Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 02

Somehow, I knew it without even looking. The cues must have been there, while I was in conversation with my mother--a quiet rustling, footsteps, Uncle Ron's creaking floors. A glimpse even, possibly. Corner-of-the-eye.

I lifted my face from my hands, turned my head, looked across the kitchen where the door led to the hallway and foyer.

Uncle Ron.

How much had he heard?    Seen?   

He stood, a few feet back from the doorway, in the slightly darker space where the short downstairs hallway opened up into the brighter foyer. He wasn't in a relaxed attitude, more of a poised position; either he had just halted, or was about to be on his way. I watched his face. Uncle Ron was looking me up and down, his expression somewhere between amused and neutral. Fully clothed now, in his golf shirt, khakis, light brown dock shoes.

I realized that I had sort of frozen, half rising from leaning over the counter, and I felt a little insecure, emerging from my intimate thoughts, having just finished the very private expression of hiding my face in my hands with a silent moan of anxiety. My eyes met his, I felt my face redden, and I straightened up awkwardly, and I was about to say something, or maybe I wasn't, maybe I was trying to recover, expecting to have to explain something, and I wasn't even sure what. Again, the thought was repeating itself in my head, What did he see?    Hear?   

Is he coming in?    What now?

How long had he been standing there?

In a house that seemed to squeak and creak with every step or shifting of weight I made, walking or even lying in my bed, how did he get there without me knowing?    Because I was on the phone and riveted to my mom's dish about my quirky uncle.

My mouth opened. I gulped, I swallowed, dryly.

Why did he affect me this way?   

Quirky Uncle Ron.

But then, he chuckled. I watched him turn, walking. He disappeared down the hall beyond my field of vision, and I heard the front door open and close.

I stood still, staring, thinking. I stood still, quiet, listening.

I heard a car door closing. I heard the engine start.

I heard the gas gunned, the sounds of tires and acceleration as Uncle Ron purred away in his Crown Vic.

Unexpectedly, I was alone in Uncle Ron's home, and my mind immediately raced to catch up with itself.

Because I had so many questions. More than ever now--thanks to Mom.

And suddenly being alone felt like an opportunity to get some answers, or at least look around a little.

But as Uncle Ron hadn't said a word, I wasn't sure if he would be gone for 10 minutes, or two hours.

My mother's revelations about Uncle Ron were still very, very fresh in my mind.

I touched myself through my shorts, and moaned a little. I was alone. This could be my only chance--at least for some time--to masturbate, and I desperately needed to clear my mind, and quell the built-up urges in my body, to relieve the erotic tension that I was battling while my uncle was toying with me.

I slid my hand down into the waistband of my shorts and felt myself through my underpants. My penis was warm and fat and wanted all the attention I could give it, but I moaned again, because it was battling for attention against other factors. Other--perhaps equally urgent--needs.

This could also be my only chance, depending on how much time I had, to snoop around a little. Seek some answers.

Had I been set up?    I didn't really think so, but I thought it might be just possible that my uncle had something to do with my missing swimsuit.

Was it really missing?    And if it really was, maybe it wasn't really an accident, or oversight, or my forgetfulness and disorganization, or my mom's momentary lapse.

My mom's words, far from being the motherly reassurance I'd been seeking, only created more doubts, more suspicions.

And now I was all alone, and I didn't know how long Uncle Ron would be out.

But while he was out, I had a good look around.

* * *

He came back about a forty minutes after he left. In a way, I suppose it might have been better if he'd come back sooner. Less time to get into trouble. I was sitting on the sofa in Uncle Ron's living room, glancing through some of my band charts, when he arrived home.

                                                                                                                                                                              We'd only been reacquainted for a few hours. Yet already, hearing him coming, hearing his car, then the front door opening, had me trying to control my breathing, slow my heartbeat.

Hearing his arriving presence, my mind was full of doubts, worries. Maybe part of it was because I'd been snooping around his private home--for 35 minutes.

But I had to. I had to know, I had to see, I had to look.

But he didn't have to know about that. I had been careful, tiptoeing gingerly through the rooms, and leaving everything exactly as I found it. I hoped. Yes, I had. I was sure. Although I probably would have been more efficient about it if I hadn't been stopping to listen every thirty seconds, nervously checking windows every time I heard some little outdoor noise, closing car doors, distant voices or motors revving. I was so nervous about him walking in on me, catching me snooping.

