Chapter 4

It was our little secret. Or at least I thought of it that way. Actually, though, Uncle Bob never hid it from anybody. More than once he did the exact same thing while my mother was right there. I know she knew he was doing it. But I also think she knew, as did I, that he would only go as far as it was right to go.

I know that sounds funny. Most people would have said it wasn’t right for him to go anywhere at all. Heck, most people would have said it was wrong for us to be nudists together.

I’ve thought about this a lot. I think he did things to me for multiple reasons. He wanted to, of course. That’s obvious. But I think he knew I wanted him to as well. And the things he did to me really did give me the kind of experience that would amount to control later on in my life. I was never surprised by what some guy did to me ... because Uncle Bob had already done it, and I knew what to expect. Whether that was his intent or not, who knows? For all I know he was just having fun trying to see how much I’d let him get away with.

Of course I had no idea how far I wanted him to go. I just loved how he made me feel. And it wasn’t only the physical feeling of being touched by a man I loved, and who I knew loved me. I loved it that he got erections for me. It didn’t mean anything was going to happen. It just meant that he thought I was pretty, or sexy or something, and whatever it was, I wanted to be that. What was “right” about what he did to me was that he bolstered my self confidence, and all it involved was touching me for less than five seconds with a slippery finger.

Of course, by the end of summer, both Brinn and Shannon saw what happened when I asked Uncle Bob to put sun block on me. The interesting thing about that wasn’t that Shannon decided she wanted him to put sun block on her too ... just like he did for me. No, the interesting thing about that was that, somewhere along the way, Brinn had developed an interest in girls. And of course the girls he had the easiest access to - and who were usually nude to boot - were his sisters.

What was interesting about all that was that one day, when only Brinn and I were swimming, and we got out of the pool together to warm up a bit, he asked, “You want me to put some sun block on you?”

He should have added “like Uncle Bob does” to that question, but he didn’t. Of course I found out pretty quickly that that’s what he actually meant.

And I have to tell you, the first time my brother felt me up - because that’s exactly what he did - all I did was compare his technique to that of my Uncle. Uncle Bob was good. In fact, Uncle Bob was very good. He could bring me to the panting edge of something I had yet to discover, and that was an orgasm. I’d never had one yet, but I didn’t know what I was missing, so I didn’t care. What Uncle Bob did felt really good, and that was good enough for me.

With Brinn, it was very different, though. The hard part is explaining that difference. His hands were smaller, of course, but they still felt really good stroking my skin. And he didn’t push as hard, because I don’t think he was trying to massage me like Uncle Bob always did. I think he just wanted to touch me and see what it felt like. But that didn’t matter, really. I loved the way Uncle Bob massaged me, but I also liked the way Brinn’s hands slid all over me.

And when I turned over, and he played with my breasts, it was so delightful. I don’t think anybody could play with my breasts and it not feel good. Assuming it was somebody I wanted to touch them, anyway.

But the big difference was when he put his fingers on my sex.

Uncle Bob just teased me a little bit down there. He didn’t actually masturbate me, really. He just touched, and then only for a few seconds. Brinn didn’t do it that way. His objection over touching Shannon “where she peed” had mysteriously vanished. Brinn didn’t masturbate me, either, because he didn’t understand what actually masturbating a woman meant. He rubbed me inexpertly, to be sure, but he rubbed me for a lot longer. There was never any danger of an orgasm happening, but it felt good, and I let him keep going.

“You feel so weird,” he finally said.

“Girls are built different than boys,” I said.

“Well duh,” he said.

“You want me to touch you?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Do you want to?”

“Actually, I do,” I said, surprised myself that I suddenly wanted to stroke him.

“I’m already hard,” he said, backing away from me.

“Well then, let’s go somewhere where Mom won’t accidentally see us and get freaked out,” I said.

Again, I need to impress on you that we weren’t hiding from Mom because we thought we were doing something wrong. We just knew she didn’t like to see him masturbate.

So we went behind some pine trees that had been planted to make a wind break, and I sank down on my knees and reached up to grasp Brinn’s penis while he stood in front of me. The sun was hot, and the sun block smelled good, and suddenly it was a lot of fun to stroke a hard penis.

“You’ve gotten bigger,” I observed.

“That’s not all that’s changed,” he said. “Stuff comes out of it now.”

“Really?” I remembered that white stuff that Uncle Bob had squirted on Mom’s belly that day.

“Yeah, and it feels so much better now than it used to. It used to kind of hurt. I guess is still hurts, but when the stuff shoots out, it’s really soothing and it feels fantastic.”

