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Subject: RP--Just Right
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=========================
The following is total fiction.  Any resemblance etc. is a product of your 
imagination.  This work is meant as ADULT entertainment.  If the laws 
where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn 
yourself in to the thought police.  Even thinking about sex is dirty and 
nasty and will warp your mind forever.  Go watch a movie or play a 
game that ends with a body count in the high four figures.  Death and 
destruction are good clean fun.

©1997 losgud.  Personal use just fine.  Archiving okay.  Absolutely NO 
for-profit use permitted.  Reposting without notice is frowned upon.  
Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal.  Copyright violations will 
fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the punishment is 
to discourage repeat offenders.  We cut your fucking hands off!
=========================
M/F Inc Cons Humor
Note:  If you like to plunge straight in, skip this one. There's plenty of 
steam in the end, but a bit of plot and lots of laughs to get you there.  
Enjoy!


JUST RIGHT 


I knew my sister Ginny wasn't doing too well in the wake of her 
divorce.  I'd decided though that the best policy was to keep myself not 
only out of the mess, but as far away from it as possible.  So I didn't 
even know the current circumstances when I got a complaining call from 
the folks.  Apparently, while waiting for the house to be sold, Ginny 
had forced her way back into her old room at the homestead.  She'd 
been there for weeks, a weepy black cloud.  From what I was told, she 
hardly bothered going into her dinky little job anymore.  Not that it 
much mattered.  With the pittance it paid, she'd never be able to 
manage the deposit on her own place.
	
Actually it was mom who made the call, of course.  "You've got to come 
over here and _do_ something with her."  Good old mom!  I could almost 
hear the rippling of the newspaper and the grumbling of my dad behind 
it, "I thought you told me that come eighteen they'd all be out of here, 
and they wouldn't come back to bother us again except maybe holidays."  
Good old dad!
	
Well, the easiest course of action was to just agree, pack an overnight 
bag and drive across town and prove to them that there wasn't 
anything I could do either.  I did make sure to pack my big heavy foot, 
just in case I needed to put it down.  Knowing my folks as well as I 
did, I didn't doubt they might try to transplant Ginny to the sofabed in 
my livingroom.
	
We got through dinner without exchanging any significant words, which 
was a blessing in my mind.  The food was bland but not nearly as awful 
as I remembered.  I thought maybe I should slip a couple dollars on the 
table in addition to washing the dishes.  Wouldn't want mom to start 
bitching about her free-loading son who only came over to make her 
suffer in the kitchen and eat her out of house and home.  Wouldn't 
matter to mention that she'd fairly demanded I accept the invitation.  
Good old mom!
	
I made the cleaning up take forever.  I even took out the garbage.  
There was enough light left I mowed the lawn.  Then I came in and took 
a shower.  I suppose they could bark about the expense of the hot 
water, but otherwise I'd come prepared with my own soaps and linen.  I 
scoured the bathroom when I was done.  That left about an hour of 
quiet t.v. time in the livingroom.  Midway through, Ginny got up and 
went to her room to sleep or weep or read or play with herself.  And 
then, as though they were both controlled by the same remote, mom and 
dad stood up in unison, singing a chorus of goodnights.
	
I asked mom if I would need to put sheets on my old bed, and she just 
stopped with an immensely puzzled look.  "But that's my sewing room 
now."
	
"Well sure, but there's a daybed in there still."
	
"But, but, but . . . "
	
"But what?!  Like you'll need it to collapse on after a frantic bit of 
midnight stitching?  Oh never mind.  The couch is fine.  I have a 
sleeping bag in my car, and yes it is freshly laundered."
	
Good old mom!
	
I was just too grateful that the night was ending without my having to 
_do something_.  I figured I'd wait to be standing up from the 
breakfast table and on my way out.  I'd pass Ginny a quick comment to 
_shape-up and ship-out_.  Give her a sideways buck-up brotherly half 
hug.
	
The night was an hour or two--or likely three--too early for me to fall 
asleep.  The t.v. was already on and I was already on the sofa.  I guess 
I had my sad date for the evening.  I clicked around and found a movie 
I'd heard about and never seen and never quite admitted to wanting to 
rent.  The promise was an untaxing premise and enough moments of 
porn, just soft enough not to get killed by the rating.  You don't get to 
see her pussy, but better is watching her unpeel her ass.  Her 
character, I'd always heard, took her panties off in a restaurant to 
prove some sort of point.  The movie was just setting aside all the 
establishing shots, the breathy pauses to make the plot plausible, when 
Ginny pushed back into the room.  With gestures alone I got her to 
swing the door flat, the better to keep the t.v. noise from reaching mom 
and dad.
	
