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Mortified. If Ron had thought of the word he might have used it to describe how he felt at the moment -- so embarrassed and so angry at himself that he wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. He had been so freakin' stupid!
She said she was going to the grocery store!
He usually locked his door when he did it, but he had been in such a freakin' rush to get to his room to gawk at Mrs. Gregerson sunning at her pool, her freakin' bikini top undone, her half way decent ass barely covered. He ran up the stairs, praying, hoping that he'd get to his bedroom window and not miss it, if and when she propped herself up with her elbows to reach for her ice tea or whatever the hell she drank. Last week when she did that she had twisted her torso and he had seen her naked tits for at least five seconds.
Even without the bare tit or tits, he'd still have a good time beating off, watching her, thinking about how good it would be to fuck her, then shoot his jiz all over her face, her tits, her ass. He'd look at her nearly naked body and think about ramming his cock into her, just like in the porn vids his friend Josh would let him rent when the manager wasn't in the store. Ron had made copies of ten of them with his two VCRs.
Watching Mrs. Gregerson sunning was almost better than beating off to the porn vids, actually each made the other better. Without the porn vids he would never have thought of ramming his cock into her hot asshole, or rough fucking her mouth, or having his cock between her big tits, her hands holding those big fleshy orbs together making a tit-cunt for his sliding prick then shooting his wad all over them. And when he watched the porn vids on the days Mrs. G sunned, he'd imagine the chicks in them to be Mrs. Gregerson, begging for it in her ass, or it would be her screaming, "Harder! Harder! Ron! Fuck me harder!"
He would watch her from his bedroom window, usually naked himself, his palm all slicked up with hand lotion, yanking his crank seeing her nearly naked on that cushioned redwood chaise, but also seeing her in his mind, fucking her, fucking her so good, so hard, her mouth, her cunt, her asshole, and the combo of that would make him cum so freakin' hard he'd shoot jiz onto the window sometimes, and it felt so damn good while his prick pumped, but then fifteen minutes later he'd feel so damn ashamed, not only for being a perv, but for his nearly complete failure with girls.
He wasn't a virgin, he had hooked up twice, fucked both chicks, not total dogs, but he wouldn't have been interested in either of them if he had been sober. He had a few "Clinton" hookups too when he had been drunk but he now no longer counted those as anything. When he liked some hot, pretty chick, he was so freakin' nervous, that whenever he had a chance to talk to the girl his brain would go blank, switch off. Most girls thought he was an asshole, thought he was stuck up, or a hard-ass loner, or god knew what.
There had been two girls during the past couple years he had really liked, wanted to go out with, not only wanted to thoroughly fuck them, but actually wanted to get to know them, and he had blown it with both girls. Each had approached him at parties or at school, smiled at him, tried to get him to talk, and he'd mumble something about how he needed to get another beer, or if it was at school he'd say he had to see the coach or something. Excuses to walk away so they wouldn't see how much he liked them and how damn stupid and nervous he was. His brain just shut down around girls he liked!
She was supposed to be at the grocery store!
He wasn't thirteen anymore! He wasn't sad about his mother dying unless he really thought about her, and he hated to admit it, but he really didn't think about her very often anymore. He was eighteen now! When his father went around the country for three months every summer to supervise road or freakin' bridge construction or whatever that damn company built around the country, he didn't need Aunt Jean to freakin' baby-sit him anymore! He would be in college in a few months! He would have been okay being alone for the summer since he was freakin' fifteen!
And she was so freakin' weird! She had never gone swimming in the freakin' pool, not once, not one freakin' time during any of the fucking summers she had been here. And she always wore those dumb-shit, dorkwad clothes! Who the fuck wore long, blue jean shorts that were hemmed?! And she must have five fucking pairs, and those damn stupid tee shirts that are always too freakin' big on her! The only freakin' parts of her he had seen were her oddball fat calves and piano ankles, her arms basically from her elbows down, and her head!
