Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 CABO SAN LUCAS

   by Holly Rennick

   AUTHOR'S NOTES

   Rent a condo in Cabo San Lucas, Baja California.  Check out the shops.
Eat seafood.  Golf, if you must.  Snorkel.  Buy a fun swimsuit.  Take your
kids.  Watch the sunsets.  Take beach blankets.

   This version is again yet another re-write of a re-write.  Same plot. 
To see a Cabo sunset, go to
ftp://authorftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Cabo_Sunset.jpg.

   As my story refers to the movie "From Here to Eternity" (1953), I've
posted a frame of Deborah Kerr seducing Burt Lancaster at
ftp://authorftp.asstr.org/pub/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Eternity.jpg.  The
movie garnered eight Oscars.

   CABO SAN LUCAS

   I'd promised the twins that they could choose.  Were vacation left to
me, we'd do Disney World again, as I'd really had fun when Jeanie and
Curtis were about twelve.  They'd loved it, too, of course, but kids get
older.  Come September, they'd be in college.

   "We could do Yellowstone," I suggested.  I'd been doing a bit of
reading, actually.  The emphasis these days is on sustainability, really a
good idea, I believe.  Maybe we'd see some endangered species!

   "You said we get to choose, Mom," Jeanie pointedly reminded.  "I'm
thinking further south."

   I consulted my reference.  "Grand Canyon." There'd be more of a
geological emphasis, also those informative talks by the rangers.  Plus
I've never ridden a mule.

   "Naah.  Further south."

   Southward, "America's Treasures: Her National Parks" only went to scenes
of cactus.

   When Jeanie nominated Cabo San Lucas, I needed a map.  "It's not even in
America."

   "Mexico's still North America.  Cabo's part of their California,
actually, just not ours." Curtis was quite knowledgeable about such things.

   "They speak Spanish down there, don't they?" It's important to foresee
the difficulties.

   Jeanie flopped a raft of brochures onto the table.  "Look.  All in
English." She'd apparently been doing a bit of research.  "Anyway, Curt
needs to practice his pronunciation.  Senora Sites said mine is great."

   "Big deal!" countered her brother.

   I could already see the impossibilities.  "A sweaty hotel with bedbugs,
I'll bet.  If we go to the Grand Canyon, there'd be a Motel 6 with a pool."
Motel 6s are regularly inspected by Motel 6 inspectors, I'm quite sure.

   Jeanie was ready for that one as well.  "Cabo's got a bigger pool, Mom
-- about a million square miles.  Look at this magazine.  Our resort
accepts MasterCard.  AC, entertainment center, fully-furnished kitchenette,
sofa-bed, washer and dryer, balcony, Pacific view.  Look at the tile-work!"
pointing to a happy poolside couple serenaded by a band of mustached
Mexicans in gigantic hats.

   Our resort?  I thought we were still deciding where.

   "I can only handle so many tacos," appealing to Curtis's taste for
cheeseburgers.  Flagstaff would have a Denney's.

   "They have supermarkets that look like Safeways," Jeanie reported with
authority.  "Cook whatever we like.  We'll snorkel.  Beachcomb.  Rent
motorcycles," the latter for her brother to hear.

   "The park rangers give these great..." I tried to remind them.

   She waved the propaganda.  "Plus take a speedboat to see dolphins," the
speedboat bit also for her brother, the dolphins for me.  "And it's really
fun to ride horses on the beach," the old ploy of mentioning something in
passing to cite later as proof of agreement.

   I'd never seen a dolphin, except in documentaries.  They say that
they're smarter than us.

   "We'd have to fight off Latin lovers," Jeanie laughed.  "You and me, I
mean, not Curt."

   Curtis gave his sister the evil eye.

   "Well, it would be fun to see dolphins," I allowed.  Latin lovers?  Give
me a break!

   "You'll get sunburned," I predicted.  "It's closer to the equator,"
vaguely pointing at the map, "and they probably don't have the right kind
of lotion down there."

   Jeanie nudged her brother.  "Would this lady, perchance, be our mother?"

   "Would you, perchance, be the children I rented, two for the price of
one?" I tut-tutted.

   "We learned the Mexican Hat Dance in, when, fourth grade?" remembered
Curtis.

   "Fifth.  You boys couldn't even clap right," his sister noted.

   "Dibs on the worm in the tequila," Curtis announced.

   "What worm?"

   "Don't worry, Mom.  It's pickled, but if you still want a regular Coke,
you say, 'Una Coca Cola.'"

   "Un Coca Cola," corrected his sister, "because it's a refresco."

   I missed the distinction, but understood the translation.  I'd want to
get a book so I could chat with the locals and everything.

   Cabo San Lucas, wherever you are, here we come!

   ***

   The flight worked like a charm.  "No frills, no spills," as Curtis put
it, who found the cheap tickets.

   After the "In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will
automatically drop from a compartment above your seat," I plowed through
nine pages of "Listen, Learn in Spanish," though I couldn't do the listen
part.  I already knew some of the numbers from when the kids watched Sesame
Street.

   On the ride to our condo -- Jeanie knew how to talk to the driver, but
he understood English when I explained that we were from America -- we
passed nightclub after nightclub.  Pretty sleazy places, I'd bet, with
tightly-attired ladies on the street corners.  Jeanie gave her brother an
elbow in the stomach for gawking.

   At least we're not staying in this part of town.  Too sexual.

   I suppose I'm not being fair, though.  The "ladies" were probably just
girls on their way home from work -- a dollar an hour as a waitress down
here, I'd guess.  How they dress is just how they dress, not that much
different from Jeanie.  The bad thing is that they have to work a lot
harder to afford it.

   I got the bedroom, Jeanie got the sofa-bed and Curtis got the floor
beside, not as bad as it sounds, as our condo had a foam pad.  Except for a
few soup spoons, the kitchenware matched.  The spatula was better than mine
at home.  The view was the best part of our accommodations -- sea and sand
and big black rocks.

   "Awesome!" decided Jeanie.

   "Bigger than all the land on earth combined," reported Mr.  National
Geographic.

   "So what are we standing on then?" pointed out his sister, to which he
replied that she missed the meaning.  Maybe I missed his meaning as well,
but who cares, since nobody's going to combine all the land.

   We'd only time to walk the beach as the sun went down.  It's not like we
ever stroll arm-in-arm, Curtis in the middle, back home, but after all,
this was Mexico.

   "Sunsets aren't this orange back home," I observed, trying to ignore the
elbow nudging my chest.  You have to hang on, though, to cross the rocky
places.

   "Mexico's like this," Jeanie noted as if she'd been here before,
snuggling her brother's other arm like Bob Dylan's girlfriend on the album
cover.  How you hang on doesn't matter, though, when you're related.

   "The color orange and the fruit orange are the same word in Spanish,
exactly like in English," Curtis informed me, his arm beginning to feel
more customary.  It's interesting how quickly you get used to things you
don't mind that much.

   "You wonder why you don't get second dates?" challenged his sibling. 
"Mr.  Romantic!" She looked at me and grinned, "I tried to teach him how to
make out, but he's such a klutz."

   "Think you're such an expert!" his retort.

   "Cut the squabbling," I ordered.

   Jeanie looked my way.  "We have better fine motor skills, right, Mom?"

   She'd tried to teach her brother how to make out?  Her own brother? 
When?  Where?

   Maybe she was just kidding.  Maybe not.  I suppose that making out's no
big thing these days, not like when I was their age and hardly knew
anything.  Jeanie would give better pointers than some girl in chemistry
class, I guessed.  "Kiss her at the doorstep, Curtie," tips like that. 
Hopefully not as far as, "Pinch the hooks while you're hugging," as you'd
want him being respectful.

   But even still, talking about it with your brother?

   Jeanie was on the pill, but aren't lots of girls these days for when
they get engaged?  That's how I choose to phrase it, anyway, though of
course we all know that some of those girls don't wait that long.

   I thought Curtis's fact about "orange" in Spanish was rather
interesting, actually.  Would they call a grape a "purple?" I'll look it
up. Maybe the sunset's more orange in this part of the world because we're
nearer the equator.  Curtis would know, but I didn't really want an
explanation involving things like light rays.  However it occurs, sunset in
Cabo is lovely.

   "We'll bring a blanket tomorrow night," decided my daughter.

   ***

   Jeanie spent the first morning assessing beach fashions.  The three of
us were excessively Midwestern even for Midwesterners, she observed.  There
wasn't anything wrong with Jeanie's old suit, but yes, I saw her point.

   The twins hitched a ride to town that afternoon and came back with
produce -- such soft, sweet mangoes they have down here, a Pizza Hut pizza,
honest-to-goodness Coca Colas, and without my permission, beer, their way
of saying that we're in Mexico.  Mexican Cokes are exactly like ours, and
they hadn't gotten the drink with a worm in it.

   Plus Jeanie came back with a new swimsuit.  Cheaper than back home, the
receipt as proof.  Plus the store gave her ten percent off since it was her
first visit.

   "Like you pay full price on your second?" challenged her brother.

   "No, dummy.  Fifteen percent to return amigos.  Maybe twenty if we get
you a Speedo."

   Her purchase wasn't much different from the fashion around us, but I
wasn't accustomed to my daughter's contours so obvious.  It's one thing to
have nipples peek; it's another for them to dominate.  Curtis noticed, too,
but you don't want to spend your vacation being a policemother.

   Jeanie grinned that maybe she'd try an experiment -- an hour on the
beach in her old suit and an hour in her new one.  How many cute guys would
stop to chat?  I gave my tut-tut.

   "Mom, you should get something yourself.  You'd qualify for the fifteen
percent because of me.  You'll never snag your señor in that thing."

   "Mine's more American," I pointed out, "as I'm looking for a businessman
from Omaha."

   "A fat dude in Speedos?" she parlayed my joke, though I wished it
weren't.

   Oh, the Pacific!  We'd paid for it, the way I saw it.  Why would you
settle for your condo pool, even though you paid for it as well?  A foreign
country is for bigger experiences.

   A taste or two of saltwater and we taught ourselves to snorkel.  Curtis
had read all about it.  Rinsed goggles won't fog as much.  If you suck a
little water into the tube, just blow it back out.  Since you can't
chitchat, decide on some hand signals -- thumb up means okay; finger
pointing shoreward means a shark's about to eat us, that sort of thing.  I
didn't follow his explanation about why we float better in the ocean, but
it's true.

   Curtis lied that Cabo was where they filmed Jaws, which I knew to be
false.  Jaws was back east, not here.

   Jeanie shrieked and rode her brother's back so they'd look too big for
Jaws to select from the menu.  And let poor Mom get eaten?  So I got to
ride half the time.  It's okay to get like that for protection.

   Locals plied the beach with tacos I knew to be unsanitary, but the
vendors had licenses of some sort.  The tourist industry doesn't want sick
guests, Jeanie guaranteed.  Cabo runs on dollars, not pesos.  The vendors
had no problem being paid in American money, augmenting their take by
rounding the exchange rate, I'm sure.  The tacos were indeed tasty, even if
it was the bacteria.

   Why does a vanilla ice cream bar harden your nipples?  Not that my suit
showed that much, but I was glad we weren't near other vacationers.  Curtis
wouldn't care, but even still...

   Resting her head on her brother's stomach, Jeanie claimed she could hear
the Mexican Hat Dance.  Should she play the bongos?  "Ta-tad-da, ta-tad-da,
ta ta," she answered her question, clapping his belly with each "ta ta."

   The band of his suit was just an inch or two below her drumming, and the
bulge wasn't much below that.  Thank goodness he'd not bought Speedos. 
They're brother and sister, twins even, and kids are less self-conscious
these days.  But even still, she shouldn't bongo so close.

   Jeanie halved the distance and grinned triumphant when Curtis rolled
onto his belly.  After a futile effort to flip her brother back, she sat on
his butt, scanned the sea and reported large fins.  He told her to get off
and she bounced him for good measure.

   Even after she removed herself, though, he stayed face down for the
longest time.

   Should I buy Curtis a swimsuit that's a bit more baggy?  A good idea,
maybe, but let's face it -- it's been years since he's let me do his
shopping, except for socks.

   Well so what?  It's not as if anyone else can tell.

   From our spot by the rocks that evening, the sunset was even more
glorious than Jeanie's promise.

   Jeanie sat behind me on our beach blanket.  "Backrub, Mom, while Curt
gives me mine.  He gets his tomorrow."

   The only others in proximity, a couple nearer the water, unfolded their
blanket, but I didn't give them much thought.  It's a big beach.

   Jeanie's palms felt warm on my neck.

   The couple appeared to be kissing.  She was a blonde and he'd taken off
his shirt, though it was too late in the day to add to his tan.  They'd not
noticed us, I guessed, as they'd not be making out if they had.  Maybe it's
their honeymoon.

   Jeanie reached inside my collar to push aside my straps.  We're on the
beach, Mom, she was telling me.  You get a real backrub.

   Our neighbors pulled a blanket over them, but not quickly enough to hide
an exposed breast.  I hoped my kids were watching the sun's waning moments,
not the coming attraction.

   The woman was now on her back, his dark hair above her flaxen.  Oh my!
It's hard to tell for sure at a distance, but her knees were the give-away.
There's no other reason to be in that position.

   I could hear her gasp when he entered, or was it just the wind?

   Oh, how I hoped the kids weren't watching with me, but you can't say,
"Everybody watch the sunset," without it sounding suspicious.

   Had the couple come to make love, or had they begun as sundown watchers
like us?  They wouldn't do this so publically back home -- you could see
the movement of his butt -- of that I was sure.  But then again, back home
I suppose I'd look away.

   I hadn't known anything on my honeymoon.  I'd seen this black and white
movie, though, "From Here to Eternity," where Burt Lancaster begins to make
love to Deborah Kerr on the beach.  The girls at the office swear that his
erection shows, but I don't think they'd put it on TV if you could, and
anyway, I don't have that good of a TV.

   But that was a movie.  This couple's for real.

   Was Jeanie watching, too?  We're in Mexico ourselves, her palms told my
shoulders.  They're having sex, Mom; that's why they're under the blanket.
Why do I need to be telling you this, Mom?  You know all about it, despite
how you act.  Her orgasm will be orange like the sunset, Mom.

   As they climaxed -- even under a blanket, one can tell -- Jeanie's hands
encircled my ribs and I sensed Curtis's hand around his sister.  A mom sees
without turning.

   When I at last had the presence to get up -- not until the couple
finished, though -- Jeanie was grinning and Curtis was guarding his pocket.

   Well, so what?  We didn't actually see them naked or anything.  Boys
imagine sex and get that way.  They go to me movies.  Hollywood these days
is a lot more explicit than "From Here to Eternity," but in Cabo, you don't
even have to visit the theater.  Anyway, it's not like you're going to
discuss it.

   Alone in bed, I wondered if the woman realized we were so near.  I
suspect so.  Would being watched add to her climax?  Maybe.

   I touched my breasts.

   ***

   Jeanie was just in her bra when she poured our breakfast orange juice. A
way to beat the morning heat, my interpretation.  It didn't cover less than
what her swimsuit showed.

   We shopped that morning for tortillas, fish and pineapple.  The flan
looked bacteria-friendly, so I put my foot down on that one.  For lunch
we'd grill the fish, toast the tortillas with a bit of cheese and call the
pineapple our salad.

   We played rummy afterwards with a deck left by a previous guest. 
Usually I lose, but this time I got pretty lucky hands.

   I contemplated an afternoon nap, something to make this a real vacation.
I really should get to my "Listen, Learn," though.

   Curtis was watching the Cleveland Indians in Spanish and Jeanie wanted
to work on her tan on the balcony.  "Come on, Sr.  Baseball.  You can't go
home looking like a Clorox ad."

   I didn't need a nap, I decided after skimming next-month's edition of
Cosmopolitan, already a month in circulation.  The last guests were from
Colorado Springs, based on the label.  I didn't want the kids to catch me
reading about helping your boyfriend communicate, so I stashed it for
later. Not that I had a boyfriend with whom to communicate, but it was
something to read.  The author had a PhD.

   From the hall I could see the kids on the balcony, Jeanie on her
stomach, strap untied, and Curtis lotioning her shoulders.

   They must have said something and...  Oh my!  Had she forgotten her top
was unfastened?  Her breasts were ivory, firm and announcing, not down the
road like mine, but even still!

   As the two exchanged positions, neither kid acted like anything was new.
Back home the two were casual when they wandered down the hall, but I
didn't recall Jeanie ever being topless.  On the other hand, I don't
monitor the upstairs hallway.  Is it no big thing these days?

   Jeanie did her brother's back, chit chatting about I-don't-know-what,
her breasts bouncing like dancing peaches.  When she rolled him over -- he
didn't want her to, same as on the beach yesterday -- it was difficult to
be sure without staring, but I surmised his reason.  Even a brother can't
remain nonchalant about beckoning breasts.