Ginny not only swung the door back, she made sure it latched, and then 
I thought I caught her turning the little knob of the lock.  It was just 
as well.  The folks would have thrown a fit if they'd seen her prancing 
around in the sleepwear she had on.  I'm mean, I'm all for dressing 
sexy when there's a point.  But I've never understood this impulse some 
women don't outgrow from their nights of pubescent slumber parties of 
donning the skimpiest pair of panties they own and then covering up 
with a cutesy t-shirt that won't stay below their hips unless they hold 
it there.  It's like being a kid and going to visit your mean old maiden 
aunt.  She'll have candy setting out on a sidetable in a clear glass dish, 
but there's no point in drooling because you know she won't give you 
even a taste.  I wanted to say, "Hey Ginny, I'm your brother, not your 
girlfriend's brother, so go put some clothes on."  Instead I snapped, 
"Hey Ginny, I wanted to watch t.v., not you."  She'd been talking even 
if I hadn't been listening.  So it was a fairly embarrassing moment when 
she suddenly went quiet and stepped out of the way, turning to take a 
look at what was on.  At that very instant, the camera cut to a bedroom 
scene in mid-progress.  Some very nice flashes of flesh.  The livingroom 
was silent but for the false gutturals of scripted passion.
	
"Gee," she turned back to me with eyes all a-rolling.  "Sorry to have 
broken your concentration," Ginny grinned.
	
I just laughed.  It was good to get a glimpse of the Ginny I 
remembered.  She plopped down beside me on the sofa, groaning, "God, 
I've seen this.  It's such a trashy movie, but the sexy parts are pretty, 
um . . . "
	
"They'll singe your eyelashes if you stare too hard?"
	
"_Hot_, that's right," she giggled, "very hot."
	
Unfortunately she started back in with moaning about her life.  I really 
didn't want to listen to it, and did a fairly good job of it at first.  But 
after awhile it was a fly in my ear.  There was some weird mixture of a 
lament about the man's high tastes and business acumen that just made 
me bark back, "Yea, what?  The guy owns a burger franchise and 
dumped you for some teenage Fry Queen in a dumpy brown polyester 
uniform."  I didn't want to hear anymore. 
	
Ginny tried to defend him, saying something about how generous a man 
Darren was.  I couldn't stop my mouth.
	
"Oh yeah, right.  You think I don't remember the time he took us all 
out for dinner?  _His treat_, he boasted, at the _best place in town!_  
He tools us around town forever, and then we wind up at his own 
fucking _drive-thru!!_  I'll never forget that magnanimous gesturing he 
did at the menu board as he admonished us that _price was no object_."
	
"And _you_," Ginny sputtered, "ordered 2000 fish filet sandwiches.  
'Boy, you must really _like_ fish.'"
	
"'No, I hate fish.  I just want to do my bit to kill them all off as soon 
as possible.'"
	
"And then you asked if you could have a side of _blown speaker_ with 
that."
	
"Oh yes indeed, I was surely visited that evening by the inspiration of 
insanity."
	
I noticed that with each new bit of my babble, her expression 
underwent a subtle change.  The extended effect was making her _soft 
about the eyes_.  It was very flattering.  My former brother-in-law was 
a certified fool.
	
"Well," she sighed, "I guess I just wasn't young and pretty enough for 
Darren."
	
"Yea, Ginny, you just don't have that lovely fryer inspired acne that all 
men find so extremely attractive."
	
"But . . . I understand that she's . . . much more developed than I am."
	
"Oh please, come on Ginny.  In the upstairs department you are _just 
right_.  I mean, if you want to start feasting on fast food for every 
meal, than you too could get that hips-inflated-with-grease look."
	
"It sounds like you've seen her."
	
