Chapter 1

When I was much younger and in college, my sociology professor said, in one of his lectures, that it wasn’t at all odd for toddlers to masturbate. That got a rise out of the class, which I’m sure it was supposed to. But he went on to explain that they didn’t know they were masturbating. They were just doing what felt good. And, he said, it felt good to rub the genitals against something hard ... like your leg. Yes, my sociology professor basically compared human toddlers to humping dogs.

I hung out at my brother’s house in those days, because he fed me sometimes, and I was a poor college kid. So when they had twin boys, I was there to see diapers changed and all that sort of thing. And I had noticed that Jill, their mother, played with their little penises sometimes. I don’t mean she molested them or anything. She’d laugh when one of them had an erection (which I didn’t know baby boys could have until I saw it for myself) and she’d pull on it every now and then and say something silly, like “Look at the big penis on my little boy!” like he had gotten straight A’s in school or had actually tried to have that erection.

So when my professor talked about little ones rubbing, I asked Jill about it.

“Oh sure,” she said. “They’ve both done it to me. They love to play horsy with their father and personally, I think it’s because it feels good on their little peckers.”

Then they had a daughter, and when she was about two, she loved to play horsy too, meaning she straddled somebody’s leg and they bounced her up and down. And I remembered what the professor had said, and it was kind of odd, you know?

So during this stage of her life there was this one time when she needed a diaper change, and everybody else was busy with something or other, so I got assigned the task.

I know this will sound perverted, but it wasn’t. Not really. It was honestly just curiosity. And I was changing this diaper right on the couch, where anybody could see me. You see, I had seen the genital regions of a number of adult women, but had never seen what that looked like when it was all just starting out. And you have to clean all the girly parts pretty carefully to avoid germ problems. Even I knew that.

So I sort of took a look as I changed her. I was amazed to find that she had a miniature clitoris hidden by those pouting little lips. So I experimentally touched it and moved my fingertip back and forth a couple of times. I thought of it as being like when her mother tugged on her brothers’ penises sometimes when she changed them.

Well, the upshot is that when I did that, she laughed and kicked her legs.

Suffice it to say I was shocked at how early the sexual organs can produce pleasure.

But that was it. I didn’t continue to fondle her, or anything like that. My curiosity had been assuaged. At the same time, I suspect that brief five second interval affected the rest of our lives, because as Cindy grew up, we were always very close.

Again, I don’t mean close in a sexual way. Sure, she sat on my lap, but I didn’t get hardons or any of that crap. I didn’t see her as a sexual being. Not then. She was just a cute little girl who loved having her Uncle Bob read her a book, or play a game with her or whatever.

And yes, I admit that when she was in that coltish ten and eleven age range she was beautiful in a way that stirred my insides, but it was more like looking at a rose bud. It was beautiful, and you never wanted it to change, except you knew it would be so much more beautiful when it opened fully. This kind of relationship is complicated, particularly since the society in which we live frowns mightily on appreciating certain women for their potential as sexual partners. What turned me on about her then was her potential for being a sexual being, later on.

And no, I did not plan on being her sexual partner later on. She just had potential, and I appreciated that. It’s like when you see a good looking woman walking confidently down the street, and you think, “Some lucky bastard will get to mount her tonight, and hear her squeal.” You don’t go up to her and say “Hey, you know I can probably make you squeal too!” But your mind might toy with the idea. I mean ... really ... maybe you could make her squeal. If she was willing to give you a chance, that is.

I don’t want you to think I’m making up excuses here. I’ll even give you an example. I went camping with the family when Cindy was twelve. We had gone swimming in the lake for a couple of hours, and I laid out on the dock for half an hour in the sun to dry off and get a little tan. I heard the rest of them take off on a hike, after which we planned to have supper. I was the assigned cook that night, so I didn’t go on the hike. What I didn’t know was that Cindy had stayed behind too, to help me cook. So when I got up and went into the big cabin tent to change clothes, I didn’t know Cindy was in there changing too. She was stark naked, bent over, getting ready to step into a pair of panties when I threw back the flap and walked in. She looked up at me, stood up automatically, and squeaked as she tried to cover all parts of her naked body at the same time.

During that split second, I saw budding little breasts, with puffy nipples. I was almost amused to see that her adolescent vulva looked almost the same as when I had last seen them, a decade previously, and a few sparse dark hairs scattered across her mons.

And do you know what I thought? I thought she was cute. Not sexy. Not ready for sex. She was just cute and adorable and I was really sorry I had scared her, and hoped it wouldn’t ruin anything between us. So I said something to try to make it less traumatizing.

“Oops. Sorry. No big deal, though. I’ve seen it before. After all ... I used to change your diapers.”

Then I turned around and left. I got the fire going, and got the pans out and then she came out dressed. All she said was “You’re supposed to knock!” and then it was over. I took my turn in the tent, getting dressed, and we cooked supper and everything was just like it had always been.

That’s what makes all this stuff complicated. It’s like shifting sand. Sometimes it changes right under your feet.

It got more complicated when her father, who worked for the university in the nuclear radiation lab, somehow got exposed to enough radiation that it fried his bone marrow, or whatever it is that causes leukemia. They didn’t catch it soon enough. There was a big scandal, because none of his radiation badges showed the contamination, which meant either one was defective, or he hadn’t been wearing it when it happened. Plus they never found the leak. I only tell you this because all that made it even harder on his family when we lost him.

