Timmy #01: My Teasing Sister

Teased by My Older Sister

Saturday

The nights are killing me. It’s hot. So fucking hot. I use my fan, but that’s not enough. Our central air conditioning doesn’t work at the moment, and instead of fixing it, Mom told us to suffer in silence after my older sister called her cheap for not getting on the phone with a repairman right away. I think my sister meant it as a joke, but she’s a bitch; what can I say. Mom didn’t come from money—she’s earns hers—and she said, “If I could take it when I was a kid, then so can you guys.” I don’t know why that has to apply to me. I wasn’t the one who made the joke.

Fuck my life.

Monday

Why am I revisiting my old journal? I don’t know. Maybe I need something to do other than thinking about all the sex I’m not getting in my life.

Who am I as of this writing? It’s been two years since I wrote anything in my journal. I’ve changed.

I’m eighteen years old, and I’m the meat of a girl-boy-girl triplet sandwich. I’ve gone over my past entries, and it’s nothing but “What do I want to be when I grow up” and “I think that the so and so likes me” and “My older sister is a bitch” and “Why couldn’t my younger sister have been a younger brother?”

I think I should update my family status since it’s been a while since I wrote anything down.

Diana is the oldest triplet; she looks older as well. She’s looked like a woman since forever. My friends say that she’s all woman: tits and ass and legs and abs and a volleyball player’s body that belongs on a bikini calendar—and I tell them to shut the fuck up. They’ll talk about every part of my sister’s body until every single one of us has to nut.

Abbey is the youngest triplet. She’s a cutie, I guess, who likes to follow me around when she’s not skating with every tomboy in our high school. Oh, yeah, she’s a skater with no tits—I’m not looking—but I told her that one day for some reason, and I still tell her she has no tits because it makes us laugh. With her short blonde hair and light freckles, she could pass for a boy underneath her baseball cap, and it’s too bad she’s not a boy because I don’t think a tomboy sister can replace a younger brother.

The funny thing—it wasn’t funny at the time—is that Abbey is a year behind Diana and me in school, despite being a fucking genius. Our Dad, wherever he may be, had custody of her when we were younger. I don’t know what kind of dumb fuck judge splits up triplets, but this one did. Dad enrolled Abbey in school a year after Mom enrolled Diana and me—I think he did it to piss Mom off—then, he just gave up custody of Abbey and disappeared. Abbey has been following us around ever since.

Mom is thirty-eight or thirty-nine, I don’t know. I won’t remember until her next birthday. I don’t know why I keep forgetting her age. She looked, I don’t know, thirty-ish. She’s divorced, and she likes to dress up and workout because she saw an infomercial about toned-up MILFs, or maybe she was watching porn. She does that and sometimes I can hear it through our shared wall. Anyway, Mom decided that she wanted a fit, mature, cougar body capable of hunting down a young cub. When it comes to the girls, Diana takes after Mom, while Abbey takes after our Dad’s leanish, somewhat boyish, mother.

This is strange to write, but there’s a difference between a fit, almost forty-year-old woman and an eighteen-year-old girl. No, I don’t compare Mom’s and Diana’s bodies, not really, but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice them. Both are in great shape, but the body of an older woman is different. An older body is more weathered, the flesh slightly looser, clinging to the muscles underneath so that there’s more of a ripple when they move, and their skin doesn’t hold the glow of youth the way it once did. The contrast between my sister’s and my mother’s bodies is incomparable: I couldn’t tell you which one is hotter, not that I ever think about it. But if I had to choose ... Why am I writing this down? (I was watching porn earlier, that’s why, and this step-incest is the flavor of today.)

Fuck it. If I had to choose...

My older sister is a bitch.

My mother is not a bitch.

My mom wins—end of story.

Why the fuck am I writing about my family like this? I’ve been watching too much of that show Game of Thrones again, and I’ve wanted to bang Lena Headey since the show first aired. Too bad she didn’t do some hot sex scenes with her twin in that show. She’s about as hot as a woman can get. She kind of looks like an older version of Abbey. I can tell that Miss Headey has been hitting the gym during the last season of that show, and there’s a sexy thinness to her that borders on lean without being cut. All right, I’m ending this entry; I need to go jerk off again.

Thursday

Something I’m not proud of happened today. It’s summer. It’s hot. Summer classes are over at noon, and then I workout with the wrestling team if I want to—those who aren’t in other sports—and then I go home. Today, I went straight home, having to ask my older sister for a ride. I’d have a car right now if I hadn’t failed my driver’s test twice. I have a license—the third time is a motherfucking charm—but Mom is still making me wait till the end of the year before she’ll buy me a car, unless I want to get a job and buy my own, which I’m considering...

Anyway, Mom can understand someone failing a test once, but twice? That’s heresy in my house. I guess her feelings are fair. I should have taken the responsibility of driving more seriously. Oh, and then there was that one time I borrowed my mother’s car without permission, so that might have something to do with it.

Funny thing, Abbey has a license, but she’s never asked for a car, and Mom offered to buy her one. Her skateboard or bike has always been good enough. She had wanted a motorcycle, still does, but Mom isn’t going to buy her one of those.

What was I writing about again? Oh, yeah, I wasn’t proud of something. I was home. It was hot. There was no air conditioning, blah, blah, blah. Diana and I were in the living room. The young one was out doing tomboy stuff with her little boi friends, getting into trouble, breaking windows, making out, who knows—the things she thinks boys are supposed to be doing. Good for her.

We have a big living room. It’s open, with lots of space. There’s a long couch and two loveseats placed in a blocky U formation, along with a coffee table and a large smart TV, and a fireplace. There’s a lot of white in our house. The living room leads to the dining room, which wraps around to the kitchen, then to the great room that Mom call’s her ballroom, then to the foyer, and then we’re back at the living room once again. There’s a stairway that leads up to a second floor, and—why the fuck am I describing my home? I know what it looks like. Oh, yeah, right, because I don’t want to write what happened with Diana in the living room.

I wanted to watch TV. Anything, maybe a hot tub girl on Twitch or something on Youtube, I wasn’t sure. Diana was lying on one of the loveseats. She was wearing pink cotton boyshorts and a dark gray, cropped cotton tank top. Her long body looked even longer stretched across the loveseat. Her upper ribs shone the way a stripper’s ribs would—I don’t know why I thought of that when I was looking at her. I could see the gloss of whatever lotions she had used earlier in the day gleaming across her body. (Sometimes, I think I need a girlfriend.)