   I couldn't believe that Jeanie would do that to him -- make him admit
his thoughts, so to speak -- but maybe it was some sort of game.  Not one
I'd ever played, but then again, I didn't have a brother.  In any case,
sitting on his legs and lotioning his stomach seemed to be within the
rules. Again it's hard to be certain, but once she had him that way, Curtis
didn't keep resisting.

   Some games a mom can't referee that well.

   I faded back to my room and when I finished my Cosmopolitan, the two
were back inside, smelling like coconuts.

   "Got him tan, Mom," Jeanie boasted, but Curtis wouldn't have blushed if
it were just about tanning.

   We ventured back to the beach to see the sand castles.  Jeanie and I
squealed when Curtis dragged us into the surf, but it was fun to sit in the
water with the foam rolling past.

   Local boys canvassed the beach, distributing fliers about happy hours.
What if I went to one of those clubs and met a Latin lover?  No thank you!

   At dinner -- one meal out per day, how you travel affordably -- I
ordered us piña coladas.  Kids shouldn't drink alcohol, of course, but this
was different.  Two musicians sang us the "Ei yi-yi-yi" song and I gave
them a tip.  Fun!

   "I think Mom's getting into this Mexico thing, Curt."

   "La señora es on vacación," his reply.  It's amazing how naturally I'd
picked up on understanding things.

   "'Está en,' not 'es on,'" corrected his sister.  "And aqu', nuestra
madre es una señorita," tipping her glass to signal the waiter for another
round.

   I understood the "señorita," of course, but wasn't sure about the rest.
That's why I bought my "Listen, Learn" book, to understand what I didn't
naturally pick up.

   After dinner we walked arm-in-arm by the shops -- Curtis our noble
escort, Jeanie our commercial advisor.  When we looked at the wooden bowls,
I suppose I nuzzled Curtis a time or two, same as her, but so what?  She's
his sister; I'm his mom.  You need to stick tight as there might be
pickpockets, especially if you're señoritas who drank piña coladas.

   I hoped Curtis couldn't discern my reaction to the sea breeze.  It was
the sea breeze, wasn't it, after the wooden bowl shop?

   At one store they sold so many statues made of marble, but I stared too
much at the one with the woman's legs wrapping a man's lap.  Maybe it was
Inca or something.

   "Made by hand," guaranteed the shop lad, lifting the lovers for my
appraisal.  He probably says "Made by hand" a thousand times per day, I
figured, but it was indeed nicely crafted.  I didn't like that it was a boy
showing me how babies are made, but at least he didn't know who I am.

   I never had sex that way -- on a guy's lap facing him, I mean.  Never
had sex most ways, actually.  The regular positions worked just fine when
I'd had the opportunities.

   I'd meant the dolphin figurine on the shelf below, I clarified, thinking
quickly.

   "They've got this onyx stuff everywhere," instructed Curtis, hovering
over my shoulder.  "We'll come back if we don't see it cheaper."

   "Here's a souvenir," Jeanie noted, hefting a stone penis on the same
shelf.  "Think it weighs too much for the plane?"

   I managed to avoid contributing an opinion, but it probably did.  And
where would you display the thing back home?  On the piano?

   The owner knocked twenty percent off the price of a shell bracelet
because he thought we were three impoverished college students and he said
it looked elegant on my wrist.  The twins were great and never called me,
"Mom."

   "Curt bought a switchblade," tattled his sister afterwards.  "He'll get
arrested at the airport."

   "No way," he assured us with the confidence of an eighteen-year-old.

   "Ditch it," I ruled.  Motherhood's never completed.

   We chatted with two couples in the resort lobby.  The Harmons were from
back east somewhere and the Jantzens were from Iowa, not that far from us.
The women and been college roommates and the four vacation together every
summer.  Today they'd golfed.

   "Jesus, do we need showers," laughed the Jantzen wife.

   I don't like it when people say "Jesus."

   "You okay with aloe vera shampoo," she asked the Harmon husband, an odd
thing to ask someone other than your partner.

   "You've got more hair than me," his reply and all four laughed, I guess
because he was already losing his.

   As we parted, they didn't divide with Harmons to one unit and Jantzens
to another.  A Harmon-Jantzen pair went each direction.

   Oh my!  They're...

   The twins were looking at some sort of parrot and hopefully didn't catch
the switcharoo.  Curtis said the bird wasn't the kind that talked, but I
thought it quite pretty and it did say, "E-caa," which probably means
something in Spanish.

   "Interesting folks," decided Jeanie.  "It's smart to use the same
shampoo," adding something of a wry smile.

   Does the other Harmon-Jantzen combination maybe prefer Head & Shoulders,
I wondered?  Roommate assignment by hair care product, maybe we could call
it.  I pictured the duo sharing the aloe vera, her rubbing it onto his bald
spot as she slides her soapy body against his backside.

   The kids and I again watched the sunset from our same spot and the
couple we'd seen last evening had likewise reclaimed theirs.  Given the
miles of seaside, it's odd how we return to our little domains.

   "It's getting kind of cold," I suggested, hoping we'd decide to head
back.  "I'll pop some popcorn."

   "Gotta' see the sunset, Mamacita," her resolution suggesting expectation
of seeing more than that.

   What can you do?

   While Curtis and I arranged our setting -- it's not like you can point
your blanket away from something nearby -- Jeanie wandered to chat with our
neighbors.  The woman was a film professor from Mississippi and he was a
paramedic from Tucson.  She'd been buying a coral necklace and he'd stepped
in to bargain the price down.  She showed it to Jeanie who'd seen the item
elsewhere for a lot less, but didn't tell them.  "What's a few dollars?"
Jeanie reflected.  "It's how she'll remember Cabo."

   "Oh," I admitted.  "I thought maybe they were on their honeymoon,"
breaking my sentence when I realized I shouldn't reveal why I thought that.
The twins exchanged glances.

   She won't remember Cabo for the coral necklace.  She'll remember Cabo
for orgasms on the beach.

   "Here's something interesting, Mom," volunteered Curtis after a moment's
pause.  "'Honeymoon' in Spanish is exactly like you'd translate 'moon of
honey.' It doesn't have anything to do with the moon or honey in either
language, the way I see it."

   His sister poked his side.  "Mr.  Americano's so, so unromantic.  You
make honey under the moon, right, Mom?" looking skyward as if to see if the
moon was up.  It was.

   When Curtis elbowed back, she wrestled him across the blanket, employing
what wrestlers maybe call a full body press.  An observer, unaware they
were siblings, might have interpreted their behavior as that of
honeymooners themselves, I realized, as even up close it's sometimes
difficult to distinguish types of wrestling.

   I tried to ignore the way Curtis's shorts pulled taut, but as I said, I
was rather close.  You're not noticing in a personal sense, so to speak,
but you're acknowledging that your boy's now older.  It wasn't as if I saw
anything, though, just the bulge under his left pocket, and that was only
when Jeanie pulled her thigh away from it.

   After allowing each other a few reversals, Jeanie ruled, "Tie," to
forestall being pinned.  Wrestling's a contact sport, she grinned when I
tut-tutted.

   Per last night's agreement, Curtis was the head of the backrub line and
Jeanie, the tail.  Curtis's back felt muscular.  Jeanie didn't have a
chance when they wrestled, I realized, other than with her wits.  A girl
needs wits in this world, especially when she wrestles.

   Jeanie's matter-of-fact unhooking of my bra was okay as long as Curtis
faced forward, I supposed.  It's funny how much she'd surprised me last
night by pushing down my straps, and now I hardly minded her undoing the
hooks.  As long as Curtis didn't turn around, it indeed was more
comfortable and even if he did, I still had my shirt.

   The way she massaged my sides made me think of how the twins were
conceived on Phil's lap -- the two of us watching Family Ties, his hands on
my breasts, my eyes never leaving the screen.

   As the moon came out, our neighbors again made love.  Like watching a
movie the second time, you see more.  When he pushes off her shorts.  When
she reaches for them afterwards.  Their blanket seemed thinner, the surf
more luminescent.

   My mind flitted between "From Here to Eternity" and the coupling before
us.  Does she even care I'm watching?  Probably not.  She probably
subscribes to Cosmopolitan and uses all those tips.

   Were the kids watching as well?  Of course Jeanie was, but I hoped
Curtis was gazing at the ocean or something.

   As the couple made love, I don't know why I drew Curtis backwards. 
Maybe to do his pectorals, I told myself.  Jeanie had been doing my stomach
at the time, but withdrew as I drew her brother against me.

   I wasn't surprised at his hand once more in his pocket, so maybe he,
too, was watching the performance.  Boys!  I stopped myself before reaching
his wrist, as I'd not have wanted him to realize that I knew where it was.

   Knowing that your kids are watching such a thing is disconcerting, but
it goes with the territory when you visit Cabo, I suppose.  Just because
you won't discuss it, doesn't mean that all of you weren't there.

   I wondered if my loosened bra made me feel soft to Curtis.  It made me
feel soft to myself, in any case.

   That night I masturbated, the first time in years.

   ***

   Morning brought more sunshine, the exact reason I'd urged my kids to
come to this place.

   Why not be a little like Jeanie?  We're in Mexico.  It's going to be a
hot day and it's our condo.  It's just Curtis.

   I felt a bit naked in just my bra, but I made us pretty good muffins.

   "It's cooler, right?" Jeanie's good morning.  Unlike hers, my nipples
hardly showed, except maybe when Curtis helped me load the dishwasher.  On
the other hand, when I showed, maybe I showed more.  Today's bras are
showier than they used to be, but they're more comfortable.

   Curtis's proximity made my reaction yet more pronounced.  Why does this
happen to me at the exact time it shouldn't?  It's not wrong for him to
notice, is it?  I was sure he had.  For me to find myself even harder?

   Anyway, it's not like we're back home.

   "Let's hit the beach, troops!"

   Curtis had us excavate a canal through the sand so a little pool could
return the ocean.  Totally pointless, I judged, since the tide's going to
put the beach back to whatever pathways it wants.  Nature always wins.

   "We won't let you drown," was all it took to get me into the water.  I
was a good swimmer even when I was little, especially the sidestroke.

   When Curtis steadied me against the waves, nobody but Jeanie was close
enough to see his arm around my front.  Being tumbled together takes a
little getting used to, is all.  As you never know which way the next wave
will push, you never know which way his arm will move.  Sometimes up and
sometimes down and sometimes it smushes you for as long as it takes the
roller to pass.  At least an American suit keeps you from popping loose.

   I didn't choose to notice how his suit clung, but you can't miss it when
he's right there.  Same as you can't keep him from seeing the fit of yours.

   The swipe of my knee across the front of his suit was inadvertent, but I
was nonetheless mortified by having done it.  He wasn't being that careful
with me, but even still...  Fortunately he didn't seem to notice, and
anyway, it was only for a moment.

   When I bumped him again -- it was when a big wave hit us -- this time it
was with the back of my wrist.  Again totally accidental, to be sure, but
your wrist senses more than does your leg.  Because it happened underwater,
again he couldn't tell.

   And anyway, if you didn't know what it was you'd bumped, you'd hardly
notice.  It's not like a specific thing down there; it's just a lump.

   It's not wrong to notice, is it, even if he's your own boy?  When you
think about it, why should his construction be a secret from the one who
brought him into this world?

   And anyway, by no measure were our collisions equitable.  There's less
of me to bump in total, of course, as he's bigger, but I've got more places
where bumps feel significant, shall we say.

   You tell yourself you'll quit thinking about it, but you involuntarily
tilt towards him as the next breaker approaches.

   "Mom, the surf girl," Jeanie laughed as we came out, Curtis's arm around
my shoulder.  It's good not to be an old lady, even if you're well on your
way.  It's also good to be in a proper American swimsuit, not one like
Jeanie's where my chemistry would have been even more apparent.  It's
nobody's fault when you tangle in the waves, but you still don't want to
broadcast your outcome.

   We waved to a Harmon-Jantzen pair walking up the beach, the maroon of
her areole visible through the pink of her bikini.  Had they made love
underwater, I wondered?  I expect it's difficult.  People like them seem
casual about people guessing, but Cabo's a casual place, I guess.

   When Curtis spun his head, Jeanie elbowed him a good one.  Don't survey
the landscape when Jeanie's your sister, I guess.

   I wouldn't want to do it under water; that's for sure.  I kind of wished
I had darker areole however.

   Probably at this very moment the other Harmon-Jantzen couple was
pounding their king-size bed to the beat of El Rancho Grande, I supposed.
What a vacation they must be having!  Sex, sex, sex.  It would be weird
knowing your husband was screwing your lover's wife, if that makes any
sense.  That your husband knows you're doing it with his lover's husband. I
saw a movie poster once with two couples in the same bed, but I didn't see
the movie.  Would the Harmons and Jantzens play golf together that
afternoon or just keep doing it?

   The kids and I took the promised speedboat trip past the harbor rocks.
The driver rousted up some lifejackets -- at my suggestion, I should add --
and guaranteed we'd see dolphins.  For sure we did!  In America you'd have
to actually wear the lifejackets, but in Mexico, you can decide yourself.

   Curtis sat between, an arm around each of us so we'd not fall overboard.
I've no idea what you'd say in Spanish if it happened -- "Estoy en la [or
is it 'el'?] agua," perhaps -- but didn't need to.

   "Look, you guys!" Jeanie pointed toward the horizon.  "There must be
ten!"

   There were at least that many, but it's hard to tell when they take
turns jumping.  When Jeanie turned to watch, the speedboat driver acted
like Curtis looping her chest was a perfectly normal way to secure a girl.
Maybe in Mexico, I guess, so you don't have to be fished out.

   It was so fun!

   Safely returned to port, Jeanie gave her brother a kiss on the cheek. 
"Pass it on."

   Curtis grinned, turned my way and did just that.  Like I said, the
speedboat was pretty fun.

   Tanning on our balcony, Jeanie shushed my protest about her unhooking my
top.  "Just stay on your stomach, Mom," pulling the straps too far down for
me to get them back up.  "Curtis won't look.  Right, Curtie?"

   If Curtis wouldn't look, why was she telling me to stay on my stomach?

   Lying there, more or less captive to my position, I remembered the
sunset lovers we'd watched.  Was she watching the horizon or the heavens?
You could watch the sky back home, but not the sea.

   Jeanie again wore no top at all, breasts primed by the Pacific.  Mine
were likewise erect, I realized -- though maybe not because of the ocean --
but the kids couldn't tell as long as I remained on my stomach.

   If I had a brother, I'd never go topless where he could see, not even in
Mexico.  But maybe I'm old fashioned about the Mexico part.  Certainly not
back home.  On the other hand, it might be better for it to occur at your
own place where you needn't worry about others.

   I spied though my lashes as Curtis lotioned his sibling.  Her eyes were
closed, but maybe only like mine.  When he rubbed below her breasts, did
she not roll her shoulders?  His back blocked my view when he did her
stomach, but his arm seemed to angle upward and the more his elbow wiggled,
the more she giggled.

   When he lotioned her legs, the shift of her knee told me that it was on
the inside.

   If I had a brother, I'd never let him do my front, not with Mother
around, anyway.  And for sure I'd not allow inside my legs.  Not if he got
too high.

   I'll admit that the kids' behavior left me in a bit of quandary. 
There's no way I could condone the casualness, but at the same time, I
didn't want to seem bossy.  What would I say?  "Curtis!  Quit pretending
you're doing what you're doing to your sister!  People will think you're
newlyweds!"

   Maybe, though, I even felt a little bit excluded.  They're brother and
sister, so even if it looks somewhat provocative, it's not for real. 
They're into vacation and I'm still a bit back home.

   I dozed off, again thinking of the lovers.

   I awoke to Curtis doing my back.  "SPF 30," he quantified as he's prone
to do, smoothing it around my sides and onto the whiteness where the edge
of my cup had fallen away.

   I was in agreement about using the 30, but not as at ease about where he
was.  As your weight's along your center, it's just that there's no way to
press your edges down tightly.  He can't see under you, of course, but you
still scrunch flatter which just bulges you outward.  Sort of a no-win
situation.  Win-win for the guy, I suppose, but it was only Curtis.

   I did like that he was taking charge, making sure I'd not get burned. 
Lots of guys aren't that concerned about Mom's skin.

   But oh my!  The curl of his fingers was advancing SPF 30 where I'd never
require it!  I didn't mean taking charge that much!

   If he continues underneath, would that mean to rise on my elbows?  Not
lift myself totally up, of course, but maybe enough for more lotion.  As
Jeanie seemed to be dozing, she wouldn't see.

   I shut my eyes, but he didn't reach below, saving me having to okay SPF
30 on the rest.

   Is it natural to imagine your boy doing this?  When you're on vacation,
that is.  Not that you'd let him actually do it, here or there, but that
doesn't mean you'd not wonder how it might feel.  If you let him, you'd for
sure stop him from doing it too long.

   It's a challenge to get your torso and your unhooked top off the mat at
the same time, but I don't think Curtis saw much.  I turned my head,
though, since I'd not have wished to follow his eyes.  It's kind of
flattering, but you hope he doesn't see everything.

