Her Kid Sister
in Selected Tales
by Mick Mykola Dementiuk
published by 2006 Synergy Book Service, Flemington, NJ
Walt didn't want Jennie to move in with them to their small flat on St. Mark's Place, but since she was Barbara's half-sister from her mother's second marriage, so he didn't have all that much to say or too much time to say in.
Jennie arrived thirty minutes after phoning with a knapsack of dirty clothes and makeup canisters, along with a shopping bag of water-bloated Stephen King novels, old Cosmopolitan magazines, a well-thumbed Omarr's Horoscope book (Libra), a crossword puzzle magazine (only the Easy somewhat solved), a CD of grunge noise (Walt was thankful they didn't have a CD player), and a small kitten that scowled and spat at him from out of the knapsack but purred and meowed at Barbars and Jennie.
"She didn't say anything about a cat," Walt grumbled in the kitchen.
His wife shrugged. "It's a kitten," she corrected him, carrying a plate of sandwiches and cans of soda. "It's called Cobain."
"Cobain?" Walt sneered, remembering the suicidal rock/grunge star, Kurt Cobain. Better hide the shotguns, he thought. "Cobain the cat, eh? Oh sorry, Cobain the kitten."
He shook his head. Not that he hated cats, or kittens, he'd had lots of cats when he was single. Most of then disappeared down fire escapes into better households, he supposed, or fell out of windows and staggered off into backyards, or simply fled out the half-open door and never looked back.
No, he didn't mind cats or kittens, but they sure were a deceptive and betraying bunch, ready to go at the first scent of kitty litter or kitty food, the first glimpse or yowl of some kitty pussy. Definitely a deceptive bunch.
No, the problem wasn't Jennie's kitty; he didn't care if she arrived with the entire zoo. The real problem was Jennie's titties, and they were big!
Big tits on a sixteen-year-old that boomed right out of some porno magazine's display of silicone nightmares; big tits more conducive to an obese old matron than a baby-fat kid; big tits no man should be left alone with...
Jennie was dressed in typical grunge fashion of combat boots and shredded nylons with tops and garter buttons peeping beneath her short red-and-black plaid pleated skirt. Her hair was a purplish green, her nose and lips and ears pierced with studs and rings, her arms a mélange of faded tattoos.
Of course, she did nothing to hide her massive tits, her orange ribbed blouse merely a strip of wrap-around cloth covering them.
What was the point of the lumberjack shirt tied around her waist, to keep her ass warm? A real Little-Miss-Toilet-Bowl, that's for sure, just like the street girls down below.
How she made it in one piece on a Greyhound from Boston Walt could only wonder at ...
Still, she was something to look at besides Barbara. Not that Babs wasn't a looker, but what forty-plus woman in her second marriage could compare to a sixteen-year-old on the prowl?
Barbara still had her shape, when dressed, but out of her clothes, out of her uplift bras, the tummy-tuck pantyhose, the caressing panties, the tight pants, the tight blouses, and wiped of wrinkle creams, de-aging gels, and cellulite smears, she was a woman in her forties, and, sad as it is, a woman consigned to the arbitrary and unfair inevitability of time and age.
Because it is unfair: just as life begins to make sense, as one accepts one's fate, as happiness slowly blossoms, when it all seems to finally come together in the form of a spouse, a love, age and time make their appearance known as though to taunt one's happiness with the fleetingness of it all.
But Walt was there, to praise, to ogle, to squeeze, caress, hug and kiss, to desire and love her as she was ... because Walt was getting up there too. Though a few years younger than Barbara, in his late thirties, and married only for the first time, he was not the man he was ten years earlier, or even two years earlier when he first met Barbara.
He, too, began to notice odd lines and notches on his face whenever he shaved, hair on his shoulders when he showered, and a belly that sagged over his belt in pants that seemed to fit only a summer before.
Though he didn't spend as much time as Barbara spinning about before the mirror, he was also surprised at how low his own ass had sagged the first time he tried on a new bathing suit. Barbara thought he'd look sexier and more masculine in a boxer-cut suit (she was too kind), rather than the short crotch-tightening, ass-cinching styles he worn since boyhood.
To all intents they had the perfect marriage: a couple growing older together, coming to learn more about each other and themselves, and soothing the balm of each new unexpected discovery of passing time by not facing it alone. They each gave and received the support and love every new life-change demanded....