"Listen," I admitted, "I've been a visitor to the love nest a few times.  
At first it was to appear impartial, though anymore I've begun to 
question whether appearing polite is indeed a virtue.  I always thought 
Darren was a decent enough sort.  Hell, you married him.  And generally 
your taste is pretty good.  But I walked away from that first gathering 
thinking instead that he'd just been masquerading as, well, not a full-
fledged winner but definitely a notch or two above total loser.  I mean, 
I accept an invitation for dinner and cocktails.  And it's _Oh go in the 
kitchen and grab what you want_.  'You know us.  We live in the land 
of plenitude.  Just sort of graze at will.'  I was terribly afraid of chips 
& dips.  Which just proves how stupid I am.  Set atop the electric 
warming tray--a _nice_ touch I grant you--are two tall white paper 
bags emblazoned with _the_ logo.  As if the heat could penetrate the 
bulk.  Pulled by a motor not my own, I glide across the kitchen like I'm 
on the Staten Island Ferry approaching the twin towers of the World 
Trade Center.  One bag is soaked through with little squares of grease 
that do look just like rows of tiny windows.  _That'll be the fries_ I 
guessed correctly.  Some of the burgers in the other bag actually had 
wax paper wrappings, which--as you well know--is economically not a 
good sign.  One might think there were no dinner options.  But me, 
already I'm thinking . . . I'm thinking _I hate this crap!_  Well, I'm 
hungry and apparently facing my dinner.  So I'm considering.  
Obviously the stuff is overcalculations of the lunch rush.  But the sheer 
volume suggests he's been collecting the feast for days.  My reckoning 
is that the possibly warm food at the bottom of the bags will likely be 
the oldest.  My suspicions are that Darren never bothered with 
refrigeration.  I plucked a fry from the top of the lot.  It was long and 
brown and drying in from the corners.  I held it between my fingers.  
It was a worm half-gone and plucked from the sidewalk in the bright 
hot sun after a brief rain, then immediately pickled in grease.  And . . . 
and . . . and oh my god.  _I ate it!_  My appetite was cured real quick.  
I turned back to the livingroom for cocktails.  There I was invited to 
help myself at the bar.  That translated into the coffee table, upon 
which sat a half drained half-gallon of Scotch and an ostensibly clean 
cartoon jelly jar.  I know nothing about that liquor.  I hate it.  I drank 
some once out of desperation.  Make that twice now.  In all my life I've 
met just two people who admitted to liking the stuff.  And the brands 
they drank definitely didn't come in huge handled bottles you recycle 
with your milk jugs.  Darren explained how he'd read somewhere that 
the old cartoon jelly glasses from our childhoods were worth a nice 
enough bit of coin these days.  So he'd gone over to his mom's and 
ransacked her cabinets.  He'd found around thirty of them--several 
complete sets and a rarity or two among the collection--and the 
collective value was enough I forget, but enough to make you sit up in 
your seat and go, 'Oh yea?'  After telling me all this, Darren found 
himself with a long buildup ending with his former fry girl piping in, 
'And we're using the last three that haven't gotten broken.  What a 
special occasion!'  I thought he was going to hit her, but then he 
relaxed and burst into a sheen.  Darren turned to face me directly, 
declaring--and I quote--'Yea, Sheryl sure is stupid as shit.  But ain't 
she got great hooters?!'  _Hooters_? I thought.  _No way!_  But then I 
was stopped by the one woman in all the world who would react to such 
a compliment by arching her back with a wide smile and pulling up her 
shirt.  And there they stood in all their alleged glory.  Hooters they 
were."

"She didn't have a bra on?" Ginny nearly wailed.
	
"No.  And in engineering terms, she didn't need the support."
	
"She has huge boobs that don't sag?" Ginny's voice quivered.
	
"They've only been around a few years to suffer from the gravity on 
this planet.  Give 'em time.  She'll be able to do tricks with them.  Flip 
them over her shoulder like a tie.  Bonk herself in the head with them.  
I mean, even in this, their first full bloom, they were not attractive.  I 
mean, if it's a matter of having big smarts or big tits, what's the best 
choice?  I mean normally I'd say you're double up on her.  She's got 
huge ugly hooters and a vacancy sign between her ears.  Whereas you 
seem to have pretty breasts but I'm not so sure about the rest.  With 
all this lamenting you've been doing I'd have to say you've joined her 
in the Dumb Club."
	
"Really?  You think I have pretty breasts?" she asked wide-eyed.
	
"Well, I mean, I haven't seen you without a shirt on since before you 
had breasts, but with a shirt on, my guess is that yea, you seem to 
have very nice breasts.  Like I said, _just right_."
	
