Back in the early years of the Nixon administration, sometime between Woodstock and Watergate, I hung with a group of horny, socially awkward guys whose social skills with females were less than stellar. There was Chip Harris, math whiz and future accountant who was the first among us to get his driver's license. The beaked-nose Chip thought that having wheels would improve his status with the ladies. It didn't. We called him the "one date wonder" because the girls he took out once refused to return for an encore. The only thing that changed was Chip's mode of transportation: His parents no longer had to chauffeur him to and from his disastrous dates. Then there was Byron Richmond, the "country club prince," we called him, a moniker earned from his rich parents' efforts to fix him up with the daughters of their equally rich friends, most of whom belonged to the exclusive Hill n' Dale country club. The Richmond's lofty socio-economic status didn't much help the roly-poly, red-faced Byron, who couldn't stick to a diet for more than forty-eight hours. Not that I, Ben Holtzman, being jockey-short, did so well either. Like Chip and Byron, I turned eighteen with little to show on my social/sexual resume, envious, like them, of another guy in our neighborhood group, Martin Prager.
Neither of us had gone beyond first base. Martin, on the other hand, claimed he was hitting home runs, bragging about salacious exploits we could only dream about. However, no matter how often we asked, Martin refused to reveal with whom he had crossed the plate. "I respect her too much for that," he'd say in that smug tone of his. No question, Martin was the best looking among us, a "young Steve McQueen type," my mom once called him. With his wavy, sandy colored hair, blue eyes and all-American features, he did in fact bear at least a subtle likeness to the popular actor in his prime. So it wasn't inconceivable to us that Martin was telling the truth. It got to be a game trying to guess who this mystery girl might be. Was it the stacked Linda Butkovsky or the leggy Amy Sharp? Perhaps it was Robyn Sandoval, who sunbathed on her front lawn wearing virtually nothing, or Toni Berlin, who we called the "farmer's daughter" for her wholesome, Midwestern good looks. We didn't know, and Martin refused to say, even when we teased him about being a bullshit artist. Braggers seldom do what they brag about, my dad used to say, an aphorism that resonated with me vis-Ã -vis Martin's claims that he was getting laid while the rest of us resorted to lady five fingers. The more adamant his refusals to reveal his source, the more his bragging sounded like so much BS.
But guess what? Martin WAS telling the truth. This I found out by accident one late autumn, Saturday night while taking a walk around the neighborhood.
The Pragers lived a few doors up from us and their house, like many of the houses in our 1950s development, was designed with lots of glass—models of the Mies van der Rohe, less is more architectural ideal. Less privacy is probably not what Mies, Frank Lloyd Wright or others of their ilk had in mind when they designed these houses. But privacy is what you sacrificed for feeling integrated with the outdoors. Of course, you could always draw the blinds; that is, if your house had blinds, and not all of them did. The Prager house didn't, at least their den didn't. In fact, one side of it, the side that faced their wooded backyard, was a solid piece of glass, affording passersby an unobstructed view.
Normally, there wasn't much of interest to see—a sofa, chair, side table, bookshelves and Sony Trinitron TV. But on this night I saw something else. The TV was on but Martin and Gale Prager, his twenty-two year old, voluptuous, brunette sister, weren't watching it. They were on the sofa, hugging and kissing. Wide-eyed with disbelief, I ducked behind a birch tree about twenty yards away. Light from the Trinitron and a table lamp, coupled with the downward slope of their property afforded me a good vantage point to observe the goings on.
Most guys our age in the neighborhood, including myself, Byron and Chip, were hot for Gale. She had a cute face, not beautiful but cute. But it was her body that lit a fire under us, and Martin knew it. She had curves in all the right places, and wasn't shy about wearing clothes that revealed her assets—her solid, meaty thighs, shapely calves, full round butt and boobs you could bury your head between. She's "off limits" Martin used to say. Not that any of us had a chance to begin with. One, she was older when two or three years mattered; and two, she always seemed to have a boyfriend. Martin told us that she started dating at around age thirteen. On occasion, I had caught Gale and her amore de jour making out on the sofa. Nothing too heavy, just hugging and kissing while fully clothed.
