Almost Wrong

by Aubrey Parker

  I’ve seen countless tits since leaving home. I’ve licked whipped cream and snorted coke off an endless parade of nipples. Breasts are two blobs of fat capped with tiny hats, and yet one of my most vivid, most sepia-tinged memories is of that day under the pier. There was something about the first time I saw her like that. She looked vulnerable — but at the same time, I could see her as a sexual being in a way I’d never been able to before. At first, she’d seemed childish, and later she’d seemed full of herself, prudish, naive.

  But that day she’d been … Angela. Someone new. Someone who’d bloomed open from a closed bud, and I was there when it happened, tempted by forbidden fruit.

  “But it was just hormones,” she says. “We’re older now. Wiser.”

  I try to smile. It probably comes off sideways, maybe obnoxious — the jaded grin I’m afraid will convince her that I’m the asshole she’s always imagined I was. But it’s meant to soften the blow as I say, “Stop it. I already feel old at thirty, and you’re making me feel older.”

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” Her hand is still on my arm. If she’s trying to make a platonic point, her touch is driving me in the wrong direction.

  “I guess.”

  “Have you thought about me while you’ve been gone? You know … in that way?”

  Which answer should I give her?

  Yes.

  Constantly.

  Unceasingly.

  Nobody could ever quite compare, and I may have gone through an entire modeling agency, like yanking tissues from a box, searching for something that felt the same.

  Instead, I keep my face neutral. “I guess. Sometimes.”

  Angela looks like she’s blunting her reply. “Me, too. Sometimes.”

  Our bodies have shifted. When I chose Santa Monica as our destination for fun and dinner, my mind betrayed me. Now my body’s the turncoat. Fortunately (or unfortunately), hers is too. We’re almost facing each other. Our spare hands have found their matches. I swear I can hear her heartbeat and feel her warmth in the space between us.

  “But you know it’s not a good idea,” she says.

  “Sure.”

  “We both do,” she goes on. “My mom. Your dad. Hell, for you, Hunter? Think of the press. If we … just saying, if we were … together? Well, the press would eat it up.”

  “You act like I’m begging,” I say. It comes out defensive. Hunter Altman doesn’t beg. I wonder if I’m shoving my foot into the door, applying pressure, forcing distance between us.

  “No, just … we never talked this out.”

  We didn’t have to. Our actions said it all. I remember how much it hurt. I remember how it was unlike anything I’d ever felt, with any other girl. I remember how I swore I’d never, ever hurt that much again.

  “I guess we didn’t,” I say.

  “If we’re going to be friends now—”

  “Is that what we are?”

  She laughs. “For now.”

  That makes my heart skip a little.

  Then she continues. “For now, until I get used to you as a friend, it would feel kind of wrong to leap all the way to seeing you as a brother.”

  But then, she never thought of me as a brother, because I wasn’t one. A roommate, maybe. A tormentor. On our best day, a friend. Except for that brief, painful period when we’d been more.

  “Sure.” I raise my glass, proud of my maturity. “Friends.” And we drink to it.

  But because it’s late, it would be rude to not offer her a room.

  Angela accepts, and again she’s sleeping with but one wall between us.

  Knowing she’s so close but so far reopens the wound I swore I’d never open again.

  I lie awake for hours, my mind filled with images of our innocent past.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  HUNTER

  Everything was different after Santa Monica.

  I was eighteen years old. Almost twelve long years ago now, back when we were two stupid kids who’d realized something about each other (and our relationship as something beyond stepsiblings or even friends) that I sometimes wish we’d never realized.

  I suppose I’d known that I liked Angela for a while, but Santa Monica put the truth in neon for us both. The dawning of my attraction had been slow enough to crawl up and catch me by surprise. Every day, I’d told myself it could be easily ignored. It wasn’t happening.

  Angela had started to grow nice boobs? So what? Even obnoxious stepsisters grew boobs. That didn’t mean I’d been spending ever more time wondering what they looked like. It didn’t mean that when she wore short shorts, I looked at her ass more often. It meant nothing.

