worked his trouser fabric as lose as I could, but still couldn't
close my fist around the outside.  My thumb, being inside however, was
trolling back and forth over the band of his underpants, proving that I
wasn't really out to get anywhere.

   Noting no resistance on his part to my hand's proximity, I slipped under
the elastic and found the fringe of his pubic hair.  I wasn't exactly sure
when boys grow theirs, but it's by 15.

   Concluding that I still had his full confidence, I let my thumb find the
top of his penis.  I guess boys are more or less complete at 15.

   Maybe he thought I should have stopped short of skin to skin.  Or maybe
he thought that he should resist a little.  Or maybe he just thought I'd
find it juvenile.  Anyway, when he tried to pull back, I pinched on (not
too hard, of course) and he let me stay.

   Well, more than stay, I guess.  A kid his age can't be left in a lurch.

   I'd have him fully interrogated PDQ.  Should I get a hankie?  I could
test it under the ultraviolet in that booth in the Museum of Natural
History where they have the rocks-that-glow collection.  Babcock says
that's how to check underpants to confirm you-know-what.  It usually gets
on hers unless he pulls them all the way off.

   "You weren't too big for Allison, were you?" discovering slickness on
the end of his pleasing magnitude.  Build your subject's self-confidence.

   "I don't think so." Wesley managed a grin, though he sounded a bit
unsure.

   "As long as you get her nice and ready, girls like big ones." Damn, if
he'd check, he'd see about the nice and ready.  I raised my hip to free his
hand, but he didn't free himself.

   "The boy counselors knew how to warm up Allison," I suggested.  "You
know how, right?  Like at the movies."

   "Maybe not exactly."

   "On the outside," I clarified, laying his hand on my lap.

   He didn't get the idea, apparently.  The kid was just too new at this
sort of thing, I guess.  Was this good or bad?  I wasn't sure.

   "Like this," spreading his fingers across my pubis mons and centering a
fingertip.  He couldn't have felt anything, I suppose, given the skirt and
pantyhose, but he'd have the idea.

   (I can see why Babcock wrote the book.  She liked the training part, not
just the solving.)

   "It's OK," I assured the lad.  "I'm dressed.  Just up and down for a
start.  That's the ticket."

   For probably not feeling much of what he was feeling, he definitely had
the idea.

   "It's better without clothes," I apologized.

   I wasn't sure, though, about the propriety.  It's one thing to give a
few pointers, another thing to have the tables turned.

   "It's not that hard to get her panties off.  Hose is harder, though, out
here in public."

   Stop it now or end up victimized myself.  I know my physiological limits
and even through the pantyhose, mine was approaching with every up and
down. But, shoot, Allison's mom had engaged me and I couldn't very well
leave the girl odd-man-out, except there really wasn't a man involved in
this one.  First things first.

   Reluctantly giving up on my own relief, I sat on Wesley's hand again and
resumed my questioning.  "Allison was slippery inside?" to confirm that the
boy counselors took enough time.  "Before you rubbed her.  Not just after
you finished."

   Jason nodded affirmatively as I masturbated onward.

   "And you stayed big for her?

   "Well, not afterwards," he admitted.

   "Sure.  Bigger the better," I added, at last fully under his belt and
trying to get more fingers around him.

   "You need to be careful when an older girl gets to know what you've got.
They can't say no to a little fun when you get them in a private place." I
paused to let the warning implant.

   "Next.  Did you push when she was ready?"

   He nodded.

   "How much?"

   "Just a little.  It sort of went by itself." He was squeaking the car
seat, but the windows were up, so it didn't really matter.

   "Good.  Being a sensitive helped you understand what she wanted, first
time and all.  Just in a little bit," I advised.  "Then a little bit more,
till you're there," my grip demonstrating.

   I had a more immediate suggestion, too.  "Push up against me maybe a
little lighter and feel if it's funner."

   He did so.  I thought it was funner, at least.

   "Next.  Did you hold back to make it last longer for her?"

   "I wasn't really sure how.  I mean, Marti was bouncing me."

   My guess was that it was funner for Marti, making it happen.

   "OK," I conceded.  "But keep in mind that it's supposed to be a
two-person thing."

   "Older girls are better in making you last," I confided.  (The way I've
heard it, boys can repeat more times than older men, so you think about the
best combined package.)

   "I don't know, Ms.  Wright." He seemed to be having second thoughts. 
"You asking me this stuff the way you are.  Maybe answering's going to make
me do something I shouldn't."

   "Don't worry, Wesley," I promised.  "I'm just looking for information
and, anyway, it will come out in the laundry."

   Wesley sucked in his stomach and seemed to have a change of mind,
lifting up higher to show me it was a positive thought.  "If you undo my
belt, it might be more like then," a suggestion that took two or three
gasps to expel.

   (Committing it to paper, these sentences sound too composed.  The manner
in which the words got said was more sporadic, wedged between discoveries
and shoves and hissing sounds.  They say a boy's penis is really
sensitive.)

   But before I could unhook the buckle and view the exhibit, Wesley's face
flushed and he shot.  I could feel the twitches as he sopped my wrist.