All that first summer she had stayed, he thought she was real fat under those clothes just like her fat-ass ankles, but then at the end of summer, on a windy day, her stupid baggy tee shirt had been plastered against her side and she wasn't fat at all, which just proved what a freakin' dork she was! She couldn't even buy clothes that fit right! And that fuckin' freak eye of hers she was always hiding with her hand, and those stupid large plastic frame glasses! It was like she was a freakin' cyclops, or... or always taking a freakin' eye test looking at a fuckin' chart on the wall!
His self-loathing skyrocketed with that last thought. He was an asshole. She wasn't a cyclops, she could see out of the always squinting eye. That odd shape to her eyesocket and cheekbone, and that drooping scar around the socket forming a backwards "J" on her face was from a car crash when she was about his age. It hadn't even been her fault. According to Dad, she had almost died, and that freaky eye and freaky part of her face had gone through six operations, plastic surgery and other shit, and it was the best it was ever going to look. He said she had other operations too but he hadn't gone into much detail about those.
Ron knew he definitely was an asshole. He was trying to put her down in his mind and all she had ever been was nice to him. She had never been some dictator during the summers she stayed with him, although she wouldn't let him walk all over her either, but he had never really tried that. She had never attempted to be a replacement mom either. If he thought about it, she had been nice, had even tried to be his friend, and he had never responded in kind. He did what she said he had to do, and when he tried to pull something she pointed out that Dad had told her the rules. He had done some shit a few times, coming home drunk, or drunk and stoned, actually more than a few times, but she had only realized he was high three or four times. She had told Dad, but had spoken with him first, saying she wasn't a tattletale, spy, or informant on him, she was just following his dad's instructions, and his dad trusted her to tell him when Ron broke the rules.
Those times had made him mad as hell because he never told on her. He hadn't really noticed when he was thirteen that first summer, actually it wasn't until near the end of the next summer that he figured out Aunt Jean got drunk at least once a week. He could sort of tell from the way she walked, and sometimes she would forget to angle her face away when she spoke to him, and she'd forget to used her hand to hide the scars and disfigurement especially when she watched TV. Once she wasn't even wearing her thick framed glasses when he first walked into the family area, but she had quickly put them on. Mostly it was her slurring of words that let him catch on to it.
Those nights would always end the same way. She'd go to the guest room early, saying she was sleepy. She'd take a bath, or shower in the guest bathroom, and then on and off for the next couple hours she'd be in the bedroom, he guessed on the bed, crying on and off, fits of sobbing really. He had noticed other signs too. She always used one of the dark blue glasses they had when she drank alcohol, not the clear glasses. He never mentioned it to Dad. He didn't want to get her in trouble, and she hadn't told on him a few, well, more than a few times, when he had broken some rule -- I won't tell your Dad this time, but you have to promise me you won't do that again. He'd always promise.
She was supposed to be at the freakin' grocery store!
He got off the bed and started pacing. He'd have to leave his room sooner or later. When he realized Aunt Jean was getting drunk and crying, he had felt sorry for her, but even with the pity, he never was very nice to her. He should have been. Maybe it was that she was such a dork, or the way she acted so weird about her eye that first summer she stayed, even though he had seen her at least a couple times every year all his life.
Her eye had creeped him out as a boy when Mom had told him to give Aunt Jean a hello or good-bye hug. That was when he was a little older, but when he was he was really young her weird eye didn't bother him much. She'd always play with him quite a bit when she'd visit for a week or so during summers and a week during Christmastime. Maybe she knew how to relate to kids better. She taught first grade. That was why she had the summers free to be here. He could recall snippets of those early times, and he couldn't remember her covering her eye up or turning her face away to the side when she talked with him. Ron couldn't even remember noticing the eye when they played and laughed together. Maybe she had been baby-sitting him then too, just for an evening or day when Mom and Dad went out.
He recalled telling her when he must have been about nine that she'd be really pretty if she didn't have the ugly eye. In his boy's way, he had thought it was a compliment. The comment had made her cry. He wasn't sure, but he sort of recalled that after that, she had started angling her face slightly away from him whenever she was around him. Just like she did now. It was after that the hugs started creeping him out.
Yeah, he had been an asshole to her.
But she said she was going grocery shopping!
