Though I grew up in a fairly middle class family, in a house on a pleasantly middle-class street, with parents who instilled in me typical middle-class values, it developed that I established certain friendships with kids who were most definitely not of the middle-class. I suppose this happens to many kids in the Junior High School and High School years, they are drawn, undoubtedly, by the differences between the life-styles that they are accustomed to.
Kevin was one such friend I had in the eighth grade. This would have been 1983 when we first started to hang out. Our home-lives could not have been much different. While I was raised in a four-bedroom house with a swimming pool; a house that was the property of my parents and not of some landlord, Kevin and his family lived in a three-bedroom rental that stood behind the parking lot of a local grocery store. While I was a member of a so-called nuclear family; my Mom a housewife, my Dad an accountant, both on their first marriages, both me and my sister unquestioningly the products of their marriage; Kevin and his older sister Lacy were sired by different fathers, neither of whom had any part of their respective lives. While my parents were very strict in regards to what time I came in at night, where I was going, what I was doing; Kevin and Lacy both had free rein. They went where they wanted, when they wanted to go there, and they stayed as long as they wished at wherever they were.
Kevin was one of the school troublemakers. Though he wasn’t a bully; he was very short and unable to beat anyone up; he was always the class clown, finding his defense in life through comedy. He told me most of the dirty jokes I heard during that point of my life. His grades, in sharp contrast to mine, were horrible. His demeanour towards school was that it was a joke.
I will never forget the first time I spent a Saturday over at Kevin’s house.
I rode my bicycle over there about eleven o’clock on an autumn morning at Kevin’s request. My parents, of course, thought I was going over to my friend Robert’s house, a much more respectable friend that my parents knew of. I knocked on the door and it was immediately thrown open by Kevin, who was grinning ear to ear.
“What’s up Marky?” He enquired, addressing me by a nickname that only he used.
“Not much.” I told him.
“C’mon in.” He said, standing aside and letting into the living room area which was its usual disheveled mess. “I got some fuckin’ aye good news today.”
“Yeah,” I said, shutting the door behind me. “What’s that?”
“Mom’s gone for the day and Lacy just scored herself a dime bag.”
“A dime bag?” I asked, confused. “What’s that?”
He looked at me like I was a total idiot. “I thought you told me you smoked pot all the time.” He accused.
“A dime bag is a ten dollar bag of pot.”
“Oh,” I said. “A dime bag. Of course.”
While it was true that I had told him that I smoked pot all the time, it wasn’t exactly the truth. In fact I had never even seen pot before. I wouldn’t have known it if someone had dropped an ounce in my lap. But in previous conversations, Kevin had told me that he smoked it all the time, courtesy of his sister, whose boyfriend was a dealer. Not wanting to seem a square, I assured him that I too smoked it regularly. It had of course never occurred to me that Kevin really did smoke it and would eventually want to smoke some with me. It wouldn’t be the first or the last time in my life that my mouth had gotten me in trouble.
He grinned. “She said she’d get us stoned if we want. She don’t have nothin’ to do today anyway. Isn’t that fuckin’ bitchin?”
“Yeah, bitchin.” I reluctantly agreed, nervous at the thought of smoking pot, which I had been assured by my parents would leave me a heroin addict within a month. I was trying to figure out a tactful way to get out of this experience. Maybe I could feign sickness and leave?
Just then Lizzy entered the room from the hallway. Lizzy was, I believe, nineteen then. A ninth grade dropout, she lived at home with her Mom and half-brother Kevin, didn’t work, didn’t do much of anything but party until all hours of the night. A heavy-boned blonde like her mother, she was, on that particular day, about six months pregnant with her first child. The father, Kevin told me, had been some rock band member that she had slept with for a few weeks. While not exactly fat, she was chunky, with thick, meaty legs and enormous breasts. She was wearing a pair of yellow shorts that were very short and very tight and a stained white halter-top that barely restrained her huge mammaries.
