Jesus, Sis and Me

This is not my story. I found it in a tattered notebook buried in a box at a yard sale. The box contained two old baseball gloves, which I thought were worth the two dollars I paid for it. Other items in the box included a ball cap, a ring of keys, and, buried in the bottom, a handful of faded photographs. In one of the pictures, two teenaged girls are striking sexy poses in old-fashioned one-piece bathing suits. In another, a young dude is perched on a fence rail in a field. His shirt is off, and he's flashing a loopy grin. I'm not certain, but I believe he's the author of this story. I entered it in the Summer Lovin' Contest because it seemed to be a "lost summer" type of tale. If you find it an enjoyable read, please vote and comment. Thank you for stopping by.

The events herein occurred during the summer of my eighteenth year. I want the reader to know I mean no disrespect to the Lord, or to my sister by revealing our most intimate secrets. My only desire in sharing this chronicle of events is to give others a frame of reference for their journey down the winding road to adulthood under the guidance of the Lord Jesus Christ.

The Last Pew

Walking into church with Sis always gives me a thrill, especially in the summertime when she's wearing her white lacy dress. Everyone turns to watch us as we stroll in. I know it's her they're looking at, and that's fine with me. All I care about is inhaling her soapy clean smell, and hearing the rustle of the slip under her dress, and seeing the beginning of her bust cleavage peaking through the frilly white lace.

Sometimes I notice the guys trying to catch a glimpse of her mostly hidden bust cleavage, but I don't worry about that. The guys in our county don't have much luck with Sis. Between her smart mouth and Daddy's shotgun, they've learned to keep their distance, and that's just fine with Sis.

"I can't believe it," she'd say, coming in the door after one of the local yocals dropped her off after a date. "All he wanted to talk about was cows and trucks." Then she'd engage me in a tickle fight, and the local yokel would be quickly forgotten.

Going to church on Sundays gives us a chance to ditch our parents, who don't approve of our local church because it's too liberal. My parents have their own brand of Christianity based on the Old Testament. Don't get me wrong, they respect and worship the Word, they just don't appreciate how the Word has been twisted into a pretzel by modern society. Some call my folks a backwards bunch, but I'd say they're happier than the rest of the world, at least the little bit of the world I've seen.

Sis and I also like going to church because of the statue of Mary out in the church garden. There's this hedge behind the statue that acts like a secluded little fort, and it's a perfect place to practice-kiss. Sis and I are well aware of the fact that practice-kissing is probably a Sin in the eyes of the Lord, but we need to practice-kiss so we'll be comfortable with our 'sexuality' (I heard that word on a talk show) for when Sis finally meets her husband, and I finally meet my wife. We hope that by practice-kissing under the statue of Mary, the Lord will recognize our reverence to His teachings, and grant His forgiveness for our small, but pleasurable sin.

Practice-kissing with Sis is quite wonderful; holding her in my arms, sticking my tongue in her mouth, feeling her little pear-sized bosoms mashed up against my chest. It can get uncomfortable when my pecker starts to ache, but it's only a temporary ache that goes away when we stop. Actually, it doesn't completely go away in the sense that if I think about Sis practice kissing, my pecker starts to ache again, and sometimes it aches so bad I have to make it spit, but Sis is worth the pain. There's just something about being close to her that gets me all riled up inside while at the same time making me feel calm and serene, as if I was in the Lord's presence.

I'll admit, I had been getting curious about the words I kept hearing on the talk shows; words like "orgasm", "masturbation", "clitoral stimulation","cunnilingus", but when I'd look for them in my parent's dictionary, I could never find them because the pages had been ripped out. See, Mom and Dad home schooled us with the Scriptures, and they didn't allow any contact from the "Outsiders" which is what they call the rest of the world. They say the Outsiders are all descendants of Satan, and from what Sis and I could tell, they're probably right.

When it was time for college, Mom and Pop wouldn't budge. They said we had to skip college so's we could take care of the animals and such. Now ain't that a pile of horse pucky? How's a guy and gal supposed to learn about courting when all they ever see is their own kin? I decided it was high time for me to get some firsthand knowledge about the birds and the bees, so when Mom and Dad left for their annual summer trip to some Bible conference in Chicago, I hatched my plan. Actually, my plan was nothing but a hunch. Sis is very competitive, always ready to take a dare, and I had a doozy in mind. I figured there was a pretty good chance Sis would haul off and punch my lights out when I asked her, but a guy has to pick his moment and go for it.

