Literotica 2017 Summer Lovin' Contest entry.
Votes would be especially welcomed by all authors competing as it takes so many just to be eligible, much less win.
All on-screen sexual encounters in the following (when they finally do occur) are between consenting adults over the age of eighteen.
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As difficult as it might be to believe, I didn't actually care all that much for summer when I was a kid in a tiny little West Texas town in the '70s. That sounds crazy, even to me. What kid doesn't love being out of school for three months?
I suffered my first heat stroke when I was just seven and I guess once you have one you are more susceptible. At least that's what old Doc Barker told my folks when he gave them the instructions that would ruin my life after stitching up the back of my head.
I might have been some kind of normal before that, but I don't really remember. When I was born, it dropped the average age for that three block radius to fifty-something, so there weren't any kids to play with before I started to school and I only had two years to make an impression before I became the weird kid.
The nine months school was in session were bad enough even once I had fought my way back from Special Ed. And, God, what a foul thing that was to do to me. I didn't have an obvious physical handicap and I didn't really have a mental one either. I just had a new short term memory problem that made it difficult for me to retain things in class. Oh, and I couldn't get out in the heat, of course.
Once I learned a few tricks to overcome my memory issue, I enlisted Mom's help to get me back into the regular mainstream classes. Maybe I shouldn't have fought so hard. We weren't as politically correct back then and I wore the label "retard" for a long time, even though my grades quickly outstripped most of my classmates. However, while my forty-two age mates were allowed to run amok on the playground at recess and the more scripted PE class, I was sent to the library, which was both good and bad. Good because it allowed me to get even further ahead in class. Bad because it just further enhanced my reputation as the odd child out.
During the three long dreary months of summer, I was sent to the purgatory of solitary confinement.
My age mates were too busy running and playing from sun up to sun down to give much thought to the weird kid. A mixed blessing at best. I wasn't picked on for three months, but only because I didn't see anyone except family for those three months.
My parents had to work, of course. Mom was a lawyer and Dad was an accountant. Frankly, though, I was fine with them being mostly gone. Mom could be all right when it was just her, but when Dad was home it was almost worse than being alone. Almost.
Jan, my bitch of a sister, was supposed to hang around and keep an eye on me, but she usually ran off for hours at a time, sometimes the whole day, to "hang out with her friends." I don't know that Jan really had all that many friends. I mean, if she really did, how come they never came by the house where I could see them? I figure she was just trying to escape the house where she had to wear sweaters and mittens, even in July. Of course, if she'd eaten like a normal person and weighed more than seventy pounds, she probably wouldn't have been so cold all the time.
I was left alone with nothing but my books, the television with three channels to choose from (four if you counted PBS, which I didn't except as a last resort), and the pantry for company. For three long boring months, I wasn't allowed to so much as go out in the backyard for more than a few minutes at a time since I was supposed to immediately go back in and cool off if I started to sweat. It was summer in West Texas for crying out loud! It was usually in the high nineties in the shade! I would sweat just stepping out the back door to change out one of the jars of tea brewing in the sun.
Every September when school started back, all the other kids bonded even tighter over all the fun things they had done over the summer.
I'd read a few cool books in between covering the textbooks Mom had managed to get ahold of early for me. I'd watched a few cool television shows and a lot of lame ones. I'd learned how to make some pretty cool stuff in the kitchen and learned quite a few mistakes in there I'd never make again.
And then there was the omnipresent joy of having to write "How I Spent My Summer by Little Johnny Fitzgerald" year after year after year after year. It wasn't bad enough I was locked up alone. It wasn't bad enough I had to look around and see just how uncool I was as my classmates chattered about all the fun stuff they had done, usually together. I was forced to write about how pathetic I was, how pathetic my summer had been. And I had to do it in agonizing detail if I wanted to avoid kicking off the scholastic year with a big honking red F.
No. Summer and it's aftermath were absolutely no fun for me at all. Not for a long, long time.
That all changed after I graduated from eighth grade at the age of fourteen.
At some point, someone in our tiny little town had delusions of grandeur and decided we needed a country club. A farm two miles out of town was converted to a golf course. And there were always wild rumors that this was the year they would finally convert that big patch of bare dirt between the house and the building containing the pro shop and big social room to a swimming pool.
My eighth grade year, I'm sure there were the same rumors. I'm sure people were even chattering about it when they actually broke ground that spring. I didn't pay much attention. After all, those rumors had been going around for a decade or more. And it wasn't as if it would have had anything to do with me if they dug a hole in the dirt and filled it with water two miles out in the country.
I couldn't have been more wrong.
--Summer 1983--
My classmates were all off in Plainview or Lubbock celebrating walking across the stage at school and being handed a diploma certifying that we'd completed eighth grade. My family was having our own "celebration" at home which basically consisting of Mom bringing takeout home from Lubbock instead of me having to cook something, although Dad threw his usual fit over the cost of takeout, and then me having a half gallon tub of Neapolitan ice cream all to myself.
"What do you think, John?"
"Huh?" I tore my attention from trying to see around Dad to watch television and looked at Mom with a mouthful of strawberry and vanilla.
Jan was giggling into her mittened hands so hard I contemplated using my spoon as a catapult, but Dad would have been all over me for wasting food.
"Swimming lessons, John," Mom said patiently. "What do you think?"
"For whom?" I asked.
If Jan had laughed any harder, she would have fallen out of her chair. I glowered at her and weighed whether it would be worth Dad's ire to dump just a small spoonful of my ice cream down the back of her sweatshirt.
"Oh, good grief," Mom said. "Thomas, could we turn off the television for five minutes so we can talk about this?"
"Hmm?" Dad said absently, glancing at Mom. "Talk about what, dear?"
"About the swimming lessons," Mom said.
"There is nothing to talk about, Stephanie." Dad scowled at all of us. "You and I discussed it. I said no. We aren't doing it."