And maybe I just needed the short break, some time alone. Some time alone to figure out my own head, how to handle all these...feelings.                                                                                                                  

I heard Uncle Ron come in. I heard the door open, the outside sounds got louder for a moment, then he was in the foyer. I heard the front door close, latch. The quiet in the house resumed.

"Jamey?"    He called out my name, loud enough to notify, but not shouting or straining. I'd been alone in his quiet house, alone with my thoughts, and breaking that long silence, his voice resonated firmly upon my ears.

"Yes, Uncle Ron," I called out my answer, matching his tone. I swallowed and cleared my throat a little because my voice felt weak. "I'm in here."

He came in, and he was carrying some folded papers, showing white and pale pink in his left hand.

"Oh, there you are. Found the living room? Ha ha. That's good. I spend some time in here in the evenings, but mostly I'm either out at the properties, checking supplies or schedules, or working in my study." He gestured with the papers in his hand.

I had stood when he came in. I still held my music folder. I felt awkward at first, unsure, but he seemed somehow different. Earlier, it seemed, his attention had been focused rather steadily on me, on my fresh presence in his home as a guest, on my attitudes and our interactions. Now, he seemed pre-occupied, his mind elsewhere, his own routine reasserting itself.

I relaxed a little. But still, I fiddled with the folder, then I felt self-conscious, and I put it down.

"It's a nice room, Uncle Ron, thank you. So, you don't mind if I sit in here?"

I looked around. I put my hands on my hips. TV on a small hardwood stand. Stereo on a credenza along one wall. A sofa, several stuffed chairs. Bookshelves lining two of the walls. A round card table and chairs.

Uncle Ron scratched behind his ear, rubbed the back of his neck. A gesture that I'd noticed he'd use habitually to pause and think.

"Yeah, it's fine. When I'm upstairs I'm asleep most of the time. If you're in here, just keep the volume down, okay?" He grinned. "Kids, their loud music, sometimes I find it irritating."

"Yes sir, no problem."

He looked at his watch. "Getting hungry yet, son?" he asked. I looked at my watch too. 5:00 pm. And change.

"Getting there," I said.

"Yeah, me too. Tell you what," he held up his papers. "I'll finish these updates and we'll go eat something."

"Sounds fine to me, Uncle Ron."

He was rubbing his neck again. He looked at me, and settled on his feet, standing still and firmly, body language commanding my attention.

"Jamey, uh, well," he said. I waited. I didn't say anything, because his posture indicated he had something to tell me, and I could tell he was back on a personal kind of subject. "I guess I came on a little strong, uh, earlier."

I felt my face getting warm. I felt ashamed, remembering. He had been angry, and lost his patience. But I knew I had helped set him off. I was also remembering what my mother had said, which had certainly been consistent with our rocky start.

I intertwined my fingers nervously. "I guess you did, but I was..., oh Uncle Ron I talked to my mom, and she says she's sure she packed my bathing suit!    I know I was...I wasn't trying to irritate you, but I guess I did."

"No, no," Uncle Ron said. "Well, yes, you did. But I may have overreacted. You're a grown man. Adult. Almost, at any rate. Maybe a little immature, but lots of college kids are like that. Anyway, we'll talk at dinner. I want your time with your Uncle Ron to be a good experience. I think we both do, don't we son?"

"Yes sir." And again, I felt oddly emotional, vulnerable, under Uncle Ron's thoughtful stare. I felt it. My knees pressed together to center my physical core. My tummy twisted. I tried not to twitch or react.

I really, still, didn't know how to read him. But it it did seem like he was trying to reset our rocky start.

And yet, in spite of my hurried investigations when he'd been out, I still wasn't sure about the whole swimsuit episode. What it meant, how it happened, even how I felt about it.

Uncle Ron nodded and left the living room for his study. I stood, wondering. I heard his door close.

I sat. I looked at myself.

Had he set me up?    I still didn't know. While he'd been out of the house, I went from room to room, looking carefully, making sure not to move anything around, but I needed to look.

Because I'd remembered, there was a moment, brief, but possible, when Uncle Ron might have taken it. He could have taken my swimsuit and hidden it. Just to see what would happen. Just to mess with me.