  The creeping lust before that day — and I’m positive she felt the same for me — was so gradual that we had time to deny it for a while before being forced to confront it. By then, even though I didn’t like living at Maria’s house, I’d still come to think of Angela as a reluctant sort of family, and she thought the same about me. You know how you’ll get used to thinking of someone a certain way, and then it’s hard to switch that mental pigeonhole even if it makes sense? That’s how it was for us. For all of us.

  Angela turned eighteen not long after that. That made things a little easier for me — but not much. I’d spent a lot of time fantasizing about her, and I told myself that once she was eighteen, I’d at least not be a total creep. Now, instead of thinking about my underage stepsister’s body, I was thinking about my eighteen-year-old stepsister’s body. That made me merely disgusting rather than a total perv. If it were discovered, I’d invoke the wrath of my dad and stepmother, be shunned by others — but at least I wouldn’t be arrested.

  Angela seemed to be feeling the same things. The rest of the Santa Monica trip was hard because I could no longer pretend I was the only pervy one. Something had passed between us, and both of us knew it. She hadn’t covered up; I knew she liked me seeing her half-naked like that. And although I should have averted my eyes, I hadn’t. And she knew I hadn’t wanted to.

  We’d both wanted to do more than just looking, and easily could have. After the moment had passed, we’d both seemed to have realized it and danced toward trying to find another suitable spot … without making it obvious that we were looking. Then, when we ended up alone again, neither could make a move. Because even though we weren’t related by blood, we’d become related in our minds, used to thinking of each other as forbidden, and even as much of a shit as I was back then, I couldn’t do something that felt so utterly wrong.

  We avoided one another more than usual. But I found myself wanting Angela more than ever. I tried to catch glimpses of her running to or from showers. I listened at our shared walls, wondering if she touched herself at night. Wondering if, when she did, she ever pictured that day on the beach like I did, imagining how things might have unfolded if we’d only had the nerve.

  Eventually, things calmed between us, at least enough. Until one evening, we were both in the living room, holding bowls of popcorn for an ultra-rare family movie night. Only after we’d sat on the couch — right beside each other; we’d left the chairs for Dad and Maria — did we realize that the adults had made other plans. They were leaving us alone, on the couch, together.

  It was too awkward to stay but far more awkward to leave. I couldn’t say, “I’m sorry; I lust for you far too much for a movie together.” We settled in for our two-hour game of chicken, and I could see the fear in her eyes. A desirous fear of me, same as the delicious terror I had for her.

  We made it easily through the first half of the rom-com, laughing and pretending that everything was cool. We stayed side-by-side on the couch, because moving apart felt like an admission of something neither of us was willing to admit. Her warmth was close. Funny parts made us forget.

  But then there was the romance.

  Then the first sex scene.

  It was about a relationship that shouldn’t happen. Taboo, like ours.

  Then the second sex scene.

  It turned out
all right in the end. The taboo stopped mattering, like ours shouldn’t matter. We were both legal adults; only our parents’ marriage made us family. In other circumstances, we’d have been two young adults, both breathing shallowly, alone in the house, free to do whatever we wanted.

  But a huge part of me tried to remember that I was the black sheep. Nobody liked or wanted me here. My dad tolerated me because he had to. Maria hated me. Angela hated me beneath her desire; I’d sensed that from the beginning. Maybe I could lean in, as the credits rolled, and make this happen. Maybe I could show her that taboos didn’t matter.

  But then it would be my fault, and I’d only have proved everyone right.

  The black sheep strikes again.

  Angela raised the remote to kill the TV. But she fumbled, and it landed across my other side. We were too close; she’d dropped the thing because her inside arm had run along mine. Instead of asking me to grab the remote for her, I saw this terrified look on her face as if she’d done something horribly wrong but promised to fix it.

  She leaned.