   We ate that evening at a Taco Bell.  A taco's a taco, Curtis judged. 
What we don't have back home are the ice cream bars they have down here. 
Ice cream's "helado" and chocolate's "chocolate," but you pronounce it
differently.  I don't know about other flavors.

   Walking arm-in-arm again to our sunset spot, Curtis's elbow was more
present than absent.  I didn't mind, actually, even when it made it halfway
across me.  You pray he can't feel your nipple, but you're aware of how
much your nipple feels him.  It didn't happen that often, of course, but
maybe when it did, it took its time.

   The other couple wasn't nearby that evening.  Did they even get out of
bed?  You'd think at sunset, though, they'd rather do it on the beach.  I
would have, anyway.

   Jeanie, too, must have had them on her mind.  "Just us, tonight, guys.
Curt's in the back."

   She sat between my knees so I could do her stomach.  Her t-shirt said,
"Viva la Playa," one breast behind "Viva," the other behind "Playa." My
hands met just under the "la."

   "It works better inside, Mom.  Careful, though, 'cause I'm a little
pink."

   I could have told her the Mexican sun's the same as the American one, no
matter how much lotion her brother applied.

   Curtis had reached toward my front that afternoon, but I'd been on my
stomach.  Now I was more accessible.

   He did my forehead, my cheeks, my throat, my collarbone.  Through the
back of my blouse, he traced my straps to the hooks as if he were assessing
the mechanics.  Had Jeanie taught him how to undo a bra with a squeeze? 
He'd be doing it to better massage my back, wouldn't he?

   But instead, he reached under my arms and along the sides of my cups. 
Blouse and bra notwithstanding, you know he feels you.  If you lean back,
you know he'll take your breast and you'll not pull away.

   Just because he's your boy, it's not like you can't imagine this.  How
long would you let him do that?  It makes you willing, just wondering.

   But as with getting lotioned, these were but thoughts floating in my
mind.

   Returning to the steps of our resort, I caught myself with my own hand
in my front pocket, but as it was dark, let it remain there until we
reached our door.

   When I masturbated that night, I pretended to be sunbathing, to fall
asleep, to feel my clothing parted by stealthy hands, my breasts caressed,
lotion between my legs.

   I didn't know I was so good at masturbating.

   ***

   "Hey, madre mia!  'Bout time to wake up." Jeanie's voice, I wasn't sure
from where.  Somewhere in the back of my mind hung wisps of a dream about
making love in front of strangers.  But who was I kissing, drawing within?
Now I'd never know.

   "Going to sleep all day?" Jeanie's voice louder.  "It's after nine. 
Curtis's already left for the motorcycle place."

   Oh yes.  His ride.  Bouncing oneself to pieces on these roads hardly
sounded like fun, but that's being maternal.  I hoped they had his helmet
size.

   Jeanie fixed a fruit plate and went onto the balcony.  "A little tan
before it gets too hot," already stripped to her panties, little hankie
ones that molded her, but she didn't seem to care.

   I ate a banana.

   Why not?  Curtis was out for the morning.  I kept on my shorts, but at
least removed my shirt.

   "Bra, too, Mom.  Your new suit won't cover all your white."

   I'm not getting a new suit, but why not?  Curtis was gone.

   "Manos, por favor." Jeanie squirted a gob of Coppertone first into my
palms and then into her own.  "We'll do each other's arms." And then, "I
heard you last night."

   I must have looked confused.

   She clarified.  "When you did it."

   "Did what?"

   "You know, took care of yourself."

   What?  She means masturbate?

   Not waiting for my confession, "That's why you slept in," she reasoned
as if the aftermath were the issue.  "You're not dating so you needed to,
right?"

   Your daughter comments your masturbation and then your sex life?

   "Plus it's good for our complexion," she added, which I didn't know.

   "Where's that Latin lover you promised," I managed, hoping to mask my
awkwardness.

   "The one with a rose in his teeth?"

   "Just real teeth."

   We both laughed.  Why shouldn't she know that I have needs, same as
everybody?  They say that lots of women masturbate, even married ones.

   "Curt did it last night, too," taking time with my wrists.  "The boy's
way, I mean."

   Masturbate?  She'd heard him as well?

   "Oh." I really didn't need to know.  Why's she telling me this?  What
Curtis does is his own business.  Anyway, they say that all boys do it.

   "Don't worry," Jeanie added.  "He probably didn't hear.  Lay back and
I'll do your boobs."

   "Probably" usually means that the facts speak otherwise.  He'd heard me
as well?  Me masturbating?  I didn't think to inform her that I could do my
boobs myself.

   "The top of our feet, too," Jeanie decided, as if being heard was of
secondary importance.  "Everyone remembers their boobs, but we sometimes
forget our feet."

   "I suppose," my thoughts more directed towards Curtis.

   Jeanie read my concern.  "He can hardly make a deal about it since he
did it, too.  Right?"

   "I guess."

   She giggled.  "Know what?"

   "What?"

   "I did it first to get him started."

   "Did what?"

   "Same as you, except we made out first."

   A sister gives her brother make-out lessons, then lets him hear her
masturbate?  What are things coming to?  I didn't ask for details.

   "Boys are easy to steer when they think it's them deciding," she
observed.

   I wondered about that, but maybe she had a point.  You'd not get your
brother to masturbate by bossing him around.

   "Triple play, let's call it," Jeanie decided as if we needed a category.
She giggled again.  "One play, two play, three play.  Know what's next? 
Get it?"

   I pretended not to, but it was pretty funny.

   When we redressed, she stuffed my bra into her pocket.  "You hardly need
one, Mom," she overstated.  "Not down here, anyway."

   Of course I needed one, but she didn't give it back.

   When I tidied up the front room, I didn't see any evidence on Curtis's
bedding, but maybe it's hard to see after it dries.  I straightened the
sheet a little to check if the light would help, but it's still hard to
tell.  When Jeanie grinned and threw her brother's sock onto table, I tried
to look disinterested, but that just made her grin more.  We both laughed,
actually.

   All of us masturbating!  Who'd have thought?  It wasn't clear from her
tattling if Curtis had done it before or after me, but I didn't think I
should ask.  If he was first, it wouldn't prove anything.  But if I'd been
first, maybe hearing me was also a little part of getting him going.  Not
that I'd want that, but then again, the idea made me feel a little bit coy.
Not sexy coy, of course, just the kind of coy that's maybe related.

   All three of us masturbating!  Who'd have thought?

   Curtis returned with, "Guess who I met?"

   "Poncho Villa?" I managed, feeling a bit naked, how you'd feel suddenly
face-to-face with a male who'd heard you masturbate.  On the other hand, it
wasn't a totally negative kind of nakedness.  A part of you wonders if
maybe you look a little different to him.  Mom's loosening up, that sort of
thing.  A daughter will call your spade a spade, but a son will never make
you admit anything regarding sex, fortunately.

   "No, that lady from Mississippi.  I gave her a lift.  She knows all
about movies and said she'd show me where they filmed something down here."

   Jeanie and I exchanged glances.  "We didn't come down here to study
Hollywood," my daughter wisely ruled.

   I pictured the woman from Mississippi wrapped around Curtis's back as
she steers him towards the movie setting.  "Let me show you how they
started the scene.  Put your hand right here.  No, I'm serious.  We're just
acting." Then the rise and fall of their beach blanket as she directs the
most recent shooting.

   No mom wants her boy to lose his virginity to a southern woman whose
profession gives her an unfair advantage.

   I envisioned myself the next day in a Mexican police station --
"Polic'a," that is, in Spanish -- striving to explain to El Capitán that a
blonde gringa raped my son.

   The witnesses said the two were like rabbits, the officer would supply
as if he already had the report, unabashedly eying my buttons and casually
clearing his desktop.

   "A crime in my country," he'd explain with gusto, "is no from how it
begins.  Is only if the beautiful woman finishes without satisfaction,"
blocking my exit.

   He'd crank up his mariachi radio and press my hand against his green
trousers with black stripes.  "De onyx to pleasure so beautiful a woman,"
he'd guarantee with the assurance of an officer.

   Pig!  I'd come to report a crime, not touch his whatever-they-call-it in
Spanish.  It sure was large.

   "Grande, no?" he'd read my mind, aware I understood that much of his
language.

   The trumpets and violins would chorus as the policeman smothers my demur
with poetic passion, strips me with professional practice and backs me onto
the desktop.

   I'd struggle, give it my American best of course, but he'd overpower my
weaknesses one by one, and make me confess I was the guilty party.

   Pig!  I'd still think, surrendering to local authority.  I didn't come
to Mexico for sex like everybody else.  I had no idea until I got here.

   "You like, no?"

   "But what about that woman?"

   He'd flash his Latin smile and tell me that he'd interrogated the blonde
woman earlier that day and that I was the better.

   How can you not climax when he's a capitán?  "De onyx" was right.

   "There was no crime," he'd rule as I restored myself.  "Is better for
your son to take a beautiful gringa than one lady certificated.  She would
charge very much."

   I'd still be regaining my composure, trying to think American.  Pig! 
I'd repeat to myself, but more culturally aware.  If they paid the police
better, they'd not require other compensation.

   "So beautiful your body," he'd lie.

   No, there was no crime, I'd realize.  Things aren't criminal in Mexico
where they think you're beautiful.

   "¿Mañana, mi amor?" he'd suggest as I straightened my skirt.

   To file another report?  No, there'd be no future in such a
relationship, given the photo of wife and solemn-faced kids below his last
year's calendar.

   And no, there was no way I was going to let Curtis hang out with that
Mississippi blonde, but it's kind of fun to imagine reporting it.

   Back in reality, the twins and I bought hats from a lady who wove them
at her stall.  Jeanie and I got cute gardening ones.  Curtis's made him
look like a tortilla commercial.

   "It goes with your accordion," observed his sister who couldn't play any
instrument.  "Hold a rose in your mouth, though, so you can't serenade us
with La Cucaracha."

   I looked around, thinking I might ask directions from a tourist
policeman if one happened by, but one didn't.

   I didn't know if my being braless registered with Curtis.  Boys can be
clueless, but at the same time they can be experts.  It was how he steered
me down the street, his hand above the small of my back, that told me he
was making a confirmation.  Even when he's your own, he's still curious.

   Maybe I stayed pretty close when we squeezed through the fruit market,
but that was so I'd not get lost.  What's worse?  Grasping an arm or
getting abandoned where they don't speak English?  You expect that like the
hand that touched your back, the arm also notices a bra's absence, but all
you can do is try to act carefree.

   The time being nearly noon, the date not much past the summer solstice
and Cabo near tropical cancer -- if I understood Curtis's explanation -- is
why our shadows went straight down.  I thought they do that at 12:00 every
day everywhere, but maybe I never checked.  I reminded the kids that
tropical cancer is the very reason we need to remember our sunscreen. 
Curtis tried to describe some line on the globe and Jeanie rolled her eyes,
but she knows good and well that we have fair skin.

   That afternoon's snorkeling, the kids and I saw maybe a million fish of
about every color.  I should learn their names.  Take a piece of bread,
they'll eat out of your hand and you see their tiny teeth.  How does a
whole school know to turn at the same instant?

   At the showerhead, the twins cracked their suits open to flush out the
sand.  The way they stood, I'd have wondered if maybe they didn't see a bit
extra of each other, but it's hard to tell.

   I wasn't about to rinse under my suit the way they had, but I did have
to part my top a little to get the bottom grains.  I was careful to not
watch Curtis's eyes.

   So what?  A boy who doesn't peek might make you worry.  Maybe he saw a
little something, but not the whole enchilada, as they might say down here.

   But why did I steal glances his way?  Does he realize how his trunks
cling?

   As you rinse, it's easy to touch yourself without anybody noticing. 
I've read that some women can climax in the shower, but maybe that's where
the head's on a hose.  Although it's easy to brush yourself without anybody
noticing, that wouldn't include your daughter.  You just hope she doesn't
guess the reason.

   Did I just imagine Curtis rinsing himself the same way?  Things happen
so quickly.

   Afterwards, Jeanie got her horseback ride, splashing through the surf.
It was kind of fun, letting my horse follow.  I was a bit peeved that
Jeanie had hidden my bra, but I survived.

   "Pretty bracelet, Mom," Curtis complimented as we waited for Jeanie to
dismount.  I liked the way he inspected each shell.  I don't know why he
gave me a kiss, but it was very sweet of him.  People kiss more in Mexico,
I guess.

   Back at our condo, the kids went down to the Jacuzzi and I watched a
Discovery Channel special on whales.  The Alaskan ones swim all the way to
Cabo to breed, actually.  Whales vacation the same way people do, I guess.
The special didn't show how they do it, but I'll bet it's interesting.  The
Mexican Discovery Channel is exactly like the one in America.

   "How was it?" I asked the kids.

   "Just like when we used to bubble bath together," explained Jeanie. 
"Except now he's a submarine."

   "I let you get by the jet, right?" noted her brother, pleased with the
compliment.

   "You made me," her grin suggesting a story Mom shouldn't hear.

   "You two!" I ended it.  Don't take a side without knowing the full
story, my approach.  Especially regarding Jacuzzis, another suggestion.

   For dinner I made a taco salad.  Really tasty, if I do say so.  Never
scrimp on the avocado.

   Returning to our sunset vantage point, Jeanie did my day-end backrub. 
"What'd I tell you, Mom?" right out loud.  "You don't need one," tracing
the sides of my breasts through my top.

   Curtis in front might have overheard, but wouldn't have caught what it
was I supposedly didn't need.

   As Jeanie had me reach inside her shirt the evening before, I wasn't
surprised when now she did the same to me.  For sure I needed a bra, but
maybe I was okay without for just a vacation.  She first did below my
breasts, and then the whole things like they were a regular part of me.  As
a girl, she'd understand the involuntariness of my physiology, I hoped. 
It's not wrong to react when it's your daughter, as she's not a lesbian, or
something like that, and neither are you.  Best I could tell, it didn't
bother her either, as that part of me got the most work.

   But oh my!  Thank heavens Curtis was facing forward.  Concentrating on
the back of his neck wasn't enough, though, to rein in the wanderings of my
mind.

   I thought about what Jeanie so matter-of-factly revealed yesterday and
wondered how many years her brother had been masturbating.  How often?  How
long it takes?  Could Jeanie hear him through the wall?  Would she tell me
more if I said I needed to know because it's about his health?

   What does a boy think about while he does it?  Photos?  Movies beyond
"From Here to Eternity?" A chemistry lab partner who flashes her bra?  I
gave my best effort to his shoulder blades, but it was so difficult to not
wonder.

   Though they weren't with us tonight, the blonde from Mississippi raised
her beach blanket to show how to lock your heels around your partner.  As
she's probably one of those women who sustains orgasm after orgasm, locking
him to you would help.

   Didn't Jeanie say she's a professor?  The twins would be off at college
this fall, not in Mississippi, of course, but professors are probably
alike. Would she guess Curtis was a virgin when he handed in his homework?

   I never went to college, but can guess how it works.  Film 101.  Office
hours.  Curtis's bookish question about "La Dolce Vita" or something.  Her
undone button.  His pretending not to stare.  Her latching the door,
returning to her desk.  "Come over here, Curtis, where you can see these
shots from the 50s," as she opens the book to a still of lovers on the
sand. Then something from a film more modern.  "Do you have a girlfriend,
Curtis?" Another button.  His confusion.  Her smile.  His acquiescence
because she's his professor.  Her encouragements.  His awkwardly-masked
arousal.  Her deftness with his jeans.  Setting him on her chair.  Slipping
off her almost-nothing panties.  Climbing above.  Curtis's first time, her
millionth.

   When I reached to do his sides, I never intended to follow his beltline.
Honest.  Not that I reached all the way to the buckle, but I could feel the
suck of his stomach.

   Not that many years ago I'd passed his room, the door just a crack ajar.
Curtis was getting into his pajamas and his penis was larger than I'd have
thought for a boy so young.  Wisps of hair above.  I'd backed away ever so
slowly.

   Now tonight that part of him's just inches away.  It's not what you
should be thinking about, but you wonder if he's registering how closely
you've approached.

   Did our goodnight kiss last an extra fraction of a second?

   Later I heard whispers from the front room, secretive shushes, shushes
not shushed, a squeaking that went on and on, thumps that got faster and
faster, gasps and a muffled "Aaah" that had to have been Jeanie.

   I shouldn't have listened, but how can you not?  Though you're sure it's
not what you think, you're less sure what you do think.

   I'd had a husband, an affair, and after my divorce, a lover, more or
less.  My most intense orgasms had been those of my affair, perversely
excited that Phil might come home early and catch us.  He never did; he
just found a better wife.  After Phil, I wondered if the twins remembered
Steve walking around in his underwear while I packed their lunchboxes.  My
day in the sun, for whatever it was worth.

   Could the twins hear my heartbeat?  Jeanie would understand.

