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Kit scowled as she lectured me on the benefits of diet and exercise.
“Dad, you need to do some kind of exercise. Have you thought about walking?” she asked seriously.
“I walk.” I answered.
“Where?” She inquired.
“From the bed to the bathroom and from the TV to the kitchen.” I responded.
Kit shook her head disgustedly and regarded me as though I was a fifty year old child.
My wife’s death two years ago was traumatic for me and I had gained twenty pounds, maybe more.
“Tomorrows Christmas Eve, Andy and I expect you about 7pm and try to wear something decent, no jeans or sneakers. OK?” She said in an exasperated tone.
After Kit left, I went thru my closet searching for something that still fit me. Except for a few pairs of sweats and some jeans, zippo! With Kit’s proclamation about the proper attire ringing in my ears, I put on a fresh pair of sweats and headed to the Galleria.
Promptly at 7pm, I arrived at Kit’s wearing my new clothes and she seemed very pleased. At her in-laws urging she adopted their family tradition of opening gifts on Christmas Eve and with a disgruntled look, I sat in Kit’s living room and exchanged presents.
Kit’s in-laws always gave such nice tasteful store bought gifts but this year they surprised Kit and Andy with a gift certificate to Home Depot.
“How sickeningly thoughtful.” I mused to myself.
Kit and Andy were remodeling their living room but when I saw the “extravagant” amount on the certificate, I thought it might buy a couple of sheets of dry wall at the most. They vociferously expressed their appreciation but under my breath I muttered,
They were so “white bread” wholesome that I wanted to puke. The most boring and non-descript people I ever had the displeasure of meeting. They wrote the book on cheap and saved and cut corners with something akin to religious zeal. To them a penny saved was worth far more than a penny spent.
Sometimes, I comically envisioned Mr. “Tight Ass” opening his wallet and the portrait of George Washington on the dollar bill blinking at the glare from the light.
I opened my yearly holiday card which usually contained a gift certificate to brunch or a dinner at a local restaurant. To my surprise and disappointment, the gift certificate was for a yearly membership to Brewer’s Ultimate Gym.
Kit saw my expression.
“Now Dad, that gym is less than a mile from your house and has the latest in cardio equipment.” She stated factually
Before I had a chance to respond, Mr. “White Bread” spoke up.
“That’s good exercise for your heart.”
Initially I wanted to comment by saying,
“No shit Sherlock, is that a fact.” But, I knew that Kit’s wrath was less desirable.
As I was preparing to leave for the evening, Kit looked apprehensive.
“I worry about you all alone in that house, especially on Christmas eve.” She said in a voice full of concern.
After spending the last four hours with the “Ozzie and Harriet” clones discussing bodily functions and safe penny pinching investing, I needed multiple shots of Jack Daniel’s to restore my sanity. Sitting at home with only the light from the TV serving as my sole source of illumination was a much welcome and needed relief.
“Remember tomorrow at 2pm.” She stated as her parting words.
Unfortunately for me, Kit’s in-laws were in town until New Years Day.
My prayers for a blizzard in Southern California went unanswered and on Christmas Day, I was seated next to Mr. “White Bread” in the den. Out of the blue, he volunteers to take my flabby ass to Brewer’s Gym on the 26th.
“Don’t want the gift certificate to go to waste.” The stingy prick declared.
At dinner, I made sure I put small portions of each food item on my plate. Mrs. “White Bread” made the tasteless stuffing and overcooked vegetables. When I reached for the salt, I was greeted by a bevy of howling voices admonishing me on the use of salt and its deadly side effects. I wanted to say.
“It’s salt for Chrissakes, not arsenic!”
If that wasn’t bad enough, I had to sit through reruns on the golf channel with “Mr. Arnold Palmer Wanna Be” commenting about each shot and its significance to the game.
“He should use the five iron!” Mr. “Double Bogey” would declare to the TV.
It was so incredibly boring that I wanted to hang a sign around my neck that said “PLEASE KILL ME” and walk thru South Central LA with hundred dollar bills hanging out of my pockets.
I loved my daughter and although she was raised by a pair of non-conformists, she felt at home and at ease with the “White Breads” of Michigan. But, they corrected me on that as well. It was The U P or Upper Peninsula of Michigan.
