Chapter 2

Now, if you're a guy, then I don't have to explain what happens when a guy in high school meets a beautiful woman who is only four or five years older than him, which means he could think of her as a girl, instead of a woman. But I'm not sure women understand that. Actually, I have very plain evidence to suggest women don't understand it. That is, in fact, what this story is about.

It's a lot like fishing. I know that might seem odd, but again, if you're a fisherman, you probably already get where I'm heading.

A fisherman is among the most hopeful men in the world. He puts himself in lonely, sometimes uncomfortable, or even dangerous places, where he sits for hours and hours, maybe even days, all the time hoping for a bite. His anticipation can keep him on a razor's edge for hours at a time. He's patient, because he knows, deep in his heart, that there will, in fact, be a bite and that he will, in fact, make the catch.

And in all that time he sits there being hopeful, the fisherman doesn't think about the fact that a hundred other guys have tried to land this monster fish, and failed, and that it's quite possible he doesn't have what it takes to lure it from the depths so that he can make it his. He doesn't think about that because there is so much hope in him that there isn't any room for doubt.

So when a boy meets a girl like that, she's a little like that elusive monster fish out in the lake, and that boy's level of hope rises to the point where catching her is about all he can think about.

Except the age difference, and little things like maybe her having a child, are the kinds of things that strip him of his gear. He has no rod, and the only line he has is two pound test. There is no bait and no boat. He doesn't even have a hook, for that matter. To drive this rather bizarre analogy into the dirt ... er ... water ... the fact of the matter is he knows he can't possibly catch her. He can glimpse her gliding serenely along, just under the surface. He can see the swirls she causes in the water as he watches her tail flick carelessly. He yearns, with an impossible hope to feast on her flesh one day...

Okay. That got a little weird. Sorry. But you get my drift.

She lived right next door, rather than out in the middle of the lake, and I saw her all the time. And, being a woman, she had no idea what she was doing to me. She just saw me as that nice young man who mows her lawn, or carries the cans of paint from her car into the house, or who climbs the ladder to clean the gutters because his father sees her getting ready to do that and says, "We can't have that, now can we, Bobby?"

The cheery words, "Hi, Bobby!" rang out frequently, usually followed by "What y'all doin'?" and my body would react and I'd get embarrassed and have to figure out a way to adjust things before she saw what was happening. I got to be an expert at that, by the way.

It might not have been so bad, except my mother took her under her wing and they became friends.

And I'm not talking "wave-at-each-other-over-the-back-fence-and-exchange-a-recipe-or-two" kinds of friends. Oh no. That would be too easy on Bobby. No, they became the "I-have-something-you-just-have-to-see!--I'll-be-over-in-a- minute," kind of friends. My mother crocheted stuff for Timmy and Ronnie un-fucked years of unintentional abuse on our PC. Then she worked on the firewall and advised them on a virus protection program and installed a router, so suddenly there was wireless in the whole house. Stuff like that. She even gave me her old laptop, because she said it was a dinosaur and useless for what she did these days.

So she was over a lot, and I got sent to her house a lot. And the next thing I knew, she was treating me like her little brother and smiling at me, and I was in the kind of agony that leaves permanent mental and emotional scars for life.

I guess it wasn't that bad. Not really. It's just that I was pretty sure the lake was empty of fish at that time in my life. I wasn't buff, or popular. I didn't have any special skills or talents. I was just a regular kid in a small town who was insanely in love with an unattainable woman who was actually six years older than me and thought of me as a boy who was so harmless that, if I showed up on one of my mother's errands and she was breastfeeding Timmy ... didn't even stop.

Of course, now that I'm a little older, I can look back on all that with glasses that aren't fogged by Ronnie Prater. There were fish in that lake. Lots of them. There were dozens of them my own age. But they were as minnows compared to a twelve pound Big Boob ... er ... I mean Big Mouth Bass. She put every other woman to shame. And, of course, that wasn't true either. I did actually ask Cynthia Johnson to the Prom, and we had a good time, except she tripped over her dress, which was a little too long, and when she fell her glasses flew off and somebody stepped on them. So she was blind for most of the night and didn't want to go to the after party. So I took her home and I even got a kiss. Trouble is Cynthia's eyes are blue...

So you get my drift.

Ronnie was very good for my hormone levels, meaning she gave whatever makes hormones in teenage boys a pretty steady workout. And I bled those hormones off in the time-honored tradition of flogging my log practically every single night. I'd lie there and stroke slowly, thinking of the last time I'd seen Ronnie nursing Timmy. She had just pulled up her T shirt to get to the front of her bra, which had these little doors on it she could flip open, revealing a milk-packed nipple. Truth be told, you couldn't actually see anything if Timmy's cheeks were working. But then there was this little baby, sucking like crazy on a nipple you wished you were sucking on like crazy.

And then one night, I forgot to get the old torn underwear I used to catch my spunk with. I kept it on top of my dresser behind a trophy. So I got up in the dark to get it, and as I passed my window I glanced out and there, in the window across our yards, was Ronnie's silhouette through the shade she'd pulled down. She was in the bathroom, and she was facing the mirror, taking the pony tail she always wore out and combing her long hair.

It was just her shadow, but I knew she was naked.

And I stood there and masturbated, looking at her, until I spurted right on the wall.

I got so weak I had to put my left hand on the wall and lean there. And I felt awful. I was looking right at her! Peeking ... sort of! I felt like I was a pervert.

And that's why I sat down at my laptop and decided to go check out a list of tumblr sites I had made that I hoped would have the kind of pictures I liked.