   It wasn't that I needed sex.  Nuns do without and even lots of priests,
but I wasn't that good at praying.  Maybe I didn't need sex, but that
didn't mean I forgotten about it.

   Borne by the sounds from the other room, I brought myself to a climax as
strong as those of my affair so long ago.

   There were further whispers, giggles, somebody tiptoeing to the
bathroom.

   I drifted away, fingers yet pressed within.

   ***

   With the dawn I wondered what I'd heard.  Had Jeanie again masturbated
to make her brother follow?  Even so, I'd not think there would have been
the thumping.  Mexico has earthquakes, but it wasn't like our building
swaying.  It was more like the rhythmic thump, thump, thump that happens
when...  Well, when it's not siblings, shall we say?

   Probably I'd imagined the whole thing.  The rustle of palms can sound so
human in the middle of the night.  The swishing of fronds can sound so much
like close bodies.  Maybe some sort of lizard makes sofa-spring sounds.

   As there's zero sex in my life, perhaps I read it into everybody else's.
Jeanie was into sexuality, of course, but Curtis had a few years to go.  I
should spend more time working on my Spanish phrases, something that would
stop me thinking about such things.  ¿Dónde está la playa?  El or la
depends on the sex.  Like I said, it was on my mind.

   When I emerged from the bedroom, Curtis was under his sheet and Jeanie
was yawning on the sofa-bed.

   "Sleep okay, kids?"

   "Sure, Mom," almost in unison.

   "Curt had a full day," Jeanie added, giving her twin a smirk.

   Was Jeanie just stretching under her covers or was she pulling up her
panties?  You can sort of tell by how someone draws up her knees.  She took
all the time in the world to retrieve her Viva la Playa shirt from the
floor beside her brother, her breasts firm and fresh in the morning light.

   I guess, though, Curtis had seen her that way on the balcony.

   I couldn't tell about Curtis's attire because he didn't budge until my
back was turned and stayed wrapped in his sheet as he darted to the shower.

   Jeanie -- her panties not tattling -- followed, closing the door behind.

   Do they do that at home, go in the bathroom together, I mean?  I wasn't
sure because their rooms are upstairs.

   The shower kept going and going and there was again a thump, thump,
thumping and at last the two came out, silly smiles and hair dripping. 
Curtis, my modest one, at least had a towel around his underpants.

   Maybe the thumping was in the water pipes.  I should remind the
management to call a plumber.

   "Who wants bacon?"

   "Me."

   "Me too."

   "Then get dressed and clear off the table, you two."

   Maybe the thumping was offshore whales, I decided.

   Exploring the tide pools, we folded the bottoms of our shirts into
pockets for our shell finds.  I found the most because I'm patient. 
Stretched cotton makes being braless rather obvious, but there wasn't much
I could do about it.

   Our Frisbee skill wasn't that great, but who cared?  Frisbees float, but
not always toward shore.  Retrieving the thing soaked my top, but as I
said, there wasn't much I could do about it.

   As we'd not brought towels, we lay on the sea grass to dry.  Jeanie
found her suntan lotion and had her brother do the back of her legs.

   "Mom, too, before she turns into a beet." I was on my stomach -- you'd
not be otherwise with a wet jersey -- and couldn't tell, but she was
probably correct.  We're closer to the Equator, as Curtis had pointed out.

   It was fine when Curtis did my calves, but I feared the back of my
thighs felt flabby.  I hope he didn't notice that I parted a little, what
involuntarily happens when a hand advances toward your shorts.  Not a rude
hand, of course, a friendly one.

   He shouldn't go so high, I told myself, but I guess he was following his
sister's instructions.  I could feel a puff of breeze where my cuffs
tented, then the entrance of fingertips.  I never said to, of course, but a
little lotion where your shorts flare probably prevents a stripe of
sunburn. Curtis thinks of such things.

   It felt pretty nice, actually, the lotion and everything.  I don't know
that he saw my panties, but he most definitely brushed the hem.  Several
times, actually.  He wasn't rubbing my behind, of course, just an edge of
it, but in switching sides he most definitely dragged the heel of his palm
across the divide.

   Be careful, Curtis, I wanted to explain as he once more switched sides
to rework the lotion.  We're on a public beach!

   I hope he didn't recognize how I pressed myself against the clump of sea
grass as he went back and forth.  You sort of want the pressure.  Whatever
you do, though, don't start rocking, even if it feels like he's starting
it.

   I pretended to not notice as he followed a bead of lotion around the
inside of my leg.  On the sundeck, I'd wondered if it's okay to imagine
your boy touching your breasts?  Here by the ocean, it wasn't my breasts he
was now nearing.  You wouldn't want to trap him there by pinching your
legs, but on the other hand, you dare not move further apart.

   Jeanie's eyes were occupied elsewhere.  Kind of a frozen gaze, though.
Don't worry about me, Mom.  I'm looking for whales, she seemed to imply.

   Oh Curtis!  If you lotion closer, do it quickly!

   When the whole of you is on the edge, however, it's hard to know what's
him and what's just the way your clinch.

   I scooted myself more firmly against the sea grass, the clump like a
hand pressing my midpoint.  Not Curtis's hand, of course, someone else's.
Curtis wouldn't cross that threshold, not near my midpoint, so to speak. 
His travel back and forth on my backside was cutting it close, but I could
ignore it because of who he was.

   Oh Curtis.  I'm letting you because of who you are.

   What, though, if he has me roll over?  Hesitancy about being on my back
didn't stem from another breast inspection.  No, that part of you goes
public in a place like Cabo.  You get accustomed to the attention to a
point.  (Get it, girls?  To a point?  Just made it up.)

   It's one thing, your boy edging your butt.  It's quite another, him
under your front cuff, even if he's just protecting you from sunburn where
your shorts tent higher.  Imagining a hand drawn between the wall of your
thigh and the rise of your panties makes you even start to feel it.

   Oh Curtis, I wanted to clarify.  If you make me roll over, should I
close my eyes?  As Jeanie's not turned her head, no one will ever know how
far you applied the lotion.

   But again, as with what now seemed so many close calls in a single
vacation, Curtis didn't make me decide.

   Oh my, I realized!  I shouldn't have been thinking such things.  The
moistness of my undies was surely just an errant drop of Coppertone.

   Taxis are cheap in Mexico, but buses are cheaper.  We hopped a homeward
ride on one with a bullfighter painted on the side.

   It seems like it should be illegal to sell more tickets than seats, but
that's how they make a profit down here.  Me perched on Curtis's lap was
better than him on an old lady's, we agreed.

   When Curtis wrapped my waist so I'd not tumble -- what they'd paid for
the bullfight picture maybe should have gone to fix the suspension -- my
behind could discern the lump in his shorts.  I guess I shouldn't have been
surprised, sitting as I was, but it was still a bit disconcerting.  Knowing
you shouldn't notice just makes you notice all the more.  Its pronouncement
with each bounce of the road I at first attributed to my own settling
downward -- the jostles jostled me that way -- but then I began to wonder.
He's not getting, you know, an erection, is he?

   A few more road jolts helped answer that question.  A rather straight
forward answer, at that.

   Well, what if he is?  It's normal for boys to accidentally get hard,
like what sometimes happens to our nipples.  Sometimes our bodies know
what's happening before our brains do.

   Just act like nothing's under me, I resolved, lowering myself yet
further.  He'll die if he realizes I can feel it.  Obviously he doesn't,
though, or he'd not let me sit like this.

   Was his condition my fault?  I'd not think so, but when you're on a
guy's lap, you can't control your neckline.  How could I tell him that I
was braless not by choice, that his sister had taken it?

   If he is checking you out, however, don't let on that you're aware.  If
anything, hunch your shoulders a little to prove you've no suspicion.  It's
really no big deal.

   Anyway, it's justice.  He peeks, maybe sees a little something and gets
a reaction.  Moms get accused of all kinds of things, but it's just a
logical consequence.  Thinking you have something to do with his state,
though, makes you lean forward even a little more.

   It's all a bit silly, for sure, but it's how it works.

   Our bus passed the other Harmon-Jantzen couple.  They'd been to the
beach as well.  Had he done her legs?  Had she sat on his lap and felt his
arousal?  Are the Harmons and the Jantzens just two regular couples back
home, maybe the Harmons avid bridge players and the Jantzens stalwarts of
the church choir?  Their Christmas letters will mention their vacation with
friends from college days but it won't say what they mostly did.

   So why hadn't they taken the bus?  Maybe she wanted to sit on his lap in
a more secluded place.

   I really shouldn't be thinking so much about sex, but the bump-bump of a
bus sort of gets you on that subject.  Actually, it gets you somewhat
bump-bumping yourself.  I was glad the other riders couldn't read my mind,
but even if they could, they wouldn't understand English.

   Curtis won't notice, will he, if I better align my butt?  I'd almost
fired up my nerve to try it when to my surprise he lifted me to better
center himself underneath.  Probably to help me sit securely, I told
myself, the lump of his penis working its way even closer.

   I didn't mind Curtis's arm around me, not even the palm below my
breastbone, but I held my breath every time a pothole jostled his hold
upward.  Not all the way, fortunately, but enough to cradle my underside.
Could he feel my heartbeat?

   But actually, maybe being held wasn't such a bad thing.  Without your
bra on a Mexican bus, an arm underneath dampens your vertical travel, if
you get my point.  Back home you'd never let him be your underwire, so to
speak, but it's just for the ride.  The only problem, you come to realize,
is that his lifting north as you're heading south sends your neckline
westward.  It's so silly how males think they're sly about such things.

   The flex of your collar isn't anybody's fault, of course, but you tend
to notice the persistence of his lift.  At the start, you were little more
than flashed and now there's time enough to be well viewed.  You look
yourself, even.  And if that's not enough, when his arm at last drops, it
tugs your top tight enough to show the whole bus what it's doing to your
chemistry.

   Will he think of who'd perched open-necked and braless on his lap when
he masturbates tonight?  It's so silly, though, imagining that Curtis even
has a clue.  Your boy wouldn't manipulate your neckline on purpose.  Were
he aware, he'd not rest his thumb between your breasts.

   On the other hand, maybe he's read the clues and knows that you don't
mind that much.

   His other hand was below my belly button -- significantly lower actually
-- his thumb on the snap of my shorts, his longest finger to almost where
I'd pressed the sea grass.  When I bounced up was when this hand bounced
down, though I'd have thought that the ride would send us in the same
direction.  I held my breath every time a lurch jostled his fingertip yet
lower.

   Surely he can't tell, I assured myself, what he's so nearly brushing. 
Does he even know how a woman's put together?  Sure, he knows whatever they
teach in biology, but I mean how we're really connected.

   I held as motionless so we'd look like nothing more than a family on a
bus ride and for better insurance, nonchalantly draped the hem of my shirt
to better mask Curtis's hold.  A timely adjustment, actually, as no sooner
had I done so than a lurch bounced his fingers yet lower.

   Not only lower -- that was distracting enough -- but firmer.  The drag
of the fingertips was due to vehicular vibrations, of course, but the tug
was enough to tighten the fabric against the part of me within.

   He'd move away, wouldn't he, if he thought about what lies under my
shorts?

   Jeanie's eyes missed little, of course, but being a family member, she'd
know that my flush was because of the afternoon temperature.

   When one hand cradles and another descends, your mind tends to travel.
On the beach I'd imagined a hand journeying the narrowing valley between
leg and underwear.  It hadn't happened, of course, but that's not to say
you can't wonder how it might feel.  Is it not understandable, then, to
imagine that same hand riding up and over the cotton?

   I imagined the Harmon-Jantzen couple riding this same bus, her on his
lap until she orgasms with everyone watching.  Maybe that's what the locals
do for fun, ride the bus to watch the gringos.

   It wasn't easy -- that's for sure -- not letting my situation get out of
hand.  "Out of hand?" "Additionally in hand," more accurately, given his
persistent fingertips.  Accidentally persistent, I told myself, but motive
matters less when you're on the receiving end.  Fortunately for me, if not
the locals, our bus stop was near.

   Tonight I'll remember how close the hand approached the spot where I'll
place my own, what another's hand might have accomplished were it allowed
just another minute.  But I'll not think of whose hand it was; I'll just
think of where it pressed.

   Tonight will we masturbate at the same moment, me thinking of his hand,
him thinking of whatever?  Will Jeanie guess the connection?  The thought
of doing it only a doorway apart made me want to do it even more.

   It's not odd, needing to masturbate, is it?  Knowing that someone else
also needs to shouldn't make it any different.

   Back in the condo, we sorted our shells.  Most lose their luster, but a
few keep their mystery.  Where did this shell come from?  Who'd lived
inside?  If you toss a shell back into the sea, will it again be occupied?

   But oh my!  I so needed to resolve an urging that hadn't diminished.  It
wouldn't take long.

   When I tried to slip into my room, however, Jeanie cut me off.  "No time
for a quick nap, Mom," anticipating my stated purpose.  "Tonight's our last
chance to see the sun go down."

   "I guess it is, Jeanie," my urge no less.  Maybe she's right, though. 
Some things shouldn't be hurried.

   "We'll take an extra blanket in case we stay."

   Before setting off, the three of us stood on our balcony and looked at
the sea, the expanse of shimmering silk with nary a wave, but nowhere
still. For some reason I took Curtis's arm and pressed it against me, only
lightly, but enough that I think he pressed back.  That was all.

   From our spot by the rocks, the three of us watched the sun slip into
the depths.  Above the sound of surf, the breeze bore the beat of a distant
radio -- an oldies station, it sounded like.  I'd no idea there'd be one
down here.  The Eagles were always one of my favorites.

   "Cabo," Jeanie reflected as the disk disappeared.  "I'm heading back up,
troops.  Curt, I'll bet Mom needs a good backrub.  A nice long one." Then
as an afterthought, "Take off your shirt, Curt, so Mom can do you, too,"
spreading the second blanket over us.  "It's warmer underneath."

   As you don't have to sit when there's just the two of you, Curtis lay on
his side and I snuggled in front, his lower arm my pillow.  As a girl's
construction makes the fit easy, his other arm angled across me the way
Mexican bandits wear their bullets, except I'd seen no bandits where we
were.

   If Curtis were older, he'd have realized that reaching around is a bit
presumptive, but here in Cabo he'd already been as close and it hadn't been
a problem.  If anything, it had been the opposite of a problem.  That's why
it's smart to stick with your boy on vacation; problematic things aren't
problems.

   "Wow," I reflected, watching the waves crest in tumbling luminance. 
"This is so nice."

   "You totally need it, right?" agreed Curtis.

   "Yeah." It sometimes takes a vacation to help you appreciate your
surroundings.

   "I could tell."

   "We all need it," I concurred.

   Maybe it was his forearm angled across my chest or maybe it was how I
was breathing -- you can't not -- that made each inhalation tug his palm a
fraction of an inch inward.  I'd have thought he'd have realized when the
heel of his hand edged my breast, but maybe he was thinking about other
things.

   Whoa, Curtis, I should have warned.  Not so far!

   I'd have moved him away but for the fact by now he was already where he
was.  I was surprised by his hand, of course, but maybe more so by my own
reaction.  Not a sexual response -- this was with Curtis, after all -- but
maybe something a bit related, something maybe more akin to when the doctor
taps your knee, except it wasn't my knee and my reaction wasn't the one
where your leg jumps.

   Oh my!  If I had on my bra, he'd maybe not sense much.  But without it,
my development wasn't much of a secret.

   Oh Curtis, I needed him to understand.  This isn't supposed to be
happening to me!  Not while you're touching it, I mean.

   A girl can't help how she sometimes emerges for whatever reason.  It
happens when you're at Safeway, even.  It's why bras need double fabric,
not those hankie things they sell at Sears, though even those help out a
little.  Maybe I should have said something, but your nipple's not easy to
talk about.  Not with your boy, anyway.  Besides, maybe he didn't even
notice what he'd encountered.

   Well, given his persistence, maybe ignorance wasn't exactly the case. 
It's not as if being smart about math makes you dumb about anatomy.

   Oh, Curtis!  Don't do it for too long, though.

   He could surely tell through my shirt that he was making me yet harder,
but maybe he thought I didn't mind.  After all, tonight's setting was
pretty relaxed.  Of course I minded, but your body sends your brain little
messages -- little tingles, for example -- that help you not mind as much
as you might.  That help you not mind at all, actually.

   Okay, Curtis!  But only if you don't mind either!

   The way he went at it wasn't unlike how a regular guy would start on
you, but I didn't have to worry about Curtis.  He wouldn't see me the way a
regular guy might, though I'd not been having much of that particular
problem.  Curtis was just learning a little something about breasts.

   I'd have thought, however, he'd have understood that my touching his
knuckles meant for him to cease, but maybe I wasn't that clear.

   He was at first cautious, but after a few moments seemed to gain
confidence.  I say "cautious" and "confidence" as if I were Curtis, but
maybe I'm talking a little bit about myself.  It's special to be noticed by
someone who so often takes you for granted.

