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Archive name: hump.txt (MF, rom, inc, 1st)
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Humping with Howdy 

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2003.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Humping with Howdy (MF, rom, inc, 1st)
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Revised 12/13/03

***

If you're not already member of the Peanut Gallery, 
this story will surely seem obscure. Puppet sexuality? 
If you were a Howdy Doody fan, however, do read on. If 
you watched TV with a sibling... Well, I can't speak 
for where it went for you two.

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES: If you're not already member of the 
Peanut Gallery, this story will surely seem obscure. 
Puppet sexuality? If you're a Howdy Doody fan, do read 
on.

As always, readers' comments are well appreciated. I 
hope I'm making fewer literary goofs. I worked really 
hard to get the facts in this story correct. Everything 
I say about the TV show, the movies, etc., I think is 
true, anyway. If you're a Howdy scholar (which I'm 
not), you can check the dates, etc. and keep me honest. 
Does my effort qualify as "historical fiction", 
something I'd like to try? It takes lots of work to fit 
a made-up tale to recorded history. But is sure is fun. 
But is this Mrs. Thornton even fictitious, other than 
probably a name change? I'm not admitting anything, 
other than I typed it.

There's a poem before "Afterthoughts". I'm pretty 
pleased how it rhymes out, I must admit. Complain about 
anything you like, but please, not my poem. Poets are 
granted extra license.

BANQUET, MAY 2001

"30 Years of Service. Best Wishes Mrs. Thornton. 
Detroit Public Schools. Building Brighter Futures."

My retirement banquet from Farwell Mid School was quite 
the affair! Thirty years teaching social studies at one 
place generates lots of memories, good ones. Best I can 
tell, I'll be the last one to last three decades. At 
almost 55, I hardly feel retirable, but my benefit 
package more or less equals my salary. I'm ahead 
bailing now and coming back to sub when the fancy 
strikes.

We all have our nicknames of which the students presume 
we aren't aware. I'm "Mrs. Social Stories" for my bent 
toward tales that convey the subject. They'd always 
moan, "Oh, here comes another story," when I'd start 
and sit at rapt attention till the conclusion. Say what 
you will; keeping midschoolers focussed takes a good 
teacher. Plus, when DPS does "Benchmark Indicators" to 
see what students really retain, mine ace the social 
studies. They remember stories.

I'm sure to them I seem the type who'd never engage in 
illicit activities. Pretty true, I suppose, except for 
my "Mrs." prefix. This exception is the story that 
follows.

DPS sends a bigshot to these banquets to make sure we 
really leave. The Deputy Superintendent for Information 
Technology provided my officiality. "Now I'm led to 
believe that Mrs. Thornton made you learn every U.S. 
President of the last century. We appreciate that you 
didn't sue for educational abuse." Administrative 
humor, I guess.

Then from the back, "McKinley." Then somebody joined 
in, "Teddy Roosevelt." Then it was the roomful, "Taft, 
Wilson, Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, Franklin Roosevelt, 
Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, 
Carter, Reagan, George V. Bush, Clinton." Everyone 
cheered. It was worth all 30 years, right there! Mr. 
Deputy Superintendent laughed the loudest.

My retirement banquet drew ex-students from the 
duration of my DPS days. My earliest kids had then 
seemed a generation below me. (And I undoubtedly seemed 
equivalent to their parents.) But 30 years later, we 
turn out to be about the same age. I'd even venture 
that a few of them would be taken as having been my 
teacher if we were put in a lineup. Then there were the 
parents and fellow faculty who again end up with me 
generationally. Those were the ones to whom I was 
speaking.

"Say kids, what time is it?" My lead-in generated total 
silence. So I got more specific, "I'm a really nice guy 
in a cowboy shirt with fringe on the sleeves."

A laugh from the back, "It's Howdy Doody Time," and I 
was on my way!

"Let's start off with our song, boys and girls," to 
remind them that I was a very old fuddy-duddy. "Just 
sing along, especially you, Mr. Deputy Superintendent 
for Information Technology."

 It's Howdy Doody Time.
 It's Howdy Doody Time.
 Bob Smith and Howdy, too
 Say Howdy-Do to you.

 Let's give a rousing cheer
 'Cause Howdy Doody's here.
 It's time to start the show,
 So kids, LET'S GO!

If nobody had sung, I'd have had to ad lib something 
about preparing for the future, boys and girls. But 
enough did, even some current students who learned the 
anthem I haven't a clue where.

"So much better than that song where you spell a 
mouse's name," I added for the benefit of my colleague 
Janice.

"Hi there, Peanut Gallery," I started off. "You're 
looking at a Howdy Doody girl. Most of what I know, 
Howdy taught me." A few laughs. "You average American 
kids will spend 10,800 hours in the classroom by the 
time you're 18, so school's pretty important. Here's 
the scary part, though. You will have seen 20,000 hours 
of television. Yeow!"

"I'm actually a year older than Howdy Doody, where it 
all started. Maybe there's still a link between us. I 
wasn't concerned with deeper relationships back then." 
That little bit was for my friend Joan. She'd know the 
link.

"TV today (pardon my old-fogeyness, kids) is overrun 
with spin-offs of spin-offs of spin-offs. In Howdy's 
time, though, Buffalo Bob used TV to connect our eyes 
to our brain. They probably figured that here comes a 
diatribe against Cheers. Not my intent, though the 
values that series communicates deserve it.

"Before TV, even, Elmer the puppet would greet Buffalo 
Bob's radio studio audience, 'Well, Howdy Doody boys 
and girls, hyuh, hyuh, hyuh.' They'd yell it back, 
'Howdy Doody.' The name stuck. Howdy hit the TV 
invention in 1947. And now you know how old I am.

"I joined the Peanut Gallery (virtually, in today's 
terms; I never went to New York) when I was maybe five. 
The show was at 5:30 so Mom could get dinner on. I 
don't remember that I saw much else. There was plenty 
to do outside.

"Mayor Phineas T. Bluster pulled dirty tricks against 
Howdy when Howdy would run for President. Sound 
familiar? You got your ballot with a loaf of Wonder 
Bread. It tasted better then and built strong bodies 
twelve ways. No chad in those elections." Smiles from 
the Democrats. "Howdy received over a million votes, 
but Truman and Eisenhower won anyway. He'd beat the one 
we've got these days, though." This was, after all, my 
adieu speech.

I'll spare you the rest of my oratory, but pursue my 
thesis -- growing up with Howdy Doody made me what I 
am. What's written from here on wasn't in my banquet 
speech, you can be sure.

Ready?

INITIATE, NOVEMBER 1956

An aspect of me of which you may not be aware is that I 
masturbate quite well. (Want to hear what Women's Lib 
suggests? "Mistressbating." Come on, females!)

Whoa, you say! How'd we get here? She's really old, a 
teacher even. She was geezin' about some old TV show, 
not about stroking the kitten. Well they say that sex 
is like playing bridge - you need either a good partner 
or a good hand. So here's the story of humping with 
Howdy.

Most girls, of course, do masturbate. Sophisticated 
girls have vibrators and dildos and, so I've heard, 
even machines. However we do it, we do do it. Well I 
know that I was humping by age 10 because that's when 
Captain Kangaroo and Mickey Mouse relegated Howdy to 
Saturday mornings. And it wasn't Mickey's magic kingdom 
I was visiting before dinner.

Perhaps Howdy's sidekick Clarabell was squirting people 
with seltzer or horn honking that Mr. Bluster was up 
too no good. That part I don't exactly remember. I do 
remember that I was climbing over the sofa armrest with 
one leg above and the other around. The pressure 
tickled my crotch.

Primal instinct is my explanation for wiggling. I 
rocked harder and it felt like a fun tickle, even. I 
was glad that I was behind my brother Samuel, then 
about 8, but I didn't sense I was doing anything 
improper. Just wiggling.

Next afternoon, I tried it again. I rolled my thighs to 
better situate myself and used my hands to steady my 
balance, rhythmically pressing forward and backwards. 
Ten-year-olds know what's fun.

Howdy, whom I'd been ignoring, was probably commenting 
something like, "Never take food from anyone else's 
plate, especially the cat's." He was always giving 
advice that made sense to kids. I doubt he said, 
"Tickle your bottom against the sofa arm, not your nose 
against the birdcage," but it would have been a Howdy 
way to say it.

I liked tickling myself that way, so much indeed that 
I'd do it nearly every show. Howdy would say, "We can 
all make the world a happier place by doing nice 
things," and we believed it. This was doing a nice 
thing.

I was anticipating nothing more than my Howdy tickle 
when I had my first delight. It wasn't an adult orgasm, 
of course, but its suddenness surprised me. I knew some 
incorrect things about adult sex, but didn't make the 
connection. This was just a special way to shiver 
myself. Though of course Howdy had nothing to do with 
the physicality of my adventure, I associated the 
freckled fellow with my success. I'd watch him watch 
me.

My technique improved. I figured out how to perch with 
legs raised and ankles crossed, something of a flying 
posture. In one TV episode, Mr. Bluster was stealing 
the TV signals in the Rockies so the kids in California 
couldn't watch. I imagined that I was flying over the 
mountains while I rubbed.

It worked best in my pink pedal pushers. When I'd get 
near the shivering part, I'd shift my weight forward 
until the cotton slid against me just the right way.

If I'd heard the term "masturbation", I'd have 
associated it with something more adult, not hips 
against the sofa before supper. I'd climax in my little 
way about a minute, more like having to pee and then 
not having to and feeling tingly afterwards. It didn't 
occur to me to prolong things. It didn't occur to me 
that my hand might be gentler. It did seem right, 
however, to be doing to Howdy's googly grin. Samuel, 
not old enough to know anything, would sit vigilant to 
Doodyville.

