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I was the only one in our family to call her Francesca. Everyone else had her down as Fran or Aunt Fran, but not I. It was just something I'd started as a little kid. I guess I just adored her name, the exotic way it rolled off my tongue; that, and maybe, the unspoken implication that we enjoyed some bond over and above that shared between her and the rest of our family.

Francesca was my Mom's younger sister; baby sister probably being a more apt description as Mom was nearly eleven years old when she was born. She was still living in Tampa back then, maybe thirty-two or so, a staff writer for the St. Petersburg Times. The thing I remember most about my aunt back then was that she was a lot of fun, a sun-burst of vitality and utter hilarity. When she'd stay at our house over Christmas she'd have everybody cracking up with her stories; to this day I can see my Dad laughing so hard that he had tears rolling down his cheeks, pounding the kitchen table with his palm as if to plead mercy. Francesca had that wonderful glow about her, the indefinable quality that we tag as charisma for want of a finer phrase.

To say that I truly loved her would not be an understatement. She was my hero, an idol that, from my teenage vantage, I fell far short of. She was glamorous, a darkly pretty woman, curvaceous in an athletic way, her thick, curly hair cropped stylishly short. All that, and she was hands-down the smartest woman I'd ever met; smart and brassy.

I realize now that to some degree my childish psyche was magnifying her through a prism of inferiority. I was painfully shy in those days, a lonely girl who found easy sanctuary in reading and daydreams. I still had a mouthful of braces and was just too plain for words. Too plain and way too tall, at least for a girl; tall and skinny like a damned string bean—"Gangly" I'd once overheard my Mom describing me to a friend.

"Why not let Lenore come down for winter break?" Francesca had chimed in over breakfast one morning, right before she went back to Florida. "I'll take a couple personal days and we can hang out, go up to Clearwater."

My Mom wasn't comfortable with it, probably for no other reason than I hadn't ever been away from her before.

"What do you say, Kid, you up for spending an entire week with me?"

I was too surprised to even nod. I couldn't believe that she'd just asked me like that. Yes, yes, yes my mind was screaming.

"We could go to Busch Gardens one day, maybe drive up to Orlando and see the rodent."

I was nodding by then, still unable to string together a reasonably coherent sentence.

"You wanna go, baby?" There was some surprise in my Mom's tone, as if she hadn't expected me to in any way acquiesce in being separated from her or my Dad.

"Well her head's definitely saying yes," Francesca laughed, flashing an infectious smile.

And that was how I ended up on an American Airlines flight from Pittsburgh to Tampa in March of 1983. I was flying alone for the very first time, a curious melding of nervousness and utter anticipation making my stomach queasy. I can still recall in vivid detail the radiant sunset across the Gulf as the plane banked in for its final descent. I remember thinking that this was going to be the best vacation in my life.

"Get that."

My first morning in Tampa and I was parked at the kitchenette, groggily gnawing a wedge of grapefruit, the phone on its second ring. Francesca had roused me early, flipping back the sheets as she chattered off an itinerary for our day. I was still half asleep and the grapefruit was very tart. The telephone rang again.

"Lenore, get that!" Francesca called in from the bedroom again.

"Hello," I said, stretching over to pluck up the receiver.

"Fran there?" A man's voice; rough and impatient.

"I'll get her."

"Tell her it's Tom from the paper."

"Hold on," I answered, yelling in for my aunt as I palmed the mouthpiece. "It's Tom from work."

"Tell him I'm on vacation," Francesca shouted back, coming out of the bedroom in a charge. The sight froze the eyes in my skull. My aunt was clad in a pair of baggy gym shorts with a bath towel loosely turbaned around her damp hair. And that was it; shorts, that towel and nothing else—nothing else. She snatched the receiver from my grasp and mouthed the word "sorry" as she drew her forearm across her bare breasts.

"Tom?" she said, her tone instantly professional, pausing a moment, listening to something on the other end of the line.

