Mom was absolutely livid when I got home. She was sitting on the edge of my, our, the only bed. The sheets from this morning were where we had left them. In a damp pile on the floor nearby. She had figured out what was going on between us, my brother and I, in the little house half a mile from campus. I had a few minutes until my father arrived, she told me, I had better come up with an explanation. Think about what I was going to say to him, to both of them.

Was she asking me to lie? I certainly could have and a popular vote on the matter would probably say that I should have lied. I had a good many ‘good daughter’ points banked. My, our parents would have wanted to believe a semi-plausible lie. It was the only time that I was ever in our house that I was glad that Harry was not.

I decided not to go that way. Maybe it’s because I really value the truth. Certainly part of it is my faith, “This above all else, to thine own self be true,” the Bard summarizing several verses of Philippians. Partly because I know in my own heart. I ‘know’ I do not ‘merely think,’ that there is nothing ‘wrong’ as in immoral about my relationship with Harry. People hide lies, things that they are ashamed of or know to be wrong. But mostly it was because I love Harry. Harry was too important for me to me to deny it.

Our situation was at least partially mom’s fault. That was not bull shit. Not the discovery part. A psychologist would tell me that I had wanted to get caught, or that we both had wanted to get caught. We both knew that our ‘parental units’ had a key. They lived less than a half hour away in Kendall Lakes where we grew up.

Our home, it was their house, having been great-grandma’s before she went to meet Jesus two years ago. Either or both of us could have made it appear that we slept in separate beds, in separate rooms. Neither of us did. Maybe it was us growing up and not being willing to hide our love for each other anymore.

What was in my admittedly highly biased opinion mom’s and to a degree dad’s fault was something they should truly be proud of. She had raised a boy to be as close to perfect a man as anyone human might hope to. Harry. Harry was sweet and thoughtful, kind and considerate. He put my needs first, he took care of me. He was strong and reliable, driven and buff. He wasn’t unaware, a fool or a patsy. Nor was he arrogant or snooty, a jerk or an ass. He was ... Harry.

I loved Harry and mom raised him. Dad did too, but while mom taught us dad was working. Staying late to earn all of those Benjamins to fund our privileged life style. I know that’s a real ‘first world problem.’ I missed him and he missed a significant part of our growing up.

I get that while half of the sophomore girls at the University of Miami are schtupping ... My filmmaking professor taught us that word, I love it. Carol is schtupping Harry. This morning we shtupped in the shower before classes. Last night we shtupped in our bed. Once we schtupped on the kitchen counter, but the formica was really, really uncomfortable.

So while a lot of girls here are schtupping, fucking, sucking, sleeping with and even living with Senior boys, I just may be the only one schtupping her brother.

But mom hear me out on this. Harry is a catch. This is life not some sponsored on-air radio contest. Why should relatives and employees be prohibited from participating. Why should Harry be off-limits to me? Why should I, Carol your daughter whom you love have to settle for second, fifth or thirty-fifth best? Am I not worth the very best?

Why should Karen or Shelia be able to fuck Harry but not me? Mom, you can’t expect to raise a wonderful boy to become a terrific man, the perfect mate and potential husband, perfect partner and ideal prospect for a lifetime of happiness, then say that that dish is for another. Someone you don’t know and may not even like, and if you like her you may despise her parents. Like Michelle.

Mom you do not know Shelia or Karen like I do. I could tell you stories about them. But rather than drag them down I will just repeat a few things that you have said over the years about me. Nice things, kind things, true things. I don’t have to do I. I don’t have to tell you how wonderful Harry is. Well, maybe just a little. A little bit about how Harry is with me when we are together.

Harry pays attention to me. When we are together I am the center of his universe. I rarely have to ask him for anything because he just knows me so well. He pays attention to me and then he remembers, isn’t that exactly what every girl wants. Is that not exactly what you taught me to look for?

Mom, do you really want Monica or Michelle as a daughter in law? Do you really want Dave as a son in law? Really. If I married Dave do you honestly figure that at some point I would not be on my knees in the bathroom with his penis down my throat with me playing with his balls as he pushes on the back of my head. Me sticking my finger in his ass to find his prostate and pushing causing him to shoot his load down into your baby girl.

If Harry were not the one bending me over in our bed my face buried in a pillow. Harry sliding his wonderous penis wet from its recent fortay into my vagina. His penis wet coated in my fragrant lubricating pussy secretions. Harry slowly pushing himself into my ass, if he wasn’t the one pumping, grunting, slapping, pushing and finally coming. Squirting his hot essence into me, what would he and I be doing?

Don’t you really think we would just be doing the same things with other people who were less suitable matches. Or do you think I would be praying the rosary at a nun’s convent. A convent that I converted to Catholicism just to enter. Do you think Harry would be living in a cave. A sexless hermit. Is that what you would want for the two of us.

You said that picturing us together made you ill. Was it really us, or was it anyone? Does picturing Johnny fucking me make you less ill. Johnny who does not love me, who is unconcerned with giving me pleasure. Someone selfish who does not care about my needs. Is that who you want for me?

Someone whom unlike Harry would never carefully unfold my labia, sucking, licking, nibbling. Unlike Harry who drinks my juices as if they were superior to dad’s single malt scotch. Someone who would never find my pearl and entice it to come out, and then make me come just because he wants me to feel like ... Like ... That. Someone who selflessly just wants me to be happy.

Don’t you remember telling me to be careful whom I gave myself to? I was. Really careful. I had a checklist in my head. It was your checklist, because I paid attention to you. You, mom. Each boy I went out with had an honest chance to check all of the boxes and thus win the prize.