This is a work of fiction. All characters are over the age of 18.
Special thanks to a terrific editor, neuroparenthetical.
Yes, I'm getting old. I've learned a lot in my 60-plus years; I've probably forgotten most of it, but there is one thing I know: sometimes a late lunch is best.
I was in college in 1980, and it was a different world back then. Personal computers were a new thing, there was no internet, and social media was an atrocity not yet born, so people still talked to each other. There was a snack bar in the University bookshop, and people would go there for a light lunch and conversation with friends.
1980 was a big year for our family. I was in my senior year at college, and I already had job prospects lined up. My older brother, Tim, had recently passed the bar exam and had hung out his shingle as an attorney-at-law. My younger sister, Cindy, had had her own interesting development: she'd left her husband.
At 18 years of age, Cindy had gotten married to an older guy whom I hadn't really liked. He'd been a divorced biker, and what she'd seen in him, I'd never understood. My best theory had been that he'd just had a really big dick. Eventually she'd seen it my way, though, and I couldn't have been happier. With the divorce pending, she'd needed a place to stay temporarily, and since I'd had a spare bedroom in my apartment, I'd extended an invitation.
Unfortunately, once she'd accepted, I'd realized that I hadn't really thought the whole thing through. It was nice to have someone to share the expenses, but living with one's sister did have a downside. I wasn't comfortable bringing dates home, and I had to be quiet when I was having "personal time." To make matters worse, Cindy was a very attractive young woman, and I wasn't
that
much older than her. She had nice tits, and her ass was that perfect shape that I regularly fantasized about, and was always excited to see in a 'self help' magazine. I couldn't help but lust after her, especially since she preferred to do housecleaning in just a t-shirt and panties. On more than one occasion, I had to excuse myself, go to my room, and rub one out.
There's only one way to describe how I felt about masturbation: I loved it. There was just something about the pure selfishness of it that turned me on. It was just me, doing me, for me. I had no angst about my performance and no worries about comparison to former lovers, and I certainly didn't have to worry about getting my fist pregnant. Don't get me wrong; I loved sex, too, but it's like comparing Saturday night to grape soda: two different things, both good.
School days usually started with a jerk off session in the shower. I always locked the bathroom door, but the way Cindy looked at me some mornings, I think she knew what I was up to. It wasn't long before I found out for sure. She had known -
did
know -- and liked knowing.
My course load was light, which meant I could hold a part time job in the University bookstore. I didn't mind the job. It wasn't difficult, mentally or physically. There was also one big perk: college girls. People were less uptight then, and the girls didn't mind being ogled. Well, okay, some did, but the ones who didn't mind really flaunted it: little white terrycloth shorts; tight t-shirts worn without bras; cutoff shorts that showed the little curve where leg becomes ass; petite little coeds with big tits, proudly displaying what the good Lord provided. There were times I had to stay behind the counter due to a "large problem."
The lunch counter was adjacent to my register at a ninety-degree angle. From my vantage point, I could watch all the students making purchases there. The girls at my counter were facing me, so although I got a good view of their upstairs, I didn't have the best view of their bottom half. Now, the other counter was a different story. Those girls were facing the other way, and I stared. I love a good early-twenties ass. I'd fantasize about pulling those shorts off and making love to what was underneath. I picked out the sexiest ass and daydreamed about bending its owner over and exploring her holes with my tongue - hence that problem I mentioned.
Back in the days before the internet, porn was either in glossy magazines or rented from video stores. Although those rental places existed in town, I didn't have a tape player, so instead I'd accrued a sizable pile of porn magazines. There was no actual sex, or anything entering anyone. I only recall one pictorial with a guy in it, and he was wearing black briefs. I remember that he was exploring his partner's vagina, and it was extremely edgy for the stuff I usually looked at. I just really love the naked female body - and especially their asses.