I hadn't meant anything like that at all.  I was advised in advance by 
the way she shyly lowered her gaze but without ever breaking actual 
eye contact.  When Ginny gently bit her lower lip, I wasn't at all 
surprised by the way she dropped her hands in her lap in hesitation, 
then from there lifted the hem of her t-shirt up, peeling toward the 
ceiling, revealing first her panties, then the soft curve of her tummy on 
up to her lower ribs, then over the full glory of her breasts.
	
The sight stunned me.  They were perfectly glorious.  More is no 
definition of better, but even so hers were nicely sized.  As her shirt 
had hinted, she did have the sexiest nipples I'd ever seen.  Round and 
pinkly brown, the whole half-dollar defined poking out like fingertips in 
the middle.  Just begging to be sucked, in the vernacular.  Made to 
lightly rub between your fingers like lucky pebbles.  You make your 
wish for magic to happen, and no doubt it will.
	
Ginny shifted towards me on the sofa, then swung a leg over mine.  She 
ended up both legs tucked in at the knees, facing me, her bottom 
seated on my legs just above the knees.  It was a very playful position 
and there was a very playful look on her face.  Her shirt stayed rolled 
up on its own as her hands slid back down to her breasts.  She smiled 
almost nervously, caressing herself.  "Do you like?" she slyly asked.
	
"Well," I stalled for a reply, "I mean, tits are great and all.  But I've 
never been obsessively what's known as a breast-man.  Though, I, um, 
I'm starting to feel otherwise extremely persuaded."
	
Her smile broadened.  She reached for my hands, drawing them up and 
holding them against her breasts.  "_Feeling_ even more persuaded 
now?"
	
No doubt!
	
"At least these are the real things," she said with a sultry air of pride.  
"Hers must be implants!"
	
"Well, no."
	
"How do you know?  Did he brag on it?"
	
"Come to think of it, he did say something about her being an _all-
natural corn-fed heifer_.  I was mystified by the simile.  But now I can 
see it as an udder pun.  But no, what I mean is the nice long look I 
was given was enough to see to know.  The pump jobs, all you need is 
a good glance to, uh, uh," I stammered then recovered.  Leaning over 
with a conspiratorial wink, I lowered my voice in tone and timbre.  
"This is, you realize, _classified information_.  _They_ can never get the 
nipples in the right place.  They wind up looking like superboobs drawn 
by little boys.  You know, the old tits-bigger-than-the-head syndrome.  
Come time to dot-the-i's it turns into a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-
donkey.  To serve you up a big plateful of scrambled metaphors."
	
"May I ask one question:  how do you know all this?"
	
I paused, then roared with laughter.  "I hadn't even thought of _that_ 
angle.  Ginny," I was nearly weeping, "what can I say?  It's a guy 
thing.  Yes Ginny, meet your brother Don Juan.  The pheromones just 
blow from me in hurricanes.  I can't go out and walk a block without a 
score of busty women falling to their knees and popping themselves out 
of their tops for my viewing pleasure and implicit judgment.  It's a 
rough job, but somebody's gotta do it."
	
"Oh stop it," she kept trying to stop laughing.
	
"As for the subject of adolescence-straddling boys misplacing the 
nipples on their drawings of tits," I half-raised my hand, "I must 
confess to an unspecified number of breasts mutated by my own 
mishandlings."
	
"What is this thing with boys and breasts anyway?  Please explain to me 
the male perspective."
	
"_Why_ is it even listed as a mystery?  Even bottle bred, you still 
crave those sweet titties.  For most _girls_ it's no big thing.  You guys 
get to _grow your own!_"
	
"Yea, but boys get the penises."
	
"Yea but," I paused for the effect, melting my voice a sexy soothing 
smooth, "girls get clitorises.  You ever want to swap, you just let me 
know."
	
Her hands left mine stranded on her breasts while she reached up and 
finished pulling the shirt over her head.  Ginny shook out her hair, 
"What do you mean?" her breasts jiggling in my cupped hands.  "By the 
way, you make a _wonderful_ bra."  Her eyes shone with a thought I 
couldn't quite read.  "You mean like answer how, where, when and 
why?"
	
"Y-yes," I stumbled.
	
"How about we meet half-way.  Right here, right now.  And why not?"  
Ginny traced her index fingers down along the elastic curves where her 
panties swooped from thigh to crotch.  She shifted the fabric slowly 
back and forth across the flushy fronds swaying underneath.
	
