Until recently, I never really understood why Insider Trading is against the law.
Sure, I realize that acting on facts you aren't supposed to have can give you an unfair advantage, but just how much of a benefit it gives you was something I couldn't completely comprehend until fate put me in a situation to find out for myself.
My name is Kevin. I'm your average American male; average height, better than average build, average looks. And no, I don't have a monster-sized schlong that makes women drool with lust after just one glance. As my Granny always said, "Follow your dreams." There are worse mottos to live by.
I've learned how to make the best out of life, as you'll see, so I try to smile a lot, and that brings out my dimples. I've been told, by more than a few women, that my dimples are irresistible.
This whole story started eighteen years ago when Missy O'Bannon moved into the house at the end of my street. Even though I was a scrawny, eight year old kid at the time, I immediately fell in love with her. She was the most beautiful eight year old girl I'd ever seen. She was tall and thin, with long, auburn hair and dark brown eyes. Her eyes turned green when she was mad, which happened frequently when she was around me.
For the first two days after she and her family moved in, I must have ridden my bicycle past her house a hundred times, just hoping to catch another glimpse of her. My Granny also told me, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Yeah, I know, my Granny told me a lot of things. She was a smart woman. I just wish she would have been alive when everything went down hill. Maybe then life wouldn't have been so bleak for so long.
So, the moment the empty moving truck drove away, I screwed up my courage and rode straight to her house to introduce myself.
Missy answered the door to my tentative knock. I'm twenty-six now, and I can still remember what she wore that day; faded denim cut-offs and an old Aerosmith concert t-shirt -- the kind that's white with black three-quarter length sleeves. Her long hair was tied back with a blue ribbon the same color as her shorts. That was the first time I saw her close up. She was even more beautiful than from across the street.
"Who are you?" she snapped. That was the first time I realized her brown eyes turned green when she was angry.
Swallowing the huge ball of fear lodged in my throat that was making it nearly impossible to talk, I finally managed to squeak out, "H-hi, I'm Kevin. I l-live down the street, in the gold house."
"Swell. Now I know which house to burn down. Get lost, creep," she said angrily before slamming the heavy door in my face. That was also the first time I realized that no matter what I said or did, I would always make her angry.
For fifteen long, lonely seconds, I stood there in shock, staring at her door, not knowing exactly what to do. I wanted to knock again, but I was afraid of her (a fear I would never quite lose). So, with a crushed heart, I turned around and started for my bike. That was when the door opened again.
With rising hope, I turned back to the door, but it wasn't Missy; it was her mother. Mrs. O'Bannon who was an older, fuller version of Missy. Missy's mom had the same dark, auburn hair and dark brown eyes, but she wasn't as lean and taught as her daughter. Though they looked similar, they were far from alike. When the X-Files series came out years later, I realized that both Missy and her mother had a striking resemblance to Gillian Anderson.
Where Missy's eyes were dark and foreboding, Mrs. O'Bannon's were bright and friendly. Where Missy's smile was tight and fleeting, Mrs. O'Bannon's was wide and cheerful. Where Missy's hair was long and straight, her mother's hair was shoulder-length and wavy. Where Missy could be rude and irritable at times, Mrs. O'Bannon was always polite and friendly. Yes, Mrs. O'Bannon greatly resembled Missy, but as I was to learn in time, it was in appearance only.
"I'm so sorry about that. Please don't mind Missy. Moving away from her friends has been very tough on her," Mrs. O'Bannon apologized. Over the years I realized that was something Mrs. O'Bannon would frequently do for Missy.
"That's okay. I just, uh, stopped by to, uh, see if you needed any help unpacking," I stammered. Now that I thought Missy hated my guts, I was too embarrassed to tell her mother the real reason I came over.
"Oh, my, what a gentleman you are. We sure could use the help of a big, strong man like you," she said, smiling sincerely. "Does your mother know where you are?"
"My mother died when I was five," I said matter-of-factly. Even to this day, I have a hard time looking people in the eye when I tell them about my mom and how she died, which was in a car crash on her way home from the grocery store. I guess you never really get over losing your mother. Plus the look of pity most people get after hearing about my loss only makes losing my mother harder to bear. "But it's okay, because my dad says she's in heaven watching over me."
"Your dad sounds like a smart man," Mrs. O'Bannon replied. When I finally did look up at her, I couldn't help but see the care and concern etched across her friendly face.
"Yep, he is. He works all the time. But I don't mind so much, because I get to see my Granny a lot," I told her.
"That sounds like fun." Mrs. O'Bannon said pleasantly. When she put her hand on my shoulder to usher me inside, I wished with all my might that Mrs. O'Bannon could be my mom.
