I still called him "Mikey" even though he was heading for graduate school in the Fall. And he still called me "Peanut" even though I was only two years behind him in college. I was always the tag-along with Mikey and my two brothers when we were kids. Unlike my brothers, Mikey was nice to me, didn't tell me to get lost, didn't tease me about my freckles and red hair, didn't tell me girls couldn't play baseball or go on bike-hikes or light bottle rockets. He taught me juggling, card tricks, how to whistle and spit, even let me teach
him
to skip rope and play jacks. So of course I was in love with him. After he moved to Chicago we saw each other less and less on Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen's less and less frequent holiday visits. He was flying back to Peoria on his way home after helping his buddy move to California "to spend a week with his favorite Aunt," Mom gushed. With both my brothers gone I hoped I might be at least one reason Mikey wanted to visit -- favorite Aunt or not. I had a couple days to plan a strategy to answer to that question:
Phase 1: I told Mom I would fix up Mikey with Sandy, and they could double-date with Nick and me. Mom fell for it: "Perfect. Sandra is so sweet, and you and Nick will finally have a chaperone." For Phase 2-5, I needed to go back to Bergmann's -- immediately -- and hope nobody else had bought the white Bikini with the little red bows (Phase 2). They hadn't! The day after our double date I would tell Mom that we were all going swimming at Upper Peoria Lake, then I'd tell Sandy but not Mom that Nick couldn't make it (Phase 3). That would leave a whole day with Mikey at the lake (Phase 4), with plenty of time at the small, shady, and very private hideaway down the shoreline: Phase 5.
As I triumphantly lay back on the blanket at a successful Phase 5, hands behind my head -- the better to lift my breasts -- Mikey glanced at me quickly, then looked away guiltily. "Oh, God, Carol, I'm sorry, I can't stop staring at them."
"You called me 'Carol!'"
"I'm pretty sure that's your name."
"One you never bothered to use before today, in favor of the far more flattering 'Peanut.'"
"Don't change the subject." Mikey picked up his towel, held it out in my general direction, shook his hands in a good imitation of a seizure -- that or maybe the advanced stages of Parkinsonism. "Can't you see I'm having a medical emergency. If we don't cover those, those--!" He flopped back on the blanket, arms outstretched like one crucified. "Too late, this is definitely cardiac arrest, . . . for the love of God . . . help me. I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."
I sat up. "Not to worry, this happens every time I wear a swimming suit in public, so I'm an expert at CPR. The latest AMA protocol, as you know, recommends only external cardiac massage, not mouth-to-mouth." I gave him a convincing whack on the chest. "First we'll crack your chest, and then--"
Mikey was up in a flash, cured: "This is not funny, I am not laughing. Plus you haven't done a thing for my crisis." He grabbed his towel, and threw it over my . . .
knees
! "There, that's a little better. I'm sorry, Carol, but I couldn't sleep last night thinking about your knees." This was the funny and clever Mikey behind the green eyes who had lifted my little-girl adoration to an adolescent crush -- and now to the beginning of a woman's longing. "They're so beautiful. So round. So firm. And so awe-fully packed. It's why I came to Peoria, hoping I might see your knees, maybe touch them, hold them, caress them, kiss them. Maybe even--"
"You get away from my knees, Mister!" I pulled the towel tightly around my knees, determined to match his melodrama, then leaned over to make sure he could see my other proudful, firm and fully-packed titillations. "I'm gonna' tell Mom if you touch my knees."
"Yeah, well, sorry, that won't work, 'cause your Mom lets me touch her knees whenever I want."
That did it. I could no longer keep a straight face, I burst out laughing: "Now that I would pay to see!"
Mikey picked up one of my feet, slowly and deeply and deliciously kneaded it with both hands. I lay back trying not to sigh. "So you have both a knee
and
a foot fetish?"
"No, no, this does nothing for me. I only do it to weaken your resistance so I can have my way with your knees."
He shifted to my other foot as I doubled my effort not to sigh. "And you're convinced this will do the trick?"
"Positive. The way to a woman's knees is through the soles of her feet."
"I don't remember hearing about this at s-e-x education class or slumber parties. You've had a lot of success with this technique, have you?"
"So far it's only a theory. You're my first test case."
"Ah, science. An experiment."
"Is your resistance starting to weaken yet?"
"Maybe, if putting me to sleep is part of the strategy."
"Anything that gets me time alone with your knees. You being conscious is optional. If all else fails I'll sneak into your bedroom tonight and play with your knees while you sleep."
I focused on that image as Mikey focused an equally thorough massage on the palms of my hands -- first one, then the other, then both, then a slow rubbing down and back each finger -- a penetrating kneading that relaxed my entire body, along with a paradoxical overlay of tingly tension. Simultaneous relaxation and tension, what an interesting combination! I've felt it more than once since this day at the lake, but never with that ringing-in-my-ears intensity of an unheralded discovery. Damn, I thought, this
should
be in s-e-x education classes. One final overlay heightened my breath-taken incitement: the awareness that someone I coveted was observing my usually-private body's response to his touches. As I set sail for nirvana, Mikey brought me back to the real world: "Did you say something?" he wanted to know.
"Huh? Oh, I don't know, did I?"
"Sounded like a sigh."
"Are you sure? Sorry, it was unintentional."
"No apology necessary. Unintentional sighs are my favorite sighs. I completely support your constitutional right to sigh. Feel free to purr or moan or call out my name."
I yawned, stretched, let out a longer, deeper sigh. "Sorry again. I don't mean to be rude." I peeked at Mikey. He was smiling. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Anything, as long as it has to do with knees."
"Well, yeah, knees are included, I guess. Hands, feet, knees -- was this all you got out of your s-e-x education class?"
"It was the last class period, all I could do to stay awake. And Mr. Brooks didn't help with his boring lectures, mostly lists and diagrams, slides of some awful-looking diseases." Mikey was back working on my feet again.
"So you slept through the list of erogenous zones?"
"Ohmigod! I thought he said 'erroneous zones'! That explains everything. This is so embarrassing. All the time I've been barking up the wrong--"
"Feet, hands, knees?"
"Help me, Carol, what am I doing wrong?"
"Ouch! You don't have to take it out on my foot! Check out the landscape, Mikey, touch stuff, I'll let you know if anything feels good. Sometimes erogenous zones are labeled, or have little red flags or red arrows pointing at them, at least they did in my textbook." I pointedly pointed both index fingers at the red bows on my hips, then to the one nestled between my hopeful breasts. "Or in some cases, pretty little red bows?"
"Ohmigod, yes, of course, I see them. They were there all the time, weren't they, as obvious as the cute little nose on your face?"
"Focus, Mikey. You're getting distracted again by non-erogenous zones."
"I will. I can. And thank you for your assistance." I felt a tentative pressure on my left hip. "This do anything for you?"
"I don't think it's the bow itself that's erogenous. Keep trying. I think I'll take a little nap, looks like this may take awhile. Wake me if you come across anything interesting." I feigned a lady-like snore, felt a sudden loosening on the left side of my bikini.
"Ohmigod, it's a real bow, and I've gone and . . . ." There was a tugging at the left side of my bikini, including a definitely pleasant upward tug. "I can't tie this bow, it's too tiny." Next came a tugging on the bow between the cups of my bra. "Interesting. This bow up here doesn't do anything except look cute."
"I guess it would be asking too much of one tiny little bow," I hinted.