It didn't occur to me that my exertions might compete 
for by brother's attention. Samuel caught me in climax 
while the Peanut Gallery spoke their opinions on 
Howdy's "Mommy wants me to go to bed early, but I want 
to stay up" dilemma. I didn't know that he'd turned 
around, but it was inevitable that sooner or later he 
would have. In any case, being so close I couldn't 
exactly stop.

"Can I do that?" he asked, seemingly impressed by my 
flushed complexion. My brother's question was 
deceptively straightforward.

"I guess, but you can't blab," feeling my heartbeat.

"Why not?"

"Just can't"

"OK," as he climbed onto the sofa's other arm. "So how 
do I?"

"Just move around."

Samuel moved around. "So what's the thing?"

"I don't know."

"Why do you do it then?"

"Because I'm bigger," sufficient for a younger brother. 
He returned to watching the TV. I was rather proud of 
my sibling superiority.

Howdy went off weekday TV that year. If I was at home 
Saturday mornings, I might catch him, but usually I 
didn't. It didn't matter too much, because Howdy and I 
were soon to be sleeping together.

SWEET DREAMS, NOVEMBER 1957

Howdy got me started on the sofa, then helped me expand 
my horizons. This wasn't the two-dimensional show-time 
Howdy; this was "Mr. Howdy", as I called my three-
dimensional doll to distinguish him from his televised 
representation.

Mr. Howdy was confined neither to the living room nor 
to the before-dinner time slot. He could go to bed with 
me. (Today that sounds erotic, but to an eleven-year-
old, it was just where you slept.) Why I started 
sleeping with this doll, I don't know, other than the 
association.

By subconscious design or accident, it doesn't matter; 
Howdy found his way between my legs. He'd be in the 
dark under my covers and I'd pretend like he was 
exploring. I'd always arrange his neckerchief first. 
I'd lie on my stomach, put him underneath my crotch and 
squeeze his vinyl head. It didn't achieve even what the 
sofa afforded, but why should it? I liked him there. It 
wasn't until I rocked did I recognize the fuller magic. 
Up and down felt nice, but side to side worked best. It 
only took a little riding my little buddy to exceed the 
sofa effect. Part of the pleasure was working Mr. Howdy 
back on center when he'd meander, my inner thighs 
commanding.

My chest, breast buds barely emergent, I'd hold up with 
my elbows. My knees I'd spread apart. My toes I'd wedge 
into the mattress enough to slide my body. I'd tense 
the muscles in my tummy and thighs to match my 
exertions. In climax, I'd squeeze him still.

By this time, my orgasms were more exciting, demanding 
better management. But it's all relevant, isn't it? 
Forty years later, my orgasms are more sustained, more 
subsuming, more vibrant, more varied. But are they more 
fun? Do you enjoy gourmet sorbet today more than 
Safeway chocolate in a cone when you were eleven?

I'm pretty sure Mom knew what I was doing because once 
she came in and pretended not to notice how I was 
humped up. After that she'd always knock. Back then we 
didn't talk much about sex and I now suppose she'd 
enjoyed a similar phase in her youth. I know that she 
told Dad to always knock first because I was the age 
where my body was changing.

In today's light, would I be said to have succumbed to 
some sort of oral sexual gratification? After all, Mr. 
Howdy was mostly grin. But all I was doing was playing 
with my doll.

The year we started sleeping together is etched in my 
mind for another Doodyville reason: Princess Summerfall 
Winterspring died for real in a car wreck on her 
honeymoon. She (I didn't know it then) was Judy Tyler, 
22. Just her Indian Princess age was about my own.

The real Judy Tyler was what the show wasn't supposed 
to be about. At 15 she'd been a dancer at the 
Copacabana. By 17 she'd married her pianist. TV was a 
way to get to Broadway. When a pretty girl was needed 
for Howdy Doody, Judy's "Over the Rainbow" and "I Got 
Rhythm" audition got her the feather headband. She was 
teasing the NBC directors too, poor little Dorothy in 
Oz and then a shoulder-rolling lounge act. She'd have 
known about the casting couch. They didn't sign her 
because she had a cute dog Todo.

The Princess puppet was transformed into a stunningly 
shapely maiden who softened some of the relentless 
commercialization. I wanted those Hostess Cupcakes that 
they were always pitching. Buffalo Bob didn't ask, he 
told you to go out and get some. I wonder if they sold 
more Cupcakes to grown men after Judy joined the show?

Unknown to us kids was Judy's dancing on tables in 
nightclubs. Off-camera she'd wear tight sweaters and 
offend Buffalo Bob with her sexual innuendoes. At 19 
(how'd she get into those nightclubs, anyway?) she left 
Howdy to pursue her career, to "rejoin her people," Bob 
told us.

Buffalo Bob would narrate old time movies on the show, 
silent-era comedies or the little Rascals. Judy 
progressed from B-grade "Bop Girl Goes Calypso" to 
Elvis Presley's babe in "Jailhouse Rock". That girl 
knew how to audition! There's a promo photo of her 
leaning back into duck-tailed Elvis with his arm right 
around her chest. Pretty risqu‚ for 1957. The Princess 
should have stayed with Howdy like I did. Even Elvis 
later said that those movies were detrimental to his 
career.

So why am I reminiscing about Princess Summerfall 
Winterspring? Maybe like her, Howdy too had an erotic 
offstage presence. Under my sheets he did, anyway.

FINGER DANCING, FEBRUARY 1958

One time poor Buffalo Bob used Howdy's Shrinking 
Machine to lose a few pounds, but due to Phineas T. 
Bluster's trickery, got shrunk teeny-tiny. It took 
Howdy and gang a lot of effort to restore him. Why I 
remember that episode is because it taught me to use my 
fingers. Buffalo Bob being Tom Thumb size, I was 
thinking digitally. Or maybe I'd just discovered how to 
use my fingers, so the plot stuck.

Accustomed as I was to humping Howdy, it came natural 
to hump my hand, my fist, actually. Then, as every girl 
discovers, you learn how to tickle your fancy, play the 
piano, polish the pearl, let your fingers do the 
walking, however you want to call it. Now pubescent, 
I'd get wet, which helped.

It works better to be on your back with knees flopped 
apart. Sometimes I'd cross my ankles. Sometimes I'd 
have one leg up and leave the other flat or even bent 
over the side. I'd put my palm on my front and let my 
middle finger tease my clitoris, though I'd not yet 
seen it. (Why am I using past tense? I still do.) Rub 
it side-to-side at first, then in circular motion; they 
each have their special feel. Some of my girlfriends 
used other fingers to do very specific things, but I 
liked the simplicity. Again, I knew that some of my 
friends would even finger their vagina, but that part 
of you should be saved for when you got married, I told 
them.

Doing it pretty much every night, Mr. Doody would watch 
to make sure I did it right. Howdy always said things 
like, "Always do your best at whatever you do."

SAMUEL, SEPTEMBER 1959

I can date this in relation to having "becoming a 
woman", as Mom phrased it. Samuel and I did something 
really fun; we humped each other.

The sofa arm was still a compelling part of my Saturday 
mornings. Teenage whets your appetite, even. I'd stay 
in my pajamas for it, teasing myself under the 
breakfast table. But Samuel was sitting on the sofa 
too, not down where he could see the show better.

So it's hard to say what lead to what, but it's surely 
associated with having already made myself ripe. I 
walloped my brother with a pillow, not an infrequent 
sibling communication. He of course pushed me back. 
Before I could rise to deliver another shot, he was 
sitting on the "Moron girl." It was more-or-less a fair 
fracas. I was the taller, but as a boy, he was the 
battler. To stay on top, he flattened me into the 
cushion, an eleven-year-old leg working its way between 
two thirteen-year-old ones.

I was surprised, to say the least, and he must have 
been too by what happened in securing his superiority -
- he became erect. I suppose our friction did it, or 
maybe it was my futile twists and bucks. Maybe he'd 
seen my breasts between my buttons. For sure he'd 
bumped me enough, even locking his arms around from 
behind, cupping me accidentally (I presumed) in 
previous battles. Maybe guys get hard when they win at 
anything. Evolutionary, you suppose? I didn't need to 
be a biologist, though, to know where Samuel's little 
erection was pressing. PJ's don't hold things apart.

But rather than disengaging, we battled on, his 
dominance achieved when he got his other leg with his 
first. With my knees pried apart, I lost any leverage 
for escape. His penis most definitely poked my mound.

Howdy's TV oversight at that moment, in any event, held 
association. I didn't mind Samuel being where he was. 
Let's be more honest, I liked my brother's bump there. 
It was a place that a young woman liked to get bumped, 
I guess. I must have lifted my hips in a less-escapist 
manner. Samuel was moving too, but with me, not against 
me, if you get the difference, so he must have liked it 
as well. Perhaps he too saw a connection to something 
he'd done by himself. Siblings don't always explain 
everything.

I pulled him up a bit to slide his bulge where best it 
matched mine, lifting my hips to help. He thrust 
against where I led. With unspoken intent, we pressed 
together and rubbed Howdy Doody style.

My response may at first have been just my pelvis, but 
as we progressed, my butt bounced higher and higher 
against his ploughing. On the TV, Howdy would hop with 
his arms in front as the strings maneuvered him. The 
puppetry wasn't too sophisticated. If the puppeteers 
would have just flopped the Howdy marionette on top of 
the sister Heidi Doody one and bounced their butts, 
that's probably about how we looked.