Her bulging belly was bare from the bottom of her top to the top of her shorts, revealing a few stretch marks and her navel, which was currently an outie. Her face, which while somewhat dull-looking, was actually sort of pretty, sported no make-up that I could detect and her hair was somewhat disheveled, leading me to believe that she had only recently awakened for the day. Later in life I would learn a word, a not very pleasant word, for women such as Lacy: Skank.
In her hand she carried a strange device, the likes of which I had never seen before. It was a dark blue plastic tube, semi-transparent, about the thickness of my wrist. It had a stand on the bottom, obviously so it could sit upright, and a round metal fitting protruded from the bottom of it.
She smiled when she saw me, flashing her crooked teeth.
“Hey Cutie.” She hailed with uncharacteristic friendliness towards me. “You ready to get lit?”
“Uh...” I started hesitantly, intimidated by her. She was after all an older girl. Surely I couldn’t bow out of there now. “Sure.” I finally squeaked.
“Way to go.” She said, wobbling her swollen belly over to the couch and sitting down. She set the strange device down on the coffee table after pushing a few beer cans and the remains of a TV dinner out of the way.
“Hey Kevvie.” She said, “How about you go get a glass of water for this thing?”
“Fuckin’ aye.” Kevin answered, dashing towards the kitchen.
She reached inside the tube and withdrew a small plastic baggie of the sort that my father’s fishing sinkers were packaged in. It was filled with a leafy green substance that I correctly assumed was the pot. She noticed me still standing there and patted the couch next to her. “C’mon an’ sit down.” She said brightly. “Don’t be shy.”
I placed myself to her right, sinking into the tired couch.
“You ever smoke out before?” She asked me, opening the baggie and taking a whiff. Her eyes lit up, apparently liking what she smelled.
“Oh sure.” I lied. “Lots of times.”
She gave me a knowing glance. “You ever use a bong before?”
“A bong?” What the hell was a bong? I wondered. “I don’t think so.”
Her smile widened. “This,” She said, pointing to the blue device she had carried in. “Is a bong. It’s the best way to smoke out.”
“Oh.” I said, nodding wisely. “I see. No, I’ve never used one of those before. I usually do it in, you know, the normal fashion.”
“You mean joints?” She asked, setting the baggie down and picking up a pack of Marlboros that had been sitting on the table.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Joints.”
“Well, joints are okay in a pinch.” She said, sparking up a cigarette with a disposable lighter that she had produced from seemingly nowhere. “But there’s nothing in the world like a nice, smooth bong hit of some killer greenbud. It’s better than sex. You’ll see.”
I nodded wisely again as she exhaled a plume of acrid smoke into the room. I had of course never experienced sex before, of any kind, so I figured I would just have to take her word on the comparison.
Kevin returned with a glass of tap water, which he handed to Lacy before taking up position on the other side of her on the couch. “You’re the greatest fuckin’ sis in the world Lacy.” He proclaimed cheerily. “I ever tell you that?”
“Every time I get some pot.” She said, pouring about six ounces of the water into the neck of the bong. She noticed my confused stare. “It’s to cool the smoke.” She told me, pointing at the metal protrusion. “You see, the smoke gets drawn through the water before it goes into your lungs. That way, it isn’t so harsh and you can take a bigger hit.”
“It gets you fuckin’ aye stoned.” Kevin added happily.
“I see.” I said, nodding, although I didn’t.
She opened up the baggie and took out a pinch, holding it carefully between her stubby fingers. She crammed it into the bowl of the bong and packed it down. “Here, hold this for me.” She said to Kevin, handing him her cigarette. He took it, taking a few quick drags off of it.
She picked up the bong and the Bic lighter, striking a light with the latter. She applied the flame to the bowl of pot and began to inhale.
The sound was like nothing I’d ever heard before, a gurgling, slurping noise. The pot in the bowl grew red hot and shrivelled up. I could see smoke filling up the interior of the bong, above the waterline, and I could see quantities of it disappearing into Lacy’s wide-open mouth which was protruding through the top of the pipe. All of a sudden the pot, burned out, disappeared down the hole in the bowl. A second later, Lacy inhaled sharper than she had been and the smoke, which had been whirling inside the bong, all shot into her mouth in less than a second. She pulled the bong away from her lips and leaned back on the couch dramatically, closing her eyes as if in pain.
