BLAKE

As a kid, I never gave much thought to Tanya and me walking around in our underpants until she started wearing a bra, and even then I hardly paid any attention. Now, though, when she dashes from the bathroom in just a towel, “Don’t look,” she tells me to make sure I do.

I know she tells her friend, Jessica, though, about my cock, because of how Jessica grins at me at school.

At an Elks picnic — actually the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, but nobody says, “BPOE,” not like the VFW — I fire a watermelon seed and hit Tanya’s boob. Nobody sees, I wasn’t even aiming, but we both find it funny. So she takes a seed and when I stand up, pops me back, you know where. Nobody sees that either. Just two siblings shooting watermelon seeds.

When we lie on a blanket looking at the clouds — Elks family events are so stupid — I take a piece of grass and tickle her and she lets me do it inside her sweatshirt. Nobody but Mom’s even close, and she’s fixing the potato salad.

Tanya gets her own blade of grass, and on the drive home, brushes off the front of my shorts, at first with the blade and then with her fingers. We break out giggling and Mom says don’t distract Dad because he’s the driver.

Sometimes when the folks are at an Elks Night Out, the two of us watch videos. When Mom picks up Blue Lagoon in the Shop Rite half-off bin, she says, “You can’t go wrong with these National Geographic ones.”

In vying for who gets which side of the couch, I do her tits while she freezes her arm in the air as if she’s planning her escape. When she says I’d better not spank her, I do it anyway, and afterward she has me rub her butt to help her recover.

The way Jessica grins at me the next day, I know Tanya snitched that last night gave me a boner. It wasn’t my fault, though.

It’s another Elks Night Out, tonight, Mom fixing her hair as they leave. Tanya’s in the basement — what we call a family room because Dad put up some paneling — her music blasting. I’m at the kitchen table, working on my model.

“Watcha’ doing?” she sticks her head out the basement door, the music louder because the door’s now open.

“Trying to escape your airhead music.”

“You know totally zero about music,” which isn’t true.

“I know what you’re playing is totally lame.”

“Want something different?” not the in-your-face I was expecting.

“Like what?”

“I’ll show you how to dance,” making the irritating point that though she’s younger, she’s more social.

“I already know how,” not totally true, but who cares?

“I’ll turn it down.”

We go down the steps and she drops the volume to maybe a nine.

“Real dancing,” she informs me, pulling one of my arms outward and the other around her back.

It’s the boy’s job to lead, Mom told me when she’d tried to teach me, but a mother’s not going to let you. My sister’s not letting me, either. her breasts pushing me around the basement.

The thing about my sister is that I sometimes don’t know where she’s heading. She’ll be totally irritating, then all of a sudden, sex. She’ll act like she totally agrees about something, but once she gets what she wants, it’s over. When the folks are at Elks Night Out, for example, she’ll decide we should bate together, but when I take off my clothes, she’ll say she promised to call Jessica and leave me standing. Sometimes she’ll be down to her panties, but then she’ll run to her room.

Am I supposed to chase her? Wrestle her onto her bed, her doll collection on the shelf above us, Raggedy Anne officiating? What if I got her panties off? What if my cock ended up where it could go in? Nice thoughts, for sure, but she’d probably say she hears the car in the driveway.

Her idea about teaching me to dance is totally lame; there’s no way she’s going to spend the time. As dancing in the basement is different than in the living room where there’s a window, however, maybe we’ll dance to the couch and make out. I’m pretty sure of it, actually, as when I pull my arm back to where my hand goes over her boob, she giggles.

Things are looking great until she backs me against the wall and begins pushing with her leg.

Oh, Jeez!

Afterward, her knowing she owes me at least something, we sit on the couch and she lets me unhook her bra. The reason she’s even wearing one was to keep Mom from being suspicious. I threaten to not give it back before they return, but she knows I’ll not get her in trouble.

She beams. “Made you come, right?”

“What?”

“In your jeans, I could totally tell.”

“Uhh...”.but before I can manufacture an alternative explanation, I sense something at the top of the stairs, and when we go up, there’s no one there.

When I squeeze across Mom in the kitchen, or wherever it works out, she doesn’t even notice. Not like Tanya, who tries to goose me.

Today, Dad’s at some Elks service project, Tanya’s at Jessica’s, and Mom and I are gardening. When she reaches for the Miracle-Gro in the shed, I steady her on the stool, my hand against the bottom of her bra. When she steps down — more of a hop, actually — I end up higher.

Now we’re on the porch swing, vegetables, our topic, my arm over her shoulder. Boys can do that to their mothers. I work my reach more around and let the rock of the swing make my fingers slide the fabric over what’s beneath.

She hopes our tomato cages are big enough, and that maybe we planted too many zucchini, not noticing my whereabouts.

Her hand’s on my knee, but at a hello from the sidewalk, she pulls it away and my hand off her front, as well. It’s Mrs. Clifton, Mom’s best friend. Mrs. Clifton’s one hot lady and sometimes forgets to do a button.

As the two discuss the Elks Auxiliary matters, Mom’s hand returns near my pocket and she pulls my arm around her again, maybe even further than it was.