Chapter 8

We did not wake up in the night. I did not fuck each of them two more times before morning. It wasn’t an orgy.

Moreover, when we did finally wake, things seemed entirely normal. That is to say that the girls acted like it was entirely normal to wake up naked with me, their adolescent vaginas still slick with my sperm, and get up and get dressed as if nothing unusual had happened. There wasn’t even any cuddling before they threw back the covers and started getting dressed.

“I’m starving,” said Karla, as she opened the cooler.

“You’re never starving,” observed Sam, as she finished tying her boots.

“I am today,” said Karla.

“Big breakfast,” I said, sitting up. “No sense hauling things back in the cooler. May as well haul them in our stomachs.”

As I got dressed I watched the girls. they glanced at me, from time to time, but not with any specific intent. Neither tried to stare at the penis that had so recently violated them, even when I took the time to clean it off with the half-frozen washcloth from the whore’s baths the night before. Both seemed intent on cooking. Neither seemed to want to chat.

Once the food was ready, the meal proceeded with relative silence, as well. I finally got a little uneasy, because they were acting so unaffected by everything.

“Do we want to stay and try to catch fish to take home with us, or just pack up and go?” I asked.

“I don’t think Mom’s real big on fish,” said Karla.

“I’ve had enough fish to last me a while,” said Sam. She looked dead at me. “At least until next time.”

“I see,” I said.

I didn’t see at all. It felt like something was wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

It wasn’t until we were packed up and on the way back to the states that I finally found out what was going on.

What was going on was that both girls had finally realized how serious things had become.

Like typical teens, they didn’t have the mental capacity to reason how they might feel in the future, about something being driven by hormones. It wasn’t until they did it, that they could finally understand the consequences. It was a little like a group of boys who think jumping off a roof into a pile of leaves will be fun. Then they do it and re-evaluate things.

It was Karla who finally broke the silence.

“I didn’t know it would be like that,” she sighed.

“Like what?” I probed.

“I didn’t know how I’d feel.”

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Like a total, complete slut,” she sighed.

“You’re not a slut, Karla,” I said, feeling discomfort make my muscles tighten up.

“I know,” she said, looking out the window. “But I am.”

“Karla,” I said, trying to break her malaise. “All you did was have sex for the first time. It happens to every woman, sooner or later. It isn’t the end of the world. And it certainly doesn’t mean you’re a slut.”

“I know that,” said Karla. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then what are you talking about?” I asked, helplessly.

“I know what she’s talking about,” said Sam.

“Explain it to me, please,” I said.

“I feel the same way,” said Sam.

“I still don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” I groaned.

Sam looked over at me.

“If you pulled over right now and said we were going to have sex, I’d say, ‘Okay.’ I wouldn’t even try to talk you out of it. All you’ll ever have to do is crook your little finger at me and I’ll leave a trail of clothes behind me as I run towards you. I can’t wait until I feel that again. That makes me a slut.”

She sounded so resigned, so desultory, that I really started to get worried.

“You’re crazy,” I snorted. “You’re a teenager. You’re both teenagers. You’re chock full of hormones. This is what I tried to warn you about. There’s nothing wrong with you, except that you’re too young to run blindly into the minefield that sex can be. You’re not sluts. You just get horny.”

“I’m not horny to have sex with anybody but you, Uncle Bob,” said Karla. “Only you.”

“Well there you go, then,” I said, triumphantly. “A slut will have sex with anybody, and you don’t want to do that, so therefore you cannot, by definition, be a slut.”

“We’re sluts for you,” said Sam, who apparently wanted to believe she was a slut.

“Look,” I said. “I tried to talk you guys out of this. I said it was wrong. I said it would cause trouble. Well, welcome to trouble, ladies. You wanted to be all grown up. Now you are. You have to move on. Life isn’t over. Get a grip!”

“I didn’t say my life was over,” said Karla, calmly.

“Good,” I said, firmly.

“All I said was that I’m a slut.”

By the time we got home, I knew I was in trouble. Neither girl had snapped out of it. Both were still all introspective and acting like they were depressed. Well, maybe not depressed, but entirely too quiet. This had been Karla’s first ice fishing trip, and I knew Gloria was going to be eager to hear about it, if only to enjoy things vicariously. But what she was going to get back were two morose daughters, unwilling to talk about anything that had happened during the last three days.

What I was returning to her, were two girls who thought they were sluts. That couldn’t go well.

And it did not. The girls did brighten up, but if I could tell it was fake, their mother would have no trouble at all. Gloria was a strong woman, who had been through adversity of horrifying depths. I saw the concern on her face, but she didn’t wade into things prying open closed doors and trying to solve whatever was wrong.

“You must be tired,” she said. “And I bet you both want a nice, hot, shower.”

“Yes!” said Karla, finally exhibiting something like enthusiasm.

“Well, go do that. I’ll help Bob unload your stuff,” she said.

The girls went off to get back to what they felt like was normal, in terms of hygiene, and Gloria turned to me.

“What happened?”

I’d had hours to think about what I’d say, but it all vanished from my head in an instant.

“It’s complicated,” I said. I winced, mentally. What kind of answer was that?

