Kissing Cousins

I still called him "Mikey" even though he was heading for graduate school in the Fall. And he still called me "Peanut" even though I was only two years behind him in college. I was always the tag-along with Mikey and my two brothers when we were kids. Unlike my brothers, Mikey was nice to me, didn't tell me to get lost, didn't tease me about my freckles and red hair, didn't tell me girls couldn't play baseball or go on bike-hikes or light bottle rockets. He taught me juggling, card tricks, how to whistle and spit, even let me teach him to skip rope and play jacks. So of course I was in love with him. After he moved to Chicago we saw each other less and less on Uncle Bob and Aunt Helen's less and less frequent holiday visits. He was flying back to Peoria on his way home after helping his buddy move to California "to spend a week with his favorite Aunt," Mom gushed. With both my brothers gone I hoped I might be at least one reason Mikey wanted to visit -- favorite Aunt or not. I had a couple days to plan a strategy to answer to that question:

Phase 1: I told Mom I would fix up Mikey with Sandy, and they could double-date with Nick and me. Mom fell for it: "Perfect. Sandra is so sweet, and you and Nick will finally have a chaperone." For Phase 2-5, I needed to go back to Bergmann's -- immediately -- and hope nobody else had bought the white Bikini with the little red bows (Phase 2). They hadn't! The day after our double date I would tell Mom that we were all going swimming at Upper Peoria Lake, then I'd tell Sandy but not Mom that Nick couldn't make it (Phase 3). That would leave a whole day with Mikey at the lake (Phase 4), with plenty of time at the small, shady, and very private hideaway down the shoreline: Phase 5.

As I triumphantly lay back on the blanket at a successful Phase 5, hands behind my head -- the better to lift my breasts -- Mikey glanced at me quickly, then looked away guiltily. "Oh, God, Carol, I'm sorry, I can't stop staring at them."

"You called me 'Carol!'"

"I'm pretty sure that's your name."

"One you never bothered to use before today, in favor of the far more flattering 'Peanut.'"

"Don't change the subject." Mikey picked up his towel, held it out in my general direction, shook his hands in a good imitation of a seizure -- that or maybe the advanced stages of Parkinsonism. "Can't you see I'm having a medical emergency. If we don't cover those, those--!" He flopped back on the blanket, arms outstretched like one crucified. "Too late, this is definitely cardiac arrest, . . . for the love of God . . . help me. I need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

I sat up. "Not to worry, this happens every time I wear a swimming suit in public, so I'm an expert at CPR. The latest AMA protocol, as you know, recommends only external cardiac massage, not mouth-to-mouth." I gave him a convincing whack on the chest. "First we'll crack your chest, and then--"

Mikey was up in a flash, cured: "This is not funny, I am not laughing. Plus you haven't done a thing for my crisis." He grabbed his towel, and threw it over my . . . knees! "There, that's a little better. I'm sorry, Carol, but I couldn't sleep last night thinking about your knees." This was the funny and clever Mikey behind the green eyes who had lifted my little-girl adoration to an adolescent crush -- and now to the beginning of a woman's longing. "They're so beautiful. So round. So firm. And so awe-fully packed. It's why I came to Peoria, hoping I might see your knees, maybe touch them, hold them, caress them, kiss them. Maybe even--"

"You get away from my knees, Mister!" I pulled the towel tightly around my knees, determined to match his melodrama, then leaned over to make sure he could see my other proudful, firm and fully-packed titillations. "I'm gonna' tell Mom if you touch my knees."

"Yeah, well, sorry, that won't work, 'cause your Mom lets me touch her knees whenever I want."

That did it. I could no longer keep a straight face, I burst out laughing: "Now that I would pay to see!"

Mikey picked up one of my feet, slowly and deeply and deliciously kneaded it with both hands. I lay back trying not to sigh. "So you have both a knee and a foot fetish?"

"No, no, this does nothing for me. I only do it to weaken your resistance so I can have my way with your knees."

He shifted to my other foot as I doubled my effort not to sigh. "And you're convinced this will do the trick?"

"Positive. The way to a woman's knees is through the soles of her feet."

"I don't remember hearing about this at s-e-x education class or slumber parties. You've had a lot of success with this technique, have you?"

"So far it's only a theory. You're my first test case."

"Ah, science. An experiment."

"Is your resistance starting to weaken yet?"

"Maybe, if putting me to sleep is part of the strategy."

"Anything that gets me time alone with your knees. You being conscious is optional. If all else fails I'll sneak into your bedroom tonight and play with your knees while you sleep."