Quirky Uncle Ron.

But now, he'd apologized!    But I wasn't sure exactly what his apology covered. It seemed to be about, well, about when he lost his temper when we were alone in his study, but I wasn't really too sure about that.

* * *

And my uneasiness continued as we drove to the restaurant. We didn't talk much in the car. It only took a ten-minute drive to get to a strip of stores with several casual eateries. Uncle Ron picked one out, one of those steakhouses with the carefully curated rustic branding, dark wood, solid tables, skip the tablecloths.

Uncle Ron got a beer, I got a coke. Everybody my age, of course, had felt cheated when the drinking age, eighteen for several years, had been re-raised to 21. I had two years to go, although like all college freshmen, I'd managed to enjoy a few raging keggers over the course of my first two semesters.

While we ate, we worked our way through the small talk, finishing up our burgers and fries, reviewing my major, my clubs and sports, and a little bit about Uncle Ron's work. I wasn't especially interested in facility and event management, and he didn't seem to care much about my academics. Uncle Ron nursed his one beer, and I had a refill of my soda.

Finally, Ron eyed me over the edge of his glass as he swigged a good swallow of his beer.

"So, how have the coeds been treating you, Jamey?" He had that smirky look on his face, like he knew the answer but wanted me to squirm a little.

"Better this year, I hope." I knew the uneasiness probably showed on my faced. I glanced up at him and the smirk was still smirking. "Freshman girls seem to go for the upperclassmen."

"No summer romances, then?"

I thought of the rather underwhelming episode early in the summer in the car. "Nothing that amounted to much, Uncle Ron."

"Well, you know what they say. 'Nothing like experience...'"

I felt Uncle Ron's eyes, peering, probing. He was watching my reactions, and I was reacting like an uneasy, uninformed, inexperienced goof. I didn't respond though. I looked at the single French fry, alone on my plate. My appetite was sinking away.

"Anything else, son?    As your uncle, old friend of the family, I wonder if maybe your mom and dad wanted me to guide you a bit. Maybe this wasn't just about your band camp."

I stirred the French fry through the juices and catsup on my plate, to do something, to occupy myself, to avoid looking at Ron.

"Is sex a difficult subject for you, son?    Hard to talk about?" Without even looking, I could tell he had a smug little grin on his face. I thought over the day's timeline, his assertiveness, scolding me and commanding me like a child, undressing me, putting panties on me. Spanking me.    I knew that he was thinking over exactly the same stuff, playing the same reel as me, but from his superior point of view.

I looked up at him, then looked down again. I was trying to be calm, to breathe regular, but he was talking about things I was unsure about, that I was still figuring out, that I was trying to avoid, that I didn't need to be thinking about when learning new music and steps, when trying for a better start to my sophomore year, trying to meet a nice girl, or two, wanting a girlfriend, or at least, a friend.

"Maybe you're confused, Jamey. Or might I be misunderstanding?    What about your roommate?    You were a freshman last year, you had a roommate, did you get along?    Did he have a steady girl, and you didn't?"

This was maybe a sensitive spot. I was glad Sal wasn't assigned to be my roommate again this year.

"He was okay."

"You didn't get along with your roommate?"

"We did, but then he got a girl."

"And you didn't."

I looked away.

"You were jealous?" Uncle Jamey spoke softly, but I could tell he seemed keenly interested.

"Yes, son. I see. A little jealous?" He paused. There was a growing tension in the moment.

"Of him? Or, maybe, her?" I glanced up at Uncle Ron's face. He had that smirk again. Quirky Uncle Ron.

I didn't like what he was implying. But I'm not sure if I didn't like it because he was amusing himself at my expense, or because he was making me uneasy about what I had actually felt when more and more of Sal's attention went to his pretty new co-ed.

I found myself blurting, joining back into the conversation with maybe a little too much doth protest.

"She was pretty, I wanted..." I didn't want to go into detail with my Uncle Ron. There had been some little complications about how I felt about my jock roommate and his hot girlfriend. I trailed off.

"I see. Yes. You do seem frustrated, son," Uncle Ron said. Not without some sympathy in his voice. But he kept going, and as he spoke, I felt smaller and smaller, because he seemed to know things, to instinctively know about me, as if he could read my mind or something. "Your roommate had a girl, they were intimate. In fact, quite intimate. Sometimes a little, flaunting it?" Uncle Ron knew when to divert the subject to keep the stream of conversation going when things got a little...uneasy.