“Lacy can take some killer fuckin’ hits.” Kevin remarked, obviously impressed.
She held her breath for about thirty seconds and then let it out in a great exhalation of air. I saw that there was hardly any smoke ejected from her.
“You see that?” She asked me after breathing heavily for a moment. “Almost no smoke. That means I absorbed almost all of the pot.” She shook her head, smiling. “Whew.” She breathed. “I can feel it already. This is some good shit.”
She set the bong back on the table and re-opened the baggie, withdrawing another, smaller pinch. After stuffing it and tamping it down, she handed the bong to me. “Here, let me help you.” She said, twisting her large body towards me.
“Put your mouth on it and hold your thumb over the carb here.” She pointed out a small hole in the side of the bong, above the waterline, that I hadn’t noticed before. I dutifully put my thumb over it and applied my mouth where instructed.
She leaned forward, bringing the lighter near the bowl. “Now when I light it...” She instructed, saying further which I didn’t hear because my attention became immediately distracted by the fact that when she’d bent over to help me, it allowed me to look straight down the top of her halter.
Her breasts, as I have previously mentioned, were enormous, made even bigger so by the fact that she was pregnant. They were large globes, paler than the exposed skin on her body and they jiggled in a fascinating way, like Jell-O. She wore no bra and I was able to clearly make out the aureole of her left nipple, though not the nipple itself. Her aureole I could tell was large, about the size of a silver dollar. Suddenly I was seeing Lacy in an entirely new light. I had never thought of her in a sexual way before, though at that stage of my life I was masturbating at least once and sometimes as many as three times a day. The fantasies which accompanied this frantic jerking off usually involved the more attractive of my female schoolmates at Junior High and occasionally Mrs. Lear, the attractive twenty-something year-old married neighbour across the street from our house. Lacy, though not exactly ugly, was not exactly attractive either. Certainly not attractive enough to waste a precious jack-off fantasy upon. But now, looking at more forbidden female flesh than I had ever seen before outside of smut magazines, I had a feeling that all of that would change the next time I had opportunity to apply hand to penis.
“ ... okay?” She finished up.
I looked up at her face, startled out of the daze I’d been in. “Huh?” I finally stammered.
She looked at me for a moment and then glanced casually down at the view she was providing before looking up again with a knowing smile.
“I said,” She repeated patiently. “That you need to hold your thumb over the carb until it’s all burned up and then you let go and suck in hard.”
“Yeah,” I said, embarrassed that she’d caught me looking at her breasts but also noticing that she’d made no effort to cover them up. “Sure.”
“Okay.” She told me, scooting closer so that her thigh was touching mine. “Here we go.”
She flicked the lighter to life, applying it to the bowl. “Inhale.” She told me.
I did so, but weakly, not even getting the water to gurgle.
“Oh come on.” She admonished, like a patient teacher. “Suck hard.”
I did, finally getting the water to roil violently and the small ball of pot to flare to life.
“Good, good.” Lacy encouraged, keeping the lighter applied while the pot shrivelled and shrank. I could feel a warm sensation entering my lungs but it was nothing violent. This isn’t so bad, I thought as I continued to inhale. Finally, after an eternity, the pot disappeared down the hole in the bottom of the bowl.
“Now let off the carb and inhale hard.” Lacy instructed.
I let my thumb off and sucked as hard as I could. It immediately felt like someone had sprayed a can of mace down my throat. I coughed violently, expelling an incredible plume of smoke that smelled like burning leaves. I continued to cough, my gag reflex in overdrive while Lacy gently removed the bong from my hands. I saw that tendrils of bluish-white smoke were rolling out of the top.
Kevin started cracking up, laughing derisively. “Fuckin’ aye.” He chuckled. “Did you get a good hit?”
“Shut up.” Lacy admonished, setting the smoking bong down on the coffee table again. “He’s new to using a bong. He’ll get used to it.”
Finally the coughing spasms disappeared and I felt as if I could breath again.