So my role changed a bit, and I went from being a once a week visitor, to missing a night or two a week. Dennis and Mark, the twins, traded off being the man of the house. For a month, whenever I showed up, Cindy burst into tears and hugged me, not wanting to let go for an hour or more. Then she’d wipe her nose and dry her eyes and ignore me for the rest of the night. I offered to stop coming, but Jill said it was actually helpful, and that they’d work through it all.

So I got used to being on that shifting sand, where my role changed a bit, depending on what the family needed.

Which is what happened, I suppose, when she was fifteen.

Of course, by then, I didn’t read her books any more, or let her serve me tea in tiny cups, or play dragon to her princess or any of that sort of thing. By then, the way I supported her was by going to her softball games and track meets and the plays she was in and that kind of thing.

I had been to her last softball game of the season. Her team had a seven and eight season. And, while most of the girls were in it for love of the game, not winning, the fact that they won that last game was exciting for them, and they partied hard at the pizza place afterwards. There was lots of improvised singing along with the songs coming from the speakers in the joint, and dancing and the like.

Did you ever notice how sexy healthy young women who are singing and dancing look?

Of course you have. What am I thinking?

Anyway, Cindy had volunteered me as taxi driver, to take some of the girls home whose parents hadn’t come to the game or whatever, so after a long and exhausting celebration, I made the rounds, dropping girls off until finally Cindy was the only one left in the car. It was after nine, but the next day was a Saturday, so it wasn’t a problem.

We got to her house and, don’t ask me why, I went in with her. There were balloons on the table and a card that congratulated her. It was from her mom, who had been at the game, but had not gone to the pizza place, seeing as how parents, in that situation, were embarrassing to girls of that age.

“Awww,” she said, as she read the card. Then she bounded off to find her and thank her. She came back a few minutes later and said “My mom is a geezer! She’s already in bed!”

“You have to cut her some slack,” I said. “She’s raised you, and that’s a terrifying and exhausting job.”

She stuck out her tongue at me.

I have no idea why her sticking her tongue out at me caused me to drop my eyes to her breasts, but it did. She had big ones, for a fifteen year old. I admit I had watched them flopping around a bit as she ran the bases. Of course I had watched all the other girls’ breasts doing the same thing, some more, some less. I mean ... I’m a guy.

It probably would have helped if I hadn’t been between girlfriends. I have this problem where my upbringing kind of made me believe that sexual intercourse is a very serious and important thing, and you don’t just hop in the sack with any old body. If it gets to the point where sex is involved, then it’s time to start thinking about commitment. Serious commitment. The marriage kind of commitment.

Unfortunately, a lot of other people my age weren’t raised the same way, and some women are looking for “uncomplicated, casual sex.”

Of course very few women come right out and say “Let’s just fuck for fun, with no strings attached.” In my case, I learn that’s how they feel when I propose to them. That’s why I’m often between girlfriends.

Anyway, when I realized I was staring at Cindy’s breasts, I looked away. Up, as it turned out. And there were her eyes, full of the knowledge that Uncle Bob had been staring at her precious teenage titties.

It was an awkward moment. At least for me. But she just licked her lips and said “Hey. Don’t leave yet. I have to pee like crazy, but I want to ask you a question.”

And off she bounded, like a deer, spooked by a tiger.

At least that’s what I thought. I mean if your thirty-five-year-old uncle stares at your developing breasts, wouldn’t just about any girl get spooked? That’s what they call an “Ewwwww” moment ... right?

Apparently not.

I’ve been around enough women that when one of them goes to the powder room, I settle in and make myself comfortable. That sounds awful, I know, like I’m stereotyping women. But if all women do something in basically the same way, that isn’t stereotyping. It’s just fact. Is it stereotyping to say “All women squat to pee,”? Of course not. It might be inaccurate in .00001% of instances, but you won’t lose a lot of money betting on that.

Anyway, I was sitting on the couch, flipping through 169 cable channels, which is just ridiculous, by the way, when there was movement in my peripheral vision and I glanced up to see Cindy come back into the room. I don’t know if she had peed or not, but she had changed into her “jammies” while she was gone.

There’s a thing I call “The Jammies Curve,” which is based on the quantity of material that it takes to build a pair of jammies during a woman’s life. When they are very young, or very old, there is lots of material involved, relatively speaking. By that I mean that a lot of the body is covered with material. The reason is obvious. Lots of material provides lots of warmth and comfort, which both the very young and very old are interested in. So those are the ends of The Jammies Curve.

In between those ends, though, warmth and comfort sometimes take a back seat to other interests. Let’s just be honest. I’m talking about sex here. Right in the middle of the curve, during a woman’s sexual peak, it’s quite possible that jammies won’t involve any material at all. Or it will involve very little material that is required to cover lots and lots of flesh. I’m talking lace, here.

On either side of the middle, there can be wild fluctuations. A little girl, for example, is used to covering most of her body, and that habit, if you will, can last a decade or two, before “warmth and comfort” begin to take a serious back seat to the stage I call “Making that guy’s eyes pop out of his head.” And later, as having sex becomes old hat, and not such a big deal any more, women learn that exposing too much skin may invite attention they no longer want quite as often. So they begin to camouflage their bodies again.

But there is a special time during a woman’s life, between little girl and eager sexual partner, where jammies take on an experimental kind of aura. Girls stretch the boundaries with their jammies sometimes, experimenting with what it feels like to expose more and more flesh. We’re not talking lace here. An example is a girl who wears a T shirt and panties to bed. Most of her lower body is on display, depending on how long the T shirt is. She might wear one that offers glimpses of her panties, just to see how that feels. It’s a kind of the spreading and flapping of wings, before she actually flies away from the nest, I suppose.

Chapter 2 »