I sat there in absolute shock, no exaggeration on that point. Francesca was standing there as close to bare-assed naked as you could get, water from the shower still beaded on her skin. The gym shorts had Ohio State emblazoned across the backside. I averted my eyes for a second and then, unable to help myself, looked back.

"Look in my tickler file—top drawer next to—yeah, right there. Just leaf through it, it should be right under her name."

She looked over at me, obviously waiting for some response on the other side of the line. I know I had to be gawking; I looked away again, then right back. Francesca twisted her face with embarrassment, casually glancing down the lines of her exposed flesh.

"Okay, you see the number there. Check that with what you have."

She waited again, looked at me and with a broad grin moved her forearm and gestured to her heavy breasts with the phone. "He loves these," she mouthed mischievously, bringing it back to her ear.

"Okay, you got it then. Good. —No, she's my niece. And remember the words 'Fran is on vacation next time something comes up," my aunt chuckled. "You too, Tommy, see you then."

"Sorry 'bout the burlesque, kiddo" Francesca laughed as she hung up, again draping her bosom almost as an afterthought.

I couldn't reply, not even so much as a nod.

"We book in half an hour, kid, so hit the shower and get ready," she went on, pointing to the clock for emphasis, shooing me off towards my bedroom with an abundant smile. "Come on, go, go, go..."

I was actually trembling a bit as I got the shower going, a flux of emotions like I'd never felt before welling up within me. I was still seeing her standing there in front of me, trying to blank away the visceral rush of adrenalin coursing through my veins. I quickly shed my pajamas and caught my reflection in the mirror. I tossed my hair back, glared hard at my own little tits. They were nubs, maybe a bit better than nubs, but not by much. I was so skinny that my ribcage stood out, arms defined but reedy. I swear that the only thing I really liked about my body was my neck, and that was only because I'd once read about a woman's "graceful, swanlike neck" in one of my novels and decided that that was what I had.

I tested the water and climbed in, pushing my face up close to the showerhead. My mind went back to Francesca again, as if of its own accord. She was wonderful to see like that, her light olive complexion unblemished, an athlete's compact musculature, and those unbelievable tits. Christ, those tits.

I clamped my eyes and tried to empty my mind. Think of something else. Think of...

Francesca's breasts were large and firm, richly sloped, with small, dark nipples—her nipples were peaked, thick around as the last digit on my forefinger. I kept my eyes shut but could still see them as plain as day. Every detail, the delicately rippled areolas; the way their weight brought them in along her torso.

I knew I shouldn't be thinking like this, what the hell was wrong with me. I silently berated myself as the hot water needled my skin. She was so beautiful, so...

I touched myself, just gliding my fingers along the tender reach of my inner thigh. I knew I wanted to, but tried to catch myself, hesitating. My heart was drumming in my chest by now; I quickly lathered my right palm, tracing it through my coarse thatch of my pubes, right down on my vagina, caressing, parting the soft petals, running my two middle fingers along the silken flesh of my vulva.

My breathing was coming in gasps, a languid transit of soap-slicked fingertips, finding my clit, just a flick, and then another.

"Two minutes or I'm coming in after you," Francesca shouted teasingly, giving the door a solid rap.

I was completely off the reservation then, an orgasm exploding outward from my clitoris, a blinding surge of pleasure unlike anything I'd experienced before wracking through the lobes of my brain. I bit hard into my bath towel to keep from screaming, a muffled, animal keening as the sensation ebbed and came on in an even more indescribable wave. I was down on my knees literally, annihilated by it, light blistering through my clamped eyelids, teeth gnashing through that poor green towel.

"You okay?" Francesca's voice again. " ... Lenore?"

"I'm coming," I answered after a long second, hoping the rasp in my voice wasn't that noticeable, not even thinking of this particular choice of words was pretty damned witty. A witty repartee completely lost on the young girl clutching her knees in the bathtub—me— tears of the best kind springing to her eyes.