It wasn't that I just wanted to see a bunch of naked women. I mean I did, of course. I was seventeen, after all. But the primary reason I wanted to look at all those naked women was that I wanted to try to get Ronnie out of my mind so I didn't feel like such a pervert while I beat off.

And it worked.

The "average" tumblr site is basically just a mosaic of thumbnail pictures that fill page after page. They are sorted by the month that they were posted, and each month might have thirty pages of thumbnails. If you click on one of those thumbnails, it takes you to a page with a full size picture and a list of other tumblr members who "follow" that poster, and may have left comments about the picture.

So if there are thousands of pictures posted, there may be thousands of comments, and each comment is a link that leads to another tumblr site, where there is another collection of photographs and sometimes videos.

In other words, once you find a tumblr site, you have unlimited access to free porn of every imaginable stripe. Not that I like them all. I saw one where this chick was riding this guy in a video, and took a shit, right there on film. And the camera zoomed in on that turd being expelled. And somebody thought that was sexy!

But you can generally tell right away what a tumblr site is into, so you can go on about your business if it isn't quite your thing.

It's endless porn. You could literally sit there for hours, days, weeks, months or even years just clicking on one more picture of somebody naked, doing something associated with having sex.

And the best part of it was that a lot of it was amateur stuff, sent in by the woman in the picture. And that meant she didn't mind me looking, right? I mean it was right there for everybody to see, so it was okay to look, right?

Some of those women were getting fucked too, which meant that if I wanted to pretend it was my penis that was doing the fucking, she wouldn't care either. She actually did that stuff! So it wasn't perverted for me to imagine doing it with her.

So that's what I did. I sat up in the dark, and looked at tumblr sites until I found the right picture. Then I wanked like crazy until I spurted. And then I could go to sleep with a clear conscience because I knew I had not soiled Ronnie's sweet nature by imagining it was her warm, luscious pussy I was fucking when I spurted.

As you can see, I was only partially successful in avoiding fantasizing about Ronnie. But Tumblr helped, so that's what I did.

Until, one night, as I clicked through pictures, one expanded and there she was ... right there on the screen.

I didn't believe it. I know I stared at that picture for at least five minutes, thinking, "It can't be her."

But it was. There was no doubt.

Her hair was down, and her eyes were closed. She was facing the camera, and sitting on a guy, whose cock was up inside her. Her left hand was holding another rigid penis, and her mouth was open as she leaned to her left. It was just as fucking obvious as possible that she was about to suck the cock in her left hand.

Whoever was fucking her had his hands on her breasts, but they weren't covering her nipples. Those nipples were not as dark as the one I had seen Timmy let go of, but I know it was still her. Something told me she was younger in this picture, but no matter how I tried to squint my eyes and make her look like somebody else, I knew it was Ronnie.

Of course she was gorgeous. Her breasts were big and round, but with that bastard's hands on them it was hard to see them properly. Her pussy, above where that prick entered her body, was bare. Her pussy lips looked purplish and thick, even though they were stretched pretty wide by that guy's penis.

I saved the picture.

I was stunned. I was also hard. And I felt confused. How could she do that? How could she put herself out there like that and let every-fucking-body see her like that?

I closed that picture, and stared at the page of thumbnails. Like a magnet, another picture nearby drew my eyes. I clicked it, and there she was again.

This time she was on her hands and knees, and the guy fucking her was gripping her hips. She was looking over her shoulder at him with this look like, "Don't you ever stop, you son of a bitch!" Her breasts were hanging down, and they just looked fucking perfect!

I saved that one too.

This time, when I minimized that frame, I looked for more.

I only found one more. It was of her, lying on a bed with rumpled sheets. She was on her back, and one leg was cocked, opening up her pussy for view. She looked like she was asleep. Her pussy was running with thick, white sperm ... just like I jerked out of my own penis on a nightly basis.

I felt hollow.

But I saved the picture.

I felt awful as I looked at all three pictures again.

I felt even worse when I beat off to them.

Maybe for some of you, this would have been no big deal. Maybe for a lot of you, it would even have been a dream come true! But not for me. This woman came over to our house for supper at least once a week. I saw her every day. She sat in our pew at church! But every time I saw her, now, all I could think about was her lying there on that bed, well fucked and sleeping.

It almost drove me crazy, because suddenly everything was very complicated.

Before this, she had been this really nice, really beautiful woman who had a cute baby, and who was good for a bang-up fantasy.

Now, she was a party girl, who did threesomes.

Now she was a ... MILF.

Except she didn't act like a party girl who did threesomes. She didn't even go out on dates! By the time I was halfway through my senior year, I would have bet a thousand dollars that she hadn't gone out with a single guy since she moved to Hanley.

My mom knew it too. She kept saying things like, "You need to get out more. You know I'd be more than happy to take care of Timmy while you go out and have some fun. There are dozens of men who'd love to take you out."

But she always said something like, "I'll think about it," or "You're so sweet, Nancy." And she never let mom set her up.

At one point I even wondered if maybe she might be a lesbian.

But all it took was going back to look at those three pictures again, and it was pretty obvious she was no lesbian.

The other reason it was confusing was because while I couldn't resist looking at those three pictures ... I stopped looking at tumblr sites. I think I was afraid I'd find more shots of her. And while I felt bad looking at her pictures, they were the only thing I beat off to any more. I even had them arranged in a special slide show that cycled through them so I could just double click an icon on my desktop and then I didn't need my hands for anything but coaxing the spooge out of my balls.