Chapter 9

Over the course of the next year or so, Lily underwent a big growth spurt. She got a lot taller; not quite as tall as I, but standing, we could now almost look each other straight in the eyes. She’d been a little chubby her whole life (and how often I’d luxuriated in her soft belly, feeling its gentle protuberance, watching it jiggle a little when she walked naked in front of me, watching it bunch up when she bent over), but now her tummy flattened out. It was still soft but no longer jiggly; no matter, still nice to touch, to look at, to rest my face upon.

Her breasts, which so recently had been mere swellings with pink nipples in the center, had grown into small, pert cones, and much to Lily’s annoyance, our mom had insisted that she start wearing a bra. Putting it on in front of me on the first school morning that she wore it - it was a sort of stretchy thing, not really what I thought bras were based on my limited understanding of the topic - she complained bitterly that it was uncomfortable, unnecessary, and ugly. I reassured her that it was at the very least not ugly; she looked nice standing there with her breasts outlined by the material.

I still marveled that our parents had not interfered with our long-standing habit of bedding together, despite Lily’s “developing” as Mom put it delicately. I had a sneaking suspicion that they probably still imagined that we slept in pajamas, as we had so many years ago when Lily began coming into my room. True, it had been Mom who, on that hot night during the blackout, suggested that we sleep in our underwear, but it wasn’t clear to me that she knew we had continued that habit after the heat wave, and indeed eventually progressed to full nudity. (I still kept my briefs handy in the bed every night, with the somewhat silly idea that I could pull it on if we were ever interrupted by, say, a knock at the door, but no one had ever knocked.)

Now, looking back on it, I think our parents simply had a mental short-circuit about this. They remembered us sleeping cuddled up in our PJs when Lily was little and I wasn’t so big myself; even the blackout summer, Lily hadn’t even begun to “develop,” so sleeping almost bare in each other’s arms could still be seen as purely innocent. I believe our parents still had that image in their minds, even as Lily’s growth (and mine) became impossible to ignore, and after so many years it was so firmly established that we spent each night together that it never occurred to them to question it. They had always given us our privacy and so they had no idea that were sleeping naked every night, masturbating each other before we fell asleep, bathing together when they were out, and otherwise “up to no good” (“no good” — what a strange way to express the best thing that had ever happened to me!)

In any case, it was not just just a matter of physical changes. Lily, always somewhat quiet and meek, was becoming more assertive. Especially with Mom, she would get into arguments, usually about things that — to me — seemed trivial, clothes and hairstyle and whether she was allowed to paint her nails exotic colors like the girls at school and so on.

When she was younger, she’d always let Mom do all her shopping, but now she was experimenting with different looks. In the summer, she finally persuaded Mom to let her go out and buy a new outfit on her own. Mom was OK with it as long as I went with her (I’d been taking the subway by myself for a few years as my school was downtown), and gave her enough to buy something (I assumed - I had no idea how much clothes cost).

We took a train all the way down to Canal Jeans in Greenwich Village, a store that I had heard about at school but had never been to myself. Fashion was far from my interests. Lily spent an excited hour or so browsing, picking out bottoms and tops and asking me what I thought; I tried to give my honest opinions although, really, I didn’t care all that much; as long as it was Lily under the clothes, she could wear what she wanted as far as I was concerned.

Finally she settled on a pair of jeans that looked to me like they had been worn out but were apparently new, and a loose-fitting top that looked like it would fall off her shoulder any minute and revealed a lot when she bent over. In short, pretty much what most of the girls at my school were wearing; I didn’t know how it was in Lily’s set but imagined that her friends would applaud her choice.

