This is a seven chapter saga divided into three stories, due to the overall length.
Chapter 1: Brother Butch's Boner
Growing up on a farm a kid learns all about procreation naturally. Learning about sensuality is a whole other lesson. A farm girl pretty much gets a good look at how things work, after observing several cows and horses pairing off. However, it wasn't until I reached the tender age of eighteen that I observed first hand what arousal was. In my case it was a strong visual combined with a heavy dose of emerging hormones that made it so exciting.
Having three older brothers, it was only a matter of time before I was exposed to the inevitable. I had other siblings – a grand total of seven, but this particular recollection involved Butch. He was four years my senior and in every way a typical farm boy. When he wasn't going to school or working the fields, he was generally nowhere to be found. It seemed as though Mom was always tracking him down in some unexpected hideaway. After so many years of searching, Mom had a fair idea of his favorite haunts.
"Barb, be a sweetie and find your brother. We've got to be at church in a half hour," she asked.
"Sure, but where should I start?"
"Try the quonset or the barn; he's probably in one or t'other," she suggested, as I headed out.
As kids, it was a delightful pastime to sneak up on each other, so I opted to consider it a stealth mission and silently peaked inside the quonset building, but no Butch. Avoiding a few fresh cow pies along the dusty path, I peered into the hay barn. There was still no one to be seen. Letting go a sigh of frustration, I scanned the entire barnyard. That's when I heard the faint sound of grunts and slaps breaking through the light summer breeze. It seemed to be coming from the barn, maybe from the back. I tip toed around the side and the sound grew loader. Turning the corner, I could plainly hear it was Butch's voice coming from inside a corner of the barn. There was just enough of a crease in the old planks to peak through. He had carved out a spot in the bales of hay to make a secret hideaway, big enough for him and his magazine.
"That's it Bitch, suck that hard cock. Yeah, take it all, you slut!" He groaned and barked, as he roughly jacked his fully erect pecker back and forth.
"Holy crap, he's jacking off!" I thought, instantly aware of why it was so defined. I should have been embarrassed by the language, for intruding or felt guilty and turned away at that point. I should have. I didn't.
The initial surprise of witnessing a private moment melted into an appreciation of his technique, then into a fascination. This was the farthest thing from personal abuse; he was in seventh heaven. I couldn't pass up this singular opportunity to observe the entire process.
"Let's see, ‘being late for church' and enduring my mother's wrath or ‘watching my brother climax?'" Weighing the options, I fixated on his rock-hard cock. Being it was Sunday, it really felt like I was committing a delicious sin.
"Oh Baby, you want it so bad," Butch mumbled, as a thin clear film of goop coated the head of his young pole.
Unexpected desires in me started to flow, as I watched and listened to his forceful strokes turn from dry to lubricated. My infatuation was not for him, but clearly focused on his now throbbing dick.
"Show me those big tits, yeah!" He begged, as his strokes slowed to a strong, deliberate pace.
"Who was he looking at in that magazine?" I thought, as my hand found its way inside my cotton blouse to massage my young breast. I was so aroused. I dare not move my legs, for fear I might spring a leak. "Whoever this bimbo is must have huge tits," I guessed and fondled my boob.
My brother grunted, tightened his cock grip and slowly shot two long streams of white jism. I caught my breath, as he jacked out more thick cream from his red hot poker. Silently I fixed my blouse and sneaked back around to the front of the barn.
"BUTCH! Where are you? It's time for church!" I yelled, trying to disguise any anxiety in my voice. "Mom's gonna tan your ass!" I added.
"I… I'm coming Barbie!" I heard from beyond the bales.
"Yeah, I'll bet you are," I whispered to myself, as he emerged from behind the hay bales. I took off back down toward the house, with him following at his normal, safe distance. Of course Mom was livid by then. I shrugged my shoulders, slipped past her and jumped in the car, as Butch got his expected ass-chewing.