“Lord, where did I go wrong?” I silently implored with my eyes skyward.
With morbid humor, I thanked God that my wife had died before Kit married Mr. “White Bread Jr.” and was subjected to their idea of a holly jolly Christmas.
I was saying goodbye and had casino siteleri to suffer thru a chorus of “so soon?” from the insincere and faux disappointed “White Breads.”
Kit walked with me to my car and before I got in, gave me a hug.
“I know their not your cup of tea, but did you have any fun?” she asked in a sincere way.
I pondered her question for a moment.
“Yeah, when I took a dump in the upstairs bathroom!” I stated with honesty.
“Dad, you’re impossible!” she exclaimed with a sour puss face that lightened to a broad grin and hugged me affectionately.
At home, I was relaxing in my Lazy Boy lounger, the only inanimate object in my house that I truly loved, when a ½ hour TV sitcom called “How I Met Your Mother” caught my attention.
The basic premise is simple, the main character, Ted, is looking for a mate and all the trials and tribulations involved with the search. His friends are an eclectic group of twenty-something’s who hang out, give him advice and have adventures of their own.
After I watched the show, I was struck by the timelessness of the eternal struggle to find a life mate, soul mate, wife or husband. Like the character Ted, I always thought the girl I just dated or met might be the “one.”
An incredible flood of memories swept thru me as I recalled the long and winding road to true love and marriage. I saw myself as a teenager…
Davis was handing me a joint as we sat under the bleachers at River Heights High School. We were seniors and part of the top academic group; the group that was routinely abused by the jock crowd.
The peace movement was dead but smoking pot was still the high of choice. Davis wanted to introduce me to his cousin Lisa at a party on Saturday night.
“What does she look like, a cocker spaniel?” I asked sarcastically.
“She’s good looking, man.” He rebutted.
We both saw our friend Megan run toward us in her sweaty field hockey clothes.
“Smoking pot again!” she stated too loudly.
“Thanks Megan! Now the whole school knows.” Davis stated with anger.
Before I had a chance to say hello, Megan took off down the field. I watched with some longing as she ran back to practice.
“You really like her?” Davis asked with some disbelief.
“Yeah” I said in a dreamy voice.
Later, as I was walking home, I heard a familiar voice behind me. In a flash, Megan was at my side.
“You need help with the Calc worksheet we got in class today?” She asked.
“I sure do!” I said still feeling the effects of the pot.
“My house, 7pm” she stated and walked with me the rest of the way.
Megan and I became friends in fifth grade when I needed help with some math problems. I must have looked helpless because from then on she took me under her wing.
Megan was an excellent athlete and considering girls’ sports programs in the early 1970’s were vastly inferior to boys’ in terms of funding, quite an achievement.
Megan was very brainy and placed in the top scholastic group at school. She moved effortlessly between the jocks and the geeks, although I think she preferred the geeks.
That was part of my problem, I didn’t look like a geek and neither did Davis. With our bell bottom jeans, long hair and tie dyed shirts, we looked like we were going to a Grateful Dead concert. But, our inclusion in the top academic group automatically accorded us geek status.
In junior year I developed a serious crush on Megan but because perception is more readily accepted than reality, I kept my feelings to myself. I was convinced that she would laugh at me if I asked her out.
The real torture was watching her date other guys, especially one of the loathsome jocks.
Saturday night, I met Davis’ cousin and for once he wasn’t lying, she was a cutie. But, she was a full figured girl, not fat but filled out. I preferred my women slim, trim and athletic. By the end of the night I had her telephone number and we started dating.
Fall in Southeastern Pennsylvania was my favorite time of the year and watching Megan play field hockey on a warm afternoon was heaven on earth. I never tired of watching her fly up and down the field as she switched from offense to defense effortlessly.
As the year progressed, our friendship grew but I still harbored my secret crush. I purposely joined the school newspaper as a sports reporter so I could attend her away games. But, in my secret heart, I was her biggest fan and admirer.
I was convinced that our relationship would never amount to more than friendship. With that in my mind, I dated Lisa and like Ted on the TV show, thought I had found “her” but the feeling didn’t last long.
Lisa had a prudish attitude toward sex and except for make out sessions, nothing else happened. I wasn’t attracted to her physical type or I might have pushed the issue more. Anyway, she refused to smoke pot with me and we dated sporadically until spring.