My left foot found the floor and the right hooked over 
the sofa back. My eyes were closed. I knew that I would 
climax, that this stage was the same as doing it alone. 
But it was the first time I sensed that somebody else 
could enhance it. It didn't register to me that he 
could have an orgasm too until I felt him gasp. Mine 
was more fierce that I'd ever done alone. Samuel just 
hung on.

We lay there afterwards in amazement. Not wanting to 
embarrass him, I at first said nothing. Howdy always 
said, "And always say 'please' before and 'thank you' 
afterwards," but that didn't seem quite right, so I 
said, "That was OK."

I suppose we sensed we'd done something we oughtn't, 
but it wasn't having sex. I'd decided to be a virgin 
until I got married, of course, so I could wear a white 
gown. Turns out that I was and I didn't, but that's 
later on the story.

But you don't just hump your sibling accidentally a 
second time and it didn't seem right to do it on 
purpose. So we just lay there, sweaty together in our 
sleepwear, glad that Mom hadn't heard. It was a little 
embarrassing, him knowing how hard I came, but siblings 
have the privilege of leaving a Saturday morning 
chapter perhaps to be continued.

UNTIL SOME OTHER DAY, SEPTEMBER 1960

Howdy's final episode was one hour in full color. On 
our black and white, though, the NBC peacock was just 
shades of gray. Mom and Dad watched the show with us, 
even, as we all knew it was the last one.

As the cast packed up to leave Doodyville, Clarabell 
honked for attention. Teary-eyed, he looked directly at 
us, "Goodbye, kids." The cast sang one last time,

 It's time to say goodbye,
 Goodbye until some other day
 When we may be with you again.

I was past being a major fan, but I was really sad. So 
was Samuel. Maybe crying made us closer; I don't know. 
At bedtime, I halfheartedly tried to hump my Mr. Howdy. 
With the red by now rubbed off much of his hair, he 
seemed sort of sad himself. Maybe this was the end of 
that too, I wondered.

Bored, I wandered back down the stairs. Samuel was 
ascending. It was on the stairs that I knew what I 
wanted, albeit vaguely.

"Hey, let's do something," I suggested.

He looked at me blankly.

"Go get in your PJ's too," I directed. "The folks 
already went to bed." Perhaps the last TV episode had 
sparked something similar in him. He met me back 
downstairs. When I steered him toward the sofa, he 
didn't ask why.

I pulled him onto me. It didn't occur to me to undo my 
top or anything. When I cocked my knees outward, he 
settled against me, not yet erect. We wiggled and 
giggled until we could feel it within his flannel; I 
knew he wanted me to know he'd grown. I was already 
wet. At 14, girls can get really wet. Whispering too 
loudly about being quiet, we drove our hips together as 
if our Saturday morning encounter were but yesterday. 
The couch creaked with our percussion.

Having humped Howdy so many times, masturbation already 
had a sense of mutuality. I knew how to place my 
brother on my crack to do what before had taken my 
deliberate fingertips. I pushed and pulled him against 
my pelvic bone, teasing my secret through pajamad 
modesty. Samuel stroked the rhythm; I controlled the 
pressure.

Neither of us was knowledgeable enough about foreplay 
to significantly forestall our climaxes, which we 
announced with untimely whimpers. We lay still for but 
a few minutes and begin again. Truth be told, I don't 
think the revival achieved much physiologically, but 
what mattered was in our heads. We pounded our PJ 
bottoms against each other until we felt better.

Had it been in this new millennium, we'd probably have 
stripped for real sex. Fourteen-year-olds do that to 
their brothers these days, you know. Our PJ's just had 
elastic waistbands, so it would have been easy. But 
keep in mind that Eisenhower was still Chief Executive. 
Having intercourse wasn't what American Christian youth 
(our kind, anyway) did. The prohibition was against 
making love in general, not us being sister and 
brother. If you're not driving to Milwaukee, you don't 
think about specific road closures.

These were the days of great makeouts, not great 
screws. My girlfriends were letting their dates touch 
their bra. Maybe a steady could even feel inside. But 
the guy didn't expect much more. Petting to orgasm? 
Maybe on a college hayride if you're a cheerleader and 
he's on the football team. Samuel and I just fouled up 
the sequence. It would be years before I'd let him 
deliberately touch my nipples.

THOSE REVOLUTIONARY '60'S

In the 1960's, Buffalo Bob bought a liquor store and 
radio stations and played golf. He abandoned the Peanut 
Gallery, just like that. The '60's disillusionment was 
about more than LBJ's war.

Fear not, however. What follows isn't another evocative 
personal-discovery saga framed in that definitive 
decade. Setting forth to change the world! All I want 
to cover is how I'd rustle my knicks without Howdy. I 
picked up that quaint term years later when I took an 
NEA professional tour (translate "tax deductible") 
about teaching British history.

What the Revolution taught me was that you can 
masturbate in about any position. Here are a couple of 
techniques that worked for a not profoundly-
countercultural flower child.

Hunch on the balls of your feet with a pillow on your 
heels and sit on your fist with a knuckle against your 
clit. Basically you're fucking yourself. It sounds a 
little brutal, I guess, but maybe you had extra 
frustrations that day. Bunching your fingertips to make 
little circles is gentler. Cover your vagina with your 
other hand, but keep the lips closed so it's just 
pressure, not penetration. I can sense contractions 
even from the outside. This way's about female self-
awareness, the theme of the next decade, actually.

Or try leaning against a wall with a foot up on 
something. This is a way to find your G-spot (an 
anatomical feature amazingly unknown to science until 
the 70's, it seems). Finger yourself until you start to 
come and then excite your clitoris. Standing makes my 
orgasm sharper. There's something satisfying about 
remaining balanced. There's something unsatisfying, 
though, about pumping your finger. At least it's not 
artificial.

So I spent the '60's, hands in my panties? Of course 
not. I got my degree in Secondary Ed. I wore tie-die 
shirts without a bra, but not to class like some girls 
did. "Professor Seaton. Can I stop by your office to 
talk about my grade? I'll lean over to watch while you 
mark things. It's really cool how these days we're 
beyond where age makes any difference between people, 
isn't it? See, if we mess up your hair a little, you 
sort of look like Bob Dylan! He's really popular." I 
smoked some pot, but nothing stupid. The Free Love 
thing sort of missed me, but I guess that was OK. I 
would have if I'd had the chance.

Normal, being a college town, was a good enough place. 
I, in fact, stayed right there for my first real job, 
two years teaching history at Normal High School, right 
where I'd student taught. Most NHS girls didn't wear 
bras either and their dads were the professors. "Dad. 
Can we go to your study to talk about my allowance? 
I'll lean over to watch while you mark papers."

I might even be at NHS now ("32 Years of Service. Best 
Wishes Mrs. Thornton. Normal Public School District. 
Learning for Tomorrow"), but for my brother. He 
graduated from college too, industrial arts. The NHS 
banner wouldn't have said "Mrs. Thornton" like the one 
in Detroit.

REUNION, MARCH 1971

Samuel and I always were good friends; some siblings 
aren't. You can tell if one answers a query about the 
other with information from a Christmas letter. However 
far apart Samuel and I might have strayed, we'd have 
stayed in touch. "Touch" is a term with latitude, isn't 
it? Siblings are in touch if they occasionally write. A 
brother gently touches his sister's breast when she 
rests her head on his lap. Same word.

My job and Samuel's senior year, plus me in my 
apartment and him in his dorm meant that we didn't see 
each other much. But we enjoyed it when we did, perhaps 
a beer at my place after tennis. I'd grab a quick 
shower and maybe be in my bra while we downed a couple 
of cold ones. He was my little brother, for goodness 
sake. I didn't mind if his ears would get a little red 
at first. They were just cotton bras, back then, not 
the sheer ones they sell now.

A Howdy standard was backward spelling. At the 
Doodyville Book Club, the magic words, "Skoob Era Nuf," 
transported us into the volumes. Backwards, "Books Are 
Fun". Once Buffalo Bob rescued Peppy Mint (the real 
girl after Princess Summerfall Winterspring) from a 
magic mirror trap with, "Nepo Rorrim". That's, "Open 
Mirror!"

Samuel and I perpetuated the cipher. "Sinnet No 
Yadsendew" was "Tennis On Wednesday." He'd usually win. 
"De Cysp Weiver" meant "Ed Psyc Review." A girl needs 
her support for tennis, but not for pedagogic theory, 
at least if she's still in her 20's. I didn't mind that 
Samuel noticed the difference. A sister can read her 
brother pretty well.

In the '70's, innocence was supplanted by bitter 
realities even closer to home. Kent State, a place 
about as normal as Normal.

When Howdy Doody came to town, though, older sister's 
orders were absolute, "Ew Tog A Etad." It was only 
fitting for Howdy, Buffalo Bob, wife Buffalo Mil and 
Clarabell to reappear on college campuses, Normal being 
one of 500 reunions. Even draft card burners needed a 
break from their lighters. Buffalo Bob didn't say "Baby 
Boomers"; we were his "alumni". Draft cards didn't 
exist in the Peanut Gallery. We were back at home with 
Howdy Doody for a couple of hours.

A big date, even, because it was Howdy! I made Samuel 
dress up. I did too. It was part of the strangeness of 
when Nixon was President. Wear your girdle on Friday 
and jiggle on Saturday. Samuel bought me a corsage 
without me even asking. He's always been sweet. Walking 
to the auditorium, I took my brother's arm, prom 
princess style.