“You okay?” She asked me, smiling gently, her left hand rubbing her belly button.
“Yeah.” I nodded, finding myself looking at her fingers and her bare, bulging belly. For some reason it struck me as erotic, the fact that she was rubbing herself there.
“Good.” She said, smiling in a motherly way. “Maybe we’ll give you a little smaller hit next time.”
“Right.” I replied hoarsely.
She loaded up the bong for Kevin, who expertly took almost as a big a hit as his half-sister and then she loaded up another large hit for herself. Finally it was my turn again. She removed a pinch that was about two-thirds the size of the first one she’d given me. She leaned forward again to help me, again giving me an exciting view down the front of her halter. This time I could make out what appeared to be the beginnings of her left nipple but surely, I thought, I must be mistaken.
If my eyes were seeing correctly, the total diameter of the exposed nipple would have to have been the size of a dime at least.
That was impossible, I thought. All of the nipples I’d seen in porno mags had conditioned me to believe that they were roughly the size and shape of a pencil eraser.
Once again, Lacy noted where I was looking and smiled knowingly, making no effort to conceal the view. This was confusing to me. Surely she wasn’t deliberately letting me see down her shirt. After all, she was five years older than I was. I was just a kid. Why would she let me look down her shirt?
This hit went better than the last one. I inhaled slower and managed to hold the hit for nearly ten seconds before coughing it out in a violent spasm. Already I was looking forward to the next one, not for the therapeutic effect of the marijuana, but for the view of Lacy’s tits. I found that she was becoming more attractive to me by the minute.
We took four more hits, my technique improving with each one. By the last I was able to hold it in until no smoke emerged when I exhaled. Lacy proclaimed me an expert. Each time I looked down her shirt. Each time she didn’t seem to mind.
Finally Lacy declared that she was “obliterated” and called a halt to the bonghits. Kevin, who was actually giggling at things, wholeheartedly agreed with her. I was slightly disappointed. Not only did I not feel like I was “stoned”, but I would have no further opportunities to look down Lacy’s shirt.
“How do you feel Cutie?” Lacy asked me in a voice that was thick and slow. I noticed that her eyes were very red and only half-lidded.
“Fine.” I replied, honestly believing myself unstoned.
“Isn’t this some good-ass shit?” Kevin enquired, staring at an issue of TV Guide.
“Yeah,” I agreed, thinking anything but. “It sure is.”
As we sat there, watching a Bugs Bunny marathon on Channel 13, I found myself staring intently at the television. I’d seen these Bugs Bunny cartoons a thousand times, I’d grown up with them, but suddenly they were taking on a new light. I still remember the one I was watching. It was titled, “The Rabbit of Seville”. In it, Bugs is chased into an opera house by Elmer Fudd and takes on the character of the Barber in the famous opera. It had never been one of my favorite cartoons but suddenly I was riveted by it, finding it hilarious. The music struck me as particularly amusing. “DO DO DO DOO IT.” It went, “DO DO DO DOO IT, DO DO DO DOO IT, DO DOO IT, DO DO IT DOO.” I started giggling, hardly realizing I was doing so. When Bugs began putting hair cream on Elmer and flowers sprung up from his pink scalp, I went into hysterics. I looked up to see that Kevin and Lacy were looking at me with amused expressions on their faces.
“You’re fucked up, aren’t you?” Kevin asked, giggling.
“No,” I replied slowly. “I’m just...” I trailed off, not even realizing I’d done so.
Suddenly I really took account of the sensations that were assaulting me. The first thing I noticed was that time seemed to have slowed down to a snail’s crawl. Hadn’t the “Rabbit of Seville” been playing for about an hour now?
The next thing I noticed was that I could concentrate with severe intensity on any one thing in particular, but that I couldn’t concentrate at all on more than one thing at a time. While I’d been perusing Bugs Bunny, for instance, I’d completely forgotten about seeing Lacy’s breasts, something that ordinarily would have preyed on my mind for days. I remembered seeing Mrs. Lear, dressed in short shorts, bend over in her front yard one time, allowing me a two second glimpse of the bottom of her pink panties. This had happened about two months ago and for two weeks afterwards, the bottom of those panties had been all I could think of.