* * *
My father works long hours and was constantly away from home on business. Sometimes my Granny would watch me when dad was gone. But, as my Granny got older, she couldn't watch me as often as she used to. That's why, over the next ten years, I spent more and more time at the O'Bannon house. Mrs. O (I started calling her Mrs. O the year after they moved in) had a soft spot for me, the poor little motherless neighbor kid. I was over there every chance I got. Their house became like a second home to me, and Mrs. O willingly became my surrogate mother. Even though Missy sometimes treated me like I was some kind of disease-ridden vermin, Mrs. O was always happy to see me. She greeted me with a kind word when I was down, she tended my many scraped knees and cuts, she played games with me when Missy wouldn't, she gave me a shoulder to cry on, she laughed at all my jokes, she helped me with my homework, and she baked cookies with me every holiday. She was everything a mother should be.
I don't know who was happier that the O'Bannons moved into our neighborhood; me or my dad. The fact that Mrs. O was so willing to befriend me and care for me, which I soaked up like a thirsty sponge, was a great relief to my father. I was really happy about it too. Ever since my mother's death, my dad threw himself into his work to avoid dealing with the painful realities of life. As a result, he was less attentive to me than he should've been, and that, in turn, caused him even greater grief. With Mrs. O around to fill the gap, my dad's guilt was greatly lessened. I didn't blame him, too much. I knew he grieved so deeply for my mother because he never stopped loving her. That's one trait I definitely picked up from him; fierce and lasting loyalty.
As I got older, my relationship with Mrs. O changed from a mother/son type of relationship to that of a special friendship between a favorite aunt and nephew. I only had one or two close friends my age then, but even so, I never opened up to them like I did with Mrs. O. She and I had lots in common, and we would sit and talk for hours. Often our talks centered on one particular subject: Missy. I was so hopelessly infatuated with Missy, and Mrs. O was worried that she wasn't as close to Missy, her only child, as she wanted to be. We both knew, though it was never said out loud, that I was the reason Missy wasn't closer to her mother. It was plain to see, even for a young kid like me, that Missy resented me because I took her mother away from the time she would have been spending with Missy if I weren't around.
Mrs. O joked that we should form a mutual support group: "The Friends of Missy O'Bannon Club; meetings daily after school and on weekends; emergency sessions by appointment."
Of course the relationship between Missy and I evolved as the years rolled by. Our friendship went from older, bossy sister who beats up her younger, pesky brother, to ravishing girl next door who never realizes the boy next door would do anything to maker her love him sort of relationship.
Yes, that's right. I never outgrew my love for Missy. No matter how rudely she treated me and no matter how hard she tried to ignore me, I continued to adore her. Of course, that only angered Missy all the more, but I couldn't help it. I knew back then, hell, even from the first moment I saw her, that Missy was the girl of my dreams.
I spent so many sleepless nights trying to come up with a sure fire plan to make Missy love me as much as I loved her. There had to be a way to open her heart; there just had to be. I desperately sought that sacred knowledge, that inside information, that would make her mine. I knew that if I could only say the right words or do the right thing, Missy would one day return my love.
But I didn't know the right words to say, and I didn't know the right things to do. Not back then anyways. Not for a long time.
Missy grew more beautiful with each passing year. At the same time she started developing and maturing into the stunning woman she would grow up to become, I discovered the joys of voyeurism and masturbation. I spent all my spare time ogling Missy, hoping for a revealing glance at her full breasts and rounded ass. But, no matter how unobtrusive I tried to be, Missy somehow always knew where my gaze was centered.
God, how Missy loved to shake her ass in my face to watch my eyes pop out of me head. Or, as would happen more frequently, she would "accidentally" bend over right in front of me, giving me an awesome view down her shirt, showing me almost all of her generous breasts. I'd be so busy straining to see her elusive nipples that I'd get careless, and of course, she'd catch me gawking. She'd give me her trademark sneer, glance mockingly at my obvious erection, and then snicker loudly, "Pervert."
Every time my cheeks would burn with shame. But I was also left with a massive hard-on that wouldn't go away until I took matters into my own hands, which also happened frequently. I lost count of how many times I had to rush home and stroke myself to a gloriously gushing climax.
One thing (of so many) I never understood about Missy was no matter how mad at me she got each time she caught me ogling her ass or peeking down her blouse, it never stopped her from flaunting her body at me the next time.
Of course, Missy only behaved this way when her mother wasn't looking. In front of Mrs. O, Missy was a perfect angel. But it didn't matter to me; I was too horny and in love with her to care how she treated me, as long as she showed me her magnificent body. She could do whatever she wanted to do to me just as long as she didn't ignore me completely. And Missy knew that, too. She thrived on that. Sometimes, when I look back on those years, I think Missy's only objective in life was to make me as sexually frustrated as she possibly could. If that was truly her aim, she certainly succeeded.
