Summer, My Sister's Best Friend


Imagining that she could walk on water, if she had wings, she'd be an angel, my angel. Indeed, she didn't need wings to be my angel. She already was. More than once I imagined her flying away with me to some remote, tropical, South Seas island paradise, Bali, Tahiti, or Fiji, where we could live happily ever after.

Wherever she went, I'd follow. More than once, especially now that I saw her tits, with my eyes and my mind filled with the semi-naked sight of her, I imagined us on the beach with her topless. Bouncing her big boobs while running to me in the warm sand in the way that Dudley Moore imagined Bo Derek running to him, I wasted so much of my cum masturbating over Summer. If only she was my woman, never self-abusing myself by masturbating again, I'd be the happiest man on Earth. If only she was my woman, with my life complete, I'd never ask God for anything else, not even to win the lottery, if there was a lottery back then but there wasn't.

Perhaps just my imagination but as if she was a supermodel on a photo shoot, there always seemed to be a slight enough breeze to gently move strands of her long, blonde hair back from her beautiful face. As if she had her own tiny, invisible Tinker Bell moving her hair, whenever I was with her, sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, seemingly even indoors, strands of her beautiful, blonde hair moved away from her big, blue eyes as if magically on its own. So full of life, in the way she talked with her hands and was so animated by her facial expressions and mannerisms, she reminded me of Thalia Menninger, the love character played by Tuesday Weld in Dobie Gillis. So beautiful and so sexy, a one of a kind rare beauty in the way of Inger Stevens of the Farmer's Daughter, she was so truly unforgettable.

Stunningly gorgeous, Tuesday Weld was so beautiful and sexy, only Summer was even more so. Before I fell in love with Summer, my favorite season by the way, I was crazy mad in love with Tuesday Weld and later, with Angie Dickinson. Not Marilyn Monroe, Mimi Rogers, nor Jamie Lee Curtiss years later in Trading Places, no one had a better body and/or better breasts than did Angie Dickinson. With Angie Dickinson one of the women he bedded, even President Kennedy concurred that she was something special. Then, there was sexy, sensual Julie Newmar of My Living Doll with Robert Cummings and Joey Heatherton of the Dean Martin show, but Summer was even more beautiful than them all, especially after having the visual proof of seeing her tits.

"Her tits. Her tits. I'd love to see her tits again. Wherefore art thou are her tits? As if I was Romeo calling Juliet for the chance to see her tits again, never will I forget seeing her topless. Every time I see her now, imagining seeing her tits, I can't help myself from imagining her topless. Even when she's sitting before me wearing her blouse and bra, I imagine her sitting there topless. I just love her big tits."

* * * * *

Shalimar, the perfume she wore, a much more expensive scent than my sister's cheap, drugstore brand, Ambush, smelled like Emeraude but was more expensive and longer lasting. It was a fragrance that lingered long after she left the room and I loved pretending that she was still there with me even when she wasn't and long after she had gone. If only she'd forgetfully leave her bottle of perfume behind, I'd sprayed some on my sheets and pillow to pretend that she was in bed with me as I pretended she was every night when my hand was tightly wrapped around my cock.

I've seen beautiful women before when shopping in high-end department stores and in ritzy boutiques on Newbury Street in Boston and when watching Bob Barker's gorgeous models on The Price Is Right. But too thin, Twiggy like models never appealed to me in the way of a real woman with curves and in the way of Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and Sophia Loren. Whenever I think of truly beautiful women, I think of Elizabeth Taylor, Lee Remick, and Natalie Wood, but never have I seen a woman as naturally beautiful in person as was Summer.

"Summer, Summer, Summer, I'm in love with Summer."

Tall and thin, albeit shapely, every bit as beautiful as Miss America of 1968, Debra Dene Barnes, from Kansas, if I was given a choice of the two women, I'd pick Summer. A natural born beauty without even a hint of makeup other than lipstick, eye liner, and eye shadow, she was the image by how I compared all other women later in my life. Unfortunately, with no other woman comparing to her, I was forever lost yearning for Summer. Still in love with her, and in honor to her while hoping that, one day, she'd notice me, I never married or even dated. Foolish of me not to live my life without her in it but, not fair to any other woman who I may be with, how could I date anyone when I was so in love with Summer?