Yeah, and he told her he was going to get his running shorts and go for a run. He shut his eyes tight. He had been so close to shooting his wad, holding his breath, ready to feel the surge, slowing down the strokes, squeezing his hand tighter around his aching hard, thick prick, his sliding hand was Mrs. Gregerson's torrid asshole, she was begging him to fill her ass with his hot cum. He was a few seconds away from shooting it, his body stiffening, his torso curving forward a little. Then his bedroom door abruptly swung opened.
He wasn't sure if he jumped but he instantly turned towards the sound, his hand still gripping his deep red, throbbing rod. He wasn't certain he had jumped, but he was positive Aunt Jean had. She had let out a brief high pitched yelp too. Her good eye went really wide and her freaky eye strained to open wider too, so much so there had been a sort of stretch crease by her odd, disfigured cheekbone. She had frozen after her little "EEEK!" Her eyes fixed on the hard rod in his hand. It had to look like he was pointing it right at her, which in essence, he had been. Her jaw couldn't have dropped lower.
He had frozen in pose too, still hunched over a little, gripping his throbbing prick at the base, he had stopped breathing. Time seemed to become suspended, or at least super slow motion. Her eyes on his cock, his eyes on the extra distortion behind her thick framed glasses around her freak eye. It seemed they had stared at each other for ten seconds, although it couldn't have been more than a couple, yet he recalled that he had thought at the time, Why aren't either of us moving? A few moments, maybe microseconds, after that thought, Aunt Jean moved first. Her face raised slightly, followed by her good and freaky eye, which met his eyes. He remembered her mouth still open wide like an elongated "0," then the next moment, she dropped the folded tee shirts, underwear, and socks she had in her arms, turned and ran out of the room. He became unfrozen, virtually jumped the ten feet or so to his door and slammed it closed then pushed the button on the knob to lock it.
That was forty minutes ago. Jeezuz. It's only June tenth! I have to face her for two and a half months more! I'm eighteen! She doesn't have to be here!
He and Dad had talked about that. Dad agreed he was old enough to take care of himself, but he also said he thought Ron would end up partying a hell of a lot and that worried him, things getting out of control, someone getting hurt, the liability. He added that since he had suggested Ron take this summer off, not work for the contractor this summer and just enjoy himself before college started, that the old adage about boredom being he devil's playground had some validity to it.
Ron had said he could trust him a dozen times, but Dad said he knew how peer pressure worked, he knew that even if Ron didn't plan a party, maybe some friends would just show up some afternoon, and in a friendly way they'd share a six pack and after Ron drank a beer or two suddenly having just one party wouldn't be that bad because everyone would be careful and adult about it.
Dad then admitted that half of the reason, maybe the larger part of he reason he wanted Aunt Jean to stay the summer again, was for Jean. He said it was good for her to get out of her little house, swim in their pool, relax in a change of scenery. When Ron had told him Aunt Jean never used the pool, Dad hadn't believed him at first then had sort of believed him. Dad said that Jean had some unresolved "issues" since the auto accident. It wasn't just her face that was injured but she had other scars too. That maybe she was shy because of that. He had told Ron that she had really been a very pretty girl, very nice and sweet, popular, and all that in high school, then in her senior year the accident had happened. Ron had been about six at the time.
Ron now blinked with an epiphany. That's why I don't remember her face being fucked up when I was real little. A second realization hit him. When he was really young, she had only been a girl, like twelve or thirteen. That would make her like thirty or thirty-one now. A third realization hit him-- He had never wondered how old she was. She was Dad's little sister, so maybe he assumed she was in her thirties, because Dad was forty-one, but hadn't Dad been in high school when she was born? No, maybe he was in middle school? How old is she? The way she dressed and the freaky eye, mostly it was the way she dressed, he just thought "dork" when he'd look at her, not any age. Ron's gut instantly tightened at the sound of the three soft taps on his door.
Jean cleared her throat. "Ron? Ron, I... I think we... um... I think we need to have a brief talk. I... I'll be in the kitchen. Come down, okay?"