   Of course it's awkward, knowing he's doing it on purpose, but don't all
boys do things like this?  Maybe not with their mothers that much, but then
again, she'd be the safest place to start.

   My breasts aren't perfect like Jeanie's, but maybe a boy likes softer
ones better.  Probably he'd like my dimensions more.  Maybe a mom sometimes
seems boring, but on the other hand, maybe at times like this she seems
special.  It's natural, isn't it, him touching on purpose, even, her
nipples hard like beach pebbles?

   It's not like he's inside my shirt or anything and at least I'd worn a
pull-over, not something with buttons.

   Let him have his little fun.  We're good for each other.

   My eyes were fixed on the horizon, the breakers rolling towards us, one
after another.  It drives a girl crazy, though, wondering when he'll stop.

   Maybe he thought I wanted a kiss when I turned his way, and maybe I even
did.  Maybe Jeanie thought her brother was a klutz, but I didn't, not at a
time like this.  It's natural, isn't it, kissing him back?  As I've already
pointed out, kissing's pretty common in this part of the world.

   When I pulled the blanket higher was when his hand slipped onto my
stomach.

   Curtis, I need to clarify.  Just because you make me feel like a girl
doesn't mean...  What I mean, I wanted him to understand, is that maybe I
didn't mind what he did on the bus, but...  It's just that...

   I should have spoken, but once a girl starts feeling a certain way -- a
certain adventuresomeness, to be more accurate -- she doesn't want to
explain too much, especially when his hand's moving upward.

   Oh Curtis, I wondered.  Do you think that being in Mexico makes me
liberated, something like that?

   I wanted to tell him that it wasn't me who decided I'd not wear a bra.
Maybe, though, being without helped me act casual about his hand now under
my shirt -- Mom's not the uptight type, that sort of reasoning.  Undoing
hooks and straps would make his progress seem so intentional.  Nothing in
his way makes it not much more than repositioning his hand.

   His reaching your nipple makes you forget so many things.  That you're
related, for example.  Or maybe being related makes you less concerned
where he's reached.

   Oh Curtis, he had to understand.  Just because you make me feel like a
girl doesn't mean...  Okay, you can touch me there, but...  Yes, that way,
even!  No more than you're doing now, I mean.  Not too much more, anyway.

   Oh my!  It so quickly gets out of your control, whether you want him to
do it harder or softer, that sort of thing.  I could feel the blanket
slipping, but grabbing it might have seemed as though I were chasing him
away.  You don't want to discourage your boy's initiative.

   "Curtis," I managed to whisper.  "There might be people!"

   "Don't worry, Mom.  Nobody's around."

   Should I let him see?  Probably I shouldn't, at least not for very long,
but then again, as Curtis said, nobody's going to know.  If Jeanie didn't
mind exposing her breasts, why should it bother her mom?  Given where I'd
sat on our bus ride, it's not like Curtis didn't already have a pretty good
idea of what I've got.  It's better starting that way, actually, where it's
nobody's fault.

   After our blanket slipped free and my shirt slipped up-- absolutely not
my doing, but what could I do?  -- the breeze goose bumped my skin.  Or
maybe I was goose bumped already and the breeze goose bumped my goose
bumps.

   Go ahead and look, Curtis, I agreed.  We're in Cabo.

   It's kind of fun, showing off your goose bumps, though you don't want to
make a big deal about it.

   The press against my thigh was by now almost familiar.  I'd bounced
against him on the bus, but here on the beach there wasn't the excuse of a
rough road.  This pressing was more biologic, more rhythmic.  I didn't work
myself closer on purpose, but it's what sometimes happens when legs get
close.

   But oh my, Curtis.  Is it okay for me to press back?

   Is it okay for him to let me know about it?  Is it okay for me to know
he's letting me?  Is it okay for him to know that feeling it makes me feel
like a girl, even, as silly as that must seem?  He maybe realized I'd felt
it on the bus, but did he know how much I'd wanted the bus to keep going?
Knowing's nowhere nearly as complicated as knowing about knowing.

   Don't worry, Curtis, I hoped he'd understand.  I'll never let on that I
noticed.  Your secret's safe.

   A penis riding your hip reminds you of the sideways position where you
raise your leg, but thank heavens a boy like Curtis doesn't know about
positions.

   Who'd have ever thought that here I'd be, topless in a foreign twilight,
almost in a sexual position!  It's better to not think about such things
too much, though.

   I tried to keep his knee from spreading mine, but I'm hardly the spryest
of gals.  Of course I pinched together, but it's not fair when you're up
against a teenager.  I suppose I ought to add that my leg likewise found
its way between Curtis's, but how could it not, given our crisscross?

   When I say, "found its way between Curtis's," of course, I'm skirting
the details.  There's no way that what I found was anything but what it
was. A penis against your pelvis reminds you of an even-more basic
position, but as I said, Curtis wouldn't know such things.

   What must he be thinking, me wiggling against his hardness, his thigh
now so effectively working me in return where, if he weren't my boy, I'd
never have allowed?

   I tried to escape by sitting and for a few seconds it was a contest of
leverage -- not fighting, mind you, more of just establishing who's who --
but to little avail.  Being on the bottom isn't that bad, actually, when it
comes to losing that sort of contest.  In my mind I was still the boss,
just not in a positional sense.

   Give the interlocking of legs, I shouldn't have rocked, but you do what
your body tells you.  I didn't ask, but expect it worked about the same for
him.  Some folks might have thought it a bit risqué -- our manner of
rocking, that is -- but that would be folks who maybe thought I was with
some testosteroned date.

   His hand on my thigh gave me a start, as it's not where you'd expect to
find your boy's hand.  But again, what can you do when he's got you pinned?
Had I not thought it would halt, I'd have cried foul, but once there --
more on the inside than the outside, actually -- an advancing hand is
easier to not acknowledge.

   Oh my!  He's not going to...?

   Oh Curtis, I needed to make clear.  I'll pretend I don't know where
you're going.  Even if you know I know, let me pretend that I don't.

   It was his leg wedging mine, not anything I'd done, that allowed his
pursuit.  Not directly, more circuitous, mind you, but oh my, most
definitely a contest that a girl usually loses.  Again I should have
stopped things, but losing to your kid is sometimes okay.  Take board
games, for example; I'd not won at Monopoly for years.  Losing happens all
the time, actually, as they get older.  Besides, truth be told, this style
of losing was more fun than landing on Park Place.

   It wasn't as much where he'd gotten to -- he was just touching my
shorts, after all, same as on the bus, though now from the lower direction
-- as it was the repetition of his motion.  He seemed to know how to get a
girl to go along, though I tried not to let my response confirm his
insight.

   Oh my, Curtis!  Any place but there!  Any place but there so much, that
is.

   On the sea grass, I'd imagined fingers under my cuff, but Curtis
wouldn't do that without making sure I wanted the extra sun block, anyway.
On the bus, he'd tickled through my shorts, but wouldn't have known what he
was tickling.  Well, maybe he sort of knew where he was, but didn't know
how much it tickled.  We can call it tickling, can't we?  Tonight, however,
he was more deliberate.  Way more.

   Curtis, I needed to add.  Can't we at least pretend that you're not
doing this on purpose?  Keep in mind that I'm still your mom.

   He wasn't trying to get in my pants, nothing like that, as I'm his mom.
He was just playing around, not that much different from how we'd horse
around when he was little, body parts everywhere.  Except now he wasn't
little and he'd found a part of me he wanted.  Okay, also a part of me that
didn't mind being found, though that wasn't any of his business.

   When he'd gone up my shirt, he'd indeed made my breasts feel good.  No
regrets about that.  Where he was now gave a good feeling, too -- a better
one, even.  A bit of history helps a girl decide about letting a guy get to
the next place.

   "You sure we're alone?"

   "Totally," as a finger indented my shorts where, had I been alone, I'd
have pressed my own.  Oh, my!  Had my pants been less substantial -- my
jogging ones, for example -- I'd have been in immediate trouble.

   And oh, Curtis.  It's good you don't know what kind of trouble.

   Like I said before, it drives a girl crazy, wondering when he's going to
stop.  On the bus, I'd dared not let my legs part.  Here, though, nobody
could see.  Moms have personal boundaries, of course, but sometimes we
relax them a tad.  It's logical, isn't it, that we relax them a little
quicker with someone we know?

   Oh, Curtis, I somehow needed to clarify.  Moving my boundaries a little
doesn't mean anything.  No, not "moving." How about, "keeping my
boundaries, but letting them be a little more negotiable."

   And indeed were things becoming more negotiable.

   Oh Curtis!  Let's negotiate where we seem to have a common interest! 
Yes, right there in the middle.

   Leaving it to an occasional twist to show I wasn't conceding, that's
when I expanded the negotiations.  Mexican negotiation should be more
mutual.

   The ridge beneath his pants pocket could have been the handle of his
Mexican switchblade.  I wasn't reaching there, of course; it's just where
my reach reached.  For a moment I froze, my palm on the bulge, but there
was no graceful way to pull away.

   Oh, Curtis, I wanted to ask.  You do know I'm doing this, right?

   I was pretty sure he knew by how he snuggled forward.

   Okay, Curtis!  Tell me if I shouldn't!

   I couldn't believe that I was touching what I was touching!  Sitting on
it on the bus or bouncing against it in the surf was informative, but
nothing like this!  I'd have thought he'd have pulled away, as what boy
wants his mom touching his trousers?  On the other hand, Curtis wasn't just
any boy.

   Not until my fingers curled one side of the protrusion, my thumb on the
other, did I fully accept that I was getting away with it.  He knew he'd
been teasing me and maybe wanted a little teasing in return.  Losing to
your boy in regards to physical contests is almost a given, but he wouldn't
want you losing totally.

   And anyway, it wasn't as if I were in his pants, way too presumptive.  I
was just doing what he wanted me to do -- letting him know I didn't mind
about our little game.  It's special when you show interest.

   You do know, don't you, Curtis, I needed to add, that I'm not suggesting
anything, same as you?

   Of that, however, I was less sure -- less sure of what I was or wasn't
suggesting and even less sure of his agreement or disagreement with
whatever I was or wasn't suggesting.

   "You okay?" just to make sure.

   "Yeah."

   There was little doubt as to his state -- undeniably erect -- but I
wasn't sure of the story.  You hope it might be a bit because of you, but
how can you know?  What female doesn't like being somewhat thought of that
way?  Not as your sole identity, of course -- maybe more like a secondary
aspect.

   In any case, I was indeed feeling something so identifiable!  You
absolutely know!  So does he, you realize, by how he arches to make it seem
even bigger.  I of course didn't care about size -- things come at their
own pace -- but was flattered none the less.  Why pretend otherwise?

   I'd not noticed an erection when we'd played in the surf, but then it
probably doesn't happen when a guy's submerged.  Burt Lancaster had his
before the wave, anyway.  Is a Hollywood erection just acting or does the
actress assist until they get the scene right?

   Did Curtis have one when I backrubbed him last night?  We'd been
watching the couple having sex, after all.  I could have surreptitiously
found out -- a slip of my hand would have been enough -- and I'd bet that
Curtis would have held obligingly still.  But I didn't.

   There was his hardness on the bus, but now there were no road bumps to
blame.  My handhold was of my own doing, nothing subtle whatsoever.  He
liked me knowing -- that I could tell by his "Mmmm" -- but you still don't
want to act too purposeful.  Just act like it's no big deal, not something
to which you're paying much attention.  For sure you don't want him
guessing how much you're caught up in discovery.

   If anything, I suppose I was testing his reaction, nothing else.  If he
didn't want to be tested, why would he make it so easy?

   Is it odd for a mother to be interested?  We're curious about their
model rockets, their collectable cards, those sorts of things.  Their
penises are at least as important.

   Or maybe he was testing me, but so what?

   In any case, here I was, my hand on his pants, the situation well in
hand.  ("Under my thumb," if you'll allow, or perhaps, "within my grasp."
You don't want to make light of anatomy, but it makes it easier to discuss.
Sorry for the digression.)

   It's pretty special when your boy lets you discover how much he's
developed.  He knows that you'll be gentle, same as him with your breasts.

   I'd quit in a minute, forget everything.

   Discovering your boy's arousal -- helping it get that way, truth be told
-- gets you wondering.  At what age do they get them?  Twelve?  I'm sure
they spy on their sisters, but do they sometimes spy on Mom?  I once heard
about this boy who masturbated into his mother's panties, but I'd never
noticed anything on mine.

   Imagining being spied upon triggered further considerations.  Were you
in your room or maybe in the shower?  Was it frontal?  You'd hope not, but
you'd not have known to face away.  Every time he'd see you afterwards --
when the two of you were watching a video, for example -- he'd remember. 
What if the two of you were watching a movie with sex -- not the act, of
course, or you'd not have rented it -- but maybe one where they get into
bed?  You'd pretend not to notice as he pulls a pillow over his lap.

   Maybe I'll rent "From Here to Eternity" when we get home and tell Curtis
it's about national defense.  What should I wear?

   I'd quit in a minute, but no, I'll probably not forget.

   Don't worry, Curtis, I wanted to assure.  It's part of growing up.  When
you get older, it tells your girlfriend you're ready.  Touching it like
this is how she'll tell you she's getting there, herself.

   When he's older, I reminded myself.  His girlfriend.

   I'd quit, of course, but it might take me more than a minute.

   But once I started -- fondling quickly finds a pattern -- that's when
Curtis ran his tongue in my mouth.  Our interaction maybe wasn't up to a
feature in Cosmopolitan, I suppose, but they never write about moms and
boys.

   The main thing, of course, is for such a moment to be for him, not you.
What's in it for you -- and you do deserve something -- comes later. 
Solitary, to be sure, but relieving.

   Zigzagging up my thigh, he lifted my shorts leg high enough to touch my
panties, just the edge, but most definitely my panties.  While shorts, at
least loose ones like mine, mask some anatomical detail, panties leave
fewer questions unanswered.  While I wasn't sure of Curtis's questions,
clearly he was seeking answers.

   Oh, Curtis!  I wanted to explain.  Letting you brush my underwear
doesn't really mean I'll let you know what's inside.  Yes, that's where I'm
talking about.

   Curiosity's good, is it not?  A boy needs to know some of these things
for future times.  It's not as if he gets to know what it does to your own
head, though.

   I wished I'd chosen nicer panties -- maybe my smaller ones -- but how
was I to know?  I wished I'd thought more about letting him do this.

   Some vacation choices -- what to pack for, for example -- you think
through.  Which blouse to pack, for example.  How you'll get to the
airport. Choices you didn't anticipate, however, they're the ones you have
to wing.  Ponder too much and vacation's already over.

   Were he not your boy, you'd be more cautious, but with your own, you're
mostly in the moment.  You're less inhibited, same as him.  That's the best
I can do to explain following my impulse, anyway.  A flash of
assertiveness, you could call it, if you didn't know me better.

   His buckle took no more than a tug.  The snap just sort of opened itself
and then there was just a zipper and his Jockeys.  So automatic: buckle,
snap, zipper, elastic, four undoings that flow as one.  Pushing down his
underpants took a little gumption, but moms have it in them.

   Had he asked what I was doing, "Making you more comfortable, honey,"
would sound too maternal.  "Getting your penis out, dear," would be too
un-maternal.  Thankfully he didn't ask.

   Oh my, Curtis!  I knew you were excited, but who would have ever
thought...?

   I couldn't believe I actually gotten his pants off!  Me, of all people!
That he didn't thwart me!

   You're sure it's okay, Curtis?  I'd have asked, but obviously it was.

   Curtis's heart was as fast as my own when I rested my head on his chest.
Of course I knew what a penis looks like, but I'd never thought I'd see
Curtis's so close.  I suppose it wasn't that big, but then again, it was
plenty big enough.  Whatever size it was, it was right for Curtis.  The
twilight made his hair black and skin white.

   It's one thing to look.  It's entirely another that he knows you're
looking.

   Okay, Curtis!  I may be looking, but I'm trying not to look too much.

   A penis isn't sexy per se -- any female can tell you that.  It's an item
resembling a cucumber.  No, not that, not as thick and knobby.  More like a
nice-sized carrot.  What makes it fun is how you've helped it grow.

   Oh, Curtis!  I can't help how its being so erect makes me feel!  Girls
get excited, too.

   How could he have matured so?  There must have been years when he'd had
little erections, then mid-sized ones and I'd never realized!  Not that I
needed to, of course, but it would have been good to track he development
for when, say, he had questions about puberty.

   It stands to reason your boy wants you to think of him as older, but I
didn't know he was this much older.  It wasn't something carved from onyx;
it was something so real.  I could have touched my cheek to it -- he was so
close -- but a boy wouldn't understand.

   How many mothers have ever seen their boys erect?  Not spying, but with
them knowing?  You'd like to think that you're the only mom who's gotten
to, but I've always been pretty average.  Whatever the statistics, it's
even more special when he lets you hold it.  It had been ever so long since
I'd felt the heft.