Never giving up hope that one day she'd notice me and that undoubtedly we'd be together forever, with me strangely saving myself for Summer, the love of my life, sadly she wasn't saving herself for me. My sister's best friend wasn't yearning over me in the way that I was lusting over her. With me evidentially non-existent in her mind and in her heart, I was nowhere on Summer's love chart list of prospects. Why would I be? I was just an 18-year-old, immature kid and she was a 26-year-old women who knew what she wanted and what she didn't want was me.

When not sitting at the kitchen table talking to her over a cup of coffee, just my sister's kid brother, I was invisible to her. I didn't exist on her list of love interests. Indeed, popular with men, especially with the wrong kind of men, she had lots of boyfriends. Preferring bad men to good men, tattooed, hard rock, hard living, and hard liquor drinking tough guys with guns, scars, and violent stories to tell, she had a love for riding on the back of motorcycles, especially the big hogs and ear piercingly loud choppers.

Compared to the men that she liked, loved, and had sex with I was the complete opposite, a college boy sissy who read poetry and wrote stories. When I took liberal arts instead of business in college, or instead of going to trade school to learn a trade, some of my friends thought I was gay, but just an English major, I wasn't. Too afraid of falling and crushing my bones instead of just breaking them, comfortable in my ignorance of riding motorcycles and preferring not to know what I was missing riding with bugs in my teeth, eyes, and hair, I had never even been on a motorcycle.

Yet, if she showed any interest in me at all, for the love of Summer, I'd learn how to ride. For the love of Summer, I'd even be a bad man so that I could have my own violent, criminal stories to tell. Only, covering them with my hands while cringing as if the ground shook with an earthquake, those loud motorcycles, especially when in a gang, hurt my ears and offended the peaceful quiet that I needed to write my poems and stories. Compared to the men she dated, I was delicate. Compared to the men she date, I was sensitive. Obviously and unfortunately, I'd never be one of the men she dated.

Maybe if I had a motorcycle, a big, loud Harley, she would have taken more interest in me. Maybe if I had a motorcycle, I could have given her a ride. Feeling her C cup breasts pressed tightly against my back, I imagined the wisps of her long, blonde hair tickling my neck. With her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, just mere inches from the erection that I'd surely have with her holding me, I wished I didn't have such a fear of motorcycles, choppers, and hogs.

I wished I was more like the hard living, bad to the bone men who attracted her. She made me wish that I had a tattoo, a scar, missing teeth, and a story to tell how it all happened. Yet, hoping that would suffice, if I couldn't live the life, perhaps I could write the yarn with her as my leading lady and with me as her leading man. I imagined her in my life and her in my bed while reading my stories to her.

Keeping abreast of her through my sister, she married twice and divorced twice but didn't have any children, thank God, as I wanted her to have my baby. A lasting memory and my legacy, I wanted my baby to be the one thing that I gave her that no one else had. Always choosing the wrong men, the abusers, the cheaters, the drunks, the gamblers, and the wife beaters, thinking that she could change them, she was still a regular at my sister's house sobbing her sad, love story with every romantic breakup that she foolishly thought would last her lifetime.

Every time she visited, as if she needed my sister's approval or as if her intent was to make me jealous, she had a new, musclebound, tattooed, Neanderthal of a man dressed in leather on her arm. With his horny hands all over my woman and with them oblivious to me in my own house, I'd see him touching her, feeling her, and kissing her in the way that I so wanted to touch her, feel her, and kiss her. Half a world away, if Captain Hank was still here instead of off somewhere in the steamy jungles of Laos or Cambodia, I imagined him in the way of Billy Jack, no doubt chasing all of these motorcycle, mad men away. Without doubt, if Captain Hank was here, he'd forbade her from seeing those kind of men. A different time back then with the sexual revolution, she dated so very many different men. If I didn't hold Summer so high up on my pedestal, instead of thinking of her as an angel without wings and a halo, I'd think she was a whore with a cock in each hand, one in between her legs, and another one in her mouth.