While I was dating Lisa, Megan grew more interested in the canlı casino dynamics of our friendship and started to question why we shared a close relationship. Sometimes, she asked pointed questions that I could have answered but kept buried deep in my psyche.
Megan was everything I wanted in a girl. Her tight athletic body, sweet but aggressive personality, pretty face, blonde hair and loyalty were the characteristics that appealed to me in a big way.
At Christmas, I gave her a 14k yellow gold chain that set me back a few bucks. I really wanted to give her a small ring but I thought it was much too obvious. Megan adored her gift.
“You treat me better than my own brother!” she declared and gave me a peck on the cheek.
At the track meets, she always wore it and claimed it was her good luck charm. With her athletic ability, I doubted that she needed a talisman.
The end of the school year loomed on the horizon when I got in serious trouble with the faculty advisor of the school newspaper. I ignored her instructions not to print a story that savagely lampooned the Principal and Vice Principal.
I bullied Bobby, a fellow geek and the Editor, into printing the story and the shit hit the fan. I narrowly escaped expulsion when my parents intervened on my behalf. The expulsion would have seriously jeopardized my acceptance to PSU and luckily, I received a three day suspension as my punishment.
Megan was sitting in my den the afternoon of my first suspension day.
“Poole, this article is really good.” She said with admiration in her voice as she read the story for the umpteenth time.
For some unknown reason, all my friends called me by my last name. But, I was glad considering my first name was Arthur. I hated the name and its derivative “Art”. It would be a few more years before Dudley Moore made it a household fixture with a motion picture of the same name.
I wanted to be a writer but my father insisted that I attend college and earn a practical degree. In other words, one that guaranteed employment upon graduation.
Megan was looking out the window with a wistful look on her face.
“I’m going to miss my friends when schools over.” She said with a sigh.
When Megan told me she was accepted at UCLA, my heart sank. I was hoping she would consider PSU so I could be near her.
I gazed with yearning at her tight body clothed in hip hugger jeans and a dark green sweater. Her erect nipples poked at the front of her sweater and she caught me looking.
“You’re a naughty boy.” She yelled with false anger and jumped on me; pining my arms to the floor.
At that moment, I realized that I was in love with her; an unrequited love that would be separated by three thousand miles.
Graduation Day came all too quickly. Davis had scored some excellent weed and gave me enough for a few joints. We were sitting under the bleachers in our usual spot. I took a long toke on the proffered joint and had a coughing fit.
“Hey Aqualung! …spitting out pieces of his broken lung…” Davis sang in a perfect Ian Anderson imitation of Jethro Tull fame.
When I stopped coughing, I got all philosophical and related my lack of sexual experiences with deep regret.
“What base did you get to, man?” He asked haltingly as he refused to release the potent smoke from his lungs.
“Probably, not past first.” I said with regret
“Join the crowd, man.” He stated in admission.
“I’ve never seen a girls’ ‘cooter’!” I exclaimed.
“Man, I saw Molly Sanbrill’s at Bobby’s pool party last week.” He said with disgust.
“Damn thing looked like part of the Brazilian rainforest was transplanted between her thighs.” He declared with a look of horror.
Molly was an oversexed, unattractive and overweight mess of a teenager. Actually, she was a nice person but once she got some booze or pot in her, LOOK OUT!
“Rumor has it that she sucked Bobby off after everyone left.” He said in a gossipy way.
“Shit man! Bobby’s even getting some action.” I lamented.
Unless something drastic happened, I was headed for college as a virgin. The supposed “free love” part of the Woodstock Generation had passed by Davis and me.
Megan and I spent graduation night going from party to party. I was tired of playing the brother part in our brother/sister act. For the last two years, her tight and athletic body was the main attraction in my nightly masturbation fantasy.
We were at Bobby’s graduation party but it was far too smoky and stuffy inside. Megan with me close behind, made her way to the outside patio and the fresh air.
Courtesy of Davis, I lit a joint and handed it to Megan. When she partied, she preferred pot over alcohol and took a long toke.
By the time we smoked half the joint, we were flying high. Megan, always the showoff, was doing handstands on the lawn. The sight of her taut body had my pecker twitching. After numerous cartwheels and other feats of athletic prowess, she plopped down into kaçak casino a lawn chair by the pool.