The following week I spent planning another secret mission. I had to find my brother's magazine. "What or who could ever bring a guy such pleasure?" I'd glanced at a girlie magazine once, so I had an idea of what to expect. It wasn't until Wednesday of that week that I knew Butch would be working the fields. I dug around in the hay bales until I found his hideout. Prying up several bales, I found his stash of Playboys. I assumed the 1963 edition on top was probably his favorite. Thumbing through the pages, I found a centerfold that was worn and frayed.
"Donna Michelle, Playmate of the Year" – there she was. She was blonde and beautiful and naked from head to toe. So, this was the object of his desire – his dream girl. Of course she was cute, sultry and sexy all rolled into one tidy package. According to her profile, she had to be about my age. I couldn't help but do a comparison, from the top on down.
Her clear radiant face was in direct contrast to my pot-marked ruddy complexion. There was no discounting that. Shoulders, arms and chest were next. I unbuttoned my top and bra to compare boobs. Donna had a nice set, perhaps 34", similar to me. However, cupping my hefty round melons, I plainly had her beat. "Butch thinks this slut has big jugs?" I laughed, as I completed a full inventory. My hips were maybe a smidgen wider than hers, but that only served to give my torso a more pronounced curve. Our thighs and legs were virtually identical.
"So, except for my face, I'd beat this chick hands down. Damn, I could be in this stupid magazine," I calculated and mimicked several of her pseudo-sexy poses. "Guys would jack off and shoot their stuff fanaticizing about screwing me! Hmmm, now that would be simply delicious," I dreamed and proudly shoved my chest out. "Right…and my family would disown me. My girl friends would hate me and guys would label me a slut," I rolled my eyes and returned the book to its hidden spot.
My own secret visions of seducing and having sex with a man were formed that week. The fire was lit and I was eager to feed it with every pleasant kind of kindling. I never looked at newcomer, Tom Jones' hip action the same way again. Celebrating my first solo trip to the gynecologist, I talked the doctor into writing my first script for the pill. On my next big shopping spree in the big city I made a point in buying a real mini skirt, not some just-above-the-knee substitute. My days as a virgin were numbered. The only question then was, "Who would be the lucky guy to pop my cherry?"
Chapter 2: Dating & Premature Evacuations
I was an early blooming teen in every respect. By age fourteen my figure had blossomed along with a bad case of acne - kind of a mixed blessing. My bubbly blonde personality and striking figure kept me and my pot marked face from having to check into "Wallflowerville." I had my fair share of boys ask me out, but not many would give me full eye contact and the goodnight kiss was often a haphazard chore.
Dating venues for girls my age meant going to either the local drive-in or to the Lower Creek Grove. The Sycamore Drive-In was a relatively safe spot for necking and petting. The Lower Creek Grove (the "Grove", as everyone called it) bordered on our farm's lower forty (acres) and simply was "not a place where good girls went after dark," Dad warned us. Its proximity to our home place made it an alluring, yet taboo rendezvous. As a young teen, I would take an occasional daylight horse ride and stop in the hidden grove of trees to give Shadow a drink from the creek. It was on one of those rides I noticed a wadded up pair of used panties. Contemplating the sordid story behind them and fearing contamination, I quickly got the hell out of there, never to return.
Going to the movies was more than just "something to do" in a small town. It was a kind of pre-school for young adults. We picked up on and mimicked every nuance of the cultural and sexual revolution, as it was happening. I assumed all the cool girls smoked, dressed in skimpy bikinis, occasionally had a drink and got laid by the likes of Sean Connery, Paul Newman, Steve McQueen or Omar Shariff.
In 1965, teenage boys didn't take a girl to see The Sound of Music. The makeout macho movie that year was Thunderball and I must have sat through most of it four or five times. I say most of it. There were several scenes I missed due to my dates' feeble attempts at copping a feel. Just because a sexy scene with a girl turns the guy on doesn't automatically mean it has the same effect on the girl (in this case, me). By summer's end I had whittled down my number of potential suitors to two, by simply telling most of them, "No thanks, I've already seen Thunderball." This left me with two steady dates.
