Chapter 5: The Trip Home

The jazz group Four Play was playing softly over the hum of the big 4X4's tires. Bob James and Lee Rittenour were weaving their usual seamless and delightfully rich acoustic fabric as the western slope of the Sierra foothills fell away behind us. We'd fallen silent in the Scout after loading up our backpacking gear and getting some more ice for the chest near the exit of the National Forest. I was driving and Jean was looking out the passenger's window as we sat silently in our own thoughts. We were used to periods of silence and it wasn't uncomfortable.

My mind was playing a tape of endless loop. My sister, Jean -- the sometimes ice maiden -- had, when we were hiking out from Fourth of July Lake, actually squatted in the middle of the hiking trail and peed right in front of me... in the most blatant fashion. It was not accidental and not remotely innocent. Rather, it was considered and extremely provocative. Most baffling, it had seemingly just happened, out of nowhere. I was excited and stunned, for it had been the realization of a longstanding, obsessive fantasy of mine. Now, after that intense sexual peak of halting interaction, we'd lapsed again into our usual quiet space of uncertainty.

The grasses and flowers changed as we lost altitude. I reflected on the events of the last little while. While, in the preceding weeks, I'd made no secret that I was terribly excited by her and more, that I was lightheaded with passion for her, I'd never come right out and asked her if I could look at her nude, much less watch her pee. Not that the thought hadn't been foremost in my erotic mind for years, I was simply reticent to disclose myself... to uncover my secret kink, largely from embarrassment. Oh, I didn't mind so much, particularly of late, that she knew I masturbated, or that I smelled her panties, or even that I was crazy about staring up her dress or down her shirt. Somehow, that was all right... that was manly or at least OK boy stuff. But peeing? Hmmm. Sounds sick and perverted... or so my judgmental mind spoke to me.

My mind spun on. Why had she done that? Why did she suddenly expose herself to me in such a provocative way? A fleeting glimpse of her panties or skinny dipping was one thing, but letting me watch her pee a long stream into the dust of a Sierra back trail... a scarce few feet from me... that was quite another. Had she known about me... about my kink? Or and I couldn't really believe this -- was she kinky like me?

No, not the very proper and often prim ice queen. If I had not been sneaking around for years, listening to her when she was in the bathroom, I might have supposed that she didn't even pee at all! Jean was the type who wouldn't say shit if she had a mouth full. If pressed, she might, in some clinical fashion, allude to micturition or to (ugh) urine but she'd never utter the word "piss." I imagined that she might allow, grudgingly, the expression pee-pee if some little kid had no other way to express it. So how was it, I wondered, had she moved from that moral high ground to pulling her panties down and peeing in the middle of the trail while staring into my eyes? Once again, I was baffled. Girls!

On a long curve, Jean swung around toward me, tucking her bare feet up on the seat and asked, "So, Billy. What are you thinking?"

She always did that. Well, she did it a lot... opening up her topic by asking me what I'm thinking. Or, if the topic is established, she tries to get me to commit myself to a position before she discloses her's.

Making a vague motion with my hand, I replied, "Oh, nothing." Smiling to myself... If she only knew.

"Come ON, Billy. I know you better than that. You're never thinking of nothing. What's going through that pointed little head of yours?" The smile in her voice belied the insult. She leaned back against the passenger's door, pulling her left foot further onto the seat, pressing her knee into the back rest. The leg of her shorts gaped a little. I noted things like that.

I also knew this drill. I'd been through it a thousand times. If I was stubborn enough, I could simply stonewall it. I'd done that lot of times, heaven knows. But Jean knows me, and most of the time I wanted to be drawn out. I tried to maneuver it in such a way that the topic was her's, not mine. This, of course, was old stuff, born of a sibling's need for protection from being ratted on. The fact of the matter was that neither Jean nor I had ratted on the other in years. At root, we acted to protect each other.

"Well, actually I was thinking of our relationship, Sis." There! That covered a multitude of sins.

"Hmmm, what about our relationship?"

We both knew the dance so well that the opening steps were done without effort or thought. Actually, we were both thinking way ahead of this conversational chafe.

"Come on, dude. Open up. What about it... what about our relationship?"

Looking pointedly at her, I asked, "Do you really want to know?"

This was a well-established signal that one of us would cut through the fog of protective words if we were serious or impatient and wanted to get on with something pressing. On the other hand, if it were the usual verbal game, we'd parry that offer with some gratuitous insult or another.

"Uh, yeah, Billy. I really do wanna know. What're ya thinkin'?" The last question was a little muffled as she pulled her sweat shirt over her head, partially pulling up her T-shirt and momentarily uncovering the bottom of her bare breasts. Without hurry, she pulled her T-shirt back down, molding the front against her nipples.