"God," I wheezed, opening my eyes at long last, feeling that first twinge of parochial school guilt, then more as I shakily got back on my feet. How totally mortifying. I jacked my offending hand up into the shower stream, holding it there, trying to collect myself. I picked up the bar of soap and started a fast scrub, trying to tamp down whatever it was that had just flared inside me.

It was hands down the wildest feeling I'd ever experienced, and trust me I'd been touching myself, as the term prissily went, for a long while. "You are not gay," I heard myself whisper several times as I busily scrubbed away. And then as if in answer to my own subconscious, I said forcefully "You're not! You're not ... You are not."

"Now you're starting to look real sharp," Francesca bubbled as we strolled through Hyde Park later that same morning, reaching out to flick my hair aside so as to better scope my new sunglasses. Our first stop was shopping, which if you knew my aunt would not be any kind of surprise. I adjusted them on my nose, grinning, loving how they made me look from the instant I tried them on. I'd gotten firmly shushed when I protested the one hundred and twenty-five dollar price tag.

"Tell her how good she looks," my aunt had told the clerk as she handed over her Visa.

"Glamorous," came the answer—and for one of the first times in my life I tended to agree. I was feeling great standing there with her, my new shades on, a stranger saying I looked terrific and meaning it.

"Now we get you a new bathing suit," Francesca announced as we crossed the cobbled street. Hyde Park was so cool, so lively. I was almost giddy.

"I've got one."

"That's for the swim team, kiddo," she teased, playfully butting me with her shoulder as she swung the door to a very upscale clothing store.

"But..."

"That dress would look terrific on you," she interrupted, stopping to point out a spaghetti strapped sundress, yellow with a soft spray of white polka-dots.

"No, I..."

"Would look good on me too," she went on, lifting up the tag and then looking back at me in frank appraisal.

"I'm okay."

"Don't try and stop me from spoiling you. The effort will prove very futile."

"But..."

"Bathing suit, that's what we're here for," she said, nodding towards the swimwear department and leading me off like a cavalry scout, panning about at the bikini clad mannequins, pausing and then raising her finger to one across the room. " ... That's the one."

I'd never worn a bikini before, not even as little kid. I guess you'd say my Mom had a conservative bent when it came to shopping for me, and as I got older, I just continued following her lead. My bathing suit was a one piece in navy. It was, looking back, a definite "swim team" deal.

Francesca was up with the counter already, gesturing between the plastic mannequin and me, her hand fluttering up and down like a knowing maestro, the attractive young clerk nodding along with her, taking my measurements by eye.

"Here, try it on," she said, at last walking back to where I uncomfortably waited.

I stuck out my hand dumbly. It was a bikini, flimsy, aqua with a bright seashell print. There was nothing to it, or so it seemed to me. Francesca had me by the shoulders and was edging me towards the dressing room, ushering me in and closing the door before I could protest.

"Come on, I'm dying to see it," she urged through the louvered door, the sound of her footfalls distinct as she hustled back towards the service counter.

The bikini lay in my hand like an unwanted appendage. I stared at it with a deep apprehension, not wanting any part of it. It wasn't me, as the phrase would go. But I still felt I had to try it on for her, let her see that it wouldn't look good on me. I quickly undressed, carelessly scattering my clothes on the small stool, averting my eyes from the mirror as I slipped it on, aligning the straps across my shoulders, jiggling the meager cups around my equally meager offerings.

The smile came of its own volition. I looked at someone else standing there before the mirror, my new shades still on, the bikini clinging ever so wonderfully. I think it was the first time I actually didn't flinch a bit at the sight of my own reflection. It looked so cool. The color was great on me and it—God I looked nice. It was the first time that I realized what a simple article of clothing could do for you. I felt lithe and beautiful, delightfully sexy.

"You ready?" Francesca spoke, giving the door a soft knock.

