It has been pointed out to me that there are two big problems in my relationship with my sister. The first is that we are too close. Too close in age, too close in habits, and too close in interests. She is my twin and we have been inseparable pretty much since birth. Our mom says that even as babies we used to howl if they tried to put us down to sleep in separate rooms. They've tried everything; setting us up on separate playdates, attempting to send us to other schools, and even sitting us down with a psychiatrist. None of it worked. We can't help it, we just really like each other's company. No one gets me like Georgie does. I understand it makes us a bit weird, but I can't make myself care.
The second problem, apparently, is that we share too much. Brothers and sisters are supposed to develop a natural propriety, or so we've been told. They're supposed to bond with classmates of their own gender and share their secrets and desires with them. Again, I don't get that. My sister is the one person I know I can trust absolutely. Georgie and I tell each other everything. We told each other about our first times and we still laugh about the failures and triumphs of our love lives. One of my girlfriends told me that I will never form a long-term relationship as long as I remain so attached to my sister. But, as I told her then, "If you can't deal with my relationship with my sister then we're not meant to be together."
That being said, Georgie and I had never been anything more than best mates, despite some of the commentary and speculation that was directed our way in high school. That all changed in the vacation before we went off to college (Yes, the same college, despite our parent's best efforts).
We were outside on the lawn on a big tartan picnic blanket Georgie had laid out in the shade of the huge oak. The tree was a special place for us. During our childhood it had been a castle and a tall tower in which a fair maiden was trapped (If I told you that I always played the fair maiden, perhaps you will understand Georgie a bit better). It was a shop, a space rocket, a haunted forest, and, on more than one occasion and in a moment of desperation, a bathroom (Georgie again. And me. But, mostly Georgie).
On that day it was just the coolest place in the garden. It was warm with a sky as clear as a polished lens. We'd placed the blanket half in the shade and half in the sun so that we could intermittently work on our tans. Our grandpa often told us the story of how he'd fallen in love with our Abuela while on holiday in Mexico and brought her back with him. We had her to thank for the way we could both pick up a cover model tan in a few hours. I also had her to thank for my thick, dark eyelashes, and Georgie, as she always put it, kept her south of the border, "south of the border." In the cutoff jean shorts she wore today that big, round ass of hers looked especially good. Good brother that I am, I made sure to tell her. She slapped my thigh playfully and grinned her wide grin back at me.
The only other bit of clothing she wore was a white bikini top so brief her breasts threatened to bubble over. Yet I was perfectly at ease, shirtless and lying so close to her our skin brushed when one of us shifted even slightly. This is the way we'd always been with each other. Comfortable.
We could hardly be blamed for being close. We had grown up on a farm about ten miles outside the nearest town. Apart from the other kids when we were at school, we had been each other's only playmates for most of our childhoods. Dad worked in the dairy and surrounding fields all day and, since we'd started high school, mom was back working again in the accounts department for the biggest tractor dealer in town. So, the farm was our own private universe.
Of the two of us, Georgie was the farmer. She was going to take over the running of this place one day. We'd agreed on that without ever saying the words before we were even nine. She wanted the college experience though and was studying something in agricultural management. I was, to be honest, terrified of the thought of college. I was going along with Georgie purely because I had no idea what else to do. I didn't want to miss out on doing anything with her. So, we would share accommodation while I studied the most general degree I could find and prayed inspiration would strike. This would be our last vacation before I had to face that reality and with each day that passed my anxiety grew.
It was easy to forget all that though as we lay there and regaled each other with tales of some of our less successful sexual encounters. I was just finishing a story about trying to go down on a girl while I had a pube caught in my teeth and Georgie was rolling around in fits of giggles.
"Why didn't you stop?" She gasped out.
"You can't stop when you're down there. It's all very complicated for guys. It's like being dropped into the cockpit of a fighter jet and being told you have to land the thing on your first attempt without crashing."
"Cockpit," Georgie snorted.
"You're such a child," I swatted her bare calf muscle, "Anyway. If you have the thing flying smoothly you can't exactly take your foot off the gas."
"Wait, I thought the vagina was a fighter jet in this analogy. Do fighter jets have gas pedals?"
"I have no idea, and that's exactly my point. If the buttons, or levers, or pedals, or whatever you are pushing are working then you don't stop pushing them."
"Boys are dumb."
"We're not the ones who put the flight controls on the outside of the cockpit."
"Haha, cockpit!" Georgie started to giggle again, her plump breasts jiggling on her chest. I shook my head but could not help a wry smile. "I think that would be my ultimate fantasy," she sighed, calming down.
"Flying a jet?"
"No. Not flying a jet. Having someone 'fly my jet.' Or, more precisely, having someone down there who actually knew what they were doing."
"That's your greatest sexual fantasy?"
"Hell, yes. In fact, I'd settle for someone who could accept direction and not take it as some sort of fatal wound to their male pride."
"Shit, I'd love directions when I'm going down on a girl. A map, GPS coordinates, I'd even take a compass if it was offered."
Georgie grinned and asked, "So what's your ultimate sexual fantasy then?"
I shook my head, "You'll judge me."
"I won't."
"It's a cliche. You hate cliches."
"No!" Her eyes widened.
"Yup."
"Isn't it kind of... gross?"
"The heart wants what the heart wants."
"And you've never?"
I shook my head sadly.
"Not even with Sally Higgins? I heard she gave up the ass to half the football team."
"Serve me right for playing soccer," I sighed.
"What is it with guys and anal? I mean, an asshole can't feel as good as a pussy."
I shrugged, "I honestly can't say because I've never tried it. It's the mystery I think," I gazed wistfully towards the horizon before continuing, "And because it's something different. But mostly it's because it's the one thing we can almost never have. Just once I'd like to try it. Is that so bad?" I delivered the end of this speech like I was in front of a crowd, fighting for human rights.
"Okay, you've convinced me," she laughed, holding her sides, "Is it too late to change mine?"
"Are you serious?"
Her hands played with the string holding her bikini cups together. "As you said, I want to try it. You know me, I'll try anything once."
"Ha," I scoffed, "And how's that worked out for you in the past?"
Her dark eyes narrowed as she replied coldly, "My ankle tattoo of Pickle Rick is a conversation starter."
"It looks like a grinning turd."
"Exactly. Some of my most interesting conversations with strangers have started with those exact words."
It was my turn to laugh. Wiping at my eyes I said, "I wish they made more girls like you, George. Funny and willing to take it in the ass. You're the perfect woman."
"I cook too."