   But the most special -- any girl knows this by instinct -- is if he'll
let you masturbate him.  You're not like some girlfriend who wants to
manhandle it, but you know he'd appreciate a little assistance.

   He wants me to, doesn't he?  Masturbate him, that is.  A secret he can
trust me with.  A mom should be that sort of person.  On the other hand,
you don't want to take advantage.  You just want to do what's fair.

   Okay, Curtis, I decided.  But only because you want me to.

   Starting was easy, but it hardly seemed that I was the decider.  It was
more like a movie, not one I'd ever rent, of course, as you have to go up
to the counter, but I'm sure they make them.  The shell-braceleted wrist
looked like a close-up.  The actress's fingernails were painted like mine,
but acted bolder.  Veins of the actor's penis showed through the skin, not
at all like an onyx carving.  I didn't turn to see if he was watching as
well, but I knew he was.

   A very special movie, Curtis, a film that no one else will get to see.

   A mother and son documentary about masturbation!  I doubt they have such
a video, but if I went to a Blockbuster not in my neighborhood, I could at
least look at the catalog.

   Concentrate on the underside, I reminded myself.  Slower than you'd do
to yourself, though, as we're not the same.  I wished I'd brought some of
Jeanie's suntan lotion, but it might have looked suspicious, given the time
of day.

   I know it sounds a bit provocative, doing what I was doing, but a boy
like Curtis wouldn't get undue ideas.  He's way too immature.  Not
physically -- no question about that -- but in terms of initiative.  That's
why I didn't want him hanging out with that woman from Mississippi; she'd
encourage his initiative.

   That-a-boy, Curtis, I wanted to whisper.  Pretty soon you'll feel
something really nice.

   I guess, though, there wasn't much reason to tell him all that, as
Jeanie said he already knows about masturbation.  Maybe, though, he likes
my helping.  I'd like to think so, anyway.

   It's pretty natural for a mom to lend a hand, so to speak.  Really
natural, actually.  Maybe a mom shouldn't, but he's got his needs, the same
as she's got hers.  Probably lots of boys get masturbated by their moms,
but it's not that often talked about.

   Even now he's probably thinking about some girl on the beach, but an
orgasm's an orgasm, no matter who gives it to him.  Could it be, though,
that he's a little glad it's me?

   And okay, I can't dodge the fact that this little adventure was pretty
arousing for me, too.  Because of what had happened so far -- getting felt
and all, to be sure -- but even more because making someone else climax
brings you to the verge yourself.  With your own boy, it's even more
personal!

   A good masturbation's so much about setting the mood, and I'm sure that
applies to boys as well.  You want him to desperately surrender.  When you
get down to it, a mother likes the control.  Is that being bossy?

   You're doing great, Curtis, I hope he realized.  You don't have to
worry, though, as I know exactly what I'm doing.  Just stay with me.

   Maybe I'm no sexpert, but when it comes to your own kid, you know you
can give a good masturbation.

   Who'd have ever thought that here I'd be, on a tropical beach doing this
to my boy.

   You're liking this, Curtis, I knew without asking.  I can tell and it's
not even because I'm your mother.

   But what if he comes on my pants and Jeanie recognizes the spot?  Her
eyes catch that sort of thing.  Would she believe I met a businessman from
Omaha?  Probably not.  A lifeguard?  Probably not that either.  She'd know
exactly.  Besides the lotion, I should have brought some Kleenex, but how
was I to know?

   Don't worry, Curtis.  Mom will figure out something.

   If you're going to get into this type of situation -- him passing the
point of no return, so to speak -- you need to plan where to go after that
point.  Shooting him into the air wouldn't be fair to him.  Shooting him
onto your shirt wouldn't be fair to your wardrobe.

   It's good, then, him getting my shorts out of the way so he can come on
my panties where Jeanie won't notice.  Curtis has always been one to look
ahead.

   Plus when you think about it, your panties can be a keepsake.  Not that
I do weird things with old undergarments, but a stain would be a more
visceral souvenir than a dolphin figurine.  Probably I wouldn't put my
undies in a memory box -- I'm not that type and I don't have a memory box--
but some girls with extra panties might.

   I totally missed when he unsnapped my shorts and was otherwise occupied
as he worked them down.  They weren't serving much purpose, anyway.  Boys
see their mom's underwear, don't they, maybe back home in the hallway? 
Maybe when you're on a stepstool.  For sure in Mexico.

   His thumb followed the hem of one panty leg while his little finger
tracked the other.  A middle fingertip traced the cotton between.

   Okay, Curtis, I needed to confess.  When you were lotioning my legs, I'd
imagined you brushing my front; I think you knew where.  On the bus I'd
thought you'd reach lower.  Maybe you knew that, too.  So yes, I want you
to.  But even still, maybe you better stop.  Pretty soon, anyway.

   But perhaps I wasn't that directive, as after all, I was still doing my
share of fondling.  He'd not want me to stop cold turkey.

   The finger dented my fabric, not that deeply, even, but enough to reach
the part of me that was itself reaching.

   Oh, Curtis!  You can't know about that tiny secret, can you?

   I fondled more rapidly to divert his attention, but it didn't work.

   When a ply of panties is your last defense, you sense exactly what's
happening.  With your own boy, though, let's say you sense it, but surely
not in the sense of a particular sensibility.  Or maybe you do sense it
that special way, but prefer to call it another sensation.  However you
want to put it, you feel the fingertip.

   Oh, Curtis, I need to make clear.  Even if you do know about my little
friend, you shouldn't come to play!

   By my third or fourth twitch, the period of his orbit matched the
cadence of my strokes.  Round and round, up and down, again and again.  As
with rocking on the sea grass, a girl likes repetition.  One of our
vulnerabilities, I suppose.

   But with your own boy, for sure, this sort of activity should be more
about him than about you.  If he's giving your little friend an eight (for
lack of a better measure), you give him back a nine.

   Just not a ten.

   It was good, though, how we could avoid being suggestive.  What I mean
to say, I guess, is that while it was perhaps a little suggestive for me --
how could it be otherwise?  -- for him it was probably more like fooling
around.  You can't be totally certain of everything a boy's thinking, of
course, but it wasn't as if Curtis would have known much more.

   And after all, I was still wearing my panties.  A mom needs to keep
clear what's out of bounds.

   Anyway, it's not wrong for a boy to think of his mom a bit sexually, is
it?  Not about going to bed with her or anything like that, but maybe what
he'd do if he got her there.  Maybe doing something while she sleeps.  Fat
chance she'd not wake up, of course, but boys have imaginations.  On the
other hand, maybe she'd not open her eyes.

   Maybe he wonders if women her age can still have orgasms.  Foolish
child! Maybe he imagines watching a video with her, the two of them on the
couch, a movie about lovemaking.  For starts, he'd want to get her on his
lap.  Then remove her bra.  It's sometimes hard to guess what boys think
about.

   He'd been feeling me up since our first day.  There'd been some
sexuality in that, hadn't there?  It seemed like it, anyway.  He'd listened
to me masturbate, sexual, but not sex, if you catch the difference.  I
didn't care for Curtis having heard me do that -- a girl deserves her
privacy -- but I understood his curiosity.  Curiosity's why he gets good
grades.

   All boys sometimes think about their mother sexually, I suppose.  If
they didn't, maybe we're depriving them of something.  It's fun to think
we're part of pretend get-togethers, maybe in their rooms, maybe in ours.
His would be better, though, as you'd not need to remake the bed.  Just
pretend, though.

   It stands to reason -- does it not?  -- that mothers likewise think of
their boys in the same manner.  Maybe not conjugally, of course, but with
similar benefits.

   Oh Curtis, maybe I should warn.  Don't get me anticipating things that
ought not happen.  If you knew what I mean, I'm sure you'd understand.

   I probably shouldn't have let him inch down my waistband, but what could
I do?  Did he really think that pushing with his knuckles made it seem
accidental?  It was good, however, the illusion of inadvertence.

   I guess, though, that the excuse of slippage doesn't extend to having
elastic tugged over your hipbone.  So much for sneakiness.

   But oh my, Curtis, I realized!  I'd never meant that you could touch my
hair!  To the edge, maybe just enough to check, but not like Indiana Jones
through the jungle.  Don't you realize...?

   In slow motion -- so it seemed to me, anyway -- he made his way to where
I begin to divide.

   Not there, Curtis!  No, wait!  What I mean is right there, right where
you are, maybe just a little bit more.  Yes.  Like that!  Not too far!  Not
so fast, I mean.  I did say not to, right?

   You'd expect a boy to only think about penetration, so you're swept away
by his attention to your clitoris.  He's just curious, not intentional, but
even still!  When Jeanie said her brother lacked fine motor skills, she
must have been talking about the motorcycle.

   Oh my!  Does he know why I'm so wet?  Do I?

   Yes, Curtis.  The moisture means yes.  But you'll not linger there for
too long, right?  You'll not make me act not like a mom, will you?

   Although you know you shouldn't, you want to tell him so much, but at
the same time, you want him telling you.

   Exactly yes, Curtis!  Just a little bit more.  That's how!  You can feel
it, I can tell.  You'll surely stop, won't you, before it's unstoppable?

   Maybe what was happening was telling me something, but what was it
telling him?  Does he know that a mom can't help her hormones?  That her
wetness doesn't mean what maybe it communicates?  That she can't always be
the mom.

   You know that, Curtis, don't you?  That I can't always be just a mom.

   "I told you so," interrupted my thoughts.

   Told me what?  But rather than pursue, I allowed a "Yeah." Sometimes you
don't want the details.

   And all of a sudden, there I was, panties below my hips, Curtis seeing
everything!

   Don't look, Curtis!  Not so obviously, that is.  Am I as black and white
to you as you look to me?

   But how did my panties get all the way off?  Not that they were much
cover, but at least I could have pulled them up in an emergency.  Oh, well,
they can't be far.

   You need to pay attention to your body and your body doesn't lie
regarding your fundamental necessities.  Cosmopolitan had an article about
our hierarchy of needs -- sort of a pyramid, as I recall, with brainy
things on top -- and right now would have been toward the bottom.

   Maybe it seems strange that you'd let your own boy do this, but you
begin to forget who's doing it.  I'm guessing that he starts to forget who
he is, as well.  In that sense, it's logical.  Curtis is very logical and
wouldn't do things that didn't make sense.

   Curtis, I needed to warn.  You don't know what...

   And it was suddenly so clear!  So obvious!

   I should show him how to masturbate me.  Not that I'd tell him, though.
I'd let him think it was his idea, per Jeanie's recommendation.  Or maybe
nobody's idea at all, just an accident.  But for sure, that's what I should
have him do.  Maybe lots of moms masturbate their boys, but I'll bet not
that many boys masturbate their moms.  Cosmopolitan never takes its
articles that far.

   Does it even matter that it's Curtis?  It's just a helping hand. 
Literally.

   But of course it matters!  It makes so much sense!  Moms and boys do it
alone in our bedrooms, so why not to each other, especially when you're by
the ocean?  It's a reason for vacations.  Not the only reason, of course,
but a practical one.

   Sunset in Cabo!  Masturbated by my own Curtis!  What could be more
special!

   "You okay," another interruption, well intended, I suppose, but not at a
time I wanted to be interviewed.

   "Sure," I allowed.

   It didn't seem ahead of ourselves that while I was deciding, he was
already well into the process.  Maybe it's circular, though, as his already
being at it makes you feel like it's your decision.  Does who started it
even matter?

   I was disappointed when he clamped his legs to slow my half of the deal,
but I saw his point.  Finishing together is what makes it mutual.  As I
mentioned earlier, Curtis has always been one to plan ahead.

   If this were sexual in the preparatory sense, of course, maybe it
wouldn't be such a good idea, but Curtis wouldn't have additional
intentions.  Having a bit of history with the subject myself, of course, I
found a few aspects a bit preparatory, but he didn't have to know for what.

   He'd never get away with masturbating me back home; that's for sure. 
For one thing, his sister would be around.  She's out a lot, though, I
noted for future reference.

   A mom shouldn't get masturbated past a point, however.  She doesn't want
her youngster to see her lose control, to make her lose it, actually.  But
once she's into it, she sometimes forgets to think like a mom.

   Who'd have ever thought that here I'd be, flat on my back, masturbated
by my own Curtis!  The girls at the office would be rooting for me, though
of course I'll not tell who did the deed and, for that matter, exactly what
the deed was.

   Lots of guys might try to screw you in a place like this, but how many
would use their hand?  Certainly not a Mexican policeman.  Certainly not
your college roommate's spouse.  Certainly not some bozo who picks up
Mississippi blondes.  No, the one who'd think first of you would be someone
like Curtis.

   I felt like a ripe mango.

   Had we pulled apart even now, we could have called it a moment of
confusion on a beach vacation, a passing moment, an almost.

   But this sort of thing has no almost.

   I know that masturbation means with your hand, but a penis would rub you
better, would it not?  Why not let your boy masturbate you so he gets
masturbated by your corresponding part, so to speak?  What could be more
mutual?  If nothing else, your wetness will help.

   That's why I let Curtis mount.  To let my wetness help.  I'd have told
him that this wasn't the safest way to masturbate me, but as I said, we
were kissing.  It gets confusing, separating out who's doing what.

   Rubbing him against my spot worked super -- he seemed to sense what I
wanted -- but maybe I wasn't that good at keeping him away from a nearby
place.  You want to be careful, but it's difficult to keep a slippery item
away from a place that's ready.  Very difficult.

   "Now?" he asked.

   Now what?  Maybe I sort of knew, but it wasn't as if I were going to
agree to anything.

   "Maybe," however, was all I could manage.

   Once aligned, he'd only to push a little.  I'm sure he didn't mean to,
but then I'm not sure I didn't mean for him not to.  Like I said, it gets
confusing.

   Oh my, Curtis!  Don't do it.  I mean don't not do it.  Do you realize
that you're inside?  Not really that far, but oh so definitely inside!

   Of course it wasn't okay to be where he was, but maybe a little
understandable.  It's the way those parts of us are designed to end up.

   He'll not push further, will he?  He's just a boy.

   The evening's first stars were already overhead.  I could taste the salt
air, smell the water, hear the surf.  Feeling Curtis moving into me didn't
seem that out of place.  Maybe I'd not been sufficiently clear about how
far was allowable, but at least this much.

   Surprisingly, him in me felt almost familiar.  Can something that's
never happened before be in your memory?  I guess, though, I'd thought
related thoughts when masturbating, so maybe that's where it came from.

   It wasn't like we'd come to the beach to do this; we'd come to watch the
sunset.  All I could do was to stargaze for familiar constellations, pull
our blanket yet higher to make our world smaller and let it happen.

   Further and further inward, as if asking me the best place.  It's a hard
one to answer, as wherever he is isn't quite far enough.

   In you just once is more like a vacation way to kiss, right?  Every mom
wants a kiss.  An all-the-way kiss, something you'd not want to end too
abruptly.

   I'd held motionless on the bus so Curtis wouldn't realize I'd felt him.
Here, though, stealth was no longer of concern.  He knows you're fully
feeling what's inside.  Movement's still an issue, though, as just a little
could set off what might no longer pass as just a special kiss.

   I hoped he couldn't sense my twitches.  It's a girl thing.

   It's hard not to react, though.  On the bus, it was about what was felt.
Now it's about what's arrived.  Just don't think about it, you tell
yourself.

   I tried to pretend Curtis was another tourist, a Mexican policeman,
even, but you know exactly who's in you.  Trying to recall my "Listen,
Learn" vocabulary wasn't a sufficient distraction, as one forgets so many
words.  "Adentro" means inside; that I remembered.  The thing is, I assured
myself in English, that as long as you remain immobile, you're doing
nothing more than just fitting together.  Who could fault that?

   Curtis drew outward, then returned.

   One entrance was an accident.  Okay, perhaps not an accident, but maybe
something passed off as one.  But the second?  We should have talked much
earlier!

   And yet another, this insertion more commanding.  I'm all for equal
rights and everything, but on our backs, we still can be commanded.

   Oh my, Curtis, I wanted to remind him.  Do you think I want more?  That
even if I did, that I'd let you?  Does it make sense, allowing, but not
agreeing?

   And yet another, a really long one.

   Where did I make my mistake?  I'd walked around our condo in my bra and
come down here without one, even, but did he think that meant something? 
Was he testing me when he lotioned?  Had he read my thoughts on the bus? 
I'd felt his erection, of course, but it hadn't occurred to me that maybe
his penis was a signal.  I'd not orgasmed on his lap, for heaven's sake! 
Maybe, though, he'd sensed the beginnings.

   Did I want him to keep going?  Of course not.  It's just that....

   In any case, he's just doing what nature's telling him, given his age.
Natural for me as well, given mine.  What's a girl to do?  Try to twist
away and all you do is to rub.  Try to lift up and all you accomplish is to
help.  Try to say stop and all you manage is a gasp.

   But I'm making it sound so cerebral, as by now I was getting pretty
physical myself.  Him pushing in and out makes you push out and in, though
by now it was less clear whose pushes were whose.