It was about an hour after Mom and Dad had left. Sis and I had finished our chores, I was walking back from the barn, and Sis was sitting on the top rung of the back fence watching the leaves fall from the big maple tree on the south side of the house. I climbed up next to her, braced myself, took a deep breath, and then I said it:

"I dare you to go to church this Sunday with no panties under your dress." I closed my eyes, expecting either a right cross to the chin or a gut punch, but nothing happened.

"Are you serious?" she said, looking at me like I was from Mars.

"I guess so," I said, amazed she hadn't punched me yet. She just sat there on the fence, chewing on a piece of straw.

"What do I get if I do the dare?"

I hadn't thought that far ahead, but I had to say something. "How about I ride you and Patty down to the lake next week?"

"Really?" Her eyes lit up. Sis loves swimming in the lake, and our cousin Patty does too. Sensing I was holding a winning hand, I thought I'd try elaborating on the dare.

"Sure, but there's a catch."

"There's always a catch with you."

I ignored that remark. "I'll ride you and Patty down to the lake if you'll change into your swimsuits while we're driving."

"You're such a perv," she said, checking to make sure her flannel shirt was all buttoned up, but I could tell she was thinking about it.

"Okay" I said, realizing I might have been pushing my luck, "how about if Patty has to change into her swimsuit?

"I don't know if she'll go for that," Sis said, staring me down with her spooky blue eyes.

"You could call her," I said.

"You call her," she said, giving me a little nudge that almost flipped me backwards off the fence. "You're the one who's hot for her."

"I'm not hot for her, and anyway, she's your friend," I said, snatching the straw-stick out of her mouth and tossing it over my shoulder, "and if you want a ride to the lake, you'll call her."

Sis gave me the Devil look, the one where her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare, and then she hooked my ankle with her foot and flipped me backwards off the fence, but it was worth it, because that night she called Patty, and the dare was on.

I could hardly wait for Sunday to come when Sis would wear no panties to church, but when the big day finally arrived, I was ill-prepared for the occasion. I was so excited that morning, I couldn't get my slacks on until I let my pecker spit. Then, while driving with Sis in my truck, my pecker wanted to spit again, but I had to tough it out.

"Turn here," Sis said.

"That's retarded. The church is straight ahead," I said, anxious to get the show on the road, but Sis was way ahead of me.

"We want to get there two minutes late so we can pick an empty pew. Otherwise Cousin Lenny is likely to come sit with us, and I'm certainly not going to prove to him I'm wearing no panties."

"Good thinking Sis," I said, my pecker already starting to ache. That's the thing about Sis. Maybe because she's a year older, she just seems to make better decisions. I guess that's one of the reasons I feel so safe with her. We snuck in during the opening hymn, sat through the prayers and invocation, and when the sermon finally started, I whispered: "Now, Sis?"

She giggled, and an old lady in front of us gave us a sour look, but we didn't care. Sis started inching her dress up, but then somebody came down the aisle, so she stopped. By this time I was dying of curiosity, so I reached my hand over and laid it on her bare thigh. Instantly, she clamped her legs shut, but she let me leave my hand there.

I waited till I could feel her relax, and then I inched my hand up her thigh. To my surprise, her legs slowly parted, like Moses parting the Red Sea, and suddenly I could feel the wispy tickle of her woman-hair. She gasped when I touched it. I waited for her to push my hand away, since her woman-hair proved she wasn't wearing panties, but she didn't.

I couldn't believe my luck. All I could think of was that it must have been a miracle, so I sent a quick thank-you Prayer to Jesus for telling my sister to let me leave my hand up there under her flowered dress. Then, when I saw Jesus move the sunbeams that He had directed to shine through the stained-glass windows, I took that to be a sign that He approved of what Sis and I were doing, so I inched my fingers lower, sneaking down through her woman-hair jungle like a mountain lion snaking through the tall grass. When I reached her wet spot, she caught her breath and clamped her legs shut again, which jammed my middle finger about an inch into her baby chute.

