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My quarantine began in March. My work as a lighting technician for a rock band dried up right away, when the band canceled their 2020 tour, at least through the fall, they said. At the time, no one else was hiring, so that was it. Out of work.
My sister called right afterward to see how I was doing. When I told her, she laughed. “Figured as much.” Then, more seriously, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
What is there to do? She has worked from home for years, and the insurance company she works for was doing well, so her life hadn’t changed. Well, except she has this lung condition that meant she had no business going anywhere while this pandemic is going on. Nothing serious, normally, but this shit could kill her. I told her I had nothing planned. At all. Maybe build some furniture or something.
“Why don’t you come here? That way neither of us will be alone, and if I need someone to venture out, you can handle that for me.”
There it is. She needs company and an errand boy. To be honest, it was my best offer. The prospect of spending the next month or six weeks by myself up here in Atlanta did not sound like such a great idea. She lives in Dunedin, Florida, a little town on the Gulf with some nice beaches and fishing, and it was already warm down there. So, quarantining there didn’t sound like the worst idea. So I threw my shit in my car and headed south on St. Patrick’s Day.
I won’t use her name. As they say, the names were changed to protect the innocent. Let’s just call her Red. That is because she has that bright red hair that almost looks orange. The kind every kid teases growing up. And, we did. Everyone else in the family has brown or black hair, including me, so she looked out of place. Red has everything else that comes with red hair, in abundance: freckles on pale skin that never tans and eyes the color of a Heineken bottle. So, I show up at Red’s house, and she breaks out a thermometer and makes me take my temperature before I set foot inside.
“I just drove 500 miles,” I said, totally annoyed. “What, I have a temperature and you are making me drive back home?”
“Do you want to give me Covid?”
“Starting to,” I said. But I sucked on that thermometer on her porch until it chirped, then showed it to her through the window. 98.6, dead-on. Then she let me in, and she was happy to see me. We are both in our fifties now, me three years older. We grew up close, and have no other family. Well, she has her kids, as I have mine, but they are scattered to the wind. The closest lives in St. Louis, so with this pandemic going on, no one will be visiting any time soon. The thing about Red is, no one would ever guess she is a day over 40. On a good day, she probably passes for 35. I guess I look a little young, too. We’re both still skinny, although not as bad as when we were growing up. Good genes, I guess. Except that one she got that screwed up her lungs. Looking at her, you’d never guess she has anything wrong with her.
We quickly settled into a pattern. She worked and I played. I laid out at the beach reading spy novels. I fished on the pier or off bridges 2 or 3 times a week. I cooked the fish I caught. It felt like vacation. For her, it felt like normal workdays except with a live-in chef. Pretty good deal for both of us. At night we sat on her patio drinking wine, even eating dinner there sometimes, surrounded by palm trees and colorful sunsets. Two weeks in, rain set in. Days and days of rain. It was ridiculous. A week or two of that, I started to get cabin fever, which she had for longer than that. During all this time, she’d stayed inside her house. Don’t worry: big brother has a solution!
“Let’s get drunk!” She loved the idea. She usually sipped a glass or two of wine in the evenings, but that night, we were on our second bottle before the sun set. Well, when it went dark, because heavy rain had bursa escort not let us see the sun for a few days. We laughed and reminisced and really had a good time. In addition to being gorgeous, Red is a lot of fun. It felt like when we were back in high school. Thunder and lightning occasionally lit up the steady rain falling outside, but we did not care. Eventually, we started talking about our kids. Hard to believe she had kids in their 20s!
“I bet all your kids friends thought you were a MILF.”
That made her laugh. “A couple of Emma’s boyfriends seemed to enjoy talking to me too much. I caught one looking down my shirt once. Not that there was anything to look at.”
“Oh, I’m sure he saw something interesting,” I answered. And no, Emma is not her daughter’s real name. She is one of the true innocents in this story.
“Do you really think they called me a MILF? I never thought of that. I always thought of myself as the Fun Mom.”
“Red,” I said, using her real name, though, “I may be old, but I remember being a teenage boy. I can even remember a few of the hot moms when I was in high school. Debbie V’s mom, for example. Damn, she was hot. I don’t think we knew the term MILF back then, though. And MILFs are the most fun moms.”