I am no Don Juan, but I've had my relationships and briefer encounters.  
I was very aware that this vixen perched in my lap was my sister.  But 
I am no fool.  I had to quit worrying about that when she pulled the 
fabric aside, showing me the lushest cunt I'd ever seen.
	
"If you covet my clit so much, maybe you should lay claim to it."
	
How could I answer anything but _yes yes yes!_?  I slid a set of 
fingers down and touched it, touched all of her, my fingers swimming in 
her sauce.
	
Ginny leaned and toppled me over.  My feet were still sort of on the 
floor, but most the rest of me was back down on the couch.  My head 
was encased in breasts, so I didn't mind much.  I was slurping away, 
paying oral homage to perfection.  Ginny lifted herself off me and then 
raised up on her haunches.  The same index fingers started again at 
the same juncture, but this time she drew her panties down off her 
hips, spreading them wide to mid-thigh.  Then she sort of rolled back 
and sent her legs flying, drawing her panties up high over her knees.  
The most beautiful sight in the world was framed a few feet from my 
face.  Ginny started making some coy remark, but I caught her in mid-
sentence.  I flew up and tumped her back down on the cushions.  She 
shrieked as she went, then squealed as she knew what I was doing.  
Her ankles were still high in the sky like bound wings, twisted up in 
the shimmery stretched slip of lace.  I dove down between her thighs, 
my hands parting the way.
	
I sucked on her clit and lapped up the juices several times.  I was 
content to spend the rest of my life kissing on my sister's pussy.  
Eventually Ginny grabbed me and hauled me up, covering my face with 
ferocious kisses.  "The way you make me taste," she murmured, dipping 
a finger down and returning it for us to lick like a shared popsicle.  
Except the treat was not at all cold.
	
Everybody's heard the tales of people in impassioned moments gaining 
superhuman strength.  Usually the stories involve mothers lifting cars 
off their children.  My t-shirt lifted right off over my head.  Then 
Ginny's hands dove down to my waist.  There was a pair of long 
tremendous _rips_, and then suddenly my cutoff jeans _and_ jockey 
shorts were just _gone_.  Tossed aside in ruins, I expected.
	
"That wasn't very nice," I murmured.
	
Ginny grinned.  "Come here!  I'll show you _very nice_."  Her hands 
dropped down over my hips, diving down for a firm double grip on my 
_very nice_.  "How do you do?" she shook my cock, "so _very nice_ to 
meet you."  She started rubbing the head of me in slow lazy tours of 
the plushness of her wet folds.  I thought I would go mad!  "Mmm, big 
mister penis, I'd love to put you in my mouth, but I believe we have 
more _pressing_ business at the moment."  And at that moment she put 
the pressing into business, stabbing my swollen head between her 
swollen lips.  "Very _very_ very nice," she whispered, her boast gone 
to a whisper.  She aided me another inch until I gently reached down 
and grabbed her wrists, guiding her arms up over her head.  I floated 
my mouth down over hers while sliding myself so slowly all the way up 
inside her.  Her mouth kept moaning ever louder until just as I hit 
home she went all rigid and silent for a second or two.  Then Ginny's 
whole body crashed into an ocean of shudders, roaring ripples playing 
out to her very fingertips.  A thousand fingertips were dancing all up 
and down my cock while my nose filled with a fresh wave of her smell.  
The range of her guttural groans and shrieks was nearly enough to set 
me off.
	
"Mmm," I nuzzled, "you're _easy_."
	
"No," she gasped, "_you're_ amazing."
	
I slowly started that old familiar motion, almost an imitation of it.  Snug 
inside her, I barely moved my cock at all at first.  Ginny had her legs 
crossed and clamped so tightly, locking me against her, I could barely 
move my cock anyway.  Somehow I managed to gain a few inches leeway, 
back and forth, in and then even deeper.  Ginny went rocking beneath 
me, grinding against me, her fingernails digging furrows all up and 
down my back.  I'd hardly settled on any rhythm of to-ing and fro-ing 
when she detonated again, squeezing me still as she soared over the 
crest.  I was so close I was scared to move, but then again I was so 
close I really wanted to extricated myself for a breather from that 
ultra-friendly environment down there.  Her vaginal muscles were trying 
to suck the spunk right out of me.  Moments before I would've had to 
give up hope and just blow, Ginny's entire body went completely slack.  
There was still some breath to her, so I knew she wasn't dead, but I 
thought she'd gone into some sort of faint or something.  Which maybe 
she did.  Then her eyelids fluttered open, revealing a pair of pretty 
balls of lust staring deep into mine.  She released me from the scissors 
lock, moving her hands down to a firm grip on my ass while her legs 
spread wide, wide, wide.
	