Cheering Howdy made old times come alive. I remembered 
how we'd laughed at Flub-a-dub (eight animals in one: 
duck bill, cat whiskers, spaniel ears, giraffe neck, 
dachshund body, seal flippers, pig tail and an 
elephant's memory), how we'd hounded Mom to buy Welch's 
Grape Jelly so we'd get the juice glasses.

And I remembered how we'd humped each other back when 
we were kids, once accidentally, the other at my 
invitation. Did he? I didn't know, but something about 
seeing Howdy again with Samuel on my arm made me 
happier than Buffalo Bob's jokes merited, to wit,

Howdy:
 Hey, Buffalo Bob, what's black and white and red all 
over?
Bob:
 I don't know Howdy. What is black and white and red 
all over?
Howdy (and everybody at the show):
 A newspaper!

Bob didn't appreciate the Cheech and Chong big bong 
humor we thought we'd grown into,

Cheech:
 Knock knock.
Chong:
 Who's there?
Cheech:
 Howdy Doody.
Chong:
 Howdy Doody who?
Cheech:
 I don'no man. Like wow! I forget.

Basically the auditorium-full realized that we'd 
forgotten how to be kids. Cheech and Chong were funny, 
sure, but we needed the old way too. I nuzzled Samuel. 
I nuzzled more insistently. He grinned and nuzzled me 
back. He remembered when we were kids on the sofa too. 
I fluttered my eyes.

By the time the show was over and Buffalo Bob was 
signing photographs and memorabilia (I should have 
brought Mr. Howdy), Samuel had traversed my blouse in 
every direction. I wished I wasn't so bustled. When we 
got back to my place, I ditched my bra in the bathroom.

"That was really cool, seeing Howdy just like we used 
to," I offered, popping a Hamms, feeling the silk on my 
nipples.

"Just like old times," Samuel agreed, looking at my 
bumps.

We sat on my sofa without further reminiscing and then 
I walloped him with a pillow.

"Moron girl," he responded, gulping his cooler before 
counterattack. Now he really was the bigger, so it was 
hardly close. Accepting defeat might have signaled the 
end of it, but I wiggled my knees wide so he'd know 
we'd been remembering together. My giggle was my final 
offer. I could see his erection in his slacks.

I didn't mind when he unbuttoned his Moron girl's 
blouse. He was the first guy I ever watched see my 
tits, excluding the creeps at the swimming pool who 
would gawk when my top hung loose. I so much liked how 
gently he touched me that I quit pretending to struggle 
and worked my leg up against his hardness. He must have 
liked it too, because he wasn't escaping either.

But still how we were brought up, our hands didn't 
venture southward. I parted my knees and let him rub 
his penis against me until we found our rhythm. We 
hooked one another's shoulders and drove our bodies as 
one. Restrained as I was in my latex foundation still 
(damn what dressing up meant back then), it's a wonder 
that it worked for me, but fondness on a sofa counts 
for a lot.

So many years after our youthful trysts, this orgasm 
was that of real lovers, not procreativity coupled, of 
course, but releasing every sort of chemical and 
emotion that full penetration affords. What some 
deprecate as "dry fucking" can be really, really wet.

We were happy, not just for the sexual proximity, but 
for real union.

INVITATIONS, APRIL 1971

That would be my last springtime in Normal. I needed 
something more urban, a place where things would be 
new. Too many people knew me, where I came from, what 
I'd done in Campfire Girls, everything. Being out of 
college made me an old person to those still in. And 
Detroit came calling.

In those days, Northern industrial centers still saw a 
world always craving for bigger and bigger. Detroit 
Public Schools had the bucks to raid places like Normal 
to build Detroit's brighter future. The DPS recruiter 
did everything but produce my contract when he noted 
that I actually had teaching experience. What did I 
want, junior or senior high? Junior, please. They'd fly 
me there for a recruitment visit, even, pretty 
impressive to a girl who'd never been in a plane.

I had no idea that Samuel had talked to the DPS fellow 
until he told me. Industrial Arts made sense in 
Detroit, a place with industry. If teaching didn't pan 
out, he could make better money on an assembly line, 
was his thought. He'd given DPS my apartment address 
since dorm mail dumped on the lobby table sometimes got 
lost. This was too important.

We opened our letters together. We hugged and kissed 
and danced around, we were so excited. Basically they 
were the same form letter saying to book a ticket 
during the next two weeks. They'd reimburse the fare 
and take care of the rest. It seemed silly not to go 
together, so that's how we set it up. We hugged and 
kissed some more.

INTERVIEW EVE, MAY 1971

Not that he hadn't brushed against my tits a million 
times before, but it was so nice on the plane how I 
could doze with his arm against me. I felt like what I 
imagined a wife feels traveling to a new home with her 
husband. When we touched down, I kissed Samuel like a 
spouse might, not passionately, just excited. At the 
baggage claim where nobody watches anything but the 
conveyer, his elbow kept finding me. I grinned back.

You know how little assumptions sometimes become big 
things? Well the little assumption here was that of 
some DPS secretary who probably noticed the coincidence 
of two Thorntons at the same address. We must be 
married, so book one room. That's how the guy at the 
hotel desk had been instructed, anyway. It didn't seem 
that big of deal to us. We'd lived together before, 
obviously.

The fact that the room had just a queen-sized bed gave 
us a start, but again, who were we to quibble about a 
free trip to Detroit. The room had a little fridge, but 
we knew they'd sock us for anything we drank. I'd 
brought snacks. I wrote earlier that "going to bed 
with" doesn't have the connotation for a kid that it 
has for an adult. Well the connotation wasn't so 
obvious to us either. The bathroom had a door. The bed 
was plenty big enough. I had my nightgown.

I got into my nightgown in the bathroom and he stripped 
to his underwear after the lights were out. We lay 
there, not yet sleepy, but knowing that we should be. 
We again shared our slight knowledge and expansive 
opinions about Detroit fueled by the Greater Detroit 
brochures we'd harvested in the lobby. We practiced a 
few interview lines. "We want them to want to learn it 
before they even see it," that sort of banality.

I'd never shared a bed with a guy before, albeit my 
brother. It did feel a little awkward. What if I'd roll 
over? He'd felt so right being close on the plane, 
though, I didn't think I'd mind, even if he wrapped his 
arm around me. I knew I'd liked how he'd brushed my 
bosom with his elbow. I shifted a little toward the 
middle, not obviously, though.

Wanting his presence, his excitement about tomorrow, I 
scooted my foot a bit in his direction. Nothing there. 
I scooted a little further -- an ankle. "Are you 
asleep," sure that he wasn't.

The ankle pushed back. "Don't tell them you drive a 
VW," he advised, scooting my way.

"Be sure to tape back your Howdy ears," I replied as I 
pulled off my gown. I wasn't even planning to! I just 
sat up, did it, and dove back under the covers before 
he could see much. (Actually it was too dark to see, 
but I still wanted to be covered up.)

For a moment we just embraced, still a little unsure 
about being in bed together, much less me having 
discarded my gown. After the Howdy reunion show earlier 
that spring, we humped on my sofa maybe once a week, me 
topless, him squirting big spots on his pants, not 
really on me. He might have sometimes see my panties if 
my dress rode up (no more girdle, if you please), but 
I'd not take off my skirt. We'd stayed off my bed; we 
weren't doing that.

We'd never been together just in underpants. We'd never 
been together in bed.

But you can be unsure and willing. We knew our 
positions -- heads side by side. He clutched my 
shoulders while I worked my thigh inward and upward 
until his boxers firmly wedged my briefs. In only 
underwear, humping assumes precisely explicit 
characteristics. His penis strained forward, probing 
the yield of my own cotton. I arched to help, swapping 
friction for pressure.

But for the two undergarments, we'd have already mated. 
Had Samuel unencumbered the constraint, I would have 
joyfully acquiesced. We'd have become one. But didn't 
tell him, strip me and love's about respect, too.

In that big bed, silently we rotated together until I 
felt his ejaculation seep into my panties. Then I let 
myself go too. I wanted him to feel the power of my 
climax. I slept with the warmth of our two wetnesses 
matting my pubic hair. We slept together in the right 
way for that night.

Sometime during the night he shifted his weight from 
me, but I turned enough sidewise for his knee to linger 
between mine. I was ready to climax again, but I didn't 
want to wake him, so I used a finger, hardly anything. 
Holding yourself so still makes it more pastel, knowing 
that he's feeling your tremor in his sleep. When I 
came, his knee drew up to press against. As I drifted 
off, I felt a tiny kiss, or at least thought I did.

CELEBRATION

DPS Headquarters is a big enough place that once we 
arrived the next morning, we didn't see the other until 
dinner. I'd talked social studies with mid school 
people and he'd talked shop at the vocational level. 
I'd been taken for lunch to a prawn place and he'd gone 
to a sizzler.

When we met at day's end, our grins announced our 
offers. Big money, even! Of course we kissed. Of course 
we hugged. Of course I helped Samuel out of his sports 
coat. Of course I got a run in my stockings when he 
dumped me fully dressed on our bed and humped me. Who 
cares about nylons? We were really good to each other.

We prepared for bed as we did the evening before, me in 
the bathroom, Samuel after turning out the light. We 
both had jobs in Detroit! This time Samuel pulled my 
gown off before I flopped onto the middle. He didn't 
pull the cover back over us, even.

Again we held each other, fabric yielding but not 
parting. We both had jobs in a real city! This was that 
city! I ground against him with every skill I'd 
mastered on my Howdy. I didn't let up.

