My stories are in the form of a memoir. The tales are first of the protagonist growing up in his parent's guesthouse, then progress to the time when he was an hotelier and culminating with him as sailing ship captain. I have collected them in a series of volumes entitled The Intimate Intercourse of a Hedonistic Hotelier, A Memoir. This story is from Volume I, with the title: The Early Years, Tantalizing Tastes.
However, memory is a faulty device, as any trial lawyer will tell you. No two witnesses to any incident relate the same series of events. Memories are colored by experience and imagination. I have been blessed with a surfeit of both.
As I write this memoir at the start of my eighth decade of life, I find the memories of some of the events related have dimmed. I find though, as I continue to write, many of the memories burst forth like a climatic crescendo in a welcoming grotto of pleasure.
Though these stories are, for the most part true; I freely admit that some of the stories are "more true" than others. Some indeed, are downright Walter Middy-ish. I can say, however, that all the stories are based on true events. I have changed the names of the participants to obscure their identity and to give them plausible deniability, if they so choose.
Rest assured dear reader. All of the sexual participants mentioned or alluded to in this story were eighteen years old or older at the time of any blissful encounter!
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"Yabut, I want you to be a gentleman and take Aunt Aggie's niece for a drive and show her the island. Here's some cash, take her for a burger and a movie later. I've even thrown in an extra dollar for gas." My father told me as I washed the breakfast dishes, handing me six dollars, a five and a one.
"Yeah But... Daaaad... I was going to call Heather tonight. She misses me if I don't call." I whined.
"Don't worry, Yabut. You'll both survive. You didn't see her much the whole month of May, as I recall. You survived. I'm going to give you the rest of the day off... after you finish cleaning up the breakfast mess. Now you go enjoy yourself." He used his impeccable parental logic.
'I didn't know that he had noticed I was on a Heather hiatus in May. I hope Heather's folks didn't tell him Heather was on restriction from me for our missing curfew. He didn't mention it... so I guess he didn't know why I wasn't seeing Heather for the whole month.'
I frantically thought.
Heather had recently started to work at the Fernwood Raspberry Farm. She worked very hard with long hours, so she was often exhausted when we were together. With the summer rush upon us at the guesthouse, I was exhausted too.
My dad gave me the day and evening off, which I appreciated, but I would have rather used the time to make love to Heather. Taking some strange girl on a tour of the island was not my idea of a good way to spend my time.
"Aunt Aggie" wasn't really my aunt. Actually, she had just recently become a close friend of my parents. Agnes Luter was a recent divorcee from St. Petersburg, Florida who was staying with her daughter Julie in Port Arbutus, to help Julie care for her young daughter. My mom was also from Florida hence the instant affinity. Julie's husband was a navy pilot. Aggie's son Bobby had also recently joined the guesthouse staff as a gardener.
Aggie's niece decided to come for a visit with her Aunt and cousins for a week. She was due to head back to St. Pete on Sunday. Why my dad chose me to be the tour guide is anyone's guess, though she was about my age. She had graduated high school the year before and I had graduated earlier in the month. I had visions of her as being a plump, pimply girl and dumb as a post. I must admit at the time I had a decided anti-southern bias. This was possibly gained subliminally, due to my New England heritage. My great-great grandfather fought for the Union in the Civil War.
Aunt Aggie was to bring her niece by about noon and I was to have her back about ten or eleven that evening according to my father. Basically it was a ten hour tour with a movie thrown in.
The Love Bug
was playing at The Arbutus Theater. That was the only movie theater in town.
The Love Bug
was a Disney movie, staring Dean Jones, about a sentient VW Bug. It was not high on my watch list. Indeed it was another movie Heather and I would have skipped on our weekly "movie nights" that fortunately had evolved into "fuckie nights."
It was Summer Solstice and the weather was beautiful. I decided to give Aggie's niece the full north island tour. I planned on starting the tour at the "Top of the Islands," a small mountain with a road all the way to the summit. It was located on the island just to the north of Baker Island. It gave a spectacular view of the Strait, the surrounding mountains, and the collection of emerald isles scattered between the two mountain ranges. I was not too jaded of a teen to enjoy the view.
After the breakfast "clean up," I went to my cottage to clean myself up for my "date." I looked longingly at my bed, the rumpled covers exposed the cum stains on my sheets. I changed my bed once a week; now usually on Friday's, so I could make love to Heather on reasonably clean sheets. I was hopeful I'd hook-up with Heather this Friday evening.
Taking advantage of the free-ish afternoon, I changed my sheets a day early. I could use my old method of cumming into Kleenex tonight after my "date" to keep the sheets pristine for a Heather love bout the next night. I often would put the cummy tissues in the Franklin stove as kindling.
When I got back to the Guesthouse to meet my drudge of a date, Aunt Aggie was there with a very attractive redheaded beauty. She was wearing a blue striped, light cotton sundress which accentuated her fine figure. It came to a couple of inches above her knees. Her bright red hair fell to her shoulders. Wow, how lucky can a guy get? She was the very antithesis of the pimply, pudgy putz I was expecting.
Indeed, I have had a thing for red-headed girls since 1957 when Sybil, a cute little red-headed girl in New Orleans, and I would play jacks together. I often dreamed of what it would be like to take that game a little farther as I got older.
"Jacques, I'd like you to meet my niece Barbara Louise O'Reilly."
I was speechless, "Uh... Umm... Ah... Hi. N, na, nice to meet you Barbara." I stuttered.
"We call her Barbie Lou, Jacques. It's the way of the south." Aunt Aggie corrected.
"Uh... okay... Hi Barbie Lou!" I stuck out my hand.
"Ah'm pleased ta meet y'all, Jack." She dripped a greeting in a southern drawl.
She held out her hand with the back facing up. I wasn't sure if I was to kiss it or take it and shake it. I gently shook it.
"Okay, now y'all run off and have a good time. I'll see y'all back here no later than eleven. Ya he-ah?" Aunt Aggie instructed.
"Yes Ma'am. Will do!" I said.
I escorted Barbie Lou to my 1957 Ford coupe. I opened the passenger door for her and she got in. I got in the driver's side. She pretty much hung to the far side of the car. I tried to think of something to engage her in small talk, trying to break the ice a bit.
Originally I held little hope for the evening. I now was hopeful she might prove as friendly as Karla, another southern belle I had enjoyed kissing a year and a half before. Karla was from New Orleans, Louisiana, and proved to be quite friendly and very experienced. But as a beautiful young woman, with red hair at that, I was a bit tongue tied with Barbie Lou.
"My Dad said you've graduated from high school." Dumb opening I know, but I couldn't think of anything else as we drove north after a pregnant silence.
"Yes, Stonewall Jackson High on the shores of Tampa Bay, class of '68. Where'd you graduate?"
"I graduated this year from SHS. Sixty nine... so fine!" I said, and then blushed at the double entendre.