  As she reached, her breasts brushed against me. Her hair draped across my chest. She grabbed the remote and turned to me as she withdrew, but I could no longer take it. We were boiling, and had been for weeks. The movie had stoked every bit of what we’d been trying to hide. The guilt remained, but it was somehow above us, looking down.

  Lust was stronger.

  I embraced her. One hand slithered around her back, and I pulled her face to mine. She easily went along, wanting the same thing. One of my hands found her chest as her momentum rolled us; she ended up on her back with me above her, my hand pawing her shirt, kneading her soft breasts. Our mouths were a frenzy; once the bubble had popped, there was no way to slow or stop or hesitate. No way to think.

  No need to say anything.

  What needed to be said had already been whispered a thousand times inside my mind and hers, late at night while our parents were sleeping.

  I was instantly hard. Angela, despite her inexperience, didn’t hesitate; her hands found my erect cock and rubbed it through my jeans. Her mouth was alive, insatiable. Her breath was short and hot, gasping, almost desperate.

  It couldn’t happen fast enough. I kissed her mouth, felt her tongue, ran my mouth along her long neck. Angela tipped her head back, exhaling, lifting her body toward me in a long wave.

  My hand slid under her shirt, along her flat, smooth belly. I felt the bottom of her bra then wrapped my hand around to her back. She arched to give me room, and I slipped the clasp one-handed. The hand circled back, lifted the front edge of her undergarment, finding the soft swell of flesh beneath.

  I’d been wanting this. Imagining this. Picturing every moment. I’d thought of that day on the beach thousands of times, wondering what she’d feel like, how her nipples would respond to my touch. I’d imagined my mouth on hers, imagined the fingers of my spare hand running through her long, dark hair. Just like they finally were.

  I pulled away for a second, one hand under her shirt, the other caressing the soft moon of her cheek. Just a beat — enough to make sure she still wanted this as badly as I did. My eyes weren’t asking if this was a good idea or if she’d regret this tomorrow — the answers were clearly no and yes — but if she wanted to continue, damn the taboo.

  She responded by pushing me more upright, by unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans. She didn’t move like a virgin; Angela’s hand was in my boxers within seconds, wrapped around my throbbing cock.

  We couldn’t speak. Neither of us could break the spell. I leaned into her working hand, grinding against her friction. Then I unbuttoned her, violently yanking both pants and panties down just far enough to see. She’d kept herself trim but not shaven, a small and intoxicating patch of hair visible between her legs topping pink lips blushed with moisture.

  Light washed the front windows, and we heard the sound of a car engine.

  My heart raced. Angela’s eyes went wide.

  Lust melted to panic.

  We were adults, but still our parents’ children, brainwashed into convention, living under their roof.

  We pulled away, my urgent cock wanting to cry out at her fleeing touch. She yanked her pants back into place and zipped as I did the same. Angela tugged her shirt down then fumbled with her bra to reclasp it.

  Seconds bled by as Dad fumbled with his keys. Angela’s fingers had gone dumb; she couldn’t get her bra in place and the way it hung from the front was obvious. I thought she’d sprint to her room, but she somehow pulled the whole thing off one arm at a time instead, fishing fabric through the armholes. It came out one sleeve, and she shoved it between the cushions.

  When the door opened, we must have looked like two kids caught raiding the cookie jar. We bolted upright, hot and bothered, my lap sporting a rail spike and Angela braless and obvious. I could still see the outline of her nipples through the stretched fabric of her shirt, and it took everything in me not to reach for them.

  Bill entered first. He went straight to the kitchen, barely tossing us a glance despite what I felt must be damning visual evidence. It was almost like he didn’t expect his son to be fingering his stepsister, for said stepsister to be minutes from wrapping her soft lips around his son’s throbbing cock.

  We sat on the couch, awaiting discovery. Of course neither of them could see our guilt, or sense the slowly dying sexual energy still pervading the room.

  What we’d almost done would have been terrible, and the next morning’s guilt would be excruciating. Only the act itself was missing — the good thing that might have made the bad worth it.