I actually giggled when she laid eyes on me, the way her face lit up.

"That is so you," she said, spinning to the young clerk who'd followed her over to the dressing room. "Am I right?"

"That does do it for her," the girl said admiringly, craning her neck to examine my rear, reaching out to adjust one of the straps—an innocent brush of flesh to flesh that corkscrewed straight down my spine.

"My sexy little niece," Francesca added, touching my opposite shoulder and spinning me around toward her, feeling her gaze as she surveyed me from behind.

"I like it," I burbled stupidly.

"Good, now you go try this on."

The sundress, the yellow one from when we'd come in. She'd gotten it when I'd been changing.

"Thank you," I whispered, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

"Come on, I want to see it on you," she answered, clapping her hands till I backed in and shut the door.

"That is so beautiful on her," the clerk said admiringly. "I love how tall she is."

"Katherine Hepburn," Francesca countered.

"Sigourney Weaver," the pretty clerk purred.

"Veronica Lake ... Are you hearing this, kid?" Francesca laughed. "Our way of saying you look very svelte."

I was already slipping the dress over my head, doing a mad shimmy to draw it down my body. I was turned on, there was no denying it. It was just the attention of it all, the way I felt standing there in that dress. It looked so cute on me, it really did.

I don't know why, but in that instant I closed my eyes and deliberately imagined Francesca standing there that morning, so beautiful. I felt that warm churn from deep in my chest, that unfamiliar shortness of breath that had been part of my life for every moment since.

"How does it look?" Francesca urged happily, clearly enjoying the heck out of our adventure.

I stepped out, biting my lower lip in shear anticipation to the reactions, doing a slight pirouette in response to their obvious approval.

"So beautiful," Francesca mouthed, absently flicking up the hem of my new skirt.

The next two days went by in a happy blur. We went to Busch Gardens, did the car safari. We rode the coasters till we were completely frazzled. The next morning we were up early, speeding down to St. Pete, strolling along the beach, doing lunch at the Don Caesar. She took me to her newsroom that afternoon and introduced me to everyone. At night we'd take long walks together and sit up talking for hours, chattering about everything you could possibly think of.

And every night, no matter how much I tried to force my mind away from it, I would lay there in my bed masturbating to that visage of Francesca standing there bare-breasted in the kitchen, fantasizing about it in the way you do when you're younger, not really doing anything physical with the object of your lust. Just the simple presence of her in my thoughts was enough to send me into a roiling climax; and then, with the reliability of an incoming tide, the wash of guilt and regret. Looking back it's hard to believe how nasty and bad I felt about this behavior, the shame enough to make me shroud my face with the sheet.

"You can give the driving another try today," Francesca said as we strolled along the sparsely peopled beach. It was my third day there and she'd driven us up to Caladesi, an island just north of Clearwater. It was a neat place, accessed exclusively by ferry and part of a federal wildlife preserve. There were no buildings on it other than the ranger station and visitors center; just dunes and acres of pristine white sand.

"This is so nice," I said, watching as the waves creamed ashore.

"It is, isn't it," Francesca said, halting at a spot several yards from the water and setting down our stuff. "Don't be afraid of trying it again."

"I can't drive a stick shift," I answered. She had a small red Volkswagon Rabbit, a convertible, and she'd let me tool around a parking lot with it yesterday. I'd never worked a standard before and had done more jerks and sputtering stalls than I cared to recall.

"That's just 'cause you haven't dated enough boys," she answered with a wink, wryly miming what was most definitely not the operation of a stick shift. " ... Do another spin with it in the parking lot tomorrow. You just gotta get the feel of the clutch," —another lewd flick of that wrist— "you know just like getting the feel for one of these."

I laughed at the sudden bawdiness, the way I'd seen girls at school jesting each other, but not me. For some weird reason it made me feel really good. Also standing there in my new bikini—my first public unveiling as it were—had me feeling light and girlish.