Necessity being the mother invention, it eventually occurred to me that I should be scheduling my "private time" during the day, when Cindy was still at work. With all the visual stimulation I was getting during my shifts, it made sense to me to take a "late lunch" and go home to my apartment. There, I'd open up a half dozen porn magazines to some of my favorite pictures, strip down to nothing, sit on the edge of my bed, and jerk off.
I'd have porn in front of me and images of college girls in my head. I'd use my right hand to stroke my cock while I used my left to turn pages. When I'd come, I'd catch my jizz in my hand and then go to the bathroom to wash it down the drain. Then I'd get dressed and return my porn mags to their secret hiding place in the closet.
I think it must have been about a month after Cindy had moved in with me; the display of shorts and t-shirts at the bookstore had gotten me really worked up, and so I decided that it was a "late lunch" day for sure. As soon as I got home, I quickly stripped. Even the socks came off; I liked being one hundred percent naked. I got out my stack of one-handed reading material and spread eight or ten magazines across my bed. My right hand got busy immediately, stroking my shaft and rubbing the head. I spent extra time caressing the sensitive area on the underside, right at the tip.
When I wasn't turning pages, I was cupping my scrotum and fondling my balls. I kept looking at the naked girls, feeling the tightness in my crotch increase. I found the pictures that showed the best pussies, the best asses, and the best tits. I jerked my cock while gazing at those sexy women, and quickly came, shooting my load into my waiting hand.
That's when I would usually just go to the bathroom to clean up, but that particular day, for some reason, I decided it would be a good idea to throw a blanket over the magazines. I guess it was just in case Cindy came home, even though I couldn't recall her ever having left work early - or, at least, not having done so and come back to the apartment. Still, I was fairly paranoid. I didn't want her to see my pornography. I then went to the bathroom, got cleaned up and dressed, and left for the bookstore.
Yeah -- I forgot to put away the porn.
I was dating a girl from school off and on, and we had a date that night. I don't recall what we did or where we went, but I spent the night at her place. Obviously, it wasn't memorable sex, since I don't remember it.
The next day, I stopped by the apartment on my way to class. I went into my bedroom and found a nice, neat stack of dirty magazines on the floor at the foot of the bed. It took me a minute to register what had happened: Cindy had found my porn!
That was not good. My little sister had found my jerk off material, and it had been spread out on my bed. I was so incredibly embarrassed. In my mind, it was almost as bad as having been caught in the very act. She knew. She knew I liked looking at naked women while I masturbated. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die.
I thought about my options, which weren't many
: I can say they're a friend's - the lady downstairs, maybe? Okay, no, that's bullshit. I could pretend it didn't happen, I suppose. If she asks, I can stonewall. But what if...?
I felt a brief surge of hope, then. I considered the possibility that my sister wouldn't be all that grossed out, and wouldn't out me to everyone as a huge pervert. I wondered if getting out in front of the situation and just talking to her might help nudge her in that general direction.
That became the plan, if you could even call it that: I would try to be rational about the whole situation. I went to class, but I didn't learn much. I was worried all day about how badly I had embarrassed myself with my sister. I skipped lunch. I had lost my appetite, for both food and my usual afternoon activities.
I was home before Cindy that evening. Before she got there, I was pacing the floor. My palms were sweaty. I was scared of what she might say. I didn't want her to think ill of me.
Then I heard the door open. I was at the kitchen sink. Cindy came in, almost skipping. She bounced up next to me and stood close beside me, grinning from ear to ear. There was no doubt she wanted to talk about something, and I was sure I knew what.
"Hi there" I said, trying to be nonchalant. "What's up?"
"I found something last night."
"You did?! What was it you found?"
"Well," she said, drawing out the big reveal, "I found a group of lovely young ladies who seem to have misplaced all their clothing!"
I felt my face turn bright red. Cindy noticed, of course, and quickly put her hand on my arm. "I'm sorry, I'm just teasing. Don't be embarrassed!"
I leaned against the counter, arms folded, and stood there silently.