I focused on that image as Mikey focused an equally thorough massage on the palms of my hands -- first one, then the other, then both, then a slow rubbing down and back each finger -- a penetrating kneading that relaxed my entire body, along with a paradoxical overlay of tingly tension. Simultaneous relaxation and tension, what an interesting combination! I've felt it more than once since this day at the lake, but never with that ringing-in-my-ears intensity of an unheralded discovery. Damn, I thought, this should be in s-e-x education classes. One final overlay heightened my breath-taken incitement: the awareness that someone I coveted was observing my usually-private body's response to his touches. As I set sail for nirvana, Mikey brought me back to the real world: "Did you say something?" he wanted to know.

"Huh? Oh, I don't know, did I?"

"Sounded like a sigh."

"Are you sure? Sorry, it was unintentional."

"No apology necessary. Unintentional sighs are my favorite sighs. I completely support your constitutional right to sigh. Feel free to purr or moan or call out my name."

I yawned, stretched, let out a longer, deeper sigh. "Sorry again. I don't mean to be rude." I peeked at Mikey. He was smiling. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Anything, as long as it has to do with knees."

"Well, yeah, knees are included, I guess. Hands, feet, knees -- was this all you got out of your s-e-x education class?"

"It was the last class period, all I could do to stay awake. And Mr. Brooks didn't help with his boring lectures, mostly lists and diagrams, slides of some awful-looking diseases." Mikey was back working on my feet again.

"So you slept through the list of erogenous zones?"

"Ohmigod! I thought he said 'erroneous zones'! That explains everything. This is so embarrassing. All the time I've been barking up the wrong--"

"Feet, hands, knees?"

"Help me, Carol, what am I doing wrong?"

"Ouch! You don't have to take it out on my foot! Check out the landscape, Mikey, touch stuff, I'll let you know if anything feels good. Sometimes erogenous zones are labeled, or have little red flags or red arrows pointing at them, at least they did in my textbook." I pointedly pointed both index fingers at the red bows on my hips, then to the one nestled between my hopeful breasts. "Or in some cases, pretty little red bows?"

"Ohmigod, yes, of course, I see them. They were there all the time, weren't they, as obvious as the cute little nose on your face?"

"Focus, Mikey. You're getting distracted again by non-erogenous zones."

"I will. I can. And thank you for your assistance." I felt a tentative pressure on my left hip. "This do anything for you?"

"I don't think it's the bow itself that's erogenous. Keep trying. I think I'll take a little nap, looks like this may take awhile. Wake me if you come across anything interesting." I feigned a lady-like snore, felt a sudden loosening on the left side of my bikini.

"Ohmigod, it's a real bow, and I've gone and . . . ." There was a tugging at the left side of my bikini, including a definitely pleasant upward tug. "I can't tie this bow, it's too tiny." Next came a tugging on the bow between the cups of my bra. "Interesting. This bow up here doesn't do anything except look cute."

"I guess it would be asking too much of one tiny little bow," I hinted.

For the first time Mikey's façade cracked as he laughed. "Sorry, I'm not laughing at them, I mean 'it,' er, the bow, whatever. I'm laughing with them, you gotta' believe me on this one." Now the bow on my right hip came loose. "Stupid me. I should've realized this one was a working bow, too. Ohmigod, I think we've got a problem in Houston now."

"How so?"

"Well, now you are completely exposable down there. Is that a word, 'exposable?'

"No, but you have got me worried I might be in some danger. Which is--?"

"Well, what if a sudden wind comes up? It might expose your, your . . . what's it called?"

" 'Houston,' apparently."

"Don't worry, I'll protect your Houston from prying eyes and sudden windstorms." I felt a protectively warm hand holding my bikini against Houston's imperiled metropolitan area. "I never heard this called 'Houston' before."

"Me either."

"But I do remember what John Updike called this in The Centaur," a touch of his finger drawing my attention to downtown Houston.

"Me, too."

"You're bluffing."

"You wish."

"Don't try to change the subject to what I wish, lady."

"Not willing to bet, huh?"

"I'm willing to bet the entire space program on it."

In the long silence I had to peek at Mikey's face again. It was furrowed in thought. "Called your bluff, didn't I?"

"No, no, I'm just trying to figure out whether I win or lose if I win or lose this bet. Okay, I call your bluff. Put out or shut up."

"I believe the expression is put up or shut up."

"You're just stalling. Your final answer, for the whole space program: John Updike's metaphor for 'Houston' is--"

"This is so easy: 'The damp void that lies at the center of the universe.'"

