It started off as a tiny pinprick of discomfort, and grew throughout the night.
Charlie's was the same as always. A darkened bar with TV sets mounted high and always tuned to games no one watched. The clamor of people chatting loud over one another. Unnaturally vivid green pool tables felt bathed in fluorescent light. The smack of pool balls striking and the constant dinging of the pinball machines in the back. Heavy air, scented with beer and cigarette smoke, hung over everything.
The five of us snagged a booth near the back and ordered pitchers of cheap beer. We played darts, pinball and pool. We bantered and joked. Lacking the motivation or courage to forge out into the unknown, we stayed within our comfortable little clique. Outside the five of us, there be dragons. We got drunk, all of us except for Martin who was our designated driver, and a good time was had by all. Everyone except me. The discomfort grew.
For those who can't imagine my internal struggles, I'll spell it out for you.
Wanting to fuck your sister is wrong. Even when she's your step-sister. Even when it looks like she wants to fuck you. Even when it feels like the most 'right' thing there's ever been. That's the root of it.
That, of course, led to a very important question. Why did it feel so right? Why did I need Natalie so badly? I had impulse control and had denied myself things I've wanted in the past. So, why? Because it was sex—'the temptation of the flesh'? I wouldn't be the trillionth human being to experience that failing. But I could tell lust from love. I didn't spend hours analyzing every little thing a girl does when I simply lusted after her. Natalie had gotten under my skin and burrowed her way into my heart while I fantasized about her body.
So if it's wrong to want to fuck Natalie. Is it even more wrong to love her and want to fuck her? Or is it more acceptable that way? Does the degree of 'wrongness' matter? Everyone's a judge, whether they admit it or not, with or without evidence and testimony.
Guilt is a terrible, recursive process. There was a part of my mind that kept telling me what I was feeling was very wrong. I wanted to shut that part down. Yank out the cords, cut the power to it, and cram it in a closet so far back that I'd forget it ever existed. That would be convenient ... peaceful, but I hadn't yet, and didn't know how. Worse, I knew I wanted to and the desire for self-deception soured my stomach. Guilt grew in such lush environs.
Then there was the jealousy. I shouldn't feel so possessive of a girl I had no right to claim. It wasn't just that I wanted to fuck my step-sister's brains out on a daily basis, or that my heart yearned for her—I wanted her to be mine and no one else's. I'll say it, though it sounds ugly. I wanted to own her.
Natalie had said, straight to my face, that Cal wasn't her type. That should be enough. That should be more than enough. But somehow it wasn't. They got along, that much was plain and Cal wasn't related to her. If they wanted to date, they wouldn't need to hide anything. If they started having sex, they could tell anyone at any time.
It didn't have to be Cal either. Cal wasn't her type, but other men were. What if Natalie started dating someone else? A handsome guy with an office job, blue eyes and a nice smile. What if he showed up at the house to pick her up? What if she introduced him to me? What if she snuck him up to her room and they fucked—and I could hear them through the thin enclosure between our closets.
Natalie could have a normal open relationship, including sex, with any single man except me. If we continued on, exploring down the path I wanted to travel, Natalie and I would always need to keep our relations on the down low. It'd always be a dirty, shameful secret. The taboo would stain what he had, even if we loved one another.
And there it was. I didn't know if she had the same feelings for me as I did for her.
I'd be a real chump if I dumped all these emotions on her and she turned to me with a smile and a raised eyebrow, and said, "We were just playing around. It doesn't mean anything. I thought you knew."
Or worse, if her expression was sad and pitying. "Oh, Josh, that's so sweet, but I don't think of you like that."
The thought of my feelings being one-sided sent an awful spike of discomfort through me, hollowing my stomach.
My fuzzy, drunk mind couldn't handle the thought of it, rearing like a panicked steed. Worst case scenarios are easy for me to imagine and the most difficult to wipe from my mind.
I couldn't let her meet someone else without first presenting my case, without showing her what we could be. Our potential hovered around the two of us just waiting to be taken. Between the meaningless games of pool and darts, I convinced myself Natalie and I could overcome the difficulties imposed by a clandestine relationship.
By midnight I was making slurry excuses. I wanted to go home. Just wanted to go home. But there was one car and Martin was driving. So if I left, we'd all have to leave. A half hour later the five of us exited Charlie's, stumbling and bumping into one another through the parking lot. Martin herded us like a sheep dog, and never once complained.
Martin offered to do things for us just because he liked us. He was a good guy and I didn't say it enough. So, I told him on the way out to his car. It wasn't an 'I love you, man' but it was close.
It occurred to me that I could head trouble off at the pass by telling Cal he wasn't Natalie's type. Only a drunken mind would consider such a ham-fisted, self-destructive comment. Fortunately, I chickened out.
We packed into Martin's Lexus. It was a new car and smelled it. Smooth plastic and firm seats held us in its mute embrace for the ride home, and we fogged the windows with our beer-soaked breath. Martin dropped Cal off first—which was a relief because the guy let out farts that could kill vegetation—and then pulled into my development. I said my goodbyes, waved as they pulled away, and staggered up the walkway to my parent's front door.
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It's embarrassing coming home drunk to your parent's house when you're an adult. I'm twenty-two, responsible, and home for the summer. I can drink if I want. But there's always that little niggling voice in the back of your head saying that you're taking advantage of your parent's hospitality and you should get your own place.
My father and Doris lazed on the couch, watching TV when I entered. I tried to act calm and sober. Drunks never understand that there's nothing more obvious than an inebriated person imitating a sober one.
"Have a good time with your friends?" my father asked. The glow from the TV screen accentuated every line on his oval face.
"I did. Tired, though. I should get to bed," I said in my best sober voice.
The two of them chuckled at me. "Drink some water before you do, honey," Doris said.
"Night." I actually waved to them as I passed through.
Back in my room, I stripped down to T-shirt and boxers, and listened at my closet but heard nothing. Swallowing hard, I gathered my courage and slipped out of my room, closing the door behind me. I crept down the hall, hoping the floorboard wouldn't creak and provide some evidence to my parents downstairs.
I didn't knock, I just opened Natalie's door, slunk in without looking and closed it behind me. After a moment's pause, I locked it and stood in the dark, letting my eyes adjust. My heart fluttered with a mixture of excitement and fear. I was doing this, I was really doing it.
Pale, silvery light washed in through the window on the opposite wall. Natalie lay under her covers, on her side facing away from me, hair spilled on her pillow. I crept to her bed, pulled up the covers and slipped underneath. In moments I was pressed up against her back, my erection nestling between her firm butt cheeks. She stirred, mumbling something incoherent, when I cupped a breast with my hand. It was warm and pliant. I massaged it through her nightshirt, and when that wasn't enough slipped my hand underneath to caress the bare skin.
She let out a cute little moan, tensed and rotated her body toward me. In a sleepy voice she asked, "Josh?"