"Jennie's sleeping with me tonight," Barbara said, coming into the kitchen with a crumb-filled plate and empty cans of soda. "You'll have to sleep on the couch."
"Huh!" Walt flared. "What couch? The god-damned thing's a love-chair!"
"She's had a long trip," said Barbara, her face stern, rigid (what the hell were they talking about in there? Walt wondered). "And she's had some rough times."
Walt glanced at Jennie slouching on the loveseat, the little kitten climbing up the girl's mounded breasts and sniffing her mouth. Jennie was purring and cooing and darting her tongue at the kitten, her splayed legs showing off a star-like tattoo on her inner left thigh above the ripped black nylon. Jennie looked at him; Walt turned away.
"Yeah, and I'm gonna have a rougher night tonight!" He opened the refrigerator and reached for a can of soda, his penis aching to stiffen in his pants.
"Only for tonight," Barbara whispered. "We'll figure something out tomorrow, okay?"
Walt shrugged, opened his soda, and joined her at the sink.
"She's lost," Barbara said quietly. "And I somehow feel responsible. Our mother was an asshole. Look how many times I ran away from home."
Walt glanced at Jennie in the living room: the girl had crossed her legs, a black garter strap lacing under her thigh to the torn black nylon.
"How old is she?"
"Sixteen."
Walt winced at his perverted thinking: old enough. And pressed his groin to the side of the sink cabinet.
Jennie went to sleep early, the kitten Cobain curled up in the space between her legs.
Barbara cuddled next to Walt on the loveseat and stared at her favorite TV show: some weekly soap about beautiful women in miniskirts who kept constantly changing their clothes and cheating or betraying each other with their men.
Walt couldn't quite grasp the plot twist or who was who, much less what these characters did for a living to have so much free time to do it to each other, but the short skirts, the pretty faces, the long hair, the deep cleavages, the almost pornographic soft-core love scenes and vicious catfights kept him interested week after week...
They always had their best sex right after.
Not tonight...
The only thing in his bed was a sister-in-law with big tits, and he was on a loveseat with his wife.
Their two room/kitchenette apartment in the East Village, with the one door being to the cubby-hole bathroom, was designed for either a single person who never entertained or a couple intent only on entertaining themselves (but mostly for the landlord to maximize his profit -- where there had once been two large apartments per floor, now there were six closet-like living spaces, each closet's rent higher than the two old apartments' rent combined).
Jennie's shape was clearly visible in the other "room."
If we can see her, Barbara whispered, as Walt groped up her legs, she'll be able to see us.... Not to mention, Walt thought, the awkward gymnastic-like contortions they'd have to twist themselves into actually succeed at making love on a so-called loveseat.
"Thanks a lot, Cobain!" Walt glared at the slit-eyed kitten staring at him from between the crotch-crook of Jennie's legs. "Thanks a lot, Little-Miss-Toilet-Bowl!" he quietly called out, using his favorite expression for calling the street kids names -- the rich "homeless" kids out for sex, drugs and rock 'n roll instead of getting a job. Toilet Bowls, the whole lot of them.
Just before Jennie went to bed, he had finally seen the real Jennie, the teenager she actually was, not the frumped-up tart she made herself to be. Washed of the rotting corpse makeup, shed of the torn nylons and garters and short skirt and tight whore blouse, wrapped in a cumbersome cotton robe too long and too big for ever her large shape, she looked her age.
Walt winced at the sight: sixteen?!
What had he been thinking? She now looked like she was twelve. Except for the green hair, the ring in her nose, and the studs in her ears, she seemed as innocent and virginal as any fifth or sixth grader. Walt awkwardly smiled a good night at her, turning red.
But after Barbara kissed him good night, sleep was impossible. he curled up on the sheeted and pillowed loveseat, staring at the two female shapes in the darkness. He couldn't take his mind of Jennie.
He was frustrated at merely groping Babs. He was frustrated even more by the unattainable TV starlets he had just lusted after -- the TV drama contained a really vicious pair of cat fighters clad in running outfits, not only clawing and slapping and hair-pulling, but also tit close-ups, as if the point of the catfight was to see whose tits would first jiggle high enough to spill out of a Lycra wrap-around. Not one ever did, and Walt felt cheated.
How come Barbara didn't have tits like her kid sister? They came from the same mother, didn't they? Ah, but a different father! Do men have it in them, a sort of genetic code, to create big tits on their daughters? That had to be it: Barbara's mother was as small-titted as she, so how the hell else could Jennie look like that?