I was having fun rubbing him, because he was very appreciative, and he made these noises and leaned this way and that way, and it made me feel good that I was doing a good job. He asked me to speed up at one point, and I did. Then, without warning, his stuff splattered all over my face and chest and shoulders. There was a lot of it, but it didn’t really bother me because it was hot. I don’t know why I expected it to be cold. Actually I didn’t expect him to squirt on me at all, but when it happened that’s what I thought of. I thought of the fact that it was warm, rather than cold. I guess I just thought white stuff would be cold.

But the biggest part about that was that when he spurted, some of it got in my mouth. I didn’t even realize it until I closed my mouth and tasted something different. It was bitter, with a hint of salt. But it wasn’t bad bitter. It was just different. In fact, I decided it was kind of good. I looked down at my breasts, which were splattered with the stuff, and scooped up some on my forefinger. I tasted that, and it tasted exactly the same way.

“What are you doing?” he panted.

“Tasting it,” I said.

“Why?” he gasped.

“Some of it got in my mouth when you squirted. It’s not bad.”

“You’re crazy!” he sighed.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it tastes pretty good. I never knew I liked bitter before.”

“Bitter?”

“Yeah. It tastes kind of bitter.”

“You are crazy,” he said.

But he smiled.

If you’re a twin, or triplet or any part of a multiple birth, then you know there is no stronger, more intimate bond. I’d be willing to argue that that bond is even stronger than a marriage bond. Or can be. Left alone, triplets will do anything with each other, assuming they think of doing it in the first place. We didn’t kiss each other with deep, tongue-filled kisses, but the only reason was we hadn’t thought of it. We saw Uncle Bob and Mom kiss that way, but it just never occurred to us to try it, so we didn’t. And it was that way with everything else sexual too.

Now, I know Brinn had been masturbating in front of us, and had asked us to help him sometimes, but believe it or not, that wasn’t really sexual. Not then. All he was doing was something that felt good. He didn’t think of it as something sexual, and neither did we. Nor did we girls think that rubbing our bump was simulating having sex. It was just something that felt good.

And when Uncle Bob slid his finger between our pussy lips while he put sun block on us, it wasn’t sexual for us either. Make no mistake, it was sexual for him, but we didn’t think of it that way. In one sense, rubbing the sexual organs is as normal as night and day. Watch a very young child and you’ll see them masturbate. They don’t know they’re doing it, but fingers push and pull between the legs without anyone teaching them to do that. In fact, the only reason it stops (for a while) is that some adult gets all serious and says, “Stop doing that!” Adults, in fact, teach children not to masturbate, even though nature says, “Go ahead. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

But at some point, an awareness builds in the mind that leads to the suspicion that there is more going on there than merely feeling good. Sometimes it is the fact that some adult yelled “Stop that!” Kids learn early that that adults are buzz killers. Sometimes there’s a good reason to kill the buzz, but sometimes there isn’t, and when that’s the case, it usually means adults want to do something, but don’t want to let kids do it. Again, sometimes there are good reasons. But looked at on its most basic level, young people tend to think, “If you can do it ... I should be able to do it.”

And once you do begin to think about things in terms of sexuality ... there’s no going back.

And, as you can imagine, we triplets couldn’t keep anything secret from each other.

I don’t know if it was the way Brinn and I cuddled that night, when we went to bed, or just what it was, but Shannon noticed it.

“What happened?” she asked.

We went through five minutes of denials that anything happened, even though we both knew exactly what she was talking about. I had made Brinn’s penis squirt, and that was the elephant in the room. Finally I got tired of messing with her.

“Actually, you wouldn’t be interested in it anyway,” I said.

“Interested in what?”

“You know how he loves to rub his thing?” I asked.

“Penis,” she said, correcting my vernacular automatically. We had been taught to call a spade a spade, as opposed to calling it a goddam shovel, so to speak.

“Penis,” I said, not willing to argue the point.

“Yes.”

“Well I played with it today. And stuff shot out of it and I tasted it.”

You’d have thought Shannon had flipped back the covers and found a dead body in our bed. I had to put my hand over her mouth to quiet her down. While I was doing it I wondered why I was doing it. I wondered why I was trying to keep it a secret from the adults.

That’s when I realized the difference between simply doing something that felt good, and doing something sexual. And I was thirteen years old!

If you actually know any thirteen-year-olds, and think they are clueless about things sexual, you are deluding yourself. It’s complicated, but trust me that thirteen year old kids know plenty about sex. They may have a few things wrong, but basically, in this day and age, it’s completely normal for a child that age to know exactly how to make a baby.