   (I'd forgotten to maintain surveillance, I guess, and missed the woman
loading a minivan two parking places away.  I doubt she noticed a thing,
but in any case, she looked away after I raised my head.  Maybe she thought
I'd told a great joke and my son was laughing really hard.)

   "It felt OK?  Pretty nice, even?  Allison, I mean," after he'd quieted.
"It's really great, how the two of you saved the first time for each
other."

   "And not bad," I affirmed, "for holding up under questioning.  With an
old lady detective who's not as pretty."

   "Oh, no, Ms.  Wright, you're not that old.  And I think you're really
pretty, too."

   "Why thank you, Wesley," I smiled.  "You telling me that makes me feel
like a teenager."

   Confirmed, I closed the case.

   "So you, young man," giving his proven manhood a fond, if drippy,
squeeze, "owe Allison big-time for helping your sexual orientation.  It
could take psychiatrist years to get you back on track.  Much safer with a
girl."

   He grinned.

   "Or woman," I added.  "One you're familiar with.  Not one with
diseases."

   (Private investigation is more than investigating done deeds, according
to you-know-who.  We look out for our clients' futures, too.)

   "You two have some catch-up to do, I'd guess," I suggested.  "You'll
probably need to work on slowing things down, maybe.  You hear me?  Don't
get macho."

   He nodded, again shut-eyed.  It occurred to me that kids these days do a
lot of nodding.

   "Actually," I confessed, "I'm kind of new in some aspects of
investigation myself.  Think I should have questioned you slower?"

   He didn't have an answer, but boys don't understand that one.

   "So what I suggest," offering my hankie and trying to be practical, "is
maybe the two of you play Clue over at her place this afternoon.  Her folks
are at work, I'm pretty sure."

   In my day, I told him, we'd play Clue and go to real rooms to ask the
questions.  But since Allison wouldn't have a billiard room, they'd need to
make it somewhere else.

   (I didn't elaborate that once Keith Jarvis got me on the billiard table
(the bed we called the billiard table, that is) and asked if it was Miss
Scarlet with the candlestick.  He'd have to search me with a blunt
instrument to solve the case.  Maybe that's when I started wanting to be a
detective.  Afterwards when Keith saw that I really had been Miss Scarlet,
he told me that I'd made him do it.  Lucky guess, on his part.)

   Thinking of accidents reminded me of something.  "But stop by Wal-Mart
first."

   He nodded.

   "If you need a few tips on putting it on or anything," I added, "it
would be included in my investigation."

   He thought a moment.  "Maybe not, Mrs.  Wright.  They showed us how in
Health."

   "Of course.  I was thinking of advanced tips."

   But maybe this was pushing it, I decided.  (I could have driven him to
Wal-Mart and shown him discreetly below the dashboard, but I was being
professional.  Plus, Wal-Mart parking lots tend to have lots of people.

   "And if you want to be sure about your orientation, here's what you do."
I gave my phone number.  (I really should have understated business cards
like Babcock suggests.) "Call my office.  If an Associate answers, just say
its business with the boss.  I'll work you into my schedule."

   Wesley looked concerned, as probably I should have been, knowing
something about the age aspect.

   "Don't worry," I assured.  "Nothing Allison wouldn't have got you
investigating.  It just might be a good idea to keep ahead of her a little,
though, know a few more tricks for playing Clue."

   He looked clueless.

   To help him out, I added, "Remember how I said that it's not your size
that's most important, it's how we use it?"

   He nodded, not correcting how I'd substituted in the "we".

   "Well that's basically right, but with one as big as yours, we can use
it more ways."

   He grinned, but didn't ask how.

   I undid another button for good measure (perhaps less than
professionally), licked my lips and shooed him back to his girlfriend.

   "Hey, guy.  Leave me my hankie.  It'll wash out, no problem."

   (The test at the Museum was just for practice, of course; I knew it
would effervesce.  There was a troop of Girl Scouts in the booth after me
and I couldn't help but notice that at least two of them had some sort of
fabric article secreted in their hand.  Merit badge work, maybe.)

   FOLLOW-UP

   November 12, 10:32 AM.  My phone still needed mounting on the wall, but
it takes those special screws and I was baking bread.  Perhaps I should
have bought a better phone, as the redial was already kaput.  Anyway, I
have this gizmo that makes bread.  My neighbor Alice makes the coffee and
we eat whole-wheat fresh from the machine.

   The phone rang.

   "Hello, Ms.  Wright?  It's Wesley.  Howsitgoin'?  You know, I was sorta
remembering how you said to get back to you after a while?"

   "Why, yes, Wesley!  It's time you did that.  Let me check my schedule...
Yes, there is a slot come open this afternoon.  You do know where my office
is?" I gave him my address.  "You see, I'm involved in a long-term
surveillance of a suspect," looking across the fence at Alice's, "so I'm
working under cover.  My office sort of looks like a bedroom, but it's
really comfortable."

   Well, it occurred to me, I would indeed be working under the covers. 
Won't need Babcock for this one.

   INVESTIGATION CLOSED

   THE END

   Holly on the Web

   Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to the server.  My
problem is that I've no systematic way to update the various servers.  As
literary errors (or just lame word usages) are made known, I'll repair that
which is salvageable on /~Holly_Rennick.  If you take
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   You can contact me via the site's message form.  Holly