"I can't hold it," he finally begged as I lifted. "I 
can't."

I knew the pace of his ascension -- maybe six strokes 
remaining. I'd arrive right with him. Did this mean to 
let him pull away, precluding his seed from trickling 
into me, what might have even happened last night? I 
wasn't sure. I worked him ever harder. With probably 
three left, there was no option for slowing.

No, I was sure. I hadn't thought we would, but I was 
sure! I wanted him to take my virginity. I wanted to 
take his.

"It's OK," the same I'd said when we were little. 
Soaked with invitation and focusing on our final 
moment, I pushed down my panties and freed his penis. 
"Come on. You can!" His final stroke had nowhere to go 
but forward.

Sibling first-time sex must seem flustered to those who 
achieve the same end through the downward progression 
of normal petting. This was the first I'd touched a 
penis. I was only vaguely aware of what I'd briefly 
guided before it was half buried. Within me!

He was big, exploding on arrival. I was ready 
physiologically, but still surprised. Holding my 
brother, I knew that I wanted it to be real, just not 
that real, so fast. It stretched me, a rougher event 
that one self-achieved, but I didn't mind about that. 
Like his, my orgasm began before his first pull. Was it 
better than that with which I was familiar? I didn't 
know then and I don't know now. It was loud, but not of 
multiple dimensions. (A woman might understand the 
dimensional aspect. I'm not sure about a guy.) It was 
our first. They're just different. A woman needs both.

We'd proved ourselves to one another! Virgins no 
longer! Lovers!

"Hello, new hire," I greeted him. "We do know how now, 
don't we?" I got that same tiny kiss that I'd felt the 
night before and let him return his knee against me. I 
didn't open my eyes. Then he'd know that I knew that he 
knew. The fun of love is complex, isn't it?

We'd have lots of time to perfect the foreplay. 
Brothers and sisters make a pretty good team at 
whatever because we know who's good at figuring out 
what. Lovemaking would be a piece of cake.

I figured (correctly, fortunately) that this was a safe 
period for me. Being Catholic, you get an explanation 
about when in your cycle. It's not assumed you're 
always a good Catholic, I guess, because the 
information's left where you'll find it long before 
you're getting married.

We first saw each other naked in the shower next 
morning, but only the visual aspect was novel. I knew 
this guy perfectly, just not exactly how he fit 
together. I'd first felt a penis last night. I first 
saw one this morning. I told him, no way would I do it 
in the bathroom, but I was pleased how seeing me made 
him ready. Same effect beside him in the airplane that 
afternoon. You can throw a little blanket over you if 
you're cold. Coming to Detroit, he'd teased my breast. 
Leaving, it was only justice.

Do you suppose Howdy and Heidi ever traveled together 
and maybe got booked into the same room because they 
were both surnamed "Doody"? Do you suppose that Heidi 
ever helped Howdy out of his neckerchief and turned out 
the light? On the plane trip home, at least they'd have 
been in the same trunk.

"Howdy. It's dark in here."
"Yeah, Heidi. The Princess' gown should work, you 
think?"
"She says it slips right off for a quickie."
"For you to lie on, dummy."
"I'm not a dummy, I'm a marionette. Anyway, Flub-a-
dub's in here too."
"Well they forgot animal part number nine."
"It would have been interesting."

DETROIT, SEPTEMBER 1971

We moved to Motown that summer. So did lots of "Black 
and Proud" performers.

We'd share an apartment until we found our own places, 
we told people. We did better than an apartment, though 
-- a duplex between our respective schools. The owners, 
who lived in the other half, presumed we were married. 
We didn't lie; we just didn't correct. They might have 
thought us weird, brother and sister shacking up.

We weren't weird at all. Since our trip, we'd made love 
pretty much daily and not one time in any uncomfortable 
or unnatural position. Who wants to stand on your head 
or whatever when you can rock above him and make him 
plead for mercy? You want weird sex? Look around your 
office, maybe.

We handled the DPS paperwork without evasion, but again 
without clarification. Insurance is the only benefit 
where having a spouse really matters, but it's cheaper 
for two employees to be individually covered. We had 
one form where we ticked "single", but it was a 
mimeographed page related to some forgotten purpose 
without cross-reference. There's no cross-checking of 
DPS files unless they suspect you're unduly claiming 
something. We each claim one on our W-2's and DPS would 
never see our two returns, truthfully submitted. Don't 
fool around with a 1040. Not being legally wed doesn't 
deprive any government of a penny.

DPS policy disallows direct spousal supervision, so I 
can't be Samuel's principal and he couldn't be mine if 
we're a unit in their eyes. So what? Years later I 
heard of a principal who married one of her teachers 
and to avoid being transferred, never told anyone. It 
wasn't against policy for them to just live together. 
Strange morality.

At the end of the day, people believe what they assume 
they already know. If you suggest the contrary, they 
just harden their preconception. We're married in both 
the physically intimate sense and the socially apparent 
sense, but it would be criminal if we had a license. 
Strange morality.

We try to minimize mistruths. My "maiden" name is my 
real middle name, Sidney, so my driver's license is 
totally legit. The growing-up stories we tell others 
more or less match reality, just that we were each only 
children. We just say we're from Normal, which is true. 
Our anniversary is the day of our interview when we 
first made love, better than you can say for many 
newlyweds. We don't wear rings, but that sort of 
formality is optional these days.

VISITING THE FOLKS

As long as they were with us, Mom and Dad thought it 
prudent, their single children sharing the rent while 
we pursued Big City careers and found spouses to 
provide them grandchildren. We must have just seemed 
slow in the latter. Basically they didn't visit our 
way; we visited them, reverting to our childhood rooms 
and sneaking conjugal moments when the opportunity 
presented.

Once Mom came upstairs when we were sudsy in the 
shower. Mom knew that we were both in the bathroom, so 
I had to insinuate through the door that Samuel was 
behind the curtain and I'd come because I had to pee 
really bad. It made more sense to Mom than Samuel 
scrubbing my shoulders. We made love on the towels, it 
was so funny. (I guess Samuel did have me in the 
bathroom, after all.) Everybody has some story about 
almost getting caught having sex. My friend Stacy 
almost lost her black plastic sheet at a rainy football 
game, a much funnier story, but it was just with her 
boyfriend.

Then there's Samuel's physical fitness story. We were 
home for Christmas and Samuel found my Mr. Howdy in a 
box and put him on the far side of his bed where I'd 
notice. So I snuck in for a hostage rescue, but as I 
knew would happen when I crawled over to grab him, it 
was a trap. I was ready, wearing my nightie that pulls 
inside-out over my head if I resist with my elbows out. 
Since he'd tricked me (the clever brother!), he got to 
have his way which was pretty fun for a cold winter's 
night, even with my head trapped inside the flannel 
while he tormented me.

But I guess beat a little cadence. At breakfast Dad 
asked what was the banging about? Without missing a 
beat, Samuel said he did pushups every day, but had 
forgotten until he was in bed. In truth, he was doing 
pushdowns. You can't do real pushups on a mattress, the 
exercise kind, anyway. My kind you could do, though.

BIRTHDAY PARTIES

The big event of the American Bicentennial was my 
turning 30! I'd always thought that was so old, so now 
I had to change the threshold. We had a Howdy party, 
everyone a character. Samuel was Howdy. He said I had 
to be Heidi, but I said it was my party and I got to be 
the Princess. I'd be Heidi afterwards, I promised, and 
wore an appropriately revealing Indian costume. It 
revealed under the beaded neckline when I served the 
grape punch, anyway. Indian Princesses never wear 
White-man's goods.

Ralph Brownel, my principal, was Buffalo Bob because he 
had a great cowboy shirt. He had me refill his punch 
cup a bunch, the rascal. My friend Ruth Ann was Mr. 
Bluster. She tried to freeze Howdy with an ice cube so 
she could fleece his pockets for a magic key. We made 
Marian who teaches math be Clarabell. She's the 
chattiest one at school and we only allowed her to honk 
her horn. For a little bit, anyway.

Ruth Anne gave me a Howdy silver-plated ice-tea spoon. 
Jack and Sandra gave me a Welch's jelly glass with 
Howdy and Princess in yellow clapping for a trained 
seal. "Drinking Grape Juice is Seal's Favorite Act." 
This 30-year-old Heidi's favorite act likewise involves 
a fluid that stains, but not purple.

Samuel was probably a little miffed about my Indian 
attire and I was a bit chagrinned how thoroughly Ruth 
Anne pickpocketed his jeans (and how red my brother 
got). She really tried out a lot of magic words 
checking out his right front pocket.

Being such a loyal guy, Samuel felt obliged to confess 
before I turned out the lights. Ruth Anne had made him 
hard and squeezed all the time she was investigating. I 
knew that, of course, from watching. Howdy might have 
had a special hiding place inside his jeans, I 
explained, so the villain would need to reach deeply. 
Or maybe she thought it was a magic key the way it grew 
when she held it. I think it's pretty magic, anyway.

And now Ralph couldn't fire me, I proposed, because 
then he wouldn't get invited to my next birthday party. 
Everybody was just being silly the way a Howdy party 
should turn out.

I rode Samuel from the top, slipping him in and out 
until we were both dripping. I floated in the air at 
the end.

And Ruth Anne is so honest that she told me the same 
thing on Monday, that probably she shouldn't have and 
not to worry; his response was involuntary. I told her 
that she could keep being Mr. Bluster if it was just at 
my birthday parties. Don't make him come or anything, 
though. He'd die. I owed her big for how he proved 
himself after everyone left. She was probably the 
second one to feel him ever, which she couldn't 
believe. One more than how many guys ever searched my 
pockets, I admitted. She said for us to keep it that 
way. But that her being number two just meant that it 
shouldn't get to number three, not that she couldn't 
keep being Mr. Bluster. We about cracked up.