All that would do was invite more questions. “They’re teenagers,” I tossed off, quickly.

“I see,” said Gloria. It didn’t sound like she meant it.

“We didn’t sleep very well,” I said. “It was cold.”

“Did you catch fish?”

“Oh yeah, we got plenty of those,” I said. “They’re girls, though.”

I said it as if that might explain everything, but what I had been thinking was about what had happened because they were girls ... and I was a man.

“Yes,” said Gloria. “They are.”

“I’m tired, too,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay,” said Gloria. “Later.”

I later found out that two things gave us away.

The first was that I couldn’t look at Gloria. I looked everywhere else and she knew me well enough to know that meant something was wrong. That made her curious.

What made her more curious was that her daughters had no trouble looking her in the eye. They weren’t communicative about things, which was off, but they didn’t act guilty ... like I had.

The second thing, which “satisfied” her curiosity, was after the girls crashed and Gloria started picking up after them. They’d left their clothes lying on the floor in their eagerness to get into a hot shower (which I also found out later they had taken together) and, as she picked them up to get a load of laundry going, she picked up two pairs of panties that weren’t dry and fluffy like panties are supposed to be. Gloria brought them close enough to her face that the distinctive scent of “male” was detected, and the jig was up. It wasn’t that the panties were sperm-soaked, or anything like that. But a little sperm still puts off an identifiable odor.

Semen also stains things in ways that a woman of experience can recognize easily.

We’d gotten home around two-thirty. The girls were exhausted. It was probably more mentally than physically, but after their shower, they crawled into clean beds to take a nap. That’s where they were when their mother went to get an explanation about the panties. I could not tell you why she didn’t wake them up and demand answers.

All I know is that she decided that going to my house to get them was the better idea.

As it happened, I was still in the shower when she got there. She didn’t ring the bell. We were too frequent visitors to each other’s houses for that formality to have stuck around. She walked in like she lived there, and in her agitation, hunted until she found me.

“Bob!” she shouted, on the other side of the shower curtain.

“Gloria?” I gasped.

The curtain was unceremoniously ripped to the side. I turned automatically to face her. She was holding the panties, one pair in each hand. Oddly, I remember one pair was light blue, and the other maroon.

“You want to tell me what the fuck this is?” she yelled.

It is ironic that the kind of chaos that can completely change the world you are living in, also brings everything to a screeching halt while the change is happening. What is actually happening is that you are in the midst of the fight or flight syndrome, but neither fighting nor flight are viable options at the moment. A natural disaster will do it. Hunkering down in the basement while a tornado wanders over your house is a good example.

Of course most people never find themselves embroiled in that kind of chaos. That’s why, when something happens, we aren’t ready for it, not trained for it. Panic ensues and if there’s no viable action that can be taken, paralysis can result.

Of course I wasn’t thinking philosophically, at that moment, the moment Gloria ripped my shower curtain almost off the rings and waved two pair of panties at me like a witch doctor gesticulating with magic rattles. Now that I think about it, she was hopping from one foot to the other, gyrating as if she was dancing. But she was just too full of emotion and her own fight or flight hormones were in play. She wasn’t engaged in some rite. She had fled, not from danger but towards what her mind told her would be answers. The problem was that she already had the answers. She had been in relationships. She knew why people decided to have sex. It happened all the time. It was one of the big five: Eat; drink; find shelter; establish safety ... and reproduce.

Perhaps that’s why, instead of attacking me, she just slumped, sitting on the floor, and stared at nothing. The chaos in her mind paralyzed her, too.

My own paralysis only lasted a few seconds, but it departed in stages. I turned off the water and then stood there, dripping, just looking at her. Her ritual chicken feet ... er, the panties ... lay on the floor on either side of her, still clutched in numb hands. She looked up at me, but wasn’t seeing anything in that room. I’m not even sure she was looking at anything on the planet. Her eyes had that far away look, of eyes seeing a memory. The mind is a time machine, and can take us to either the past or future. Neither actually exists in time and space. They are on some alternate plane of reality. When we use that time machine, some part of us is on an alternate plane of reality. Maybe that’s where string theory comes into things.

Anyway, I finally moved, stepping out of the shower. I reached for a towel, but it wasn’t to dry off. It was because my nudity registered. At the same time I saw a runnel of water meandering its way toward Gloria’s bottom. Quite a lot of water had sprayed out into the room when the shower curtain got displaced. Don’t ask me why, but the thought of Gloria’s ass getting wet was uncomfortable. I reached to pull her up, but she was dead weight. So the towel - that one, at least - went to block the flow of impending discomfort.

One form of paralysis comes when you want to take action, but can’t. I mentioned fight or flight. The latter is pretty simple. You just change locations. The former is more complicated. “Fighting” can have many definitions. In my case, “fighting” involved picking Gloria up off the wet floor and moving her to the bedroom. Once there, I stood for a few seconds, unsure of what to do with her. She wasn’t limp. In fact her body was fairly tense. The only place I could set her down was the bed, but that didn’t feel right. I actually considered taking her to another room to find a chair to put her in, but then the time machine in my head played out me, putting her down and stepping back, stark naked. For some reason, in this future vision, I had an erection.

