Chapter 1

I have no idea how this happened to me, and I don’t know what to do.

Okay, I know how it happened, on a cerebral level ... I just can’t quite believe it happened. I mean, how many almost-seventeen-year-old guys have seven women ... on tap, so to speak? Oh, sure, I know all almost-seventeen-year-old guys dream of getting to fondle and suck on seven women’s tits, not to mention...

I’m getting ahead of the story, though. I’ll just tell you what happened, when I was almost seventeen, and since then. Then maybe you’ll understand why I’m so wigged out about all this, as my grandmother would say. My grandmother has a lot to do with this story, but then ... well ... you’ll see.

I’m Pat, Pat Turner, and I’m a certified Mensa type genius. It all started when I got into the gifted program in High School, and got to go off-campus to the local State University, where I was allowed to take a class. I did that during the summer between my Junior and Senior years. I had always thought about being a doctor, so the class I chose to take was Biology, 101.

Well, actually, I suppose it started long before that. Technically, I suppose it started when I got caught staring at my mother’s breasts. I know I used the word “tits” before, but that was because I’m so wigged out. Breasts deserve more respect than that. I learned that in the most intimate way possible.

My mother is Lonnie Turner. She and Dad got divorced when I was about seven. It was messy, and I don’t see a lot of him. That has made it hard, because I’m the only male in the family, and I’m surrounded by women. There are my two sisters, Randi and Tabitha, or Tabby, as I like to call her, and then there are my two aunts, Aunt Vanessa and Aunt Christy. And, of course, my Grandmother is around a lot, since she only lives a few blocks away. She’s Grandma Mona, and her last name is Turner too, because she got divorced, like my mother. I never even met my grandfather.

Divorce seems to be the family curse. Aunt Vanessa is divorced too, and my sister, Randi, was going to get married, but she and her boyfriend broke up a month before the wedding. She always said she was the generation to get it right - to kick the bastard out before they got hitched. She laughed, whenever she said that, but her eyes weren’t laughing. The other big joke was to call Aunt Christy the “black sheep” of the family, because she is happily married. Her last name is Mulligan. She didn’t mind being the black sheep in the family. She said they have a lot of sheep in Ireland. She’s not Irish, but adopted her husband’s pride in where his people came from.

Anyway, my mom and her sisters are very close, so my aunts are always around, at least on a lot of evenings, and on quite a few weekends. Being the only male among six women is one of those good news, bad news kinds of deals. The good news is that, in this case, I was surrounded by good looking women. The bad news was they were all independent, and all of them except Tabby, who was only fifteen, and Aunt Christy, who was married, had a lot of mistrust for the males of the species.

I can’t tell you how many times I heard, “Stop acting like a man!“ That usually happened when I was trying to get my own way about something. Of course, the other thing I heard, pretty often, was “You’re almost a man now... act like one!”

You can see how frustrating life can be in this situation.

I said all these women were good looking. I’ll probably get in trouble if they ever read this. Actually, I’ll have to run for my life and become a hermit if they ever read this. I should have changed the names and all that stuff, but it’s too late for that now. Anyway, my mom is thirty-seven. She’s about average height and built like a brick shithouse. They all are, really. Even Tabby, at fifteen, was well on her way to being curvy. Most of them, except for Tabby and Aunt Vanessa, have about the same shade of brown hair, though they all wear it in different styles. Tabby and Aunt Vanessa are blond. Me too, for that matter. Aunt Vanessa is thirty-four, and Aunt Christy is twenty-eight. Randi is nineteen, and goes to Wickham State University full time. Since I’m already in trouble for telling their ages, at least my mom and aunts, I may as well tell you Grandma Mona is fifty-four. She had my mother when she was really young, like seventeen, but then they did that in those days, so I suppose it’s no big deal. She says Aunt Christy is her “marvelous little accident”, because she only meant to have two kids. I think that had something to do with her divorce, but I’m not sure. Anyway, she also says that’s why only Aunt Christy has stayed married. That didn’t make any sense to me, until I also found out that my grandfather, who I never met, wasn’t Aunt Christy’s father. I wasn’t supposed to find that out. More on that later.