"Wow. I can't believe you . . ."

"You owe me a space program. Pay up."

"Where, how, did you ever read, and even then, remember . . .?"

"Because I'm very-very smart and very-very well-read and have a very-very good memory for memorable metaphors. "

"I mean besides that."

"Okay, plus you and Brad left The Centaur you were giggling over last Christmas on the coffee table, with some parts high-lighted, including 'the damp void that lies at the center of the universe.'"

"Cheater." There was a new, far more insistent pressure on my 'Houston,' one running up and down its main Shopping Mall. "But I don't feel any damp void here. Did John Updike lie to his readers -- and you cheaters?"

I had to take a deep breath to keep my voice steady. "Again, Mikey, you're confusing the covering of an erogenous zone with the zone itself."

The feeling was exquisite as his hand traveled down the inside of my exposable bikini.

"Ohmigod, John Updike has not lied to us, Carol. There is a definite dampness here. Are you happy? I'm happy."

"Of course I'm happy -- for John's literary legacy."

"Right here, can't you feel it?"

"I'm not quite sure, perhaps if you could be more . . . specific?"

"Here! And here. And here. And especially, here -- yes, I'd definitely call this right here a damp void."

Oh how badly I wanted to scream out: 'Yes, yes, there and there and especially there!' Perhaps our mutual objective was not worth this silent compact to remain aloof and reticent. But I steeled my aloofness and reticence, determined not to be the first to toss in the, well, bikini.

"But not here or here . . . or up here."

I could not mask my full-body reaction to his touch 'Up Here.' "Uh, I promised to tell you if anything felt good on this tour. I have to admit there's a tiny little feeling wherever you are now, but it's hard to pinpoint communications from Houston. Where are you, exactly?"

"One of the suburbs, I think. Lemme' look. Can't quite make it out. Got to brush aside some foliage here." Yes, yes, please brush it aside, just like that! "Oh, look at that. Isn't that cute."

"What have you discovered?"

"I'm not sure, but it sure is cute. Looks kind of like a little guy in a boat. 'Hi, little guy.' He's standing up, Carol. I think he's waving when I pat him on the head."

"He must like you. I bet he wants to give you a kiss."

"I've never kissed a guy before."

"I'm surprised, Mikey, never would have guessed you were homophobic."

"Me either. I guess one little kiss can't hurt if you say it's okay." I was definitely breathing faster now. I tried to slow my breathing -- unsuccessfully. "You okay?"

"Just a touch of emphysema, it'll pass."

"I can't believe it. I do like kissing him -- a lot -- so much so that I feel like giving him a big wet kiss. Would I still be considered heterosexual?"

"I bet . . . he'd . . . like that."

And the little guy in the boat did like it. There was no way I could talk rationally now, or even talk at all. I'm not sure what I said, if anything, but I do vaguely recall saying "ohmigod-ohmigod" -- maybe a million times. I wasn't counting.

Mikey looked up when my breathing and hearing were working again. "Are you okay? I was worried you might be—"

I made him stop talking with a press of my finger on his wet lips, pulled him slowly up to me by the ears. He leaned on his elbows like a gentleman as he smiled into my face. "I think you've got things backwards, Mikey. Aren't you supposed to kiss me before running off with some guy in a boat?"

"Oh, no, I can't kiss you, Carol. That would be wrong. I think it's even still against the law in some states. I wouldn't want you to live with the humiliation of cruel people -- like me, for instance -- running around town telling everybody we're 'kissing cousins.'

"To say nothing of Dad shooting you dead-dead-dead."

"Right, there would be that added inconvenience."

"But the real reason is you're chicken, right? You're afraid if you started kissing me you'd never be able to stop."

"Not me. Maybe you. And being a gentleman I'd have to let you keep kissing me, so as not to hurt your feelings. Then you'd go around telling people lies about me not being able to stop kissing you."

"Sounds like we got another bet coming up."

Mikey leaned forward and gave me a 'little-cousin kiss' on my forehead. "See, nothing to it, I can stop any time -- no bet necessary." The next kiss was on the tip of my nose. "Stopping is no problem, any kiss, any where, you name it."