We throw Howdy parties still. Mr. Bluster plays tricks 
on Howdy that stay right in the living room and seem to 
involve something tactile. One time Ruth Anne had us 
zigzag boy-girl-boy-girl on our backs on the carpet 
with our head on the next person's tummy and say, 
"Howdy" so many times in sequence. Ruth Anne ended up 
just a little low on Howdy and Ralph ended up a little 
high on my Princess outfit. Ralph just happened to be 
standing by me when we had to get down.

Once Mr. Bluster stole all the light bulbs and Howdy 
and I had to sing "Happy Trails" without making a 
mistake. Mr. Bluster was right behind Howdy and I'm 
sure it was Ralph behind me who made me mess up. I 
suspected collusion when Mr. Bluster announced that 
lights would be restored with enough lead-time for 
Ralph to finish.

Before Ruth Anne arrives, Samuel always says he won't 
let her goose him again. Afterwards, he sort of 
confesses she did. She confirms that he succumbs 
surprisingly readily. When he had to sing "Happy 
Trails" in the dark, for example, Howdy seemed to know 
where to stand. Her little flirtations tell him that 
he's not a square. We need our little ventures, 
constrained as we bind them.

Your brother doesn't need to know both halves always. 
"I always enjoy coffee with Ruth Anne after the party, 
hearing about how she goosed you. She must be really 
good at it, it sounds. Maybe you and Ralph can have a 
beer over how he felt me up." Samuel doesn't know about 
Ralph's little tricks, of course, because he might not 
understand.

Ruth Anne says that maybe they'll get transformed into 
a two-headed puppet where they share the same cardboard 
body tube the whole evening. Howdy's arms will be 
outside and hers inside. Head #1 can whisper things to 
Head #2. Samuel won't know that I'll know what's 
coming. I'm not sure I should. Yeow!

BEING CATHOLIC

Buffalo Bob and Howdy would tell you to go to church. 
That's what they said, not, "place of worship or 
meditation". If you were a Jewish kid, you knew they 
meant synagogue too and didn't sue.

"Young Marrieds" at our parish in Detroit is a regular 
part of our week. We're mostly professionals, came 
because of jobs, stayed because we're family. Actually, 
we're also ex-marrieds and not-marrieds. Doesn't 
matter. Nobody's suing.

Mom and Dad were so glad that we went to Mass. We'd 
always refer to "our church friends", not the other 
name. All these years later, we're still the "Young 
Marrieds" and the younger clusters of congregants have 
to find names like "Seekers". Sorry, but we got our 
name first.

Growing up Catholic is pretty similar wherever it 
happens -- same Mass, same stories. There's the one 
about the two nuns who always ride their bicycles to 
church. One day they take a different route. One of the 
Sisters remarks, "I never came this way before," to 
which her companion replies, "Must be the 
cobblestones." Pretty bad, but Catholic boys think it's 
clever. You'd have to really be good to get it on while 
balancing your bicycle.

And we all heard the one about the novitiate 
masturbating in the nave. Mother Superior enters to 
pray. "Stop that, Sister! You'll go blind!" The girl 
whispers back, "Mother, I'm over here!"

We have our opinions about women being excluded from 
the Priesthood, but when Caritas needs relief supplies 
for Africa, we Young Marrieds kick in. It's called 
being Christians.

Father Thomas' (accent on the "mas" because he's from 
Mexico) nuptial advice is perfectly sound for couples 
of whatever bond: Celebrate your commitment and leave 
space for personal growth. If he'd explicitly ask about 
our bond, I'd confess and he'd forgive me. He didn't 
boot Anne and Paul for living together; he helped them 
make it for life. All us Young Marrieds went to their 
wedding. Paul's family being Czech (East European 
anyway), we danced and downed lots of toasts. Samuel 
even did, which was really fun! You need a Czech band? 
Detroit has them. Great city.

It's sad that we could never have Father Thomas' type 
of blessing, but what follows the aisle march is more 
important. What priest would imagine two parishioners 
doing what we do? Maybe Father Thomas would let us live 
it out. I would be a tough one for him because he's 
pretty caring.

BEING AMISH

You can fool some of the people all of the time... You 
know the rest. Girlfriends figure out pretty quickly 
that he's your brother. We talk too much and guys don't 
talk enough. Basically my friends waited for me to talk 
when I felt ready. Nobody says it's terribly wrong. My 
friends that are married don't tell their husbands, 
which is interesting. Samuel doesn't even know that 
they know.

Susan says that she'd have done better with her brother 
than the ass who ditched her. She needs to get over her 
bitterness first, though.

Susan's a biologist and says that sibling mating is 
genetically OK if your ancestors weren't siblings too, 
if you get the meaning. Too many generations running, 
though, have left the Amish with an abnormal degree of 
dwarfism. The Amish aren't as careful about family ties 
as they are about electricity. Lots of siblings + 
Candlelight + Comfy feather ticks + Rejection of birth 
control = More children slipped into the family tree as 
late arrivals.

"Why, that Esther all but gets her first baby where 
she's 'bout old enough to start socializing and the 
woman goes and has another! Never even looked pregnant 
this time. 'Fraid this one's on the short side, but 
it's great there's that big sister to baby-sit when 
Esther's over at her brother's. Wish I could loose some 
weight like that girl did. She was getting right hefty. 
And isn't it something how Esther's oldest boy is so 
sweet to his new baby sis."

Since Amish don't believe in zippers, imagine brother's 
buttons getting undone while sister lifts her apron. 
"This way we don't have to wait for Runspringa to learn 
with our stupid cousins." Runspringa is when 16-year-
olds bed in lieu of worldly dates. We learn such 
tidbits teaching social studies. Look it up! Supposedly 
they sleep fully dressed. What that means, I'm sure, is 
that they slip under the covers fully dressed and arise 
likewise.

"Hey, Frieda. After such a nice sunset trot, let's turn 
this buggy back to your place so we can sleep together. 
It'll be weird going to bed in these overalls."

After evening devotions led by Frieda's father and all 
the kids are upstairs, "Be careful, Jacob. I straight-
pinned my frock like they teach us in church."

And after some trouser buttons, "Oh, Jacob! Our moms 
decided right, thinking we should get to know each 
other." "Know'" is a Biblical term, of course.

After protracted rustling, "So'd my sis teach me OK, 
Frieda? I know another way, even." Guys, Amish or any 
kind, aren't too secure about themselves sometimes.

"Well, my brother always makes sure I get there with 
him, whichever way we do it. Grossmudder Katie says 
that shoofly pie helps guys last. You little kids can 
scoot closer up now so you don't get cold."

Maybe Harrison Ford helped the Amish gene pool in "The 
Witness". Every guy at the barn-raising probably had 
Kelly McGillis' exact chromosomes. I use the Amish as 
an example of American's multicultural makeup, but 
don't teach about their courting rituals.

Oh my, this is so terrible! But the medical 
consequences are irrefutable. I'll tell you this, 
though. They may not be into light bulbs, but when 
their Mennonite Central Committee needs a power 
generator for a refuge camp in Africa, those Plain 
Folks kick in. It's called being Christians.

KARLA

My friend Karla has sex with her brother, but they 
don't feign matrimony, Karla's real one being a 
formidable barrier. I wouldn't like the duplicity, but 
Karla's Karla. She screws a few DPS guys as well. 
Samuel and I have an open invitation for what Karla 
calls an "overnight" when her husband's gone, which is 
pretty often. As she slyly phrases it, "Brothers can 
get confused in the dark. It'd be good chance spend 
time with the one we've known the shortest." At least 
she's honest.

If Samuel and I aren't ready, she concedes, it'd be fun 
to watch a video and pair up the way we came. It might 
be, but I suspect she'd want us four together for the 
duration. I can already hear her line, "Let's all kick 
off our shoes and stretch out on our king-size. We have 
a video player in there too." I'll bet she has some 
interesting videos.

Karla's frankness has helped me be more straightforward 
about my own activity, both self-achieved and with my 
brother. To say that I put Samuel's erect penis in my 
vagina, that's what I say. For a long time I'd have 
been more circumspect.

She and I agree that the tone of sibling relationship 
is set early on. Samuel's come to respect the way a 
woman honors affection. I taught him what I know, at 
least.

Karla, on the other hand, came to know sex via her 
brother's adolescence. She says she always liked it, 
but basically he raped her since she was little. He'd 
give her candy at first. When his friend spent the 
night, they'd both visit her room. She knows beaucoup 
more about technique and anatomy than do I, but I know 
more about the afterwards. No wonder she's always 
looking for another partner.

With her blouses, though, she should wear a slip to 
teach English in.

JOAN

Joan, who teaches Spanish and who's always been single, 
had a different reaction. "Lucky to have one, a 
brother," she smiled, drumming her fingers on the 
Teachers Lounge tabletop, Doody-vintage Formica.

"Yeah, but he works too much," I agreed, drumming my 
fingers back and humming a few Howdy Doody bars. We 
both blushed.

"No choice for me," Joan admitted, "especially watching 
Robert Redford." This was when he was still married to 
his first spouse. Women respect that sort of thing. 
When they start sleeping around Hollywood, knocking up 
the 19-year-old aspirants, they're still sex symbols, 
but not as special.