I know this is sounding a little disjointed, but I have to tell you lots of things, to help you (me?) understand what happened, and I think of something else I need to say about every twenty seconds, so be patient. It’ll all make sense in a little while. The other problem is that, despite me being a genius and all, there were all these things I didn’t know about. Things happened because I didn’t know about them, so this narrative will be sprinkled with that too. My English Lit teacher says I write really well, and she’s one of the best teachers I have, so at least take her word for it, and read on for a while. I promise, it will all make sense, eventually.

So, my mom, my grandma, Aunt Vanessa, and my older sister all think men were put on the Earth to make their lives difficult. And I’m a man, at least sometimes ... according to them. You see how this is going. Aunt Christy is only a little more than ten years older than me, and she doesn’t hate men. Tabby, at fifteen, just thinks I’m stupid, but I don’t think that has anything to do with being male. I’m just her brother, so I got awarded natural stupidity.

There’s one other person you need to know about. He’s my Uncle Danny, who is married to Aunt Christy. He’s the same age as her, and he’s Irish, with flaming red hair. The Irish have a reputation for their anger and wild emotional side, but he wasn’t like that very often. Not only that, he’s the only man in the entire world, as far as I can figure, who is immune to the slings and arrows all the man-haters in my life throw around with great regularity. He ignores them, for the most part, but he’s also a really nice guy, who can talk about anything, and do that while he repairs almost anything. He spends a lot of time at our house, fixing this and that. I’m not allowed to fix things, even though I’m technically a genius. I’m more “man” than I am genius, apparently.

They take out their frustrations on Danny. I’ll give you an example.

One Friday night, the whole crowd was at our house. We have a home theater setup (which Danny installed, of course) and everybody had brought a DVD over. Then they sat around and decided what to watch. None of the man-haters go out on dates, and Tabby isn’t allowed to date until she’s thirty. That’s according to my mother, who has never smiled once when she said that.

So, there we all were, gathered in the family room to watch a movie. Just because they hate men doesn’t mean they all look butch. No way. They love feminine things, including lounge-wear.

Like most adults, they had things bass ackwards.

When I was younger, and didn’t notice women all that much, the lounge-wear was conservative. It covered everything. At least that’s how I remember it. As I got older, and began to get very interested in women ... at least women outside my own family ... women who might actually be normal ... the ones I was exposed to constantly started wearing things around that can only be described as advertising their sexuality. You know the stuff I’m talking about. Skimpy stuff. Stuff you can almost, but not quite, see through. Stuff that emphasizes all the female parts. That kind of stuff.

There are some kind of mystical rules about this, that men aren’t allowed to be privy to. For instance, Tabby was wearing a T shirt one time that plainly advertised her nipples. She also had on a pair of panties, which was quite usual. Aunt Christy and Uncle Danny were coming over, and Mom made her change panties. The reason she had to change her panties, according to our mother, was that one could see through them. So Tabby put on another pair of bikini panties, which you couldn’t see through, but that clearly showed her camel toe. That was fine. No see-through underwear allowed, but if you want to show Uncle Danny the shape of your pussy ... that’s just peachy.

Her pussy was kind of peachy, come to think of it.

Never mind.

Anyway, on the night I’m giving you the example of, everybody except Grandma and Aunt Christy were dressed like that. Uncle Danny sat down, reached for a throw pillow, plopped it in his lap, and said, “Christy, why do you keep bringing me over here. You know what these women do to me.”

There were giggles.

Aunt Christy leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“You’re much more fun when you’ve been around them like this,” she said, licking his ear.

“I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs,” said Uncle Danny. “I get here and bam! - the reaction sets in.”

He was like that. They were obvious about teasing him with their bodies, and he was obvious about noticing it. Except that he was a complete gentleman about it. He never made it obvious he was leering at anybody, and he carried on conversations like he wasn’t hard as a rock. They all knew he was hard as a rock, but he was special, and it was okay for him to be that way.

“Speaking of reactions,” said Aunt Vanessa, “When is it ever going to be my turn to borrow Danny?”

All the man-haters asked to borrow him, from time to time, even Grandma, and everybody always laughed. Aunt Christy always promised to set up a schedule for them, or said she was still working on the schedule she’d started, but that it wasn’t ready yet, so they’d just have to be patient. The poor guy sat there with a boner almost every time he came over, but of course, he knew it was all just fun and games. He was the only man around, which meant all the women played this game of claiming a little bit of him, even if it was only to be noticed, or appreciated as good looking, or whatever. It was about as dysfunctional a situation as you could imagine, but it seemed to work for everybody. I don’t know. Maybe Danny just liked to have a boner all the time.