I pointed to my lips. Mikey kissed me on my cheek. I pointed to my lips. Mikey kissed me on my other cheek. Then with each point: my chin, both eyes, an ear. I shook my head. "You poor guy: can't find a boy's favorite girl-parts, don't know what they're called when you get there, got everything backward, and now you have the worst aim of any cousin-kisser in Illinois." I laced my fingers behind his head. "I'm willing to help you improve your aim if you can manage not to move your head." I gave Mikey an innocent drop-her-off-at-the-door-on-the-first-date kiss. Mikey stared into my eyes as long as I stared into his. "Okay, you can stop now," he suggested, but then both our lips came together with equal fervor for a can-you-stay-tonight kiss. "Okay, maybe we should both stop now, huh?" With the next kiss -- it was only a kiss! -- I felt myself approaching that loss of self, gift of self, finding of self, the same one that the poor little man in the boat faced when a strong current swept him out to sea. After a kaleidoscope of time we both pulled away, maybe only because we couldn't breathe.

"Can I ask another question, Carol, while I catch my breath?"

"As long as it doesn't have anything to do with knees."

"I'm not sure. You decide. But it's very important, I've stayed up nights thinking about it. I've always wondered if you have these cute freckles everywhere." He touched the exposed surface of my left breast. "I learned today, for example, that Houston is an almost freckle-free city. Pretty observant, huh, for somebody you call unobservant?"

"Under the circumstances I'm impressed."

"So is it only the places that get sunlight? That's my theory so far."

"Hmmm. Another thoughtful if useless theory, you may be on to something." I kissed him again. "Have you got your breath back yet?"

"Now don't try and confuse me, I'd like to resolve this matter of your freckles." But first he kissed me back. "Like here:" He traced the upper surface of both my breasts. "Freckles as far as eager eyes can see. But down here on your stomach," he demonstrated the extant of 'stomach' with his hand, overlapping somewhat into the Houston area, "fewer freckles. So my question is: back here on these two elevated surfaces," touching them again in case I had forgotten, "--what are they called?"

"Must be that hill country outside Houston."

"No you don't, I've been to Houston and I'm pretty sure there are no hills anywhere near the city."

"Guess we have to put 'unobservant' back on your list of talents."

"So my question is: between the lucky-old-sun-kissed upper surface of the hill country, and their shaded side here," Mikey lifted my impatient breasts from below, "is there a freckle deficit due to lack of sunshine?"

"I've never studied the frecklocity of the hill country, maybe we should check it out." I slipped the straps off each shoulder, folded my bra cups below the southern slopes. "Well?" I asked, hoping his answer would be in deeds, not words.

"Well what?"

"What's your answer?"

"Uh, I forget the question."

"Freckles, Mikey, freckles, I can't see from up here, I have to count on you to count the freckles."

Mikey's stare turned from adoration to hesitancy, possibly fear. Worse, he suddenly grew serious, his playful kidding gone. So sudden and so serious and so unexpected was his mood swing that it left me in a state of bare-breasted embarrassment. He stared intently at my face, completely ignoring my standing and waving distant cousins to the man in a boat. Normally I would savor this deep soul-searching by his green eyes, but not now, please not now!

"Remember when we used to play 'Dot-to-Dot?'"

Now I was mad. "What does 'Dot-to-Dot' have to do with my freckles?"

"Everything?" He answered uncertainly -- confused, sad, reflective. "Remember how we'd fill a paper with dots, take turns connecting them? When we formed a box, we'd write our initial in the box?"

I remembered, too, those days of shared innocence. My anger melted into his melancholy. "And the one with the most boxes would win."

"You'd study that paper forever, like you were in the finals of a chess tournament."

"We'd play 'Dot-to-Dot' all day long." My sigh was as sad as Mikey's stare, as sad as his touch on the freckles of my breast.

"Your freckles are a lot further apart since we were kids. I wish we had endless days to play Dot-to-Dot on these freckles."

"Me too, me too."

"But we don't, do we? All we have, Carol, is this tiny slice of time. Which has to end tomorrow -- forever."

I pulled Mikey's head to my freckled breast, and felt on its surface his unashamed tears of longing and feared loss. I felt it, too, and rubbed my own tears into his fulsome hair, hair still damp from a long afternoon at the lake, hair infused with the musky amalgam of life's detritus, desire's detritus, memory's detritus. I held him to my breast with a passion fiercer than hunger. With a lucidity brought by our tears I realized this breast we wept over was meant for more than the giving or receiving of nourishment or pleasure or even love. My breast afforded safety, refuge, comfort, understanding, acceptance, not only for Mikey but for all those who would populate my world: a suckling infant, a frightened child, a shy lover, a grieving friend, a returning soldier, a despairing spouse, a dying parent. And though it would be some time before words would frame my uninvited discovery, the present moment told me that because of my acceptance I had been tossed a gratuity of equal parts burden and joy.