I had turned the clock off, set it for thirty more, and say. "Want me to keep this up till we cum, or do you want me to fuck you hard?"
Jean says. "Keep loving us; just move a little faster, baby.''
I do, we did, we came, did not stop, ended up fucking hard and fell asleep, and the alarm went off. We dressed, kept looking at each other, put on our shoes, and put the mowers back. We were back in our beds, and hours later, it was time for breakfast and coffee, and our families drifted back to our lives, heading to our lives and homes, two weeks out of the year we spend these weeks together. Then, it's time to go home, back to school and everyday life. I had no idea this would be our last family holiday. Jean and I did that; we will have to own it someday.
We talk weekly by phone; Jean lives with her Dad just north of the new airport place called the Woodlands, an hour's drive from my house. We tell our running times and bench weights first, and when people around us get bored and leave, we talk about ourselves. Once a week is not enough. Younger folks who grew up with everyone having their phone in their pocket. We had a few different things in the 1970s: one house, one Family, and one phone. Then Jean's folks divorced, then mine. Phones changed almost overnight. Black telephones were the only color available, now came in two colors and two kinds, then three. House phones changed, and most homes had at least two phones. If you had teenagers, it started being a thing. That long cord fifteen to twenty-five feet long cables meant I could talk from my room or phone niche in the middle of the hallway. The phone had a shelf. Or you could install plugs to move the phone from room to room, but that costs extra.
Jean's phone-talking position was sitting upside down in a chair. I started taking heat about being on the phone all the time. My mom made me pay the phone bills; our bill was billed by the minute in a month. My allowance was insufficient to cover the cost; it ran thirty bucks I received only twenty. We were learning about fire science or what our workout schedule was. We talked for hours about what we wanted shortly with each other or if it was a pipe dream.
We came close to discovering phone sex, but almost getting caught was enough never to try again. Let me explain my grandparents were not wealthy, but the sale of the family homestead, an old farm it was once five hundred acres of prime Brazos river bottom farm land. The money for the farm sale was placed into a fund that paid for every kid's college since my Dad and his three sisters. So if we got caught having sex of any kind with Family, I know for a fact my cousin who was gay was after he was arrested with men in an after-hours nightclub, his college money dried up, and I had not seen Bobby in four years now he moved to the west coast.
I got a job after school sacking groceries at the local Food City; my favorite part of my day was to make extra pay to stock the shelf's after the store doors closed. For two hours, they paid double and nothing but moving hundreds of pounds a night. I got to pick up boxes of soup weighing in at almost sixty pounds, each four cases per box, twenty-four cans a case. It was like getting paid to work in a weight room.
Jean had a part-time job also; I mean, you got a job, but she worked in her Dad's office pushing papers, but I saw her calendar. She's up to a six-mile run every other day, and I'm having trouble at five, and she's getting in two hours more time in the weight room a week.
Having completed the textbook front to back, my buddy Terry next door is a working fireman. He showed me his four-year-old test to the local school, and Jean and I took his test we both passed. All that's left is five flights of stairs, a five story ladder, with one hundred pounds of hose, and a human body double one hundred twenty pounds down the five flights, and we bust the door into a teargas room having to do a child's plastic puzzle in the gas and exit. I called my Grandfather and asked him if he knew anyone from the local school. I like us to run the course to see what we need to work harder on. Four months of Physical Training Jean and I will run the course this weekend as she moves to her Aunt's here in town for the summer.
My Dad took us there, says. "Sorry, kids, I had to work, and call him at the office for the ride home."
We put on our kits. Jean has her hair up in a ponytail, and we add black face paint under our eyes to cut the glare and make it easier to see under the helmet face shield also made her look under a fireman's mask and helmet and a bit less like a girl.
We waited our turn, and it came slowly; we waited for two hours, and we were told ten minutes before our run time, we would warm up and stretch. Nobody else did; they went hard and cold most failed. So, first, I go up the five-story ladder with a hundred pounds hoses and down with the hundred-twenty lbs dummy. I made it through a door with my ax, went into the teargas's room, and did not make it out again.