The problem, was that they didn’t pay any attention to me.

It’s not that I wanted to lust after them or anything. But they were good looking, and there was a lot of flesh exposed, and it did affect me. Of course I was just “Pat”, and nobody expected me to react like Danny did. And, of course, I couldn’t react to it in any of the ways Danny could. Like putting a throw pillow on my lap. I’m telling you, it was torture.

Which brings me to the day I mentioned earlier, possibly the day it all started.

It was breakfast, and it was Saturday. I was sitting at the kitchen table, minding my own business, eating cereal, when Randi walked in, wearing what seemed like the official dress around our house - T shirt and panties. My mother was wearing the same thing, though her T shirt actually went to her hips, instead of exposing a pierced belly button, like Randi’s did. She was fixing toast when Tabby came in, also in a T shirt and panties. None of them were wearing a bra.

So I stared. Any guy would, right? I like breasts. I never met one I didn’t like. Well, actually, I hadn’t ever gotten to really meet one, but you know what I mean.

I think I might have been daydreaming a little, because my mother’s voice surprised me.

“Pat, don’t stare at my breasts,” she said. “It isn’t polite.”

I realized that was, in fact, where I was staring. There were two other women in the room, each with a set of breasts. My eyes slid to Randi.

“And don’t stare at your sister’s breasts either,” scolded my mother. “What’s wrong with you anyway?”

As I said, according to IQ tests I’ve taken, I’m a certified genius. My response was quite natural, from that perspective.

“Mom,” I said calmly. “I’m a seventeen year old boy.”

“No you’re not,” said Tabby, sounding triumphant somehow. “You won’t be seventeen for another month.”

I stared at her breasts for a few seconds. She actually blushed.

“It’s rude, Pat,” said my mother. “No matter how old you are.”

I may have been a certified genius, but I was still only sixteen.

“So, how come Uncle Danny gets to stare at everybody’s breasts ... and I don’t?”

Well, it went downhill from there, but as I think about it, that may have been the spark that started the little glow that burst into flames, that turned into a conflagration that almost consumed me.

The glow, as it turned out, got going in my Biology 101 class. If you’ve never taken college biology, you may not know that part of the course of instruction is to track the changes in the human body over time. I mean long periods of time here. For instance, five hundred years ago, people’s average height was five foot, four inches. People were lighter, and smaller overall, by comparison to people of today’s world. The theory is that lifestyle had to do with that. Five hundred years ago people didn’t consume twenty-five hundred calories a day. They also worked a lot harder, and went everywhere they went on foot, whether it was their own, or on top of some animal, whose feet did most of the walking. Basically, as people’s lifestyles changed, their bodies changed too. It’s part of what’s called evolution.

Anyway, we had to do a term project. I thought and thought about what I could do, and I was thinking about it while I was sitting in traffic one day. The car in front of me had one of those magnetic ribbon things stuck to the back. It was pink, and it said something about breast cancer on it. I listened to public radio, from time to time, because you get a better spread of news, and that pink ribbon reminded me of a story I’d heard about the increase in breast cancer all over the world, and how nobody could agree on why it was happening. I didn’t think I could do anything in the area of breast cancer itself for my project, but it got me to thinking about breasts in general.

I was also enrolled in a summer art class at High School, and the class took a field trip to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. At one point I found myself in a gallery of paintings, and I noticed that, in all the paintings of nude women, none of them had huge knockers. In fact, most of them had decidedly small ones.

I looked around. There were women everywhere, and there were all sizes of breasts on those women, from flat, to huge. Genetics might count for some of it, but lifestyle had to be playing a role too.

Thankfully, my art teacher was a man, Mr. Barducci. I had a really good relationship with almost all my teachers. More than once a teacher had said “What an interesting question, Pat!” Maybe it was that, or my IQ, but, for whatever reason, I was able to talk to most of them on a level that was much more relaxed than the average student-teacher relationship. I went to find him.

“Hey, Mr. Barducci, can I ask you a question?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded.

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