We stayed like that for a minuted or two, me with my finger trapped between her legs, and Sis with her body strung as tight as a new strand of barbed wire. I figured I might as well have some fun, so I wiggled my finger around. Suddenly, she opened her eyes wide, like she'd just seen a ghost, and her mouth formed this silent "O" kind of thing. Then, she was grabbing the edge of the pew like she was going to have to raise a butt cheek and fart, but she didn't fart. Instead, she sort of started bouncing, like when we ride on the back of the hay wagon. That's when my finger got all slippery-wet and I realized her slit was leaking. I wondered if she was pissing on me, but then I realized, it was only a couple of drops, and anyway, I'd made her piss before during our tickling contests, so I wasn't worried about it.

So she sat there bouncing, for probably two sentences of the sermon. Then she eased back into the pew, like she was dead tired from loading the hay wagon, and she opened her legs and started fanning herself with the hem of her dress. That's when I took my hand out and wiped it on my slacks. I'll admit, I was really curious about what had just happened, but I wasn't about to ask her. It didn't seem like the type of thing you talked about in church.

After the service, when we went out to practice-kiss behind the statue of Mary, Sis just kept going on and on, sticking her tongue in my mouth and jamming her tummy up against my hip. It was nice, but it was really making my pecker hurt, and I was glad when she finally stopped.

Then, on the way home, she wanted to stop at Walmart to buy a new swimsuit for our trip to the lake, since she'd totally outgrown the last one. The only trouble is, our Walmart isn't actually a Walmart; it's a Walmart-wannabe, owned and operated by the church. When Sis realized the only swimsuits our Walmart-wannabe sold were the old-fashioned one-piece style, she took the Lord's name in vain, calling the church a bunch of God-Damned Tight-Assed Puritan Fuckwads. It shocked me to hear Sis talk that way, but it also made me proud of her. Even though I knew taking the Lord's name in vain was a sin, I also knew I'd rather see a woman in a bikini (like on the billboard over on the Interstate) than in an old-fashioned one-piece bathing suit, and I figured Sis was justified in calling the church a bunch of God-Damned Tight-Assed Puritan Fuckwads.

When we got home, Sis ran to her room to try on the new one-piece swimsuit, and when she walked into my room and did a little spin, it made my pecker hurt to look at her. The swimsuit did something to her bosoms. I think it lifted and separated them (I heard that term on TV once, over at my cousin Billie's house) and it made her baby-chute area look sort of like a little ditch with a small smooth mountain on each side. I'd never noticed that before when I'd seen her in her panties, and it made my pecker hurt so bad, I had to go to the bathroom and make it spit. Later that night, Sis caught me on the way upstairs to our rooms.

"Can we do the dare again next Sunday?" she asked, all breathless and flushed.

"Sure Sis," I said, trying to pretend I didn't really care, when I really did care.

"I was thinking," Sis said, taking my hand like she did sometimes when we'd be out at night counting stars. "What if you were to, you know, not wear underpants too?"

I could feel myself blushing, but I said okay. Then she gave me a goodnight peck on the cheek, and we went off to our separate rooms. Later that night, lying in my bed, thinking about Sis and her flowery dress in the church pew, and Sis in her new swimsuit with her lifted-and-separated bosoms, I had to make my pecker spit twice before I could finally get to sleep.

*****

"Hey," Sis whispered, giving my shoulder a nudge. "Are you awake?"

"Sure," I said, shielding my eyes from the blinding light of morning. The fact that Sis was sitting on my bed wasn't unusual. She would come into my room and wake me all the time. What was unusual about this time was what she was wearing, which was nothing but her high-waisted white cotton panties and her new Sears bra.

"What's going on Sis?" I asked, bunching up the covers so she wouldn't see my swollen pecker twitching under the blanket.

"It's almost time to get up, dum dum." She giggled, pinching my thigh with such force that I sat bolt upright in bed.

"You want to start a tickle fight in your bra and panties?" I asked her. Actually, I kind of liked the idea, but that wasn't what was on her mind.

"No, dum dum," she smiled. "I was wondering if you wanted to... um... you know... take my panties off you so could touch me again?" She reached for the frayed waistband...

"Sis!" I blurted, convinced that Jesus was watching, "you know we can't do that here! God would smite us down with his wrath, and we'd go to hell in an instant."

"Oh," she frowned, her panties already half way off her round white bottom, her matted woman-hair peeking out like a possum at the edge of the road.