   You hesitate to put a name on it, but you know it's having sex.  You
were maybe confused at first, but now there's no fooling yourself.  Your
body knows, even if your mind's still catching up.

   And the fact was, letting it at last happen brought such exhilaration!
Physical satisfaction, to be sure -- any girl knows about that part -- but
given how it might have been with a Mexican policeman with an organ of
onyx, this was so much better!

   It's not what I'd planned on -- there's no way I could have thought it
through in advance -- but once it's happening, you don't want to mess it
up.

   Again and again.  Curtis didn't want to mess up either.  That's good,
actually -- us helping each other not mess up.

   You may be a little out of practice, but the mechanics come back quite
easily, if I do say so myself.  It's like never forgetting how to ride a
bicycle, except you're sort of the bicycle.

   Intercourse with your boy isn't okay, of course, but is it maybe a
little okay in certain circumstances?  After all, cooperation's what makes
a family a family.

   If your boy wants to make love to you -- yes, that's the right word for
it -- is it maybe a little okay to want to do it back?  It's hard to tell
your body otherwise, once it's informed.

   Maybe you with your boy isn't okay with some people, but those folks
aren't in Mexico?  Everybody else comes here to do it.  What's a single mom
to do at sunset?  It's about communication, telling your boy that here it's
just the two of you.

   And if you get to do it just this once, of course you want to show how
special it can be.

   And even while you're weighing the okayness, you've dug your heels into
the sand.  Mothering comes easier if your feet are well planted.

   Okay, Curtis, I needed to admit.  I don't know how we got here, but
maybe it doesn't even matter.  Who'd have ever thought that here I'd be,
showing you how!

   I've said that no mom would want her boy losing his virginity to an
older woman, but that wouldn't apply to herself.  Maybe a boy rushes a bit
at the start, but he'll yield to expertise.

   Okay, Curtis, if you insist.  Like this.  No, I mean more like this. 
That's right!

   My mind broadcast so many instructions, but he hardly seemed to need
any. In a few years, he'll think he knows more about intercourse than his
own mother.  Probably he will.  For now, though, he's still teachable.

   Okay, Curtis, as he was very much insisting.  Nice!  Now hold it. 
Again!

   I locked him with my legs and clinched my arms around his back.  On the
homeward bus, so to speak, you want to be holding tight.

   And yow!  Curtis's clutch suggested the same home-bound bus!  A mom can
read her boy when he fibs about eating the ice cream.  She can read his
disappointment when his science fair ribbon is red.  Reading his arousal is
ever-so-more easier.  Curtis needed his mom in the worst way.  Sort of
two-way, who needed whom, actually, but that needn't be shared knowledge.

   A boy's got to learn somewhere -- right?  -- and this one's at least
learning from someone who's no slouch when push comes to shove.  Learning
quickly, if I do say so, but Curtis has always been good in school.

   Okay, buster, without me saying so.  You keep doing your half and I'll
keep doing mine.  It takes two to tango, a Mexican dance, I think.

   It's supposed to be the male who sets the tempo, but that's not when
it's with his mom.  It took my best to hold the pace to one appropriate to
a tropical beach, not like you might do in the back of a Honda.

   But a woman feels eyes.  And when I opened mine, oh my, a solitary
figure silhouetted in the ocean's glow stood not twenty feet distant!

   "Polic'a," raced through my head -- it's surely illegal to be doing what
we're doing -- but down here it's probably only a beachcomber.  Not that
you want a tourist watching, of course, but maybe it's no big deal, since
you're one, too.  I suppose we looked like honeymooners, loosely
translated, the male backside between the female knees.  Honeymooners in
training, maybe, since it was such a basic position.

   It's difficult to communicate hush to a male too engaged to care about a
passersby.  It's difficult to communicate hush to yourself as well, as
you're likewise missing an on-off switch.

   I couldn't let Curtis down, not at this point, but I did what I could to
get the blanket over us and used his head to shield my identity, closing my
eyes for extra measure.  My boy deserved to finish the right way,
interloper or not.

   When next I peeked, the silhouette was gone, though I suspected not far.
I knew that our watcher was female, as no male could spy so discreetly. 
Though I didn't relish being a vacation story as she shows her shells in
the Dakotas, or wherever, at least the story wouldn't have names.

   Being observed -- by another female, anyway -- might be fashionable in
cinema circles, but if you ask me, love's still supposed to be made in
private.  That much said, whatever story might get recalled in the Dakotas
I wanted to be a good one.  Nobody wants to be a laughing stock in regard
to intercourse.  The tale wouldn't be about watching an act; it would be
about watching lovers.  Whoever our observer was, she'd know the
difference.

   So back to the task at hand.  (Though to be literal, it was no longer
manual.) There was no question about Curtis coming, of course, but
hopefully I could prolong his payoff.

   A payoff for mom as well, of course.  Not that motherhood isn't a reward
in itself, but we sometimes merit a little bonus.  For a mom, however,
maybe you shouldn't orgasm too obviously when it's your boy.  His discovery
of how ready you are might get in the way of your role as a parent.

   On the other hand, he'd want you to climax to prove he was a good lover.
"I made you come just like in the movies, right, Mom?" he'd ask as you
wonder what happened.  Boys need the affirmation, but you don't know which
films they have in mind.

   He'd want you to climax because he'd want you to get what every girl
needs.  "Wow, Mom, you were super," he'd reflect as you begin to physically
confirm that boys his age can please you twice.  Boys know that mothers
fall for compliments.

   He'd want you to climax so he could claim that the intercourse was your
idea, not his.  "You wouldn't have been so into it, Mom, if you didn't want
to," he'd rule as you prove that a women of your age can be pleased
multiple times.  Boys dodge responsibility.

   I could feel the eyes from the shadows.  It's why you came to Mexico,
our witness seemed to whisper.  You've let him touch you so many ways.  You
touched him in return as you played in the waves.  When he massaged your
back last night, you'd have let him reach around, but you didn't lean to
tell him.  You feigned sleep on the sundeck so he might do your breasts,
but you didn't lift up.  He's why you masturbate, for heaven's sake!  You
nearly climaxed on the bus -- would have, actually, if the trip were
longer. Now's your final sunset!  Finish what you've started!

   I imagined the woman from Mississippi now lying beside us, so near that
our shoulders rub.  Here at Cabo, she assures, we girls orgasm every time,
already beginning her next.  You too, honey, edging her hip against mine.

   When it comes to your own coming, who's even in charge?  Some woman from
Mississippi?  A spy in the shadows?  The bus driver?  Curtis?  Being the
mom makes you the parent, but it doesn't make you the boss.

   When Curtis at last climaxed -- as he didn't know how to do it subtly,
it wouldn't have worked well on the bus -- I locked him to me for fear he'd
pull out.  A boy might think it's the noble thing, not knowing how much mom
treasures every moment.

   Okay, Curtis, I told myself.  My turn!

   My orgasm was the color of sunset.

   ***

   When we returned to our condo, Jeanie was at the kitchen table, her feet
yet wet from rinsing off the sand.

   "I went looking for our two friends, but she was with somebody else,"
our scout reported as she x-rayed my shorts.  "Then I ran across those four
from this place, but maybe I was confused about who's with who.  Get your
backrub?"

   The way she smiled said she was confused not the slightest, not about
them and probably not about us.  Even if she didn't have x-ray eyes, I
realized, she'd probably caught Curtis's blush.

   "I think they went to college together," I explained, not explaining
anything.

   "Maybe double-dated?" my daughter suggested.  "Anyway, it was too dark
to look for shells.  I must have walked right by you.  Fall asleep?"

   Walked right by us?  Jeanie knew exactly where we'd parked.

   "I guess maybe we drifted off," I offered, thankful for her helpfulness.

   "Busy day, right?" Jeanie observed.  "At least Curtie's pretty comfy for
a klutz."

   Her brother blushed more than before.

   "No name-calling," I ordered, reasserting my role.  He wasn't a klutz
this evening.

   "We could do worse," allowed his sister, bussing me my goodnight kiss.
"Pass it on."

   Curtis brightened when I complied.  Unlike us, boys can't hide their
intentions.

   Jeanie's being up, however, gave me the excuse to shoo Curtis to his
mattress.  I needed some time to process today's events.

   There was a lot to process.

   First of all, no matter how you try to get around it, the fact was that
we'd had intercourse.  The real deal, the home run, whatever you want to
call it.  And no sense pretending we hadn't had finished with big Os.  The
proof's in the pudding, though I hope Curtis didn't think I felt like
pudding.

   Maybe I should have said stop a little louder, but it wasn't as if
there'd been much discussion.  We'd not wanted to attract attention.  Come
to think of it, we'd hardly said a word.

   Being pursued is flattering, makes you lose your guard.  That, though,
makes it sound more like Curtis's fault, which isn't fair.  Sex down here
is maybe sort of like a no-fault clause in car insurance -- nobody's to
blame because figuring it out would be too complicated.  Things happen.

   It wasn't as if we'd met at a bar or something, how that Mississippi
woman probably snags her dates.  "Oh my," for the solo fellow at the
neighboring barstool to overhear.  "There's a worm in my cocktail!" and her
prey offers to buy her something with a little umbrella in it.  It was more
like Curtis and I had stayed away from the bar so things could develop in
more natural circumstances.

   Was I totally weird, doing it with my own boy?  No, I decided; it's only
weird if it's weird to him.  If he wanted his mother to help him with
something -- a very special something -- it's not wrong for either of us.
Curtis's finish said it wasn't weird at all and that's good enough for me.

   Should I offer an excuse, maybe that we'd drifted off to sleep and our
legs somehow tangled?  That my panties fell off and he'd had a wet dream
inside me, maybe?  That his wet dream made me have one, too?

   No.  Climaxing might be accidental on a jingly bus, I suppose, but not
for two on a beach.  Sand can't bounce you more and more together, for one
thing, except maybe in an earthquake.

   The spy who'd watched probably thought I'd led Curtis there to seduce
him, but it was Jeanie who'd wanted to watch the sunset.  Maybe I wasn't
displeased when she tucked us under the blanket and made her exit, but no,
I'd not brought him for sex.  Maybe letting him reach under my arm helped
it get started, but that's only -- what?  -- maybe ten percent fault.  No
jury would convict you on that.

   Should I feel guilty?  Why on earth would I feel that?  It wasn't as if
I'd forced him into something he wasn't interested in.  I'm not like that
woman from Mississippi who knows exactly how to trick reluctant boys.  All
I did was help him decide.

   So should I feel pleased with myself?  Of course not, as that would be
egotistical.  On the other hand, you can't help but being glad you
contributed to the result.

   If I'd not responded quickly, he'd not have penetrated so fully.  You
can't deny your own boy that accomplishment, can you?  For us, it's about
the journey.  For them, it's the destination.  But let's face it; we also
value the latter.

   I was pretty positive he'd liked it, both the journey and the
destination, that is.  He'd been so sweet afterwards, shaking off the sand
as he retrieved my clothing.  We're pretty compatible, the two of us. 
Psychologically, I mean.  Plus the other way.

   The spy who told me what to do, whoever she was, was she likewise
telling Curtis how to make me climax?  What would she have thought of us if
I'd failed?  You can't control what others think of you, but you don't want
to leave a negative impression regarding your boy.

   No, that's silly; there couldn't have been a spy.  A stranger wouldn't
know about what almost happened on the bus, for example.

   Had Curtis been a virgin?  Mothers watch for clues, especially items
stashed in the back of his dresser drawer.  Never a thing.  He'd never
really had a girlfriend.  The guys he hangs out with aren't the type to
cruise for chicks.  He'd not risk catching some sort of disease.  He'd not
do it with someone he doesn't know, unless maybe she's a professor.  So
it's perfectly logical that I'd been his first.  Lots of moms would like to
be, I'd think, even if most of us don't get to.

   And actually, it had been so long for me that I'd sort of reverted to
being a virgin myself.  A virgin with past experience, shall we say? 
Virgins are rare in Cabo and even rarer in the airport departure lounge. 
How could it be otherwise?

   I'd not caused him some sort of psychological harm, I wouldn't think. 
Sex with mom might be a problem for boys with pushy mothers, for example,
but Curtis has always been one to make rational decisions.  He'd not have
done it if it didn't fit into the big picture.  It wouldn't mess up his
college plans or anything important.  No, even at this very minute, Curtis
was probably thinking ahead.

   Sure, there's that "i" word, but that one's more about fathers and
daughters or uncles and nieces where the male's older and the girl's afraid
to tell her mother.  And don't get me wrong; everybody knows you can make a
younger boy erect, even if he's without a clue.  But that's not like us
where there was no victim.  We'd both orgasmed, had we not?  Not precisely
at the same instant, I'll concede, but not bad for a first go.

   All that really happened was that a certain part of Curtis ended up in a
certain part of me and there was a certain biological reaction. 
Everybody's got one or the other of those certain parts.  Should ours not
react just because we're related?  Given how many years we'd watched TV
from the same sofa, you'd think it would have happened earlier, especially
if we'd seen certain movies.

   And anyway, what happened wasn't just about sex.  We also saw the
sunset. Curtis is a sweet boy and I'm a caring mom.  All we did was to show
each other how much.

   There are so many things you can ponder, but when it comes down to it,
why make it so complex?  Without sexual intercourse, what would become of
families?

   I slept like a baby.

   ***

   Packing her sandy clothes and south-of-the-border mementos the next
morning, Jeanie remembered she'd not bought the purse she'd seen in town.
Leather costs four times more back home and a taxi would be really quick.
"But at least an hour," flashing me an upward thumb as she exited.

   "Anything from that onyx store, Mom?" over her shoulder.

   "No thanks."

   Curtis and I had been avoiding eye contact, unsure how to address last
night.  It's not that easy to explain.

   Management said to leave the beds unmade, as the staff replaces all
linens.  I suppose it's not uncommon for the maid to find the bottom sheet
still wet, though, given last-minute opportunities.  Our maid knew we were
just a mom and her kids, not even close to being honeymooners, but maybe
it's still common.

   But who cares?  We're just another load of laundry.

   "We're pretty much packed," I offhandedly observed -- my best effort at
such, anyway -- as I lowered the blinds.  "Might as well stretch out."

   Oh my, what must this look like?

   Nothing more was said as Curtis lay beside me, the jut of his shorts
relieving my concern that he'd have morning-after remorse.  When concerned
about your boy, trust his physiological evidence more than your
psychological abilities.

   I shut my eyes as he undid my top and kept them closed while he
unsnapped my jeans.  I wished the blinds worked better when he slipped off
my panties, but anyway, why shouldn't he see me in daylight?

   He should take more time getting me ready, I realized, but it didn't
matter, since I was anyway.  I could hear the clicks of his zipper and feel
the dip of the mattress as he positioned, but not until he entered did I
make my move.

   Curtis was one surprised lad when I rolled him under and straight-armed
him to the mattress.  I didn't know I had it in me, so maybe it was from
the multipurpose vitamins with extra calcium.  In any case, I nailed it. 
It's good for a boy to find that Mom still has a trick or two up her
sleeve, even if he's already taken off her shirt.

   I rode him full force, nothing motherly whatsoever.  It's good to be the
parent, but it's better to sometimes just be a woman.  Last night, his way;
this morning, mine.  Both ways are good, but yours works better.  You want
your boy to look up to you, both figuratively and literally.

   I left $10 on the pillow for the maid.  Probably what they pay her for a
week.

   When Jeanie returned, treading loudly at the door and fumbling the
longest time with her key, she bore a bulky package in addition to a new
purse.

   "A little extra snooze?" she suggested, eying the bed and reopening the
blinds.

   "What'd you buy?" to divert her as I whisked Curtis's underpants into my
pocket.

   "Beach blankets.  Special sale," appraising my pocket.  "Imported from
China, I expect."

   "Twenty percent discount because you're very beautiful?" realizing that
they didn't stuff that well.

   "Naah," smoothing the rumpled sheets to tell me she'd drawn her
conclusion.  "You're the pretty one today.  The girl gave me thirty when I
said they're for watching sunsets."

   "But we're leaving."

   "We'll be back," eying the wet spot.  "Right, Curtie?"

   Jeanie had another shopping bag, a plastic one, and I needed to change
the subject.  "What else did you get?"

   "Pharmacies are cheap down here," she explained, extracting a tube of
sky-blue lip-gloss for my inspection.  The remainder of the bag's contents
seemed to be small maroon boxes.

   "Legal?"

   "Recommended by health professionals."

   Legality reminded me of Curtis's switchblade.  "Did you ditch that
knife?"

   "I forgot."

   "In the trashcan, buster." I'd not let him end up in jail and have to
deal with the officer.

   The maid would sell the knife back to the store to sell to the next
Curtis, so to speak.  The Mexican economy, I suppose.

   In the airport terminal we passed the film professor from Mississippi.
Tiny panties outlined through her hip-huggers.  Skinny pink bra-straps. 
Older than me, though.  Roots under the peroxide.  Eye liner.  Alone, her
carry-on weighed with Kahlua.