* * * * *

Going from false eyelashes, go-go boots, and mini-skirts in the sixties to maxi-dresses, hot pants, and dress trousers in the seventies, to big hair, heavy makeup, and luminous colors in the eighties, she changed with the times while I stayed the same and remained living with my sister. She lived her life to her fullest extent but without Summer in my life, I didn't have a life. With our parents dying early in our lives in an automobile accident, I enjoyed a strangely symbiotic relationship with my sister. Afraid to lose one another and to be left alone without any family, we clung onto one another as if we were meant to be together as husband and wife instead of brother and sister. Although never incestuously intimate, even though I lusted over having sex with my sexy sister as would any horny, 18-year-old teenager, we were more friends later in life than we were brother and sister.

Besides, not sexually interested in me in the way that I was once sexually interested in her, I was more in love with Summer than I ever was with my big sister. Moreover, never out of the closet with her sexual preference, as if she was a Nun who hadn't yet taken her vows of chastity, my sister was a non-practicing lesbian. Keeping her secret to myself, no one knew or suspected her preference for women over men but for me. I'm not sure if she even knew herself that she preferred women to men which would explain why she never married and/or had a lesbian affair. The loyal girlfriend who waited to be rejoined with her fiancée, other than her big tough Marine, no other man was good enough for her. She used Hank, with him being somewhere on the other side of the Earth, as her excuse not to not even date anyone else.

Oddly enough, with the both of us living together and playing our brotherly and sisterly roles, not marrying nor even dating, in the way that I was saving myself for Summer, seemingly my sister was saving herself for Summer too. Just good friends, we were too much in love and too stupid to know that Summer didn't want either one of us in that sexual way. How could we be so stupid to be so enamored by Summer when she was always off sucking and fucking yet another bad man?

The hit book and hit movie of the time, I borrowed a line from Erich Segal's Love Story with Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw playing in the starring roles, "Love means never having to say you're sorry." Back then, love to me meant never having to say that you're horny and I was always horny whenever around and not around Summer. Always in my thoughts, night and day, she had a way of making me insane with unrequited love and unrequited sexual lust.

A different time back then, it's not odd that my sister didn't start out as a lesbian. Chastised by the church, humiliated by their so-called friends, and an embarrassment to their families, gays and lesbians were a social sickness, outcasts in the way of lepers, they were deemed perverted and not normal. Especially with the AIDs epidemic of the eighties, everyone who came out of the closet in the sixties and seventies hid back inside and closed and locked the door. Even after nearly fifty years, nothing has changed and everything remains the same. A cheerleader, and probably in the hopes of hiding the fact that she liked women more, my sister dated lots of men in college. Although ready to marry, her marrying Hank would have been a tragic mistake had she realized later in life that she preferred women to men.

Always there in my mind, Summer loomed as large as any unattainable beauty queen. With me coming of age but slowly dying from the unrequited love of Summer, my non-existent love life was as hauntingly disturbing as was Cybill Shepherd's sad role in the Last Picture Show. Tall, busty, and beautiful, Cybill Shepherd reminded me of Summer, especially when she was younger, only Summer was even more beautiful than Cybill Shepard. Summer made me wish that I was older or she was younger. She made me wish that I was rich so that I could sweep her off her feet with my excessively, expensive extravagances. She made me wish that I was influentially powerful so that I could win her heart with my ability to politically get things done and change her life for the better.

Yet, invisible, I was a nobody. I was Summer's best friend's kid brother. Immature and lovesick, I was just an 18-year-old, pimply faced kid and she was a 26-year-old beautiful woman. Never meant to be, what chance did I have to be with someone like her? I'd have more of a chance of bedding a movie star like Mia Farrow or a big time news reporter like Diane Sawyer than having a chance to have sex with Summer.

Whenever she looked at me, even though she looked right through me, she melted my heart. Whenever she talked to me, spellbound, as if I were Raj Koothrappali in The Big Bang Theory, I couldn't speak. With her Shalimar filling my nose, whenever she touched my hand, my knee, or my shoulder, imagining her touching my cock while I felt her breasts and kissed her, I thought I had died and gone to Heaven. I was so very much in love with her. Wanting the whole world to know that I loved my big sister's best friend, Summer, sadly I never told anyone, not even my sister, my secret love for her best friend.