Jean almost never spoke in contractions or idiom. Her diction was usually precise and her demeanor was oh-so-correct. So when she said "Uh, yeah" and "I wanna," I recognized her I-want-to-be-one-of-the-guys gambits. She was letting down her goody-two-shoes protective distance. Jean was telling me it was OK to be frank and, in light of our most recent adventure, it was clear that she wasn't interested in my opinion of the men's basketball team... or their locker room. She was letting me know that it was OK to talk about what had happened on the trail.

You might think it strange, that "talking" about our sexual connection, once done, wouldn't be difficult. The reality was contrary to that, however. A lifetime of denial had, in some paradoxical manner, permitted us strange behaviors... as long as they weren't validated with acknowledgment. That is, just don't talk about it.

This interaction, however, was moving at warp speed. Jean usually took forever to circle up the wagons and establish her perimeter of protection more often of the barbed-wire variety. Cutting through the niceties this rapidly let me know that she felt strongly about what had happened. Usually, Jean dealt with uncomfortable topics by ducking behind her long-practiced wall of denial. And I know what that was like.

Glancing again at the gap in her shorts, I could see the edge of her panties. I pointedly responded, "To be perfectly frank, Sis, I was wondering about you."

Jean rolled her eyes in an exasperated fashion, knowing that I was being anything but frank. She slipped her right hand under the front of her T-shirt and absentmindedly, scratched the area under her breasts. Cripes, how could I watch the road, watch her scratch her tit and listen to her... all at the same time?

I didn't ask her why she rolled her eyes. I knew. But could I really enter into this forbidden area? By now we'd had at least three intense but too-brief sexual encounters and had yet to talk about them. A moment of uncertainty washed through me.

She cleared her throat in a dramatic fashion and I glanced at her. Maybe it was sibling communication, or the soft smile, or the direct stare of her blue eyes... but suddenly I knew that it was okay. She was lowering her guard. There'd be no pretend ignorance or indignation in this conversation. There'd be no frustrating evasions... unless I slipped into them myself.

Taking a deep breath, I blurted, "I loved watching you pee, Jean. I just LOVED it. But why did you do it? I mean, how'd you know? Uh... we've never... " My strong start trailed off. I didn't know how to give voice to my thoughts.

I took another deep breath but before I could start up again, she answered, "Billy, I've suspected for a long time... I knew you listened outside the bathroom door and... "

Interrupting, I asked, baffled and alarmed, "How did you know?"

Glancing again at her, I saw the big grin on her face when she said, "Oh, Billy! For a guy that's so darn smart about so many things -- you really do impress me most of the time -- for a guy that's so smart, sometimes you're just out of it."

She touched my thigh with the toes of her right foot as if to take the sting out of it.

Well, that did sting, but knowing the truth of it, I said nothing. Instead I made an impatient motion with my hands to urge her on with it.

"Billy, the afternoon sun shines in through the front windows, doesn't it?"

Obtuse I thought and nodded, still not getting it... aware more of her foot, now resting on my thigh.

"Remember when the carpet was taken out of the hall and the tile was installed? Well, the place beneath the bathroom door where the carpet used to be, now lets the sun shine in." Then pausing for dramatic effect now I could see it coming she added, "And it casts the shadow of you standing right outside the bathroom door... it seems you're always there." I was mortified! I felt the heat rise in my face as I sought a way out, an excuse, some way in which I might deny it.

Jean, sensing my acute discomfort, laughed softly and added, "Billy, don't be embarrassed... I'm not... at least not anymore. It's okay. Honest, it's really okay." Her toes curled on my leg as she ran her foot up and down.

Then, as if to explain further, she went on, "At first I wasn't sure what you were doing. I thought you were pulling some kind of practical joke on me, but nothing ever happened. I was puzzled and... I don't know why... I was fascinated. So, I tested you. I'd wait until you were around, and then I'd go into the bathroom, just waiting to see your shadow under the door, then I'd pee. I... I didn't mind that you were right outside the door. Actually, I think I liked it... that you'd want to... that you were interested in me... but I didn't want you to hear me do the... uh... other. I'd really strain and try to make a loud peeing sound, but I was always scared to death I'd... you know... make some other sound."

I glanced at Jean and her eyes slid away. Now she was the one who was embarrassed. I didn't tell her that I had heard her fart softly a few times. Her hand was still inside her T-shirt, right under her breasts. Maybe the tips of her fingers were touching the bottom swell of her tit?

It was unusual for Jean to talk so long in such a vulnerable manner. I just smiled and said nothing, hoping she'd continue.

"I have a confession to make," she continued, rushing the words.

If this wasn't a confession, what the heck was it I wondered? "Go ahead, Jean. There's nothing you can say that would offend me... honest." I was so darn magnanimous.