As it turned out, even at Canal Jeans, a relatively inexpensive store, she didn’t have quite enough to pay for the clothes and some accessories she chose, but fortunately I had brought enough to supplement what Mom had given her. After the purchase, we walked around the village, hand in hand, as if we were a couple, not siblings. When I look back at the relatively few snapshots we had from that era, it seems to me that our family resemblance must have been evident to anyone who glanced at us, but I wasn’t thinking about that then. It seemed to me that here, a half-hour subway ride from where we lived, there was no risk at all in publicly demonstrating the love and affection that I felt for Lily, which usually we reserved for when we were alone in our room.

We meandered over to the West Village, stopped into a café and I ordered coffee, which I rarely drank, and hot chocolate - with whipped cream - for Lily, along with some fancy pastries. I felt terribly grown up, taking my beloved out on a date. We sat at a rickety table on frayed chairs, side by side, and I put my arm around her shoulder, casually draping my hand over her right breast. She leaned her head on my shoulder and looked utterly content.

The café was full of college students, who paid us no mind. But when, after we’d finally had enough cuddling, we got up and left, a scruffy-looking young man sitting at a table on the sidewalk with a frayed backpack on the chair next to him wolf-whistled as we walked out the door next to him. We both looked back in shock and he said, in a low voice, “Nice ass!” I felt irrationally angry on Lily’s behalf (although now, 40 years later, I wonder whether he was referring to Lily’s ass or mine!) but she seemed unconcerned. It was getting late, and we walked quickly back to the Astor Place station to head back home.

When we got home dinner was almost ready, so we set the table and ate. Afterwards Lily went to change into her new outfit, then emerged, proudly showing it off as we sat at the dining room table. A big argument broke out. Even Dad, who usually kept out of Lily’s spats with Mom over clothing, huffed and puffed objections of the “no daughter of mine will go out in that outfit” sort. Mom simply kept repeating, “You are not wearing that, and that’s final.” Lily kept asking why, but no explanation was forthcoming. I tried to come to her defense, pointing out that this was completely normal attire for girls at my school, but Mom shut me down immediately: “Lily is four years younger than you, and even if girls your age do dress inappropriately, that doesn’t make it right.” Finally, the argument going nowhere, Lily returned to her own room, slammed the door, and sulked.

I waited a few minutes, then knocked on her door, but heard “Go away!” “It’s me, Lily,” I said, just loud enough for her to hear. She came and opened the door, and I went in, shutting it behind me. Her face was puffy; she had been crying, though she almost never did. Awkwardly, I put my arms around her and held her close, and she put her head on my shoulder and began sobbing again. I felt the old protectiveness surging up in me; I wanted to defend her from the irrationality of the outside world, to escape with her to where it was only us two and we could live in each other’s arms forever.

To my dismay, I was hardening as I felt her tears wet my neck. I’d long ago stopped trying to conceal my erections from Lily but this one felt totally inappropriate and I did my best to hold myself away from her so she wouldn’t feel it. When she calmed down a little, we went over to her bed and lay down. I stroked her cheek and she gazed into my eyes, still hiccuping from time to time.

We said nothing, but after a while I started making funny faces at her and she cracked up. We lay there, holding each other the way we always did, then I felt an urge to do something I had never, ever done in all these years: I kissed her on the lips. I was acting on instinct; I’d never kissed anyone. But Lily responded immediately, holding the kiss, then opening her mouth a bit so that our tongues touched. We lay there, reveling in the new sensation.

I’d learned in health class that the lips are the most sensitive part of the body, with over a million nerve endings, far more than in the fingertips or even the genitals. In my mind I had pooh-poohed this information - you’re telling me that my lips, which at most hurt a little when they got chapped in the winter, are more sensitive than my fingertips that I touch my sister all over with every night, feeling every tiny nuance of her body? More sensitive than her clitoris, which I gently rub until she dissolves into a puddle of ecstasy? More sensitive than my penis, which she encircles with her fingers every night and strokes until, with a mighty surge of joy, the semen rises from within and comes spurting out? And yet, lying next to her, my lips to hers, playfully fighting her tongue with mine, I could almost believe it. The feeling was exquisite, and it was totally new. It felt like we were changing the rules once again.