The bus stop is a couple of blocks from Beth and Tom’s townhouse, and, unused to dressing up, I’m a little self-conscious walking along the sidewalk in my silver-blue stilettos and short slinky gown, which is more sleepwear than dress. Knowing I’m not one to own fancy evening wear, Beth had sent me the outfit, including the shoes. It had to do with the play she was in. I’d practiced walking in them a couple of days so I wouldn’t make a fool of myself.

Now, with each step, I’m gaining confidence. Beth’s doorway is but five houses down. I could be a runway model. When I lengthen my stride, I feel a slight tug at my hip. Oh oh. The gown is so short and so sheer bottoms are required, lest my muffin be on display, but the only suitable panties I own are really bikini bottoms, which fasten with tiny strings at the side, and I never was much good at knots. I slow my pace.

Up ahead is a dog nosing a lemonade stand manned by a couple of girls. I stride bravely past them. One of the girls giggles and stage whispers “pink ass wear.” I turn to look. A mistake. I trip, whether over my own feet or the dog, I’m not sure. I hit the ground hard and my bottoms snap free and a split second later the dog snatches them and gallops off. Unbelievable.

I manage to get up, smooth myself off, and with as much dignity as I can muster, hobble the last few steps to Beth’s front door. I take a deep breath before ringing the bell. Belatedly, I realize that what the girl said might not have been “pink ass wear” at all. She was probably saying “pinkie swear.” I’m faintly amused that this expression is still around. My little sister Beth (sixteen minutes younger than me and as unidentical as can be) and I used to say that all the time, although I have no memory of exactly what we were swearing to.

Well, I do remember one time when Beth and I were barely teens. She was staring intently at the screen of her laptop. “Look at this, Avi,” she said to me, pointing at the picture of a guy’s erection. “This can’t be real. I can’t believe it will go in.”

At that time, having had no first-hand experience of my own, I said, “What are you doing? If Mom finds out you’re looking at that, she’ll...”

“She won’t find out,” Beth said. “But there’s no way it would fit. It’s too tight even for my pinkie.”

I couldn’t help but picture the ever-precocious Beth testing her vagina with her little finger. I blushed. In truth, I too wondered how something as big as a male member could squeeze into that forbiddingly snug and secret place. It didn’t seem possible. Then again, I knew babies came out. I didn’t want to think about that.

I don’t remember what I told Beth. Probably nothing. Or maybe something stupid like, “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.” I guess back then I wasn’t a very good big sister.

By some standards I was a great role model. I worked hard in school, got good grades, went to college, and got a job as a clerk at a drug store. I seldom dated, then only with the most reputable of boys. Meanwhile Beth was not just precocious but promiscuous, going to wild parties in high school, dropping out of college after a year to become a painter’s model, moving on to become a fashion model and then an actress. I was a senior in college when she needed an abortion. I made inquiries of the druggist and found her a reputable doctor. Doctor Thomas Martin. Half a year later she had a baby, Andy, and a husband, Doctor Tom. “I’ve given up the wild life,” she told me, “I’m a family girl now.” But now that Andy is almost six months old, Beth’s gone back to the theater. She has a small role in a play which is opening tonight, something called The Pajama Game, and front row tickets for Tom and me.

As soon as I step through the front door, I know something’s amiss. Beth confirms it a second later. “The baby-sitter came down with the flu—I just found out. Oh, Avis, we’ll never get another one on such short notice.”

“Can’t you call Mom?” I suggest.

“Who do you think has the flu?” Beth answers.

Both Tom and Beth insist that I go to the play and Tom stay home with little Andy, but I won’t hear of it.

“You’re sure?” Beth says.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” I assure her. “ I don’t get nearly enough time with your beautiful boy.” Secretly I am thankful I won’t have to tell Beth I need to borrow a pair of panties.

“But you look so daringly delicious,” Beth says, no doubt having seen through my charade as well as the nearly diaphanous front of the gown. “Such a shame, right Tom?”

“Right,” Tom agrees, his eyes aimed at my pubis. “A shame.”

Eventually they relent, and a few minutes later, they’re on their way, leaving me alone with baby Andy and a list of instructions and phone numbers.

Andy is truly a beautiful little boy, full of smiles and gurgles. I take him down to the playroom where I read him books and we roll around on the rug until he’s good and tired, after which I take him back upstairs and give him his bath. I’m careful to wrap a towel over my dress so it won’t get wet with the splashing. After the bath, it’s time for his bottle, and when he’s sated, I kiss each of his ten toes ten times, then for good luck kiss his adorable belly button. Finally, I fit him into a fresh diaper and fire truck jammies, and within minutes of me putting him down in his crib, he’s asleep. Such a sweet kid. It almost makes me think I might some day have a little one of my own. Naw. For one thing, while I was kissing his belly button, he peed on my gown. I’m sure it’s ruined, but I take it off, rinse it thoroughly in the bathtub, and drape it over the shower door to dry.

But now I’m naked. I explore Beth’s chest of drawers, thinking I might find an old nightgown to wear. In the top drawer is a mesh sweater which might do the trick. I slip into it. It’s gauzy, almost like wearing a cloud, but it’s comfy and I leave it on.

I’m shuffling through the underwear drawer looking for something a little more modest than the bikinis and thongs Beth seems to favor, when I uncover the biggest dildo I’ve ever seen, not that I’ve seen all that many dildos. To tell the truth I’ve never seen any in real life. This one is gigantic, and it is a gleaming plastic pink, firm but resilient. It is not really shaped like a penis, more like a sleek but fat flashlight with a bulbous head. I’m not sure why, but I find it attractive. I spend some time admiring the look and feel of it. I can’t believe it is something the new “family Beth” would actually use, but then she does have it in her dresser drawer.