But now, on this night in question, she was doing it with her own brother! Her dad's car wasn't in the driveway, so I assumed that he and their mom were out. Feeling almost frozen to the hard, leaf-covered ground, I watched what happened next, Martin pulling down his pants, then Gale slipping to the floor on her knees. He was on the sofa with his hand atop Gale's bobbing head, watching as she performed fellatio on his swollen cock. Soon, his wasn't the only swollen cock in proximity. Mine was rock-hard too watching Gale doing her kid brother with her blouse pulled up above her boobs and her skirt bunched up around her waist. This was way better than any of those smokers at the Southway, an X-rated movie house that flourished in the days before free internet porn sent places like the Southway into dinosaur-like extinction. This was fucking live, man, an incestuous freak show right in my own neighborhood!
I continued to peer through the darkness, my cock bulging against my underwear, my heart pounding in anticipation of what might happen next. Gale looked up and gave Martin a huge smile. She then slipped off her blouse and tossed it on the floor. Cupping her hands under her boobs, she seemed to be giving him a stripper's gentle tease: look but don't touch. Strip club rules didn't apply here, however, because seconds later, Martin's mouth was on Gale's nipples. She was still on her knees, while he sat on the edge of the sofa, fondling his sister's boobs with both hands while his tongue licked and slurped. She kept throwing her head back, her face a picture of delirious pleasure. Of course, I couldn't hear her moaning, but judging from the way she opened her mouth, I suspected she was moaning plenty.
By the time they changed positions, with Martin on his knees and Gale on the sofa, my hand was shoved inside my underwear, gripped tightly around my cock. I began to stroke myself as Gale slipped off her panties, then pulled Martin's head between her legs. As before, she threw her head back, obviously enjoying the sensation of her brother's tongue. Every few seconds, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me watching them. So far, I was alone, perspiring under my sweater in the crisp night air.
My excitement ramped up tenfold with the benefit of sound effects. Gale must have been close to climaxing, because now I could hear something, a faint moaning to my outside ears, a screaming to hers and Martin's. "Fuck me, fuck me already!" came through the glass, if not loud from where I stood, then certainly clear. Gale slipped a condom on to her brother's penis, then lifted her skirt as high as it would go. Martin then climbed on top of her, and it wasn't long before his own voice began to seep through as he pounded away. From my angle, I could see his face, pleasure and passion written all over it. Gale lay flat, so I could barely see what she looked like, though her ecstatic shrieks were proof positive that she was enjoying this as much as he.
Pre-cum oozed out of my hard cock, disabusing me of my original intention of holding off until I got home. In fact, not two minutes after they started fucking, I shot my wad. Uncomfortable as I felt in my cum-stained underwear, I stayed glued to that birch tree. I wasn't going anywhere until this show was over, until the fat lady sang her final aria, so to speak.
Meanwhile, Gale kept on "singing," licking off her brother's jism after the first round, then getting on all fours on the sofa for a second. I saw them from the side, feeling my cock once again stir at the sight of Gale's skirt pulled up around her waist, her hot legs exposed, her boobs hanging down, while Martin fondled them while bent over her back, doing her from behind. Her helmet of big hair hung loosely around her head, obscuring most of her profile. At one point, Martin grabbed a fistful of it, pulling her head back as he fucked her. If it hurt, she didn't protest, for the noises I heard emanating from her were noises not of pain but of pleasure, joyful and uninhibited.
Now fully erect, I was determined to hold out until the final aria. It came with Gale dancing on Martin's cock facing away from him. They worked in tandem, he lifting her around the waist while she pressed her hands against his thighs to propel herself. They cranked up their voices a few more decibels in a kind of orgiastic duet, beautiful music to my ears. Gale shook her head while bouncing higher and higher on her brother's cock, while my own cock exploded once again, adding another layer of jism to my underwear. I then saw Gale fall back into Martin's arms, a sign, I assumed, that she had climaxed as well. The sight of them kissing while entangled in each other's arms made me think that there was more to this than raw physical lust. They obviously loved each other very much, took the sibling relationship to another level, one that would no doubt have made their parents sick. That's if they didn't already know, and I was damn sure they didn't.