  Still, despite my yearning, I felt that sense of disaster barely averted. I was a fuckup already, the blackest of sheep. Angela, on the other hand, was all that I wasn’t. A good girl. She earned straight A’s. She was respectful and kind, generous in ways I never had been or would be. She was sweet, and I’d almost stolen that from her. I’d almost been her first, even knowing I’d be soiling something beautiful. She’d wanted me, and I with my selfish, black sheep ways had almost taken advantage.

  From then on, I knew we’d be a powder keg.

  From then on, I knew that if we were alone, neither of us would be able to halt the inevitable. She’d want to be ruined, and I’d want to ruin her. I’d take her potential and soil her fleece. What was sweet, I’d certainly sour.

  From then on, I knew we’d never be able to resist acting on our inappropriate urges.

  I had to be strong enough to leave them all, and never return.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ANGELA

  I suppose it’s hypocritical to have had that talk with Hunter and then lull myself to sleep masturbating in his guest bed. But I can’t help it. I’m wound up — and I don’t think it was my imagination: he was, too.

  But we’re adults. Not teenage bags of hormones. Back then, we maybe had excuses. Today, not so much. I remember having no real concept of the future when I was a kid. There was today and maybe tomorrow. But I didn’t try to save money (not that I could), I didn’t worry about my health (or sanity), and I didn’t think about what my life might be like in the future if I made the wrong decisions. It’s shocking that we didn’t detonate our worlds in a ten-megaton estrogen-testosterone bomb. Somehow, we survived … and now that we’re mature enough to consider consequences, it’s important that we do.

  I didn’t plan to sleep here, so I have no pajamas. I closed the door a bit ago — which was also hard; I could feel myself wanting to find Hunter in his quiet, stunning apartment. Now alone, I slip off my confining jeans. Then the shirt and the bra. He’s set out unisex clothes for me: fancy, fine garments that probably cost more than my rent.

  I’m about to put them on when I remember I’ve still not showered. I merely splashed myself at home, before changing clothes and hoping for the best. It’s a miracle he didn’t run screaming.

  But I can’t get into those clothes or under the sheets as I am.

  So I slip off my panties and, savori
ng my nudity maybe too much, go into the guest bath attached to my temporary bedroom. The shower is larger than my walk-in closet at home, and there are two shower heads. I take a hot shower then shut the thick glass door behind me and slip into the sleep shorts without anything else.

  That’s all it takes: the movement of slippery fabric on skin. The realization that although I’m in the guest bedroom, it’s accurate to say I’m sliding Hunter’s clothes over my naked body and climbing into his bed.

  I slip the garment back off, let my hand explore the smooth, sensitive skin between my legs, and come, thinking of Hunter.

  But it’s okay. It’s not really him. It’s my hand. And it’s my hand the second time, too. Just because I think of him while I do it — just because I wonder if his body is still as sculpted as it looks, just because I picture him climbing under the sheets with me, easing his weight atop me, sliding inside me — that doesn’t make it him for real.

  It’s like quitting cigarettes with a nicotine patch. Yes, you’re still getting the drug, but without so many of the negative consequences brought by the real thing.

  I wake up in the morning, recalling my dalliances and feeling somehow guilty. As if he’ll see relief on my face and know what I’ve done. But when I come out into the front room, I see that he’s not yet emerged. It’s strange to be in another person’s living room alone, so I decide to take another shower. I’ve never been sprayed with water from two directions at once, so I take my time and indulge.

  As I’m finishing, again thinking of how I’m naked in Hunter’s house after all this time, I realize that one of the shower heads is detachable. I decide that it’s safest to start the day with optimum pressure released, so I pretend the spray is Hunter’s tongue and come while standing.

  But I refuse to feel guilty. Fantasy isn’t reality. Fantasy assists reality. If I couldn’t get off on my own, I might be tempted get off with Hunter for real. And that’s nothing but trouble.

  I leave the bathroom and find Hunter in the living room. He can’t meet my eye when he says hello, and I find myself strongly suspecting he might have let off some pressure this morning too, thinking of me.