The high from pot usually brought out Megan’s analytical side and tonight was no exception. Since we were attending different colleges in the fall and our brother/sister act would soon be only a memory, she asked probing questions in her search for answers to our friendship. By now, I wanted to scream, “Enough already!”
“How come you never asked me out?” she inquired in a sincere way.
I kept the reason a closely guarded secret inside me and was silent. Anyway, Megan knew and answered her own question.
“You were scared. Why?” She asked in a searching way.
I mumbled a few incomprehensible words but my resistance to her questions disintegrated courtesy of the inhibition lowering pot and the fact that she had eroded my resolve with her continued harping. The words tumbled out of my mouth.
“I think you’re one of the hottest and sexiest girls I ever met but I thought you were way out of my league.” I blurted out.
Although my intelligence had landed me in the highest academic group, I felt like a stupid fool for speaking the truth.
Megan was no dumb jock. She had a stunned, no, a surprised look on her face that turned to anger.
“We’ve been friends since 5th grade and you thought I was out of your league!?” She stated with vehemence.
Megan had a huffy look on her face.
“All this time I thought you weren’t interested in me, you know, in that way.” she said in an exasperated voice.
I lit the remaining half of the joint as a peace offering which she accepted.
“Boy’s, I’ll never understand them.” She remarked in a mystified voice.
We smoked a few hits and I discovered that Megan’s mission to unearth the truth wasn’t over.
“So what do you fantasize about at night when you play with yourself. I know guys masturbate, so don’t bullshit me. What sex act is your favorite?” She questioned with Perry Mason intensity.
“Am I part of your fantasies?” she asked sarcastically.
I was fidgeting under Megan’s close scrutiny and she was closing in on her objective. I remembered a famous quote: “The truth will set you free”
At this point, I might as well go for broke.
“Yes.” I stated meekly.
Megan was regarding me suspiciously and with her hands on her hips, she assumed a defiant pose that was pure Megan.
“Do you screw me or I know, I give you blow jobs. Most boys seem to love that particular activity” She inquired with shocking frankness.
Megan was searching my face for the answer with her intense gaze in the dim light. My failure to respond both visually and verbally was an indication that she hadn’t discovered the truth but her expression suddenly changed.
“I know! You fantasized about performing oral sex on me.” Megan bragged mockingly but she gasped when the expression on my face gave away the truth.
She shook her head in disbelief and had an amused, “The truth is finally out in the open” expression on her pretty face.
“How long have you fantasized about this? And be honest! ” She asked in a demanding way.
“About two years, I think.” I responded in a guilty tone.
“Two years.” Megan mumbled several times and taking me by the hand, pulled me to my feet.
“Where are we going?” I asked like a bleating sheep.
“To my garage; we’ll need some privacy.” She declared.
As we walked to her house, visions of Megan in her skimpy bikini that looked molded to her taut body popped in my head. I always regarded my lust and fascination with small breasted, slim and athletic women as a degenerative disorder.
Most of my friends liked big breasts and fuller figures. The “girly” magazines of the day, “Playboy” and the fledgling “Penthouse”, were predominantly filled with big breasted or full figured women.
My taste in women ran contrary to most everything they considered sexy and attractive. For the last two years, I was consumed by a nebulous desire to perform oral sex on a girl and Megan was the object of that desire.
We went into her garage, and opened a side door that led to an upstairs room. Originally, her father used it as an office but now it served as a TV/Play room when relatives or company visited with children. We used the streetlights that filtered in thru the windows as our only source of light.
Megan made me sit on the carpeted floor with my back facing the far wall. Her trim form was well lit by the filtered light from the windows. I didn’t know what to expect until Megan pulled her tight top over her head and her sheer white bra came into view.
Megan shucked her shoes to the side and with a sexy gaze that she kept riveted on me, popped the snap on her jeans and seductively pulled the zipper down. The sound of the descending zipper in the quiet room was about the most erotic sound I ever heard.
With her hands grasping the sides, Megan shimmied her hips loosening the grip of the tight blue jeans. With achingly slow movement, they descended her legs and pooled in a pile at her feet. She lifted each leg and pulled the jeans the rest of the way off.
I let out a slightly audible wolf whistle as I gazed longingly at her ultra tight body.
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