But I now knew, knew that I was a witness to something that neither Byron, Chip or me would have ever guessed. A blabber mouth would have spread the news to them in minutes. But that wasn't me, compelled as I was to tell them. Martin, on the other hand, was fair game, if for no other reason than his penchant for bragging about what he led us to believe was a "normal" sex life. "I'm getting it and you're not," was often the attitude he took with us. Sure, Martin, with none other than your hot sister, I could hear myself saying. Fiendish ideas took hold: blackmail, for example. I could threaten to reveal the incest to his parents unless he and Gale included me in a ménage a trios—an outrageous thought I knew I'd never follow up on.
I didn't see Martin again until the following weekend. We were shooting hoops in his backyard along with Chip and Byron, an impromptu game of two-on-two played under a basket that his dad had put up years before. Afterward, as usual, we hung around on the patio and kibitzed about women. And, as usual, Martin bragged about his sex life. "A two-banger with my honey last Saturday," he crowed.
Normally, Byron and Chip would groan in envy. But, like me—or the way I thought up to last week—they no longer believed Martin's fantastic stories of two-bangers and such. "Martin, no offense," Chip said, "but I think you're full of shit."
Byron nodded. "Until you tell us who this so-called honey is, we'll all think you're full of shit."
Martin, still cradling the basketball under his arm, gave us that smug look of his and said, "Like I've told you guys before, I respect her too much to drop her name."
Byron's chuckle had a contemptuous ring to it. "Mr. Noble and Virtuous here."
"Call me what you want, I'm not gonna budge," Martin said. Then he turned to me. "What about you, Ben? You think I'm bullshitting too?
As noted, I had every intention of keeping the truth to myself. But now Martin had given me the perfect opening to expose the affair with his sister. Still, I hesitated. "Well, I don't know. You sound sincere. But, like these two said, you'd have a lot more credibility naming names."
"Can't do that, won't do that." After turning to shoot a layup, he said, "You guys are just going to have to believe me. Or not. I really don't give a shit."
Just then, we heard the sound of sliding glass doors opening. Gale stepped on to the patio wearing a green and white ski sweater, tight fitting jeans and suede boots. My mind went to work undressing her, flashing visions of the way she looked last Saturday, skirt pulled up around her waist, boobs hanging out, face contorted in orgasmic ecstasy.
"Hey guys," she said, "it's getting cold out here. There's hot chocolate on the stove. Why don't you all come in and have some?"
"Great idea, sis." After shooting another layup, Martin dropped the ball and went inside.
Gale suggested we repair to the den. "It's more intimate in there," she said.
Stifling a laugh, I followed Byron and Chip into the room while Gale and Martin went to fetch our drinks. "Intimate but exposed," Chip remarked, pointing to the rear wall of sheer glass that gave us an open view of the Prager's spacious backyard. "I'd want more privacy myself," he added.
"Definitely," I said, eyeing the birch tree that had been my peeping Tom lookout. "You'd think they'd hang curtains in here already."
When our drinks came, we squeezed on to the sofa, while Martin plopped down in the black-upholstered easy chair and Gale sat Indian style on the Persian style scatter rug. As I watched the steam rise from my cup, the incongruity of this hit me—the wholesomeness of drinking hot chocolate on a chilly, late fall afternoon following an informal game of hoops, served up by a hot chick and her brother who engage in the decadent practice of incest.
As the minutes ticked by, we made small talk. Gale told us, including Martin who had just turned eighteen, about being gassed by police on her college campus during an anti-Vietnam War rally. Nixon's bombing of Cambodia had touched off a new wave of student protests. "So when you guys enter college next year," she advised, only half facetiously, "you might want to equip yourselves with gas masks along with your usual school paraphernalia." She paused, then winked at Martin and said, "That and condoms."
She knew that the three of us were going to a local university that had a lopsided male-female ratio, thirty percent men to seventy percent women. Gale attended a local, all female college that would become coed in the nineteen-eighties. Martin had applied to school in Colorado.
"That's if these guys know how to use them," Martin said.
"And I suppose you do," Chip said.
"Of course he does," Byron said, "he's a stud among studs."
Byron's sarcasm wasn't lost on Chip. "Yeah, in his own mind."
I couldn't resist adding my own two cents' worth. "Gale, maybe you can tell us who this mystery girl is, the one he claims he's, well, doing his so-called double-bangers on."
Gale turned a shade of red, shook her head and giggled. "He told you that?"
"But I didn't say with whom, so they think it's all made up," Martin said. "I'm a man of truth, truth and respect. Tell them Galey."