FUCK-FUCK-FUCK! Ron took a slow breath. "Uh... yeah. I'll meet you in the kitchen, in... in a minute."
FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! His gut was in a knot. He had been hoping she'd just pretend it hadn't happened. He tried to think of some excuse or explanation but what explanation could there be but the real one? SHIT! He figured he better go down and just get it over with.
He left his room and went to the kitchen. When he entered Aunt Jean was sitting at the table not the island counter, her right elbow on the table top, her forearm vertical, her hand at her face as if resting her head slightly against her palm, or holding the dorkwad thick plastic frames of her glasses, but he knew it was there to cover her freak eye. She was staring down at a glass of water. Her head moved slightly, her good eye looked at his waist then back down at her glass of water. He sat down at the end of the table, she was at the side of the table, her good profile towards him. It was their usual positions on the rare occasions they both sat at the table. He usually ate his meals in his room or in front of the big TV. She usually ate in the kitchen area.
Ron took a quick breath. "I'm... I'm really sorry, Aunt Jean. I..." He didn't know what else to say.
"I... I'm sorry too. I... I should have knocked. I..." She stopped talking and sipped her water. "I thought you were out running and so when I brought the laundry up I didn't think you were home." She took a breath.
Ron needed to ask and spoke fast, "Are you going to mention this to Dad?"
Jean kept staring at her water glass. "No." She took another breath. "I don't think that's... it's not necessary. You... you were just doing what... what a normal boy would do. And... and I know when there are... are attractive women around that..."
OH SHIT! She knows I was checking out Mrs. Gregerson! Ron's gut knotted tighter.
"... that guys... boys, I mean... young men..." She took a sip of water. "That guys will... will have thoughts and.... and will fantasize." Another sip of water. "Girls... girls... I mean, everyone... I mean both sexes... masturbate. It's... it's a psychological and biological function. So... so... I don't... I don't think you should feel embarrassed about... about it. And... I... I can understand why... why you were watching Eileen, but... but..." She took another sip of water. "I'm not sure... that... that you should be looking at her... without.... her... I mean... without her knowledge, it's like you're... I... I mean... I don't think that's a good... habit to..."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her eyes opened. "You're eighteen, Ron, I... I know you think I shouldn't be saying anything to you about this, so... I... I mean, I guess that's right. You're a young man now, and I'm... I'm...."
Jean turned her face away from him. Her hand rose and quickly wiped both her eyes. Her head swiveled forward again and she drank more water. "And... I'm just some... some ug... some... aunt who's a... a grade school teacher, so... so I know I shouldn't be telling you how to live you life or... or what to do."
She cleared her throat and then took yet another sip from her glass. "And... and... I... I really didn't mean to... to just stand there, but... but... I was... so... so shocked... I mean surprised, that I... I froze. I'm sorry about that too. That and not knocking. I'll never again go into your room without knocking first, even... even if I'm sure you're with your friends or out on a date with some girl or something." Jean took one more sip of water. "Is there anything... do you want to say anything?"
"I... I just want to say I'm sorry. I'm... I'm very, very sorry."
Jean pushed her chair back and stood without looking at Ron. "I... I... I'm going to do the grocery shopping now."
"I'm... I think I'm gonna drive over to Josh's and... and I may uh... grab a burger later... with... uh... the guys. So... I'll be home... like late."
"All right." At the doorway to the laundry room she lowered her hand from her face.
Ron turned onto his street. It was near midnight. Josh's mom had essentially thrown him out at 10:30 because Josh was working tomorrow morning. Ron had gone to a cafe in town and nursed an iced cappuccino as long as he could, then just walked around the dead shopping area for a while. He finally ran out of options and slowly drove home. As he approached the driveway he noticed a lamp on in the family room. That didn't mean Jean was up. She usually left an undercabinet light on in the kitchen and a lamp in the family area when he was out and she went up to bed. He saw a subtle flicker, changes of light at the closed drapes. Shit! She was up. She had the big TV on.
At the cafe he had decided to just act as normal as possible around her. He didn't want any more tension or weirdness between them than there had been prior to her barging in on him beating off. He just wanted everything to go back to normal.