Chapter 1

Looking back, I couldn't have had a better childhood if I had written the script myself. Well, not really "childhood." What I am going to tell you starts at about age 14 and continues up to... up to now, actually. The purpose of my tale is not to make you jealous, but, rather, to wake you up to some delicious possibilities.

My name is Johnny. I lived in a huge Victorian house in New Jersey with my mom and two sisters. My father left when I was 13 and my sisters were 11 and 15. Mom and dad had what seemed like the perfect family... three kids spaced two years apart... but the two of them just never got along. They decided divorce was better than all the fighting, and we kids actually agreed.

We saw dad every other weekend and he never missed a child-support payment or a birthday. It could have been much worse.

When they first sat us down and gave us the "divorce" talk, little Marie cried and Barbara, my older sister just got angry. I sat there coolly and listened. When dad got to the part about my being "the man of the house now," I just shrugged. What could I do at age 13? Take out the garbage? I did that anyway. But none of us wanted to make dad or mom feel guilty, so we managed to calm Marie and that was that. He left the next morning.

Now, age 13 is difficult for any boy, what with hormones and body changes and noticing girls and all that, but for me it was a bitch -- literally. That's because there I was, starting to get erections at anything that looked like tits -- even two scoops of mashed potatoes on a plate -- and what happens? I'm left as the "man of the house" with three women. There was mom, 38 years old and absolutely beautiful; Barbara, 15 and incredibly well developed; and Marie, 13 and a real flirt.

My daily life consisted of 8 hours of sleep and 16 hours of hard-ons. It was probably more of hard-ons, but I couldn't tell about the sleeping ones.

Well, about a month after dad left, I started having this fantasy that I could see through walls. Our four bedrooms were on the second floor of the house, and we all shared a huge bathroom. Mom and dad had spent plenty to make it real big and luxurious when we moved in. There was a giant shower stall with sliding glass doors, a separate antique clawfoot tub, an antique sink and this thing that dad said was for women's cleanliness. The bathroom was decorated with fine prints and the walls were covered with a beautiful Victorian-design wallpaper.

My bedroom was next to the bathroom, separated only by my walk-in closet. My two sisters had the rooms across the hall, and mom slept -- alone, now -- in the master bedroom at the end of the hall, farthest from the bathroom.

The bad thing about my room was that, being next to the bathroom, I would wake up every time someone flushed the toilet. I started sleeping with earplugs when I was about 10, and that seemed to solve the noise problem.

The good thing, of course, was also that my room was next to the bathroom. It made it much more convenient to take a pee in the middle of the night, or to run back to my room after a shower on a cold morning.

So, the bathroom thing was both good and bad. Soon I would forget the bad. Very soon.

As I mentioned, I was working on this keen fantasy of being able to see through walls. What I did was to wait until one of the girls -- mom or Marie or Barbara -- went into the bathroom. I would go into my closet and put my ear to the wall. It was a very thin wall (a piece of paneling, actually, that dad installed when converting the original bathroom). The purpose was to even out the new room and to give me a nice-sized closet. So, I would listen through the wall and determine what the person in the bathroom was doing. I would then go back to my bed and pretend that I could see them.