I was raised the youngest of eleven in a small, rural community in the middle of the US of A. As the smallest girl, my chores were to milk the cows, feed the chickens and set the table... all before school. My name is Roberta, though everyone calls me Bobbi. I believed I was brought-up in idyllic times.
As I was growing up, the world was changing and introducing new ideas to our little corner of the state. I have siblings who are twenty years my senior. They rode horses to school and on stormy winter nights, when the small black and white Philco was all static, they huddled around the radio and played cards or charades. We really didn't care about what we were missing. Now with cable TV, cell-phones and computers, the world has become a more intimate, well-connected global village.
Many of my brothers and sisters have moved away, some to other states, one out of the country. My next oldest, Sarah took-off a few years ago. She chased a dream and a man, not catching either one, and left a young son behind. Alex was my nephew and since he was only four years younger than I; we were playmates, schoolmates, and best friends.
He had a white-blonde crew-cut, said "shucks" and "dang" a lot, and was forever adopting stray dogs and cats. My hair grew darker in my teens and puberty turned this skinny tomboy into a rather shapely farmer's daughter.
Through high school and afterwards, I was a good student. I helped my nephew with his French and Algebra, and was a cheerleader and volleyball player, but I knew that after graduation I would stay at home to care after Mama and Papa in their senior years. It was just something the youngest should do. Eventually the house would be mine and I would market small crops and livestock, while centering my life around the church and PTA.
Alex was changing daily. Farm chores and exercise had filed-out his body to a solid two-hundred pounds. He was an All-State half-back and third baseman, and colleges were now flying him in for recruiting visits. He came back each time with wilder tales of hookers and lap-dances. There were envelopes stuffed with cash, new shoes, and promises of cars and grades.
He also changed physically. His muscular chest and arms sported tribal tattoos. His hair was now spiked and dyed. And his language got much cruder and sexually oriented. I was still his aunt closest confidante but we were preparing for a life-altering separation. Neither of us was a virgin; though I had had only two serious boyfriends and as much as he bragged, I think Alex wanted a stay-at-home girl with small town values.
Then things changed for us both. In the course of a year, both of my parents passed away. My last remaining siblings gathered for the funerals, settled the estate, and said their goodbyes. I was left in a big, empty farmhouse with only an electronic connection to my far-flung family, and not much reason to leave home. At twenty-six years of age, I was a virtual spinster without a career, living in an isolated home, three miles from even a hint of civilization.
For Alex, the year was even worse. An orphan who had now lost his grandparents; he would soon be leaving behind his home for a new city, a university and a new social structure. Though he put on a brave face and a happy-go-lucky demeanor; I could see that he was still a scared, little boy underneath. And then came The Play.
In the last game before the State Football Playoffs, he ruptured the discs in his back and developed a series of dangerous blood clots. Tuition offers disappeared and his lack-luster grades confined him to the local community college where he lasted two terms. Jobs as a mechanic and short-order cook followed, but by age 21 he was back on the farm living with me. A disheartening fall back to Earth.
A transition took hold. Still related, but now two adults with hormones and pent-up feelings bubbling to the surface. It started slow but it was all new and portentious to me. Summer days on the farm were hot and dusty with a lot of hard work thrown in. I usually wore cut-off jeans over bare legs and a cropped top or swim suit bra. My long, dark hair, which did not often get to a beauty parlor, laid in thick, sweaty sheets on my shoulders. I wiped my dusty face with the back of my hand and sat in unladylike repose to catch whatever breeze there was. We waited until nightfall to eat supper but at around five, I would clang the bell and serve biscuits and lemonade to Alex, while he took a small break from the heat.
He would trudge up to the enclosed porch and we sat on the swing. He wore denim pants and work boots, both filthy and sweat stained. His tanned chest and back glistened with perspiration and wisps of hay clung to his torso. His hair was again cut short and bleached white from the powerful sun. A bandana crowned his sun-burned face and rivulets of sweat ran down his frame and darkened the waist of his pants.
I sometimes could not avoid noticing the obvious bulge in his pants, outlined by the few dry spots of fabric especially when he stood over me. This image triggered a tortured response in my head. He was my nephew but he could be darned sexy. My own nipples invariably responded to the situation, not helped at all by the wet, clingy material of my top brushing against their straining tips. At these times, I needed to cover my ample bossum with my hands or excuse myself to run inside and change clothes. Alex had grown used to us living in close, semi-private quarters; but he still chuckled deeply and lewdly commented on my anatomy.