We had cabin fever by then, and a local liquor store delivered. I never really drank much wine, but she had ordered a case of red that week, and we had almost finished that second bottle by then, so we were laughing and acting like kids ourselves. But I wasn’t lying. Red had always been gorgeous, and even now at 52, she looks amazing. Probably weighs about 125 soaking wet, which is pretty good for a woman at any age at 5’4″. Her face is pretty, too. Did some modeling back in the 80s just out of high school before she got married. The first time. She has been divorced four times, twice more than me. After a month of living together, she’d gotten pretty comfortable with me being around, and I don’t remember when is the last time she wore a bra. Funny thing is, she didn’t need one. That night, she was wearing some tight, flowery pants that fit her better than they would most 20-year-olds girls and a wife-beater. I couldn’t help glancing down at her pokies showing through the fabric. No, I was not even exaggerating to make her feel good.
“Is that all guys ever think about? When you first meet a woman—even the mom of someone you are dating?”
“Most of the women I go out with now have mothers who are 70 or 80, so sometimes when I meet them, I don’t think about that.”
“But the rest of the time?”
“You’ve been married four times, and you have to ask me about that?”
“Guys are assholes.”
“Yes, we are.” She laughed, and I opened another bottle of wine and refilled our glasses, and for a few minutes we talked about something or other, I really can’t remember what. Then she said something I remember clearly.
She sat there sideways on the couch, feet up, knees bent, wineglass in hand, laughing at something, when she asked, “Do you ever wish we weren’t—you know—brother and sister?”
I remember my answer, too. “Is that supposed to be some kind of insult, or do you mean that in the naughty way.”
“No, that was definitely not an insult.”
I answered truthfully. “Not really. Maybe when we were kids, but if I did, I don’t really remember it.”
That disappointed her. Red never could hide her feelings. She has one of those expressive faces that shows all of her emotions. I felt like I should say something. There she was, face turning all red from the embarrassment of admitting that and imagining me thinking I am self-isolating with some pervert. So, I said the first thing that came out of my mouth.
“You are a pretty cool sister. I wouldn’t change that.”
That was true, too, and it did make her face relax a bit, although the color on her face had spilled down her neck and little red splotches were starting to pop up bursa escort bayan on her chest above the neckline of her top. “You are not bad as a brother, either.”
I felt like I left her hanging, because I had. And we didn’t ever talk honestly about shit like that, so I decided to just say it. “Besides, does it really matter that we are brother and sister?”
Her head turned sharply toward me, and her brow tightened up. “What do you mean, does it matter?”
“Well, think about it. The reason they decided brother and sisters should not hook up is because society doesn’t want people to have babies with birth defects. Which means, brothers and sisters were doing it often enough for someone to figure that out a long time ago. And you aren’t going to have any more babies, are you?”
“Nope. Not since menopause.” She kept looking at me, then she asked, “So, the idea does not skeeze you out?”
“No. You’re cool, and you are hot.” The blushing had begun to fade, but it came back in an instant, spreading down her chest again. I was on a roll, and she did ask. “To be honest, it’s more a turn-on than a turn-off. Like when Mom and Pop told me I had to be home by midnight; the best time of the night was from 12 until I got home. Know what I mean?”
“The forbidden fruit.”
“So you have thought about it?”
“I asked you first.”
Why the hell not? “Sure. I suppose everyone does. Like us, most never act on it. Maybe if you weren’t beautiful,” I said, and almost choked on the word. Suddenly, I felt my face burning all the way down to my chest, too. I don’t know if I ever told her that. “Yeah, you’ve always been sexy and had such a hot body, so I thought about you. In that way.”
“Are we messed up?” I didn’t answer, so she asked, “How long?”
“Remember that time you came up to visit me when the kids were little? I lived in that apartment by the park.”
“When I was thinking about getting my first divorce,”
“What do you remember about that weekend?”
“What do you remember?”
“Do you remember when you were leaving, and I kissed you goodbye?”
Somehow, her face and neck reddened even more. “Yes.”
We were standing outside, by her car. I had broken up with the love of my life and probably had not dated for a year by then. We never were the kissing kind. No peck on the cheeks or anything. That day, for some reason, she stood there looking up at me, and I pulled her gently against me and kissed her goodbye. Not some tight-lipped friendly kiss. Her lips were soft, I remember the feeling well, and she parted them slightly, just enough to take my lower lip between hers. How long it lasted I cannot guess. Too long to be appropriate, yet much too short. Ten seconds, at least, but probably more.
