This is a story I felt compelled to share. The names have been changed and I write this all with a shaky hand.
*
I came back home for Thanksgiving my junior year of college. I had skipped the previous year to go to my girlfriend's house, and I had planned to do the same this year, but a rather surprise break up ruined those plans. I came home a little depressed.
My parents were all too aware of my mental state, which only made matters worse. I holed up in my room to avoid their kind gestures and would watch television all day. There were few outlets to vent my frustration. I was lonely, bored, and horny. A deadly mix.
As Thanksgiving preparations were under way, I moseyed downstairs and stood in the kitchen where my mom and dad buzzed around. Even though we had a day until Thanksgiving, they always readied everything early, so the following day of family would go without the regular anxieties attributed to Thanksgiving. They did it all with wordless communication, not engaging in any dialogue. Just working.
They finally noticed me there. It seemed to trigger a change. I just sat down and within moments my dad was out the door, needing to buy more groceries for tomorrow and my mom was pulling off her apron.
"Want to go for a swim?"
I shook my head. I wasn't in the mood.
"Lunch?"
I had already eaten.
"We could shoot a game of pool."
I shrugged. Why not? I had nothing else to do.
My mom and I walked to the living room where we had a near-ancient billiards table. We used it often, with my entire family having a fairly solid game. It was our family's competitive sport.
She brought with her a full glass of white wine, her drink of choice. She seemed surprised to find herself asking if I wanted a drink "now that you're of age." I declined, which resulted in a shrug from her followed by a long sip.
My mom grabbed a cue and started shooting around. She wore a pair of jeans with sandals, a black tight shirt, and a sweater. She was always in pseudo-casual attire. I tried to think of when I last saw her in something dressy. I couldn't recall.
The first game went by in a blur. Neither of us felt compelled to play fiercely or even talk much.
Without much ado, another game quickly passed. I believe I won. But again, nothing but a blur.
Finally, she stood with a hand on her hip. "Let's up the ante. Let's just put like...a dollar a ball or something."
"I have no money." We both laughed. My money was her money. She realized that wouldn't work.
"Well, let's get a little life into this game."
I leaned on the table.
"What about strip pool?" she said, joking at first, but then growing serious. "We can just play until we're down to our underwear, which is nothing new. But at least it'll make this competitive."
I looked down at my pair of jeans and ratty shoes. I had on a Polo as well. I mulled it over in my head, but my mind hadn't been clear for days. Thus:
"Sure."
A surge of excitement permeated the air. A new life to the game, even if it would end in pedestrian terms. We counted out articles of clothing quickly -- four for her, four for me, even though I had to include socks just to make it even. Already the game felt significantly less exciting following a discussion of whether socks counted or not. Nonetheless, we started. A missed shot resulted in stripping. Making two balls in one go meant your opponent had to strip. The normal billiards game rules failed to apply.
My mom took the break. One ball dropped in. She circled around with a smirk, looking for a shot.
"This one's for your shoes."
She arched her back and took a shot for the corner pocket -- and it missed. Somehow. It was a completely makeable shot.
"Nerves. Fine. Here are my sandals," and she flung them at me, like punishment.
I knocked down six with ease before missing. My shoes came off. She made the following five before missing. Off came the sweater. I hit the following four to finish the game.
"Wait, what happens if I finish the game?"
She shrugged and assumed it meant she had to take off something. It made sense to both of us.
"So what do you want? Shirt or pants?"
For the first time I looked her over. My heart started beating faster. This was the first time one of us would have to show anything close to racy. I examined her frame in a way I had never considered before. She was tall and thin, a practitioner of yoga, and had small-ish breasts. Her long legs seemed especially interesting right now.
"Pants."
And with that she smirked and hopped up on the table. She unbuckled her jeans and started tugging at them, revealing the edge of a black pair of panties underneath. She slowed mid-way through, having a similar realization I seemed to have earlier -- that this was the first glimpse, the edge of nudity we dared to dance. She pulled the jeans off completely and flung them to the floor.
I stared at her long, tan legs. Hairless. Leading straight up in beautifully straight curves to that pair of black panties that hid so much promise.
It was my shot.
I whiffed and pulled off my shirt. Much less exciting for a guy. She checked out my body quickly. Nothing to scoff at. She seemed encourage at her chances. The table looked like a series of clean shots. She made one, two, three. Knocking them all down with ease. A shark. And then she saw her opportunity. A risky shot to hit two in. And she went for it.
One rolled in. The other inched toward a pocket. Leaned on the edge. And dropped.
My jeans had to come off. But I was tentative. I expected her shirt to come off before my pants. I expected to win and not have to worry. I was worried. Because underneath my jeans hid an ever-growing hard on. A shameful erection that would jut my boxers out clearly.
She saw my trepidation and offered no consolation.
"Take 'em off."
I unzipped them and tugged at them until they were at my ankles. My boxers did little to hide the hard-on. It stood out proudly. My face reddened, barely glancing at her.
She stared for a moment, took a breath, and looked away.
"Let's finish the game."
She took the next shot and missed. Her hands were shakier than normal.
I looked at her and she gave a nod. She would even the game. She pulled up her shirt and her matching black bra bounced down, holding two nice handfuls of breasts. My erection only grew.
There was a long silence as we both allowed ourselves to stare.
"It's okay," she said. "I'm flattered. And I know you haven't been getting any lately." I blushed and she continued. "It's not like I have either. So it really is flattering."
She started playing with the balls on the table. The tent in my boxers kept me immobile, unwilling to move.
"I'm just wondering..." she started. "Are you curious...at all?"
I looked at her, not offering a response.
"I mean, just to see. It's just...you know, there." She paused. "We could keep playing."
I didn't say anything. The game had four balls left, even though she had toyed with some, messing up their arrangement. She didn't seem to mind. I simply pulled up and took my shot. In. My hard-on made each shot uncomfortable, forcing me to focus more. In, in, and in. The game was cleared. Neither of us were ready to re-rack.
"Your bra," I said. "I finished the game."
She looked stunned for a moment before reaching back and quickly unhooking the bra. It fell off and she kicked it under a nearby chair. Her breasts still had a nice lift. They weren't huge, but they were a nice size. Enough to grab. All I could think about was grabbing them now. Her nipples with pink and hardening fast.
"So how do we deal with...the final...pieces?" she stumbled, aware of being exposed.
