AUTHORS NOTE: Quite honestly, this story took a different turn from where I originally pictured it to where it ended up. Not a ton of sex in it, but lots of build up to (hopefully) a satisfying conclusion.
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Kids do stupid things.
It's a saying you didn't already know. My parents told me. Your parents told you. Everyone has heard it.
It's a saying backed up in reality. Everyone has done something idiotic, especially in their younger years. As a DWI lawyer on the radio said, "We're human, we invented screwing up a good thing."
In my case (my name is Tim), I was 19 years old and my brother, Tony, was 21, and the situation found us camping with our friends. In truth, they were Tony's friends as I really didn't have very many, but thankfully my big bro always kept me under his wing.
While it wasn't like I was some sort of social outcast, I was just shy. Opposingly, Tony was always the popular, "party-guy" in school so, when we went camping, of course booze was involved. And, yes, I let them talk me into things I normally wouldn't be doing.
Like getting drunk.
Really drunk.
Being drunk led to performing feats of strength. Performing feats of strength lead to Tony falling over on top of me, into the fire. He burned his back up pretty bad and my hands were basically toast. Plus, did I mention that, in addition to the awful 3rd degree burns on my hands, the bones in them (and those of both forearms) were either crushed or fractured due to the cinder-block I had them in?
Like I said, stupid.
We were both in the hospital for a couple of days (I think Tony faked additional pain to keep me company) and were discharged into our parents care. Tony would be fully healed within a couple of weeks and was basically "fine" after only about 6 days. I was in much worse shape.
The good news is that our parents were understanding and, as a helpful side note, pretty wealthy. Neither of them quit their jobs, instead they hired health aids to come and work with us. For Tony, that meant just having his bandages changed a couple times a day. For me, that meant I needed help with pretty much everything.
When I made the embarrassing realization that I couldn't even wipe my own ass after pooping I begged my parents to install a bidet in my bathroom. The logistics of that, however, were such that it would have taken months of permits, plumbing, construction, etc.. Plus, even a bidet involves wiping of some sort. Simply put, not practical... not worth it... and the health aid was hired.
I am sure your head is now going wild with visions of a slutty 25-year-old with big tits, a tiny waist, a nice ass and a waxed landing strip. But, reality is different from porn. Instead, our nurse was Mrs. Gentile. She was a very nice, middle-aged widow that I think was of Italian heritage. Not overweight but certainly not in-shape. Not ugly but certainly not magazine-cover ready. Not unattractive but, at my 19-years-old, certainly not my type. Now, reflecting on this time of my life in hindsight, she was a very typical lower-middle-class individual. She came in, did her job and left. There was nothing else. Life had beaten her up to the point that she was no longer hungry or fiesty. She just kinda'... was.
Of course, she realized the different situation she was in. In general, her clients were the elderly who were either rehabbing from a procedure or were basically left to themselves by their kin, if there even were kin to speak of. She made silly comments here and there about how helping me get bathed was the highlight of her day or that she should hook her daughter up with me but it was all in jest, the relationship was professional.
Until it wasn't.
In that there was no longer a relationship.
Mrs. Gentile had a heart attack and died one day while at our house. I found out later she had a long history of smoking and only had recently just quit after a previous heart attack. I was sad, a little bit at least, I didn't know her that well but it is still rarely a positive occurrence to have someone you know pass away. But, my life would still go on. I was still young with plenty of time in front of me but also, in the short term, still very much in need of an aid.
This is where my life changed.
Andrea, Mrs. Gentile's daughter, came to our house after the funeral to pick up some items of her mother's that had been left the day she died. She was visibly shaken at the services and, while my parents said that there was no rush, she said that she would rather just take care of things as quickly as possible.
While shaken at the services, at our house she totally broke down.
We learned that Andrea was now on her own. Like, completely on her own. She was going to night-school to be a nurse and was already registered as an aid like her mom but, because of her limited hours of availability, was unable to get full-time hours as most day-shifts were full of workers who could also work night-shifts. She was about to lose the apartment they shared... life was falling apart.
I felt for her but, in my delusion of never having really felt any sort of hardship in my life, I figured it just kinda' sucked to be her and she would have to figure things out.
Thankfully, my parents are much better people than me.
By the end of the conversation, a deal had been struck. Andrea would stay with us in the house, she would be my nurse during the day and would go to night-school to finish her degree. Many tears were shed between her and my mother during the entire exchange and I was left bewildered and a bit upset in that everything was done without a bit of my input. I mean, shouldn't I have gotten a say? Not to say I had any input in hiring her mom, just that it felt different this time around. It was one thing to have your ass-wiped by a matronly nurse, something completely different when your nurse is only, as it turned out, 1 year older than you.
Andrea, like her mom, was just kinda' a plain sort of every-day girl though I couldn't tell much about her physically the first couple of times we met. At the funeral she was draped in a black shawl/poncho/sari type of thing and on moving day she was wearing sweats and a baggy t-shirt. She didn't appear to be wearing much, if any, makeup and had her longer, dark-brown hair pulled back in a simple pony-tail both days.
As far as living at our house, she moved into Tony's room. Tony had been itching to move into our parents basement for some time (a cliche, I know) but with the opportunity presented he took his chance. The two rooms were connected by a jack-and-jill bathroom and was thought to be convenient because of her having to help me in the bathroom anyhow. I personally thought it just made an awkward situation even worse but my parents would hear none of my complaints. Besides, Andrea seemed to agree with them that it made the most sense.
The day she moved in I refused to go to the bathroom, embarrassed at the prospect of the help. I figure Andrea was happy to put things off for a while but was surprised when she came into my room later in the evening to see if I needed any assistance.
"Nope, good on my end," I responded to her inquiry, trying to keep my focus on the TV in my room.
"Are you sure? Not before bed?"
"Nope, I'm good."
I told myself that I was being helpful but am sure that I instead came across as an unwelcoming jerk.
"Okay, well, let me know."
She was very sweet about it and left me in my room, my bladder beginning to feel full and anxiety at a full alert.
...yet I waited.
I waited for 3 solid hours.
It was 2:30am and I had not heard any noise or stirring coming out of Andrea's room for at least 45 minutes. Even then it had just been the sound of tossing-and-turning as she was most likely trying to get acclimated to sleeping in a new space.
As quietly as I could, I snuck into the bathroom that adjoined our rooms, thankful that she had not closed the door when she left my room previously. It turned out she had not closed her door either and, while I was tempted to peek in and see if she was asleep, I resisted the urge, positive that my mere presence would wake her up and out me as a perverted creep.