"She would sit in his lap." Remembering them together was somehow, for me, a mixed feeling.

"Kissing?"

"Yes."

"And you wished they wouldn't do that with you there."

"Yes."

"Because of how it made you feel. Was it jealeous, or more like...humiliated?    Hmm?"

I looked away, and he seemed to assume an answer. Both.

"Hmm. I see." He paused, regarding me. I could tell he was enjoying this, though I wasn't. I wanted to squirm, but managed not to. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, that masculine, demonstrative gesture he had.

"Jamey, is it hard for you, talking to girls?    Getting dates?"

"Oh Uncle Ron, can we talk about something else?" I blurted.

Ron didn't answer me. But he was looking at me. His eyes steady on my face, watching me. I looked down.

During a quiet pause of a minute, or so, Ron finished his sandwich, and drank some of his beer. But he kept looking at me, or looking me over. I squirmed a little in my seat, uneasy under his scrutiny.

"Okay. I understand, son. She sounds like a pretty girl." His voice was dry, a little less patient. "Well okay, describe her to me then, son,"

"Her?"

"Your roommate's girl. In fact, tell me more about it, tell me about her, her style, her gracefulness, her sitting on his lap. Describe the scene. It came into your mind when I asked you about your roommate, so I want to hear about it, and how you felt. Maybe I can help."

I could see it, all over again I felt that gnawing envy, and how pretty she was, their intimacy and affection, seeing them in the living area of our little suite of rooms that we shared with the other two guys in the 2nd bedroom across the dorm suite. So I took a deep breath, and looking down at my folded hands, I described the scene to Ron.

"I would study, in our bedroom, but I could see them through the open door, in the shared living room area. Sal was my roommate. At least they weren't loud about it, most of the time. He put some music on and sat on the sofa. She was wearing a little dress, a short green dress, or blue. I saw her long legs. They were smooth, she had a nice figure. She was a petite girl, and bubbly. Fine light brunette hair, straight, not long. She would swish around the room, dance around a little, then go sit on his lap, and cross her legs. And they kiss. And kind of...."

"Neck?"

"Yes. Rubbing and cooing, and she's sitting way in on his lap, he's a little stretched out and his hands are wandering and she's wiggling, and then they readjust and she's sitting sort of balanced on his knee while they kiss again and talk quietly and then she gets up and he's holding her waist and then I can't really see what they're doing but they're enjoying it, she giggles and scolds him, and then she shakes loose, and she turns and sits on his lap the other way."

"Facing him?"

"Yes."

"And you're watching."

I didn't say anything. I was remembering it. How it gave me feelings of yearning, of wanting.

"Did they know you were watching, son?"

"Not at first. But later, I guess it sort of became a, like a thing."

"A thing?"

"Tom and Dave, the other roommates, were getting some dates. Not much, but more than me. And my roommate Sal, now he had Tessa, he had a regular thing with her. And all that was, well, it was fine, I mean it was okay. Until Sal started it. Started making it about me. Using it all to make fun of me. He and the other guys would laugh about me, how I was awkward around girls, and with girls. And after a while, Tessa joined in a little too. At first just laughing with them, then she would tease me about it a little too. And then after a while if they knew I was around, she and Sal, they would kind of flaunt it, they knew I would look. Their affection, and her sexiness. I would watch her swish, watch her legs. She would tease me, talking to me, the way she walked, how she moved, I didn't want to look, but..."

"And you wanted her?"

I didn't answer. I pushed my plate away.

"Can we go home, Uncle Ron?    It's been a long day."

His gaze was even, holding my eyes. He knew, I could tell he knew, that there was more to the story. Parts I didn't want to share.

"It's only--" he looked at his watch "--six-thirty, son," he said. "We have plenty of time. Plenty of time to get acquainted. You have more to tell me. Things bugging you, things to get off your chest. And I want to hear it. I have, well, I have a keen interest in you, and I think you need somebody to hear you out, help you get your priorities figured out. Don't you think so?"

"I guess."

"You've really only told me a small part of what's on your mind, what's bugging you." It sounded like more of a statement than a question, and that's what it was.