* * * * *

There wasn't a day that I didn't masturbate over dating her, kissing her, and making love to her. There wasn't a night that I didn't dream about having sex with her. She was there in my thoughts during every waking moment. What would Summer think about that? What would Summer say about that? What would Summer do if she was here wit me now? What would Summer say about this or about that? Summer, Summer, Summer, all of my thoughts focused on Summer.

Hearing her voice and her laughter in my head, I scribbled her name over and again a thousand times. When in college class, instead of listening to my professor pontificating, I doodled Summer, Summer, Summer, when I should have been taking notes. Forsaking all other women my age for Summer, I didn't attend any college dorm parties for fear that she'd think that I was cheating on her. As if we were going steady when we weren't even a romantic couple, I wanted to be faithful to her. Back then, oblivious to how I felt about her, I was nothing more to Summer than her best friend's annoying, little brother.

Then, when my sister's boyfriend didn't return home from Viet Nam, blown to bits, figuring that I'd never see Summer again after the empty-coffin funeral, surprisingly she was a regular at the house. I looked forward to her daily visits as if she was coming to my house to see me. The three of us would sit and talk over our coffee. Later that night, I'd take the thoughts of Summer to bed with me while, no doubt, my sister did too. With the both of us lusting over Summer, we were such a sad pair.

As if my house was her temple and my sister was her mecca, her personal crusade to make, Summer's daily visits were a continuation of the funeral mourning and conversely a continuity of her brother still being alive. Having made such a large hole in our lives, we all wished her brother was still alive. Having hope against all hope, with the military not finding his body, maybe he wasn't blown to bits after all. Maybe he was still alive, captured, or still hiding somewhere in the jungle while working for the CIA.

Maybe falling in love with a Vietnamese, Cambodian, or Laotian woman, he decided to forsake his family and his past and not return home. With a lot of money to be made by a savvy American who knew the language and was familiar with the customs, maybe he was a deserter. Yet, sadly, we knew that he wasn't alive. We knew that he was blown to bits as recapped by the men he led who came by to pay their last respects.

Looking at old photos and talking about her brother as if he were about to walk through the front door, my sister was Summer's way for her to be close to her brother and for them to get through their grief. They switched back and forth with Summer comforting my sister and my sister comforting Summer. When one fell weak, the other grew strong. No doubt, but not meant to be, had Hank survived, my sister would have married him and that would have made Summer family. A big mistake had my sister married him, that would have made Summer my sexy, off-limits sister-in-law who I would have lusted over night and day but never would have dared touched.

I used the opportunity of her daily visits to get to know her better as my personal ammunition to use to romance her later. Intelligent, funny, and witty, I enjoyed talking to her, especially when my sister wasn't around or was upstairs getting ready, in the shower, or out walking the dog. I used our daily conversations as my way to eventually make my move. As my time with her grew, my affection for her deepened and I hoped beyond hope that she felt the same about me as I felt for her.

Years later, still vulnerable, still grieving over losing her big brother, still acting out in dating the wrong men, and still attending memorials in his name, I didn't know Hank well enough to grieve over him but I felt bad that the Viet Nam War had claimed another casualty. The best of the best, a one man fighting machine, a United States Marine, loved by all who knew him, he was a good man. To deadly to fight one-on-one, the only way to kill someone like him was to blow him to bits.

* * * * *

Now 22-years-old, four years after the death of Hank, Summer was a mature 30-year-old, divorced woman. I know she didn't love her husband, whoever he was, some big, bad biker dude. Alone, sad, and vulnerable, she just married him to soothe her pain over losing her brother. Only, I didn't think of her as a divorcee, I just thought of her as Summer, the woman of my dreams and the woman who I loved.

Seemingly ageless, she still looked the same as she did the first day I met her, much like a young Mia Farrow albeit with breasts, when she played Allison McKenzie in the TV version of Peyton Place and later when she played Rosemary in Rosemary's Baby. Still coming to the house nearly every day to commiserate with my sister, I hung around not so much to honor her dead brother but because I was hoping to be alone with his beautiful sister. With my feelings about her not changing but growing stronger, even with me not telling her, if only in the way that I looked at her, how could she not know that I was in love with her?

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bySusanJillParker© 7 comments/ 72818 views/ 68 favorites

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