(It's intriguing to imagine the start of Redford's 
career. Him the new boy in town. Starlet Judy Tyler 
just a little older. Both knockdown beautiful. Maybe 
his first Hollywood party. Her red convertible.)

"Then let's go see 'Out of Africa'. Samuel wouldn't get 
why what's-her-name stayed there to grow coffee," I 
suggested, still drumming.

She unbuttoned a button so I could see her lace. "It's 
hot in Africa, right?" I giggled when she pretended to 
undo the next.

We caught it at CineMax, splurged for $2 popcorn and 
sat in the back. "Better for the eyes," Joan justified.

Joan elbowed me during Redford and Meryl Streep's 
torrid coupling. I'd been damp since "I had a farm in 
Africa," just thinking about where the two were 
heading. Sydney Pollack foreplays with his audience and 
I love it. Joan and I giggled and (not with each other, 
mind you, just side by side) touched ourselves.

Flying solo (sorry Joan, "sola") in a theater can't be 
broadcast, but still works. At home I can sit in my 
favorite chair, roll my clitoris and pull back on its 
hood. It's really quick because I can watch. It's never 
Meg Ryan's "When Harry Met Sally" achievement, a 
wonderful enactment (a contended point in drama vs. 
reality debate) of sitting up, though.

It was neat, having a friend there, feeling her rhythm 
through the armrest. "I can't believe we're doing 
this," Joan whispered before she tensed and leaned 
back, one hand still busy below, the other on her 
mouth, just in case.

"Just you and me and Howdy Do," I replied, myself a 
minute behind. "Don't need no mouse or kangaroo." She 
held my elbow, which I though was sweet. Afterwards we 
bought each other banana splits, not realizing the 
phallicness until we got our tray. Did we laugh some 
more about that!

The lesbians sit in the back for the same reason boy-
girl couples do, but this is about just regular 
girlfriends who retain their panties. Look for us next 
time you're in at CineMax. We won't stare back daring 
you to watch like the butch ones will. If it's Robert 
Redford, the dykes are somewhere else and all of us are 
in love with Robert.

Keeping our response appropriate to the film pace is 
part of the fun. When Robert takes off his shirt, you 
can hear our symphony's opening bars. If he's in front 
of her and the camera shows her nude back, our seats 
sing. Sometimes another couple will sneak a wave at us 
afterwards. It's sort of neat, girls guessing about us, 
us guessing about them.

These days if there's a girlie movie, I call Joan and 
we wear our jogging pants and fancy bras. We laughed so 
much when we realized how we'd dressed the same. When 
it's safe sometimes, we take our bras off during the 
first scene, just to be sexy. We check inside the 
other's top so she doesn't cheat. Her little nipples 
are so cute! She lets me come back later if the movie's 
romantic. Leaving, I can tell that we're not the only 
pair with underwear in our purses.

I really like Joan. I'm her "dulce hermanita."

JANICE

Most of my girlfriends know how Howdy helped me 
discover my body, come to think of it. Guys exaggerate 
about cosmic orgasms with centerfold strippers. Girls 
talk about good orgasms however they get them.

The few years that Janice (Art and Chorus) is my junior 
made her a Musketeer. Too bad. Remember pretty Annette 
Funicello who went on to give us "The Name Game"? Don't 
sing it. "My Boyfriend's Back" is OK, though. The 
Afterbeats were her band and Annette later got MS, 
which is really sad.

But what I discovered about myself watching a puppet, 
Janice figured out watching a rodent. The stories our 
sofas could tell! If you see an old couch at a garage 
sale, check for wear on the armrest. If it seems 
threadbare, have a seat and casually run your hand 
across it. If the woman running the sale smiles, you 
can ask her how's business and how long she's lived 
there, stuff like that. Maybe she's a teacher too, 
even.

I've never sat by Janice like I do with Joan at 
CineMax. It's just not always easy to ask.

ELLIE

Ellie from church knows me well enough. If I don't buy 
her a coffee, she'll have to tell the Pope, she warns. 
Masturbation's a sin for guys because they "spill their 
seed," she learned in parochial school. We're not 
exactly sure how that applies to our eggs, so we goad 
each other to ask Father Thomas for clarification. Fat 
chance of grownup women asking that! Ellie's own habit 
is much more grievous, I point out, because I'll bet 
she always dresses in her plaid skirt like a 
schoolgirl. So she has to buy me a coffee. Caffeine 
blackmail, we call it.

Using the word "habit" reminds me of those tiresome 
jokes about nuns' habits inside their habits. They can 
still be celibate (their choice), so what's the deal? 
You don't hear jokes about Fathers masturbating, so 
it's sexist. Who wants your priest confessing to you? 
Not me and Ellie.

Most jokes about Priests and Nuns and sex are stupid. 
This one's good, though.

The Mother Superior wants to know why Sister Rose is 
leaving the convent. "I want to be a prostitute." 
Mother Superior's eyes grow wide, "Blessed Mary! What 
did you say?" "A prostitute," Rose repeats. Her 
superior breathes a sigh of relief, "Thanks be to God! 
I thought you said a Protestant"

Ellie knows about Samuel too. She's glad I use birth 
control (sin number three, I guess, but now optional) 
because the kids would find out. She's right. Ours was 
the generation where women could choose, at least. And 
teaching gives you lots of kids.

HOWDY'S 40TH, NOVEMBER 1987

Thanksgiving weekend, Howdy celebrated his 40th 
anniversary on two-hour special. I'd forgotten lots of 
the show detail, but it all came back. Buffalo Bob 
still looked like Buffalo Bob. In his 30's or his 70's, 
a hero's a hero. Afterwards Samuel and I humped the old 
way, sister in her PJ's, brother on top. Sexually it 
was pretty rudimentary, but it was absolutely the right 
way to culminate the reunion.

Samuel's so sweet, letting me make him shoot in his 
boxers after drilling me a thousand times. Afterwards 
when I got him erect again, I goaded him to more or 
less rape me, the dominant male sort of conquest. He 
didn't have to force me, of course; I wanted him to.

GOODBYE, BOB, JULY 1998

Born in the Teddy Roosevelt Presidency, Buffalo Bob 
died of cancer in North Carolina. Detroit Free Press 
says he's survived by Millie. Roy Rogers, King of the 
Cowboys, died the same month. It wasn't a good July, 
but then, it was pretty great how they'd carried on. 
It's pretty precious what they gave my generation. I 
was sad, but I was happy too.

I didn't have any sort of sex for several days. It 
seemed right to leave my carnal side unsatiated.

HERE COMES 'DA JUDGE, JANUARY 2001

What a time for the Detroit Peanut Gallery! After the 
show's demise, NBC loaned the Howdy marionette to his 
creator Rufus Rose who promised to give Howdy to 
Detroit Institute of the Arts. Then Buffalo Bob 
persuaded Rose to lend him the puppet for his reunion 
tours. Rose died in 1975 and when Bob returned Howdy, 
the Rose family was going to auction him off in New 
York, maybe for $1,000,000.

DIA sued and Howdy got locked in a vault. The estate 
argued that while Rose thought about leaving the 
marionette to DIA, he'd left no such provision in his 
will. In any case, the Howdy in question wasn't even 
the original, lost in a fire. Another Howdy at the 
Smithsonian was for the public anyway. Samuel and I had 
seen it.

A jury didn't vote the outcome because both parties 
rejected the Peanut Gallery option. In January, 
District Court Judge Christopher Droney ruled that DIA 
was the rightful owner of this Howdy, "original" 
enough.

I was so excited! It would be a while before they got 
his museum home set up, but that was fine. Samuel and I 
drank champagne and he humped me silly. That Howdy 
story has a happy ending!

BANQUET, MAY 2001

So now we're back to the retirement dinner. I started 
with "It's Howdy Doody Time" because my love of music 
began with the show. I thought they wrote the 
Nutcracker Suite for it.

But I didn't give my music tirade, harbingering the 
for-certain decline of civilization, where a noble 
retired woodenhead becomes a defenseless target for 
those of inadequate talent. No, I didn't whine about 
the Dickies' "Howdy Doody in the Woodshed". I simply 
quote,

 His hair is red his eyes are green.
 He's like a person that you've never seen.
 He'll sing and dance he's been to France
 But he doesn't seem to stand a chance

 That's when I saw Howdy Doody in the woodshed going 
down on Buffalo Bob.

 A smarter man would never plan
 To have so many splinters in his hand.
 And Clarabell would never tell,
 'Cuz he's afraid that he might go to jail.

Talent-sparse, these losers are poor taste set to loud 
guitar. Cheap shots at heroes get notice. Remember the 
Dead Kennedys? The Dickies "discovered" by an L.A. 
scene-maker? Breaking an ankle jumping off the sound 
scaffolding and letting your midget roadie wheelchair 
you around the stage takes talent?

So fuck 'em. Howdy will be remembered and they won't.

Nor was the banquet the venue to put Bush's Desert 
Storm into a Howdy context where it belongs.

 It's Saudi duty time.
 It's Saudi duty time.
 I need a piece of tail.
 She winks behind her veil.

I'll stop there, as you get the idea. I'm not the only 
one for whom the puppet evokes erotic thoughts, am I 
now?

So now we're back to my retirement dinner. (Stories are 
nonlinear.) I ceremoniously cut into large deeply 
frosted item. The Deputy Superintendent for Information 
Technology presented a nicely framed certificate and a 
big kiss.

You know who the Deputy Superintendent for Information 
Technology is, I'll bet -- in Howdy code, my very own 
"Leumas"!

