KEVIN

Andrea’s spending the night with my sister. Most girls their age hardly have nipples, but Andrea’s are totally obvious when she’s adjusting her goofy nightcap, a Night-Before-Christmas type, except it’s not Christmas. Katie’s breasts, I know all about from wrestling around.

When the three of us play Monopoly, the two complain I own too many hotels, so I make them loans to keep the game going. Banker Andrea in her nightgown has to lean forward to make change while Katie pretends to sort the property cards.

Katie, being the boss of everything, says we have to kiss goodnight — it’s her sleepover — so that’s what we do. I sometimes feel her up when we do it — she pretty much sets it up, actually — but after she and I do a good one — Andrea takes her turn and I get her boob, too. Not bad, all in one goodnight. Both of them legged me a little, but that’s part of the game.

Teeth brushed, clothes aimed at the dresser and I’m asleep, dreaming about being naked on the basketball court, hoping nobody notices. The one I’m guarding (I guess it must be a girls’ team) keeps bumping me. Her team wears silly nightcaps.

But then I wake up and what’s going on?

I’m still on the court, but also in my bed. But it’s not my gym shorts that are slipping down; it’s my sheet. I crack an eye enough to tell that my door’s ajar, the hall light silhouetting Andrea’s nightcap beside my bed.

Holy shit! Better shut my eyes and act asleep.

A hard-on’s not something that you can just will away, especially coming out of a dream about naked basketball.

First it’s my sheet getting pulled down. Then it’s her hand on my pajama bottoms. Then it’s what had been back and forth, now more up and down, her so close that the top of her nightcap bounces me, once per stroke.

Keep your eyes closed, I repeat to myself. You’re asleep.

I raise my hips and shoot.

A kiss to my lips and she’s gone, her in her nightcap, me in my wet pajamas.

Breakfast time. I hear the two already crashing around in the kitchen.

ANDREA

Katie and I have been best friends forever, and I’d have left her brother alone, except that she was the one who told me that it takes hardly a minute him come. When I asked how she knew, she pointed to Kevin’s door, cupped her ear, and then looked at her watch.

Playing Monopoly, Kevin had I exchange ten hundreds for a one-thousand. Hey, Kevin? Want her to lean right or left?

Katie wouldn’t say, “Go sneak into his room and make him your sex slave,” however.

Her brother my sex slave? Like, “Follow me to the bathroom, Kevin, and lie on that laundry pile while your sister finishes copying my homework and I’ll shoot you into her yesterday’s panties?” Probably not.

Usually we talk for hours, but right away she pretends to fall asleep. Girlfriends don’t need to explain things to each other.

So there’s Kevin, sleeping away, the hall light barely enough to see what I’m doing, and once I slip down his sheet, his PJs don’t hide much.

In Campfire we used to say, “The angle of the dangle is proportional to the XXX,” where XXX could be something like “torque of the pork”,” heat of your meat”, “his urge to surge”, “the throb of his knob”, “the spunk in his junk”, “his lust for your bust”, “his urge for a purge,” “the yank on his crank”,” the spasm of his ‘gasm”, “the pump of your rump”, “the flirt of your skirt”, “your lick on his dick”, “the sheen of your bean”, “his lips on your tips”, “the push of your tush”, “the beauty of your cutie”. There’s a million.