   I guess she recognized us, as she said hi.  As she lacked a drawl, maybe
she'd moved south to get a job.  Maybe she'd remembered Curtis's giving her
a lift, but more likely it was from our watching at the beach.  What kind
of woman would do that, anyway?  Show someone else's kids how to have sex.

   She'd surely screwed her paramedic friend more times than the sum of my
orgasms, both solo and assisted.  They'd have made lazy love on the
balcony, dined on lobster and daiquiris, performed publicly at sunset,
lathered one another in the shower, done acrobatics back on her bed, played
wake-up fun and games, breakfasted on pineapple and done it in the taxi
while shopping for coral jewelry at bargain price because of her young age.

   And after that paramour returned to Arizona, she'd have found an
engineer from Madison or a CPA from Boston or maybe even a Hollywood movie
director with whom she could critique erotic films.  She'd probably screwed
a Mexican policeman with a cock of marble.

   I bet she has all sorts of male students stopping by her office to
discuss actor-actress movie scenes.  She probably has some sort of gizmo to
latch her door without leaving her desk.  Maybe she even films her extended
tutorials.

   But she'd not scored on a vacationing lad who'd given her a lift on his
rented motorcycle.  He'd have been the best.  Ha!

   Jeanie smiled at my lock on her brother's elbow.  You can stumble so
easily on those airplane stairways, she seemed to concur.  That or
something else.  Mainly, though, I wanted to show the professor from
Mississippi who'd won.

   I guess, though, maybe I was also a little sorry for the woman.  She
knows how to get the guys, I suppose, but is a lineup what we need?  Your
own boy will always be your boy.

   Most vacationers probably make love a million times on Cabo's beds and
beaches.  I'd only done it twice -- last night on the sand and this morning
on my mattress -- but I was the lucky one.  I wasn't going home alone.

   And I again had on my bra.  It was in my dresser drawer that morning
like it had never been denied me.  Maybe I'd watch for a French one at
Sears, next sale.  Not that I'm into that sort of thing, but you want to
look pretty when you come home from work.

   Jeanie seated her brother between us so we'd each have a solid shoulder
to lean on.  "Nighty, night.  Didn't get that extra hour to kick back like
you two," sounding as if she knew we hadn't exactly kicked back, but maybe
I was overly sensitive.

   Before she shut her eyes, she pulled the airline blanket over her and
her brother's lap and gave his ear a little kiss.  "Klutzability is
incurable, but we don't care.  Right, Mom?"

   "Every family needs one," I concurred, kissing his other ear.

   "You two are so impossible," he complained, pleased as punch.

   I almost rested my hand on Curtis's knee.  The stewardess wouldn't see,
but Jeanie's eyes might have not been totally closed.  Plus I wasn't that
sure that I'd not encounter her hand under the cover.

   I admired my shell bracelet.

   After the seatbelt demonstration and instructions about life vests --
"To inflate the vest, pull firmly on the red cord, only when leaving the
aircraft" -- Jeanie opened her eyes, gave a stage yawn and dozed off with
her hand decidedly in her own territory.

   Curtis would have done his best to hold himself stone still, but I
didn't dare test his resolution.  An airplane isn't the sea shore, but I'll
bet stewardesses still see beach activities on homeward flights from Cabo.

   ***

   Jeanie set her pharmacy bag on the table as we unpacked, tapping it for
attention.  "I'm hitting the hay, buckaroos.  See you in the morning."

   Once she was gone, Curtis wanted to go to bed, too.  Mine.  The rascal,
but what boy isn't?  But face it, what mom wants a lackadaisical child?

   I'd pretty much decided that what had happened in Mexico should stay
just that, but on further reflection, it might be better to transition
down. Curtis needed some guidance and when you get down to it, your own bed
is less risky than beachside.  There are no sneaker waves, for example.

   I knew I should profess restraint, but doing it in two countries the
same day seemed pretty special, maybe some sort of record.  I'd forgotten
how addictive it can become.

   From the pharmacy bag he pulled a package, maroon, "de latex natural."

   Oh my!  A daughter on the pill doesn't purchase such things for her own
doings!  Given the number of cartons, transitioning down may take quite a
while.

   "Maybe you could help with my suitcase," I suggested.

   ***

   Jeanie was first up next morning, stirring a batch of powered milk, how
you eat cereal the morning after a vacation.

   "Mornin', Mamacita," with a kiss.  "Good to be in your own bed, right?"

   "Morning, dear." I didn't choose to confirm the "good."

   Jeanie seemed unfazed when Curtis stumbled out behind me, too sleepy for
pleasantries.  "Mornin', superhunk," as she gave him a kiss as well.  "Pass
it on.  Looks like you didn't get much sleep, either."

   Should I make up some excuse about him having been in my room?

   Why bother?  What Jeanie maybe knows, she maybe knows.  She probably
listened from the stairway -- heard everything -- but what can you do?  If
your bed rattles, it rattles; it's the only bed you have.  She'll be in
there in a second, pretending to look for something, confirming everything.
I'm sure the rubber's right where Curtis flung the thing, pleased as punch
with his performance.  I was, anyway.

   "Want some milk for your cereal, Curtie?" Jeanie offered with the
cheeriness afforded by a full night's rest.

   "Guess so.  Where's the Cheerios?"

   "Oh, darn!  I just finished them off.  How 'bout some of Mom's Special
K?" Then to me, "That cute hat I bought, maybe it's in your room.  I'll go
check."

   The hat, of course, wasn't the only thing in my room.  The evidence
would be duly in the wastebasket when I reentered, as she's tidier than her
brother.

   ***

   I know my pregnancy was from the beach blanket.  My Cabo souvenir, I
suppose.  But it could have been from the next morning.  When I said
earlier that the proof's in the pudding, I was referring of course to the
orgasms, but I guess there was the swimmy, wiggly-tailed proof as well.

   They say that being on top decreases the odds, but I don't know if it's
true as I was sitting when the twins got started.  At least I'm lucky that
there weren't again two eggs.

   I just wasn't as prepared for contingencies as were the Harmon/Jantzen
women and the professor from Mississippi.  In their cases, however, you'd
not call it "contingencies." A sexually inactive mom wouldn't have been on
the pill.  I'd seen the foil strips in the kiosks, but you don't buy that
sort of thing for no foreseeable reason, especially when your kids are with
you.  A mom on vacation can't protect herself against sunsets.

   Forty isn't too old to revisit motherhood.  Our Lamaze coach said that a
daughter knows how to pace her mom's counting.  Jeanie said it would be a
piece of cake.  "Just one of us in there this time, right?"

   The obstetrician saw no problem with Curtis being present.  She seemed
not at all surprised, actually.  "Sibling bonding's so important.  An
infant can look up to an older brother like a father," probably something
she advises many, these days.  Did she already know the truth of it, or was
this just a family-studies theory?  I suppose she could tell from a DNA
test or something, but I don't think she bothered because my insurance
wouldn't cover it.

   Could the hospital staff tell that Curtis was something more than a
brother?  They see all kinds of family relationships in their profession,
I'd think.

   The girls at the office calendared back to the week.  To their, "a Latin
lover?" I just flutter my eyes.  "Beach sunset," I allow and they nod
knowingly, though I'm not aware that any of them has done it on the sand.

   Thank heaven it wasn't conception in a police station.  An egg ready for
Curtis would have been equally ready for a capitán.  You don't want every
daydream to come true, not the ones that involve seeds, for sure.

   My co-workers brought a "Future Cornhusker" gridiron jersey, size 0, to
the hospital.  "Looks just like his brother," they all agree, but I'm sure
they don't suspect.

   Or even if they do, they're not going to tell.

   ***

   The twins call him "Bryancito," but it's all in fun, as at fifteen, he's
already my tallest.  I feel a little ancient as a football mom, but our
boys need our cheers.  Bryan's an end, which means that he catches the
ball. Then he runs really fast.  It's fun learning about first downs and
everything.

   Bryan imagines his father being in Mom's prehistory.  Having siblings so
much older gives him three parents anyway, he complains.  But actually, the
span of years doesn't amount to much.  Curtis can still beat him at a few
computer games and Jeanie -- if we promise never to tell any of Bryan's
friends -- takes Baby Brother salsa dancing.  (Brother?  Nephew?) I tut-tut
that she has to sneak him in.  "Who cards the date of a thirty-something,"
she counters.

   "Dancing helps him with his Spanish," she promises.  "Noche de amor,
words like that.  Plus I'm teaching him the tango."

   For his birthday, Jeanie bought Bryan one of those slinky shirts. 
"There are special pants, too," she informs me, "but one thing at a time."

   When she picks him up, she gives her brother a kiss that leaves lipstick
and tells him that nobody can see it.  As she arranges his collar, her
nipples emerge from the fancy bra that she calls a dance top.  Maybe it's
due to all the Old Spice he's wearing.  Cosmopolitan had a very interesting
article on pheromones, not a word I knew before.

   When they exit, she's plastered on his arm like a starlet preening to
receive her Academy Award.

   "¿Qué es esta noche, mi hermanito?"

   "Noche de amor, mi hermanita," apparently the fruit of his language
lessons, except sometimes he says, "mi dulcita" or "mi profesora."

   I know most of the words, but not necessarily what they're saying.

   If they're out late, sometimes she stays over and I hear the pair
tiptoeing up the stairs to not disturb me.  She's still got her room up
there but it hardly looks as if she uses it.  I know this not because I
check, but because I do my scrapbooking there and sometimes leave projects
on the bed.

   Sometimes I later hear a faint thumping, but with the weather and all,
it could be just a the wind.  I've no idea how showering works, but they're
squeaky clean by breakfast.

   Like I said somewhat earlier, it takes two to tango, but I now know that
the tango comes from Argentina.  They're all pretty similar, those places.

   They've taught me a few salsa steps in case I meet a handsome Latino. 
"I'll loan you my outfit," Jeanie volunteers, freeing her straps in the
Latina manner and wiggling her behind.

   I hum, "Ta-tad-da, ta-tad-da, ta ta," (clap, clap) and the two hold
their foreheads in pain.

   Jeanie structures corporate mission, whatever that means.  Creighton
MBA, I casually mention to casual acquaintances.  Maybe salsa dancing and
corporations have aspects in common.

   Curtis works with satellites.  Pretty major, what his team's done with
bandwidth, he informs us, since we'll not spill the secret to the Chinese,
though half his team seems to have come from one of those countries.  I'm
rather proud of what they've done, myself, as bandwidth's very important
for computers and things.

   His twin's got him on the dance floor and reports that deciding digital
frequencies and recognizing the drum beat appear to relate to different
parts of the brain.

   Who cares?  She's got her smooth-stepping Bryan while Curtis and I
specialize in the waltz.  Put on "Take it to the Limit" and back, side,
together, back, side, together.  It gets you in the mood.

   Sometimes the two of us just kick back and watch a video.  I pull the
afghan over us, even though no one else is in the house.

   What wouldn't be right would be for me to describe the further details.
Among ourselves, though, moms brag about our boys as long as we take turns.
You just want to be certain that you're with the right moms.  "We're lucky,
aren't we, Janet, to have boys so sweet about still stopping by.  Why just
last Friday, Curtis showed up with a movie I'd never take up to the
counter, but had a nice time watching with him.  I made some mint tea and
we got on the sofa.  Does Bobby ever do that, you know, stop by and stay
over?"

   ***

   The twins bought a time-share in Cabo.  Co-purchased, I should clarify.
Too much disposable income, a problem never faced by their mother, I
tut-tut.  Top floor with balcony.  Pacific view.  Jeanie says it's a great
investment, but we know we'll never sell.

   Like we play golf back home?  Hardly.  But it's fun in Cabo.  Curtis
yells, "Quatro," when he tees off and Jeanie about dies.  "Senora Sites
taught me that," he grins to get her goat and she sinks her putt to get
even.  I drive the cart, as they'd speed and medevacs to America are very
expensive.  Bryan makes par while we jabber.

   Frisbee's another story.  I'm pretty good if the catcher's not too far.

   Jeanie selected my swimsuit.  "Down here it's only people you don't
know, Mom." I have breasts too, same as her, the suit makes me admit
without saying.  When we unhook our straps, she's as casual as ever about
rolling over.  Me, I stay on my stomach, but play along when one of the
boys goes under my sides a little.  You need to protect your white skin. 
You try not to rise too high on your elbows, but if you're related, it's
okay if you must.

   Jeanie gives her brothers the sharp elbow when their gazes roam to a
nearby nearly-naked sunbather.  "This ain't no Club Med, you two." You can
ogle me all you wish, and sometimes a bit of Mom, is what she's saying, but
not those others.  I agree.

   Curtis bought me "Snorkeling Baja" for Christmas.  Whenever we see a new
variety of fish, we check it off.  Long-nose butterfly fish?  Check! 
Moorish idols?  Got 'em!  Sharks?  The me-on-Curtis bigger-fish
look-alike's worked so far, as we haven't been eaten.  The
me-on-Curtis-other-kind-of-look has also worked well, though the fish don't
see that one.

   Whales?  Seen them, of course, but still don't know how they do their
thing.

   Jeanie got me the "De Aqu' a la Eternidad" video to help with my
Spanish, but I can follow the plot without it.  The report of Burt
Lancaster being erect in the surf scene is just a story, nothing more.  It
was 1953, for heaven's sake, so even if he was, they'd have edited it out.
On the other hand, if you hit the pause button and really look closely...

   Jeanie bought me another oldie, "Beach Blanket Bingo," which I think is
rather cute.  When Curtis saw it, however, he said that's exactly why the
Russians beat us into orbit.  The two of us were otherwise occupied by the
closing credits, I must admit.

   Jeanie sometimes brings along a Cosmopolitan to read on the patio,
though we rarely get to it.  The authors may be famous personalities, but
they don't know much about Mexico.

   There's always seashell collecting.  "Lock the door.  Resorts attract
robbers," Jeanie advises as she trots off with Bryan to explore far-flung
tide pools.  They're never back before an hour and Jeanie stomps her shoes
free of every possible grain of sand before she tries her keys in the wrong
order, but the timing's still sometimes close because Curtis doesn't hop up
that quickly.  Jeanie nonchalantly re-opens the blinds as we face away to
secretly check buttons.

   I suppose it's the sort of thing that Curtis and I should talk through,
but our getting together fell into place so quickly that we hardly had the
chance.  Explaining would get so complicated.  For those who don't know
each other well, however, I firmly agree with Cosmopolitan that it's good
to discuss motivations.

   On the other hand, Frankie in "Beach Blanket Bingo" says, "You know
something?  A kiss is worth more than a thousand words," and Annette
answers, "Then why don't you stop talking?"

   We like La Tortuga, a club where you can't hear each other over the
chorus of La Bamba, so we all sing along.  One drink's our limit because
they overcharge.  Jeanie drags Bryan out on the dance floor and Curtis
footsies me under the table.  It's kind of exciting, going to a club.

   Beach blanket in Spanish is "toalla de playa." Nude is "nudo" or "nuda,"
depending on what's shown.  Erection is "erección." Sexual intercourse is
"relación sexual." Orgasm is "orgasmo." I used Jeanie's dictionary, since
they're not in "Listen, Learn." When it comes to sex, Spanish is a lot like
English.

   Jeanie and Bryan spend lots of time in the Jacuzzi.  "Time to double
bubble," she laughs and he blushes.  I guess the bubbles do somewhat cloud
the water, so whatever happens isn't that public.

   The two usually head up the beach after sunset.  It's fun when waves
sneak around your feet, they claim, but like in "From Here to Eternity,"
I'm not sure they're much on their feet.

   Maybe I don't need to know what happens between a future Cornhusker and
his MBA sister, nineteen years his elder.  Nineteen years is nothing when
it comes to certain common interests, I'll admit.  Like Curtis and me, they
always take a second beach blanket.

   Curtis and I unfold ours to stargaze from our regular spot and he
explains about black holes and such.  A scientist who's totally paralyzed
figured it out just by thinking, but I guess that makes sense, as even if
you were totally able, you still couldn't go look.

   If there's a breeze, we pull the other blanket over us.  Even if there
isn't, actually, we pull it over in case of passing beachcombers.  Probably
we still get mistaken for honeymooners because it's hard to beat the
beginning positions, but we don't care.  Stay with what works, the way I
see it.  Nobody's going to know us and as Jeanie noted, it's not as if I'm
dating anybody else.

   Once we passed a gringo couple in the airport.  Mid-fifties, more or
less.  He'd bought himself a gold chain, what guys do at that stage of
life. Probably wears red Speedos.  The way the woman smiled at me, I knew
she'd watched us in the twilight.  Maybe she'd thought we were newlyweds,
but here in the airport, she sees we're a mom and her boy and probably
wishes she weren't saddled by a guy sporting a gold chain.

   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
the time to read me, don't wade through an early version.

   You can contact me via the site's message form.

   Holly