As I stepped back from depositing her on the edge of my bed - it wasn’t a conscious decision to put her there - I looked down and, sure enough, I had a fucking boner. I stood there, staring at it, wondering why on Earth that had happened. I have since heard that soldiers in battle sometimes find themselves with erections in their pants. It has something to do with heightened emotion or something. They’re called reflex erections, and I had one.

Of course neither Gloria nor I knew anything about reflex erections at that time. What that left us with is what you would probably think if you saw some naked guy with a stiffy, standing in front of a woman who was sitting on a bed, holding two pair of panties.

It was at this point that my mind started to actually break down what was happening, and tried to assign some meaning to it. I had a few clues. The panties were big clues, but we’d only been back from the trip for an hour. There was no way my mind could manufacture a vision in which the girls went sobbing to their mother, telling her everything about the whole debauched weekend.

“Are you going to rape me, too?” asked Gloria. Her voice wasn’t angry or even defensive. It was the voice a good actor portrays when she asks, “Are you going to shoot me, too?”

The little pieces of meaning my mind had been trying to assemble fell apart like a house of cards. At the same time, the purpose of her visit became clear. She knew. I didn’t know how she found out, but she knew.

“I didn’t rape anybody!“ I blurted.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me you only jerked off into their panties,” she said. Her voice got stronger and her eyes took on a bright aspect. They were looking at me, in the here and now.

“Let me get dressed,” I said, painfully aware that my erection was just as stark and strong as it had ever been in my whole life. My mind wandered a bit as it reminded me my boner was just as hard as it had been when it slid happily into this woman’s daughters.

She stood up.

“No!” she yelled.

I froze.

She sat back down. Then she flung both pair of panties at me. She’s right-handed, so only that pair hit me. On the chest, as it happened. It was the maroon pair and they fell instantly. Ironically, the only thing in their way as gravity tried to claim them was my jutting prick. They draped themselves over it and hung there. It looked like I was prepared to take a photograph and send it to my lover.

Or something.

Chaos like that cannot sustain itself for long. Even the energy in a tornado seeks to find equilibrium as nature tries to balance things out. I reached to undrape my penis, which felt odd because I wanted to cover it up, and in the process, saw the same evidence Gloria had seen. Clarity sprang into my mind like a tiger, jumping on a rabbit.

“I didn’t rape them,” I said, again.

“I know,” she said, through gritted teeth.

“Can I please put something on?” I suggested.

“No,” she said, immediately. “They saw you this way ... didn’t they.”

It wasn’t a question. So I didn’t answer it.

“I can explain,” I said. That was a laugh. I couldn’t explain this if I wrote a whole book.

“No you can’t,” she said. She was just as sharp as I was.

She stood up, again.

“But they can,” she snarled.

And with that she stomped out of my bedroom. I heard footfalls and then the front door slamming.

I had just pulled a T shirt over my still-damp hair when the phone rang. It was Gloria.

“I forgot the fucking panties. Bring them over here.”

The phone went dead.

It’s only eighty or so feet from my front door to Gloria’s. I’d walked that path hundreds of times before, maybe thousands. In the past that little walk had taken a maybe half a minute. I suspect my step was bouncy, all those times. I was always eager to get to her house, even if the only reason was to repair something. I liked going there.

This time it seemed to take half an hour, as if I was suspended in a sea of honey or molasses. The panties were balled up in my pocket. It felt like the windows of the house were eyes, that were watching hungrily as their prey inched towards the waiting maw of the front door/mouth that would soon swallow me. I felt like I would never come back out of that house. Was this what death row inmates felt on their last walk?

Finally the door was there, inches away. Did I knock? Did I just walk in, like I’d done those hundreds of times before? Did I enter with loud wailing and gnashing of teeth, begging forgiveness and offering to take whatever punishment was my due? My hand was poised to knock when it occurred to me that maybe Gloria had only called me there to return the panties ... the evidence of the crime. She’d said something about getting an explanation from the girls. The prosecutor needed the evidence to point to as she paced, asking her probing questions, demanding answers to tough questions, exposing the truth to the cold light of day. The jury ... or judge, in this case ... needed to hear the whole sordid story, to expose the depth of depravity of the offender, so that justice could be properly served. Had I been asked to bring to court the very evidence that would convict me?

The door whipped open and I jumped. Gloria frowned at me.

“Don’t just stand there!” she barked.

I went in. Samantha and Karla were sitting on the couch, side by side, primly on the edge of the seat, their knees together and their hands on those knees. There was a look of apprehension on their faces, but it was obvious the interrogation hadn’t started yet. That they were sitting so close together was simply the product of knowing something was wrong, but not what it was. They always drifted close together in tense situations.

Gloria simply held out one hand. She put the other on her hip.

I dug the panties out of my pocket, but kept them tightly enclosed in my fist.

“I can explain,” I tried.

“You can give me the panties and shut up and sit down,” said Gloria.

“Panties?” came a voice from the couch. It sounded like Sam, but I wasn’t sure.

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Ice Fishing With the Twins

Lubrican

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