"Oh _sweet_ baby," she whimpered, "give me the fucking I've always 
needed.  Give me the fucking I _deserve_."
	
"I thought that's what I _was_ doing," I nibbled the words in her ear, 
"I guess I'll just have to try harder."  The words were magic music to 
Ginny's ear.  Or, that was my guess at the meaning of the throaty noise 
she answered.  I pulled myself nearly all the way out of her, which 
seemed to draw the breath right out of her.  I pretended to start 
toying around with the petals of her entrance, then quickly sank all the 
way back in, giving Ginny a sharp intake of air.
	
For trying all the more harder, there was nothing easier to do.  Ginny 
seemed to be an orgasm machine set on auto-pilot.  The hardest part 
was keeping both sets of my toes this side of the line for at least a 
little while longer.
	
Never in my life had I experienced a woman who got this so absolutely 
sopping wet.  I was slathered in her cream.  There was a brief moment 
when I wondered, considering the sofa, whether we wouldn't be wiser to 
have a couple towels tucked under us.  But then I remembered we could 
just flip the cushion.  Experience had taught me a long taut lesson:  
the folks never bothered to, say, flip all the sofa cushions.  The only 
problem would be if this particular cushion was the one that bore the 
huge purple bloom of some Rorschach flower.  That would be the never 
detected full glass of grape juice I managed to tump into my lap when I 
was ten, immediately after having been reminded about the admonishment 
against food and drink in the livingroom, specifically when seated on 
the good sofa.  I trilled to the thrill.  Good old mom and dad.  After all 
these years it was still the same old goddamn sofa.  I could hardly have 
any sympathy.  The thought that all my loins were smothered in my 
sister's flow just sent me going like crazy.  I wanted to smear the 
evidence of our sex all over the world, to linger forever.  I went 
pumping in and out like a wild man, my hands grabbing and squeezing 
every curve of flesh Ginny had while I nibbled and nipped her ears and 
neck and shoulders.  We were a pair of gasps and pants and moans and 
screams.  I felt like we'd been doing nothing but fucking on this sofa 
for years.  I didn't think I could take anymore.  I was trying to hold 
off for a little while longer.  Ginny seemed to sense this.
	
"Come on, baby," she purred, reaching under to massage my balls, "give 
me all of that big hot load you've been saving up special just for me.  
Absolutely _just right_."
	
I could feel my cock swell so large as I went blasting off.  I watched 
Ginny's eyes do exactly the same.  Hours later, we landed back on the 
sofa.  Briefly we considered the late hour and our separate beds.  But 
then we joined again long and slow and soft.  We considered further 
escapes from the sofa, but always they failed.  The light of dawn was 
soft and pink when we finally dragged apart.
	
Of course I was hailed as nearly a hero by all around.  I had worked 
some sort of amazing magic.  Not only was Ginny almost overnight 
recovered from her divorce, it was like she didn't even remember being 
married.  Within days she'd found a lovely apartment.  After a few 
weeks she'd settled into a lucrative and satisfying career.  Through 
work she met this really nice guy, Franklin; the wedding bells rang by 
the end of the year.  The ensuing half dozen years saw the arrival of 
their three adorable kids.  My life has been roughly parallel.  My wife 
Mona and our two boys.  Our families are rather close.  Our houses are 
barely ten minutes apart, and that's if you make the walk really slowly.  
All our friends and acquaintances are almost jealous of the closeness 
between me and Ginny.  Even the best sibling friendships seem to be 
constricted or clouded by some old baggage.  We're always calling and 
chatting or dropping by, and our families get together many times a 
month.  As well, about once a week--and everyone agrees that it's so 
sweet--Ginny and I usually arrange some special outing for just the two 
of us.  Go for a hike in the country, ride bikes through the park, a 
schmaltzy double-feature at the last drive-in in town.
	
One guess what the two of us really do.

=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome.  losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name:
LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM



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