“If you want me to stop…”
“I want you to tell me what you remember about that kiss.”
So, I did. “I can remember about four kisses in my life. My first kiss. The first time I kissed Eve,” I said, also not real names of my girlfriend or first wife. “and the first time I kissed Carla. And, I remember that kiss.”
It was feeling a little tense then, so she cracked a joke. “I thought kissing your sister means something extremely boring.”
“You aren’t their sister,” I answered. All night, her nipples had been straining the fabric of her wife-beater, and at that moment I wanted to look down at them again, but our eyes were locked together. I don’t think either of us even blinked. The rain and thunder must have stopped. Her house was so silent I wondered if she could hear my heart pounding, because I sure could. My face and neck were on fire. I waited for her to say something—anything—but she had been struck mute, which is really not like her. I had that feeling you get when you are in Vegas and you feel like you are invincible, so why not put all your money on Red. I said, “Maybe we should make out.”
“Maybe we escort bursa should.” Her eyes sparkled, pure emerald mischief, and one corner of her lips crept up. Lips usually almost pale as the skin of her face, maybe a shade or two pinker, but they were bright as if she had put some lipstick on while I was busy confessing to her. I waited perhaps five seconds before getting up and sitting on the couch, arm around her resting on the cushion behind her. She turned to sit beside me, her knee coming to rest against my thigh. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”
But she did not want to stop. She leaned toward me, only a half inch or so. Enough to let me know. Her eyes closed and her lips opened a fraction of an inch. A little thread of saliva stretched between them, and she must have felt it, because her tongue wiped it away.
Her lips felt soft as I remembered them. This time, I determined to remember how long, but time had stopped. I just held her full upper lip between mine, and she held my lower lip. Her nose flared against the side of mine as she took in a breath, a long, deep stuttering breath. I smelled wine. Her tongue touched my lip.
I opened my lips and she opened hers, and our tongues touched, pulling back fast as if they touched some unbearably hot food. Then, just the tips touched, and she curled hers up so mine ran along the bottom. Her head tilted back, and her hand pulled the back of my head toward her as we began kissing like mad. I wrapped on hand around her waist and the other around her shoulders, pulling her body against mine. Her breasts pressed against my chest. It has been years since I felt anything like that, so firm. Since she was so small, her body felt tiny in my arms, but although her breasts are not large, they felt absolutely perfect smashing into me like that. I felt like a teenager. She felt like one, too.
But, she kissed like a MILF.
It got a little crazy after that. Like a dream where nothing makes sense yet makes perfect sense at the same time. I wished I had not put my arms behind her because, although I loved how her boobs felt against me, I needed to touch them with my hands. That might be my only chance, I remember thinking, because in a couple of minutes—by morning, at least—we would have come to our senses.
So I let go of her waist and held one magnificent breast in my hand.
I’m in my mid-50s, and to a certain point, a tit is a tit. I have no idea how many I have felt. But I swear, hers felt truly amazing. She looks like a B, which on her small frame fits wonderfully, but this boob felt like it fit my hand perfectly. Like it was made to fit. I half expected her to jump, to pull away, but she pressed her chest into my hand and her tongue dug deeper into me, slower and more forcefully. Her far leg crossed over mine. I kissed her face. Her eyes. Eyebrows, which look sparse even from a few feet, but inches away looked full of fair hair. Then her neck. Her hand moved from my thigh to between my legs, tracing my raging wood from base to tip, circling for a second, then down one side. Her nipple slipped between my middle fingers, which I pinched together, making her sigh.
Suddenly, she pushed back, withdrawing her leg, slumping into the couch next to me. Both hands pushed hair back from her face, fingers running through her mane, staring straight ahead. “We should go to bed. Beds!” She clarified, apparently aware I may misunderstand. And she went to her room.
In the dark of my bed, under my lonely sheet, I thought of her, remembering he skin and hair and lips and tongue. Most of all, her breast, as I finished what she started. Alone.
I will stop there. There is plenty more to tell, but this seems a good place to break. Next time, I will tell you how she dealt with our moment of indiscretion. But her workday will be over soon, and I don’t want Red to start wondering what I am writing. I’m not a very good liar, and she can tell right away when I am. That’s right, I am still down here quarantined with her almost 3 months after this took place. 3 months of stuff to share. Should be enough for a few more stories, so check back.
© de Vere Literary, LLC, 2020
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