"That's why we have to do it at the church, Sis. So we can get His blessing."

"Dammit!" she snapped, getting up to leave. "Sometimes I wish God would just take a goddamned day off so I could have some fun!" She marched off down the hall, and before I even heard her bedroom door slam shut, my pecker was spitting all over my chest.

It didn't take long to realize Sis was in a strange mood that day. I mean, Sis had her strange moods, especially once a month, when she would turn into a spitting wildcat while her woman-business was going on, but this mood was different. Sis came down for breakfast wearing her secret home-made low-cut jeans, the ones Momma would burn if she knew existed, and she flounced around the house like a retard, making sure everybody (everybody being me) knew she wasn't wearing her panties today.

"What do you think?" she asked, her stringy brown hair dangling in her face like a movie star.

"I can see your butt-crease, Sis."

"Shut up!" she said, spinning around and marching off, her butt crease dutifully following her. But then, two minutes later, she was back again trying to trick me into a wrestling match. Now I know better than to wrestle Sis. She's strong and she's fast and she's ruthless, and I'm no match for her, but that day, when she jumped on top of me and pinned me to the floor, I had no choice. We rolled around, laughing and panting, tickling each other till I thought I was going to piss my pants. During the commotion, she ran her hand up under my shirt, so I did the same to her, but I accidentally might have shoved her bra up and her left bosom might have fallen out. It was under her shirt, so I couldn't tell for sure.

'Eeek!" she screeched, scooting backwards on the floor, but when she did, the button on her home-made low-rise jeans popped off, and they slid down a good six inches. She looked down in horror at the mass of brown curly hair peeking out between her legs. It looked like Scruffy, Lulubelle's mop-dog. I thought it was really funny, but Sis didn't think it was funny at all. She gasped, like the Lord had just smitten her with the specter of shame, and she tried frantically to jerk her pants back up, but since she was sitting on them she wasn't having much luck. That's when I noticed I could see the top edge of her baby chute, only it didn't look like a chute at all, it looked more like a pink, wrinkled slot. Funny thing. It didn't feel like a wrinkled slot in the church pew, it felt more like a wet mouth sucking up my finger like it was the last noodle on the plate.

"Damn you, Bobby! Damn you for disrespecting your sister!" She got up clumsily, still tugging at her jeans, and marched up the stairs to her room, her butt-crease still showing even after she'd pulled her jeans back up. Now, normally, when Sis got mad at me, I wouldn't expect to see her for the rest of the day, but on this day, it only took her a half hour before she was standing in my bedroom doorway. She was wearing her old blue flannel shirt, the one that substitutes for a bath robe. Usually, she'd have underwear on underneath, but today she didn't. I could tell because of the slits up the side of the shirt, and the jiggle of her pear-bosoms.

'You want to play catch later?" she asked, boring her blue eyes into me like one of Dad's new drill bits. I would have kept staring, but a couple of seconds of her blue eyes boring into me was all I could take and I had to look away. "Cause if you do want to play catch, I'm going to wait and take my bath afterwards."

"Sure Sis," I said, taking another peek at the side of her butt cheek, "we can play catch if you want."

Sis loves playing catch, especially if it's her turn to wear the Wilson glove. She treats that glove like it's her favorite doll; cuddling it, caressing it, calling it 'sweetie'. "Get ready, sweetie," she'd say. "Here comes a pop fly." The other glove we use is one my Dad gave me. It's a sorry excuse for a baseball mitt. It has no rawhide strips holding the fingers together at the ends, and it smells like mothballs, but it's better than nothing.

Sis and I would throw that ball around till our arms ached, and the more dramatic the catches were, the more she liked it. She loved jumping up high to make a catch way over her head, and I liked that too, because that's when I'd get to see her white tummy showing from under her T-shirt, or if she jumped high enough, maybe I'd catch a glimpse of her Sears bra. Then, after we were exhausted, we'd flop down in the grass and look up at the clouds, and talk about where we were going to go when we left the farm.

"I'm going to France," she'd say confidently.

"Why France?" I'd say.

She'd roll over on her side, with our faces so close, we could practice kiss if we were in the church yard instead of at home, and she'd say: "I see London, I see France, I see someone's underpants!" Then she'd jerk my jeans down till my jockey shorts were showing, and she'd scamper off, cackling like a hyena.