I want to thank the many thousands of readers who have given me such a good rating and some of the kindest, honest feedback a writer could ever ask for. I hope that I'm fulfilling some of your wishes with this installment, and making you long for more. Please let me know. I write from the heart.
Part One - Mom Comes Clean
I had fantasized about my Aunt Veronica for as long as I can remember.
She was the bikini-beach blonde who charmed boy's hearts and stirred men's groins. Ronnie was a dead ringer for 'Baywatch' actress Donna D'Erico. A few inches shorter than mom, she was about 5'5" or 5'6". Washboard flat stomach and tits that were a solid C-cup size - natural. She was a cheerleader in high school and a beach volleyball champion in college. Always in superb shape.
She had, and still has, a gorgeous face, with hazel eyes, a cute button nose, full lips and a mouth full of straight white teeth. The first time I masturbated, it was looking at a photo of Ronnie in a bikini.
As soon as college was over, Ronnie married her boyfriend since junior high school, Nash Breen. Nash was a big guy, macho high school quarterback, blah, blah, blah.
He didn't go to college, and had tried one job after the other. Real estate, automobile sales, garage owner - lost his shirt on that one - you name it. I always thought he was an asshole with too high an opinion of himself. They never had kids because he didn't want to give up any of his 'freedoms', such as the freedom to go out drinking and whoring with his buddies, or the freedom to balloon to nearly 300 pounds on bar food and beer.
He and Ronnie had separated, reunited, separated, reunited. Finally the bum hooked up with some white trash from one of the bars he hung out at and the marriage was over for good. Ronnie was crushed. I don't know why - go figure love.
Mom had gone to see and comfort her, which did some good. Now she was coming to our house for an overnight, with Dad in Houston at a legal seminar for a drug company.
Mom sat down at the kitchen table with me while I was reading the paper Saturday morning.
"Adam," she began. "I have to talk to you. Susan's at practice, so this is just between you and me."
"OK, mom."
"Your Aunt Veronica is coming over tonight, and will probably stay over. You know it's been tough on her lately, and she can use some cheering up." She cocked one eyebrow on her last word.
"Well, mom . . . what do you . . . "
"I'm not sure yet. I just want to know, can you handle a 'strange situation' with her if the opportunity arises?"
"Aren't those the only situations I've been handling lately?" I quickly added. "But I want to ask you a question mom - it's just the two of us here right now."
"What?" mom asked nervously.
"You and Dad . . . . I don't want to pry, I love you both, but what's . . . . . "
Mom sighed deeply and looked up. She knew this question was coming sooner or later, and she'd have to answer it.
Mom hung her head a bit. "I'm not sure you'd understand, Adam."
"Try me."
She paused. "Adam, you know I trust you with everything now, so this is just one more of those things."
I nodded my understanding.
"Your father is a wonderful man. He's been a good husband, a good father and a good provider. When we were first married, our sex life was . . . adequate. Nothing extraordinary, but good enough for a girl who's never had that much to begin with. And we were
so young.
Once we had you kids, we were so busy and tired sometimes, that it was natural for our sex life to suffer. But I don't think it ever . . . . became what I wanted or needed."
"You have to understand the nature of my frustration," she continued. "I was young. I still felt attractive. Sex just didn't have the same level of importance to your father as it did to me. It would be 10:30 at night, and I'd be hopped up, needy, full of desire. Your father was falling asleep. I'm not blaming him - I'm not - the man worked so hard to build a life for us. But my needs were still there and not being satisfied. I just can't explain how it feels to lie in bed with, literately, tears of frustration in my eyes, flowing down my cheeks. It was . . . . torture.
"What did dad say or do about it?" I asked.
"Well," she frowned. "That's how you make a bad situation worse. When I tried to tell him how I felt, he would just feel inadequate and helpless, which put
more
pressure on him and made us both uncomfortable. Or I could live with the situation. Neither choice was great."