I’d masturbated an average of three times a day during that period and I’d been unable to fantasize of nothing but Mrs. Lear and what would possibly be under her pink panties. The image of what her butt and her pubic hair (brown, like her hair, I imagined) looked like, what her vagina would feel like wrapped around my five inch penis, dominated my every thought.
Wasn’t it strange that, having witnesses something less than —an hour, two hours, five minutes— ago, something that had been much more revealing than what Mrs. Lear had allowed that it shouldn’t dominate my thoughts?
I tried to picture Lacy’s breasts in my mind, as I had seen them, and was surprised to find that I could see them perfectly. They were beautiful, undoubtedly jiggly, soft and warm. Was there milk in them?
I wondered, realizing that she was pregnant. If you placed your hands on those warm globes and caressed them softly, would milk express from them? Would it run warmly over your hands, down your forearms, and drip softly to the floor? Would it squirt through the air? Would...
I suddenly realized that I’d been focussing intently on Lacy’s breast for an indeterminate amount of time and that my dick was as hard as a rail spike. Guiltily, as if she’d been reading my mind, I looked over at her. She had lit another cigarette at some point and was smoking it thoughtfully while staring at me. I offered her a weak smile and then looked over at Kevin, who was completely lost in the Bugs Bunny cartoon which, I now saw, had finally changed.
“You ever smoke cigarettes?” Lacy asked me quietly, taking another drag.
I looked at her for a moment, processed what she had said, and finally was able to come up with a reply. “Uh, no.” I answered.
“Let me teach you.” She said, with a twinkle in her eye. “The best way to start is to have someone else do it for you.”
“Huh?” I said dumbly, not at all getting what she said.
“Here.” She said gently. “Let me show you.” She took a drag off of her smoke and then set the cigarette down in an ashtray. She gently placed her hands on either side of my face and then brought her face forward until her lips were touching mine. It was the most sensuous thing I’d ever felt and it took me completely by surprise.
Her lips were warm and wet and incredibly soft, the essence of femininity. She blew softly into my mouth, filling my lungs up with bitter smoke.
I suppressed a cough while feeling my hard penis take a tremendous lurch in my pants. She pulled slowly away, a queer smile on her face, and removed her hands. I exhaled and a slight plume of smoke issued from my mouth.
“How was that?” She asked, leaning back slightly on the couch.
“It was ... uh ... good.” I squeaked, trying not to look down at my crotch and the bulge I knew had to be there.
“Here,” She said, picking up the cigarette. “Let’s do it again.”
“Okay,” I said, taking a sideways glance at Kevin, who glanced back at me for a moment, gave me a mysterious smile, and then went back to watching the TV.
She inhaled a hit off of the cigarette and then grasped my face again. Pulling me forward, looking deeply into my eyes the whole time, she placed her lips on mine and gently blew. I felt the tip of her tongue, wet and exciting, briefly flick across my upper lip before withdrawing back into her mouth. She withdrew, looking me in the eye. “Nice?” She enquired.
“Yeah.” I said dreamily.
“Good.” She said stiffly, and then leaned back on the couch, taking her cigarette with her, leaving me to wonder if I’d really felt her tongue briefly enter my mouth or if I’d imagined it. All I knew for sure was that my dick was hard as a rock and all I could think about was Kevin’s half-sister Lacy.
For an indeterminate time we sat on the couch and watched cartoons. Kevin and Lacy talked to each other, the subjects varied and fast changing. I felt myself on unsteady ground, I had never been stoned before and I wasn’t sure how long the sensation would last, but I laughed along with the two of them without contributing much to the conversation. Every now and then Lacy, in a fit of laughter would slap her hand down on my leg and then quickly withdraw it back to her own lap. It seemed to me that she was feeling my leg each time she did this but I dismissed this notion as the pot talking. Kevin seemed to take no notice of this.
Presently she lit another cigarette, after passing one to Kevin, who also sparked up. She asked me if I wanted another hit off it.