Oh Christ! Walt tossed and turned on the loveseat a long time thinking of tits, of nipples, of bras, of cleavages, of blouses, of Jennie.
Just as supposedly there are legs men, ass men, and cunt men, so, too, Walt considered himself a tit man. Not that that's the only kind of woman he went after.
Most of his girlfriends before Barbara were small or average. Barbara was a decent handful, but big tits were Walt's lifelong unattainable dream, like Candy Cane out of Juggs magazine, or Uschi Digard in those '60s Russ Myer films, something to dream and cream over but never actually squeeze or smell or touch or lick or have sleeping a few feet away from you.... Tits! Tits! Tits! The masturbator's unattainable quest and the pornographer's perennial moneymaker and your flat-chested wife right beside you.... Aw, shit!
Walt finally fell asleep on the floor, out of sight of the shapes on the bed, clutching a pillow to his chest and one between his legs, jarred the next morning by the alarm clock from nightmare of gigantic nipples with teeth.
He was out of the house before Barbara or Jennie stirred though the kitten Cobain peered at him from under Jennie's ass; Walt stuck his tongue out at the kitten.
Work was a waste. He was too tired from uncomfortable sleep, and a few times he backed up his forklift into some crates, sending co-workers scurrying out of the way. Even the usually tolerant Mrs. Clark, his supervisor, yelled at him to watch where he was going, then pulled him into her office to find what was wrong.
"My wife's kid sister is staying over," he mumbled to Mrs. Clark (even her small tits seemed larger today), "and I didn't get much sleep last night."
"How old is the kid sister?"
"Sixteen."
Mrs. Clark giggled. "Just be careful where you back up that forklift, Walt," she said sweetly. She winked and sent him back to work.
He had hoped she'd give him the rest of the day off. With Barbara at her shoe-store job, Jennie's be home alone, and hell, they were related by marriage.
He could find out what she was doing with her life, why she was so lost. He could tell her a thing or two. He shook his head. Boy, was he hard!
By the time Walt got home Barbara had also returned from work. Jennie and the kitten Cobain were gone.
"Where's your sister?" he asked.
Barbara glared at him. "What do you care where she is?"
"Just asking," he shrugged.
"She left."
Walt looked about the apartment. Jennie's knapsack was gone but the shopping bag was in a corner of the room.
"Where'd she go?"
Again, Barbara glared at him, then snapped. "She didn't like the way you looked at her! It upset her! She doesn't trust you!"
"What?!"
"She said you kept staring at her breasts."
"Huh?! Look at the fucking blouse she was wearing!"
"You were even looking up her skirt last night!"
"If your sister can't sit in a chair without spreading her legs and showing off her cunt..."
"She's my baby sister!"
"Oh, fuck you both!"
Walt stalked out of the living room and went to the bedroom. Barbara did him one better and went to the bathroom -- at least she had a door to slam. For a while he lay on the bed, on his side, where Jennie had slept, then got up and went to her book bag.
The fat Cosmopolitan magazines lay curled atop the Stephen King novels, and he grinned at the cleaved bosomed cover girls. He pulled out a magazine and flipped through the pages, nothing but pictures of half-naked models and articles on "How To Make Love Standing Up" ... "How To Make Love To A Sexually Impotent Man" ... and advertisements upon advertisements for breast enlargement pills, breast enlargement stretch techniques, breast enlargement books and catalogs and calendars, breast enlargement exercises in conjunction with menstrual cycles.
"Aw, Christ!" Walt sighed and threw the magazine back in the bag and walked across the apartment. The bathroom was quiet. Walt knocked.
"Babs?" he said softly. "I'm sorry...."
Barbara opened the door. She was wearing a fresh coat of lipstick and dark eye makeup ... it was her way of calling a truce without any more arguing, without any apologies or recriminations on either side.
He had nothing to say either. The argument was over. They made love. On the bed.
"You know, she looked like a worse tramp today then she did yesterday," his wife said afterwards.
Walt could just imagine Jennie down in the East Village with all the other little Mr. and Ms. Toilet-Bowls. She would fit right in: they all looked like tramps down there....
But he was quiet, and lay under Barbara's arm, his face snuggled against the side of her small left breast. He was content. It was more than big enough. It was all he would ever get, yet it was all he ever wanted.
***
9
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