I could not see or catch my breath. I was done on the ground; nothing would get me to move black snot was running out my nose. My eyes were on fire tears leaking like my puppy died, making it hard to catch my breath as I coughed up my lungs. I never felt done in before.
Someone poured water into my eyes; it helped a bit. I saw Jean through tears in my eyes, going up the ladder her turn, and you were halfway up. She slowed to a near stop carrying the coiled firehose. I ripped my kit off, ran up the stairs next to the ladder, poked my head out a window, and yelled. "You weak ass lazy pussy bitch move your lazy fucking ass." I cussed you.
You took a step sweat was pouring off you; it was dripping to the ground, falling like rain, then another step, more threats and more name-calling on my part. "Move your ass bitch!"
I'm up another flight of stairs. "Move your lazy ass." Another step, you're near the top, dropping the hose and steps off the ladder beat but not beaten. I want to hug and kiss you hard but I slap your arms through your slicker, getting blood into your arms instead. "Now move your ass, you lazy daughter of a bitch, god your hot," I said under my breath. You looked at me; your eyes opened wider, but you kept moving.
Your face showed me I am likely to pay for this; you pick up the dummy, you start your way down; you're not pretty right now, but you are fucking fantastic. You are just one of the guys, but the first flight is down. More cuss words, two more flights done, guys are chanting. "Move your ass, move! Move!"
One more flight, and I want to hold you. I see your pain. I am fucking crying as I scream at you. "Move your fucking ass Bitch."
You cross the line and lay down your dummy; your helmet falls off, your blond hair falls out, and grasps from most there but not one word.
Someone hands you a refillable sports bottle of water as you see at football games (folks, bottled water is hard to find in the 70s. It's all glass and just a few brands, hell plastic bottles were not seen much at the grocery store for a few more years yet).
Nobody has said a word; the gas room is all that's left, and you walk no you struggling to move to the building with each step. Putting your helmet back on and you swing for the door knob. My Dad told her that one and you were in, but she could not do the puzzle and exit like me, so we both failed our first test. A little woman seemed to hold her own and kicked that barefoot, pregnant kitchen to the curb. They had words for her, how dare she, and it was like they tried to break her.
A fire chief comes to me and says. "I saw your Ax, son; it looks gifted to you. May I see it? Damn, 1947, I was there that day, my first year on the job. I'm Pete Cappy Owen's; your Dad give this to you? What's you're name, son?''
"Dan Allan Bogart Sir. My Dad and Granddad were there that day; Sir, my Dad lost his best friend that day; it's an honor swinging it, Sir.'' I say.
Cappy Owen says. "What you did today, your Dad will hear about this. I want people like you two on my trucks. Get it done, son, now, what's your girlfriend's name, son?''
I say. "That's my cousin Jean, sir.''
It took him a second, like he was thinking about what he could say, or maybe should say your face had that look my Dad gets when he's not crazy about what I want to do or be, but he has my back.
Cappy Owen says. "Son, you and your lady will join the wife and me for dinner tomorrow night; we will pick you up. Is your Dad Bob, and is your grandfather fire Chief? Yeah, your folks will know how you pushed her son.''
I stood taller, sitting on the ground, but I say. "I, We err. No." I try to deny we are a thing.
Cappy Owen says. "Stop, son. You would not have done what you did today for just a cousin hell or a sister. I am on your side, son; now introduce me to your lovely 'Angel Cousin'.''
Pete Cappy Owen's was as good as his word; he picked us up and took us to a lovely house in a subdivision not that far away from us. His wife was a petite hot redhead.
Cappy says. "This is the couple from the fire school Ginger.''
His wife says, "You two are such a sweet couple; have you been together long? Do we, she asked?''
I was thrown back, and I say. "All of our lives, if my Dad and his sister get along, we have lots of time with each other. Yes, you do look happily married for years.''
Ginger says. "We are going to tell you something only three people know. You see, we are first Cousins; we have been living as a married couple for twenty-two years.''
Jean looked at me and burst into tears; she jumped into my arms, and we kissed each other, holding tight, noises or what was outside my field of view blurred. I, or instead, we saw nothing after that. We are led to the master bedroom, and the door is closed behind us. A bed was there, but a rug was closer, and closer was important.