That's Mrs. Thornton's Mr. Thornton to everybody there, 
except he's Dr. Thornton, the "Dr." being an EdD earned 
in summer school. (Here's how to identify a pompous 
ass. DPS has a bunch. "Hi, my name's Dr. Wolman." Like 
his name's "Doctor", not Robert or whatever? Samuel 
doesn't pull that one, I assure you.)

Samuel figured out pretty early that Industrial Arts 
was heading south (literally true in the rust belt). 
Computers looked promising, so he tooted the Apple horn 
into Ed Admin. Popular Science makes you a visionary in 
that Reader's Digest realm. He never supervised me in 
the DPS organizational chart, so it's kosher. I was a 
good teacher and he became a decent pontificator.

Father Thomas said never discuss work at home. Imagine 
our dinner table if we ignored Father's advice. "So 
it's really true that we're going to implement on 
benchmark basis an assessment of participatory 
multicultural goal achievements celebrating different 
enablements?" We had lives.

It was great, that big retirement dinner kiss! He's 
retiring too. How will we ever dispose of two cakes? 
Until now could just take one and some napkins to my 
classroom for a "reward". Thirty seconds, not a crumb!

Speaking of Industrial Arts heading south, what about 
the other arts?

 Why hush my mouth,
 I'm heading south.
  A journey sweet to dally.
 A beckoned stroll,
 From grassy knoll,
  Into yon shady valley.

 I'll amble down,
 To hidden mound,
  Yet unseen from the north.
 My garden art,
 The petals part,
  A bloom to be brought forth.

 Where touch so slight,
 Draws fond delight,
  From Venus ever new.
 To thus unfurl,
 My Dixie pearl,
  Now bathed in morning dew.

 I writhe. I lift.
 Myself, my gift,
  Supine without defenses.
 In clover field,
 Myself I yield,
  Succumbed to sultry senses.

 For common need,
 Implanted seed,
  The give and take is fun.
 But embers burn,
 For each return,
  To flames fanned white by one.

 As doe, as mare,
 (Sans Noah's pair),
  And lioness and vixen.
 We join to be,
 Sorority,
  Below the Mason-Dixon.

 'Neath cotton dress,
 My sweet caress,
  Those porch-swing bayou rumors.
 So y'all take note,
 'Neath petticoat,
  I've gone without my bloomers.

Detroit people love the south.

AFTERTHOUGHTS

The obvious question is, why did Samuel and I end up as 
a unit?

The easy story is that we fell into cohabitation and 
didn't find reason to confuse a settled perception. 
Convenience is compelling. It just worked out. Most 
couples start off living together these days, so we 
just started off really early. Enough years shacked up 
and the license question becomes moot anyway. DPS stays 
hands off homelife if it doesn't impact our 
performance. Those are the easy answers.

Another answer, pretty simple as well, is that it's 
sexual. Maybe genetically-matched preferences drove us 
together. We don't need to handcuff each other or trade 
underwear of anything. It's an absolute fact that from 
the very start we could climax together, so I think 
there's something.

Maybe it wasn't sex per se that drove us together, but 
it sure helped us stick. We make love with everyone's 
blessing. No cheap motels for us, thank you.

Neither of us dated much at home and even in college 
didn't have serious relationships. Maybe I seemed too 
studious. Samuel was a pre-geek. It's OK to be a geek 
today because you might become a Bill Gates. Back then 
the term was just "square". Anyway, we could go to 
social things together and people thought how we got 
along was cool.

For a short period in Detroit even, we even dated 
around, casual dates surprisingly understanding of 
siblings thrown together by economic necessity. The 
city was big enough to socialize outside our normal 
circles. Had either of us gotten serious, we'd have had 
to end some things, but neither of us found a better 
partner. I've never slept around on Samuel and he's 
never slept around on me. I'd know.

A deeper reason is that we're a good emotional match, 
better than most marrieds, I'd argue. We enjoy life 
together, especially music. Remember Farrante and 
Teicher, the easy listening piano duo? OK, they went to 
Julliard and we took lessons from Mrs. McKee, but 
Thornton and Thornton can still play most of their 
hits. Our friends like the tightness of our timing. Of 
course we blend; so did the Carpenters. Karen Carpenter 
dead from anorexia at 32! The way she'd sing "Close to 
you" to her brother at the piano. Princess Summerfall 
Winterspring dead on the highway at 22! Annette getting 
MS! Oh, my!

And like Father Thomas advises, we enjoy our own lives 
as well. Samuel golfs, sort of an Ed Admin requirement. 
They probably actually say, "So we're going to 
implement on benchmark basis an assessment of 
participatory multicultural goal achievements 
celebrating different enablements," while they tee off.

I play tennis and garden and tell my flowers they're 
especially pretty today. Joan's my doubles partner. 
(Could have been Womens Century contenders, except for 
our serves.) If we're the only ones in the dressing 
room shower, we'll soap each other's backs. Sometimes 
she'll reach around to be silly. When she does, her 
front slides against my skin, soapy slick. I don't move 
so it won't seem like I'm noticing.

And I still check my undercarriage, an auto town sort 
of expression. It's fine for Samuel to think that 
humping him is my sole remaining girlhood fondness. 
Humping your brother is really a good way, of course, 
but he's sometimes golfing.

Why would a grown woman masturbate? "Let me count the 
ways," as begins Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

 It's pleasurable and relaxing.
 It cures insomnia.
 It's without side effects, disease or pregnancy.
 As much gratification as you want, when you want it, 
and at your own speed.
 No inhibition when you're your own partner.
 The wags like to note that the price is right.
 With Joan, it's even social.

So why wouldn't I?

(Here's a thought about Elizabeth Barrett Browning's 
"Let me count the ways" love checklist for the 
Victorian Age. The wealthy Barrett children weren't 
allowed to go out and associate with the riff-raff, but 
Elizabeth had her 11 younger siblings. The boys were 
kept in long hair and even dresses until about 10. The 
drowning of her favorite brother made Elizabeth a 
virtual recluse until 40 when she finally married. 
Between childhood and 40, to whom was she writing and 
how did she sustain her fragile sensibilities? Maybe 
her poem is about a secret playhouse in the Barrett 
attic.)

Being older, we're better at taking care of ourselves, 
even. Rhythmically squeezing my thighs is my best art 
form. Start off with however your hand likes, but press 
your thighs together for the association. Then pull 
your hand away when you're almost there and let your 
inner thighs indirectly pressure your bud. If nobody 
can see, I'll grind my hips, but I don't have to. Press 
your thighs together when you climax. With the 
association, you'll be able to use only your legs from 
earlier and earlier. Eventually you won't need the 
manual startup.

Try it. If you find yourself horny in public, just take 
care of it with no one the wiser, except maybe those of 
us who know how. If you noticed me with legs crossed 
and kicking my foot at a faculty meeting, what was I 
really doing? Intently listening to the dress-code 
exception for Sikh boys' turbans?

Another thought: The only Sikh family name seems to be 
Singh, so it's simple for Sikh siblings to tell the 
Michigan marriage license office they're not related. 
The Amish and the Sikhs both have distinctive dress. 
They're both shrewd in business. I'll bet they're 
pretty similar on the homefront, too. So we'll say that 
Samuel and I are likewise cross-cultural.

Here's a better knock-knock joke than Cheech and 
Chong's. Sister Heidi Doody is smiling ear to ear. 
(Look at any picture of her. This is why.) Howdy is 
looking a bit scuffed. Princess Summerfall Winterspring 
sends him off to see a rocket ship and makes sure that 
nobody from Doodyville is eavesdropping.

The Princess:
 Knock knock.
Heidi:
 Who's there?
The Princess:
 Howdy Doody.
Heidi:
 Howdy Doody who?
The Princess:
 Howdy Doody act to you 17 times last night? My acting 
coach can hardly do three.
Heidi:
 It's the one advantage of your brother being whittled.

AND ONWARD

I'm retired and 54 with a life ahead and that's my 
tale.

Thirty years later and I still get the little kiss and 
the knee against me afterwards in the middle of the 
night. Brothers don't need explanation. Sometimes a 
woman needs both.

Joan's treating me to "Havana" on Friday while my 
brother drives up to Lansing for an early Saturday tee-
time for some educational cause. Guys have such lame 
excuses for going to a strip club or whatever they do 
together the night before tournaments. It's good for my 
Samuel.

Robert Redford makes love to a Swedish girl, Joan 
promises. We touch knees. I hold Joan's elbow now, or 
even her wrist when she guides me to it. She says she 
likes how I show her the right pace. When I wrap my 
fingers around, the tips even brush against her hair, 
just a little. It's so springy. I shouldn't think she 
could tell, though. Sometimes I move my fingers up 
between her knuckles.

I don't even mind if she cradles my breast at my 
moment. I kind of like that she knows. I'll initiate 
some kisses if nobody up front's turned around. 
Sometimes while we smooch, her hand flops over the 
armrest and slips into my pocket. She saw Ruth Anne's 
Mr. Bluster at my birthday parties. I don't mind if the 
other girls there in the back notice. They kiss too.

After the movie, Joan says just to sleep at her 
apartment so we can claim a tennis court early next 
morning. It's cooler then. We can curl up on her sofa 
in our PJ's and watch our favorite Redford scenes as 
late as we like. She'll make Welch's wine coolers, as 
she calls them.

Just thinking of watching Robert Redford gets me in the 
mood to hump Howdy Doody. Which PJ's would Joan think 
were pretty?

THE END

****

Holly on the Web

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made know to me, I'll repair 
that which is salvageable on 
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

Holly

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Kristen's collection - Directory 24