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