Here's a true story. Or is it? Names have been changed for the sake of propriety, but it's pretty damn close to true events. Unless it's not, then names haven't been changed. Alas, I've already gone off on a tangent. Don't let the title throw you, the actual participants are of legal age.
So, let me start off on a downer. My mom passed away last year. Just one moment in a long line of stressful events for my family. Without getting too much into it, my parents were separated and in the process of divorce when it happened. The tension has been pretty bad, especially since my father is such a pain in the ass. He's one of those cranky old curmudgeons that always needs something to complain about, which is part of why my mother left him.
I currently live in a tiny house with three other miserable bachelors. It's cramped--barely enough for two people--and up until now, I've avoided being caught jerking off to Internet porn by only the slimmest of margins. Here comes the real set up: Ever since then, everyone on my dad's side of the family have come out of the woodwork with their sympathy-driven holiday invites and whatnot. They're good folks, but I'm not much of a people person. However, it did create the opportunity for this titillating tale.
Cut to: An unseasonably warm weekend in early Spring. I get a call from Aunt Marlene, who asks if I'm for babysitting duty. She and her husband Bill were planning a cut/paste romantic dinner and their normal sitter couldn't make it.
Meanwhile, their eldest daughter Roxanne would be going out with friends immediately after work to celebrate early her eighteenth birthday coming tomorrow. That means their rambunctious youngest daughter Kerry would need some supervision for the evening. You've already heard enough about me to understand how I would appreciate any opportunity to get out of the house. The chump change they're offering doesn't interest me, but I accept all the same. I hop in my Ford P.O.S. and drive over to their place in record time.
Kerry's a affable kid. She's a total tomboy and more of a geek then me. I get there and we spend the majority of the night eating pizza and playing video games. I can tell she's totally sweet on me, but this story isn't about her. Which is a good thing, because she's way young for this crap and I don't want to get arrested. She could be pretty smokin' in a few years, but I digress.
The grandfather clock downstairs chimes eleven and we're already two hours past her bedtime. I've got no idea how frisky her folks are feeling tonight, so I figure we ought to pack it in before they come home and I lose my cursory twenty bucks. We have one last deathmatch for the road and I drag her reluctantly into bed. Once she's settled, I exit and close the bedroom door, on the back of which is a poster her dream boy, Gary Sinise.
Ah, blissful silence.
The only thing that keeps me from geeking out completely is a delicate constitution. I need to eat real food once in a while, so no living on instant ramen and Mountain Dew. Hours of loud techno music and rhythmic explosions give me a headache. Now that the night's fun was over (or so I thought), I set up my laptop on the dining room table and started pecking away at my latest attempt at erotic literature.
Maybe that's when I started writing this very story. Or did I just
blow your mind?
I'm getting pretty into it. You know that mental place where the words flow unheeded? I was there, man. Sweaty, short of breath, pitching a tent as I write the juicy parts. Mmmmmm, juicy parts... To avoid reaching into my pants while I write, I force myself to break away and go raid Uncle Bill's liquor cabinet. Nothing takes the edge off like a whiskey on the rocks. Even as I mix, I'm thinking about the next lurid sex act.
I was so into it that I didn't hear the clicking from down the hall that meant the front door had been opened. I come back into the dining room and Roxanne is leaning over my chair, peeking at my latest masterpiece-in-progress. My sweet foxy Roxy. Oh yeah, she's the subject of this story.
I remember playing tag with a midget in a pink tutu while all the adults thanked me for keeping the young'uns occupied. Roxanne has filled out nicely since then. She's now a half-head shorter than me, which is pretty impressive considering how tall I am. Thick brown hair almost as dark as mine is matted around her neck and shoulders, greasy from working in a Friday's-like restaurant kitchen followed by a night of dancing with her girlfriends. Dark eyes glitter in the dining room's low light and her pouty lips are turned up at the corners ever so slightly, clearly amused by what I was in the middle of writing. But it's not her expression that catches my eye first.
Roxy still has a bit of baby fat, so she's got some thick curves and waistband bulges that most guys in my neighborhood would be turned off by. Me, I've never been into the skinny lolita types and I think Roxy's full figure is positively bodacious. She's still wearing the tight belly shirt uniform with a generic restaurant name glittering across her double-dees. Her arms are folded on the back of the chair, generous bust hanging over them. There's a sparkle of silver at her throat. Roxy's favorite necklace pendant--a 'male' symbol sold as a promotional item for a certain spy movie spoof--points down into her cleavage like a signpost to paradise.
The old soldier is standing at attention, saluting that sweet land of liberty.
Now I've got two problems. She hasn't yet noticed my embarrassing situation, but she is about to reach the story's climax, no pun intended. I can only prevent one from happening. Taking a chance, I trip over the power cord and pull it out. Like clockwork, my crappy old laptop crashes because I'm too cheap to buy one with a decent battery. The sting of knowing I forgot to save my work and will never be able to rewrite all that as good the second time is tempered by the look of disappointment on her face. Gretzky shoots, Jesus saves!
Roxanne looks up at me and I make a show of trying not to spill my drink. It draws her gaze away from the deep shadows my crotch is casting, or so I hope. Her smirk turns into a sneer. "What are you doing here?" she asks.
Did I forgot to mention that puberty made her kind of a bitch too?
"Sorry, ma'am. That information is on a strict need-to-know basis."
She huffs in mock exasperation and her bosom jiggles impressively. "Um, hello? It's my house."
"Not for much longer. I claim this dining room for Mother Russia!" I punctuate the statement by slamming my drink down on the table, splashing the sharp tonic across it. I resist the urge to see if it smokes on the hardwood like in those old Westerns.