And I know this may be difficult to understand, but we were actually the exception to that norm. I mean I started this whole narrative by saying our childhood was unconventional, and all this time you’ve been thinking it was the sexual things in our life that made it that way. But, in reality, we were actually sheltered more than most other kids, because we were never taught that being naked was bad, or that touching each other was bad, or that adults having sex right in front of us was bad. All that stuff was just part of our normal life. And it didn’t have sexual overtones to us kids, because it was just part of loving each other. It was just how people acted.

If we had lived in town, where nobody ran around naked, and we were over at friend’s houses a lot, we would have learned other things. But that’s not how things turned out for us. At the same time we had had the talk. And we did know Mom and Uncle Bob were having sex, even if they were only practicing to make babies. That last sentence illustrates why I said two paragraphs ago that it is complicated. We still thought, at that point in time, that the adults were only practicing. We had a lot of information/truth ... but not all of it.

So Brinn and I had made the jump from harmless fun ... to something a lot more complicated and important than that. I think that’s probably what Shannon picked up on.

Anyway, when she finally calmed down. Then she wanted details. She’d been horrified, but when she saw nobody had grown a third eye or something, curiosity replaced horror. It was easier just to show her than tell her, so that’s what we did.

Believe it or not, Shannon made more noise than either Brinn or I did, and all she did was watch. But I suspect one reason she was such a drama queen was because she was able to empathize with others so much. And she had tried to get me to rub her bump. So when Brinn and I laid down together, and I started slowly stroking him, and he slid his fingers between my labia and started rubbing my bump in the little circles I’d taught him to do, I spread my legs to give him some room, and then added something to the whole exercise.

I kissed him.

Don’t ask me why I did that. Maybe it was simply instinct. But I kissed him, and I did it the same way we had all seen Mom and Uncle Bob kiss each other for almost a decade. He was surprised at first. I could tell. But when I pushed my tongue at his stiff lips, they relaxed and the next thing I knew we were swapping spit like experts. I have a suspicion that French kissing is part of evolution or something, because it was instinctive for us. I have, since then, talked to women who told stories (usually horror stories) of learning to kiss, or of teaching some boy to kiss, but there was none of that for Brinn and me.

And it added to the exercise in a way that was both astonishing and exponential.

His fingers on my bump (I hadn’t learned the word “clitoris” yet) felt so good that I couldn’t keep my hips still. And I think it affected my grip on his penis, because he started kind of grunting into my mouth in time with my strokes.

“You guys!” gasped Shannon, who wasn’t prepared for any of this. Then there was a lot of “What are you doing?” and she was crawling over us to get a better look. Which, by the way, was also stimulating for some reason. Her skin, sliding over ours was almost electric. Brinn and I actually talked about that the next day. Anyway, I felt fantastic and he squirted all over the place. It got all over me, and him and the bed. And just one bit of it got on Shannon. When we broke apart from that one, long, amazing kiss, she was sitting on her calves, staring at her arm, where a little stripe of semen maybe a quarter inch wide and a couple inches long sat.

Her eyes were really big, and her mouth was open. I could tell she was holding her breath, and I suddenly imagined she was waiting, expecting that semen to burn through her arm or something. And I didn’t want her to scream, which it looked like she was primed to do.

So I leaned over and licked it off her arm.

Brinn was the one who had to put his hand over her mouth this time.

She calmed down pretty fast, actually. She got back into that sitting-on-her-calves position, and rotated her stare from her arm, to Brinn, to me. She was breathing fast, but not exactly panting. I was rubbing my bump, but wasn’t aware I was doing it. Brinn, being a boy, had gotten to the end really fast. And that had left me high and dry, though I wasn’t educated enough to think of it in those terms. So, having been interrupted by his penis spurting, I think I had unconsciously taken over. I still hadn’t had an orgasm, and still didn’t know something like that was even possible. I knew the word, of course, but I also knew the word “quark” and it didn’t have any real meaning for me either.

I did not, in fact, realize I was doing that until Shannon’s gaze dropped to the hand in my crotch.

“What did it feel like?” she asked, suddenly.

I thought she was talking about his penis, and started to describe that.

“No,” she said, stopping me. “What did it feel like when he rubbed you?”

Good, old, practical Shannon. She went from being freaked out, to trying to figure out how to make things better for herself.

And, within ten minutes, Brinn was showing her what I’d taught him.

By September of that year, it was getting cool, but we kids still kept going out to the pool, because that’s where we put on sun block.