Coming of Age

I did like the idea of seeing Chloe at a bar, I admitted to myself.

"So, what do you think of the new laws?" I asked her.

"I dunno, I mean, I kinda like them," she smiled, her voice quiet. She was drying her breast—the one that had fed the baby—with the washcloth, gently dabbing all around her areola. Her nipple was still bright red and very swollen.

"Of course, duh, you like them. You get to go to bars now."

"Well, yeah," she laughed.

"OK, well, what about all the guys the same age as you and can't go, though?"

Chloe tilted her head. "I dunno. I mean, what can I say, I guess I feel sorry for them, but, like, this is the new law. I didn't make it." She paused and grinned. "Well, I guess I did vote for it." She laughed a little.

"But I think it's probably the right thing," she said. "They can go to bars when they're 21, just like before. The law says they're not ready yet, not before that. It's just saying that I am, that I'm ready. That's the only difference. It's not hurting them." She smiled again and shrugged. "So, I mean, I guess I'd tell them: see ya when you turn 21."

"Ouch," I laughed, "that's harsh."

"Sorry!" she shrugged, grinning.

I let out a small laugh, because I sensed she was right: maybe this was a fair law. That was hard to admit to myself.

Thing was, though, there'd been talk of bumping up the legal drinking age for men to 23 or even 25. If that happened, I'd probably be grandfathered in, but maybe not. I tried not to think about a situation in which Chloe could be out haunting bars at age 18 or 19, and I would still have years to wait before I could join her. The amount of envy that the situation would create in me—18-year-old girls buying drinks at clubs while the youngest guy there was 25—was just unreal to me. Couldn't happen. Would it happen?

Chloe finished drying her breast and put the washcloth back. The nipple was still very red, but it wasn't quite as swollen now.

"So you should come," I told her. "Come out to the bars tonight. I can tell you where we're gonna be, if you wanna maybe meet up."

There was that arresting smile again; all she had to do was flash it, and she lit up the whole room and entranced me. "That's really sweet," she said, "and I totally would, but I don't really drink much. I mean, I'm breastfeeding. The alcohol goes into my milk, so I have to be really careful, right? I can have a little, but I can't really, like, get drunk or anything if I'm gonna be feeding the next day. I can't even have coffee, really."

"Oh. Yeah, I hadn't really thought about that." I tried to imagine a guy her age, or even my age, being that conscientious. I couldn't.

"It's like a big responsibility, right? When another person is totally depending on your body like this, I mean. I have to watch what I'm eating—I thought about going vegan when I started nursing her full time, but I haven't done that yet—and I can't really smoke weed or drink a lot, either. I mean, I can have a beer if I'm careful, but then I have to wait before I can breastfeed again. I don't remember how long, but I think it might be at least a day."

"That kinda sucks."

"It does, but it's worth it. It's so nice to be able to do this. Feels nice, too. Anyway, I'm not blowing you off; I'd like to meet up with you sometime. I just don't think tonight's the night. Got school shit that I'm stressed about on top of everything else."

"I get it."

We sat there for a few seconds, quiet. And then, Chloe giggled.

I looked up. "What?"

"You were staring at my boobs."

"Oh." She was right. Dammit, I was busted. "Sorry."

She grinned and just gave me a slight shrug, as if to say she didn't mind.

"Um, so," I said, trying not to stammer again. "I'm gonna go hang out in the front room. I gotta figure some shit out with some friends. You can come hang out if you want."

Chloe gave me a look that seemed to say: maybe I will.

---

I was in the middle of a text chain with a buddy named Justin when Chloe walked into the room and casually sat down on the couch with me. I realized I was staring; she was still topless. Apparently, she was going to spend the rest of the day wearing just her jeans, socks, and, well, nothing else—not even a bra.

I did not mind.

"Hey," I said, trying hard to sound unaffected, chill.

Chloe gave me a sly grin. "Yeah, sorry, I'm just not gonna bother putting anything back on. Luna's been on kind of a tear, and I'm kinda sick of putting my bra on and having to take it off again. You don't mind, do you?"

"No," I said, my voice quiet.

"C'mon, you more than just don't mind," she grinned, and she swatted me on the shoulder with a pillow, giggling. Her boobs jiggled.

"All right," I laughed, "I don't mind, I don't mind. You know I don't. I can't help it."

We were both laughing for a bit; the sexual tension in the air was completely apparent to both of us. And yet I felt comfortable around her, and clearly she did with me, too—even though we really didn't know each other yet. There was a kind of natural compatibility between us, and we both sensed it.

"I don't mind that you don't mind," she said, eventually. She glanced down for a half a second with a tiny smirk, as if I didn't already get the point.

It was difficult not to think about the fact that she was sitting there near me, bare-chested. That really went beyond just flirtation, didn't it? I mean, I could have tried to jump on her right there, get aggressive and kiss her. But my mom was going to be home within the hour. And, Luna might start crying again. Was I going to really try to do stuff with Chloe, through all that? Naw. Besides, I really wasn't completely sure what it all meant. I mean, I kinda figured what it meant, but I wasn't 100%. No girl had ever done anything so brazen in front of me. No girl had been that assertive.

So the current situation was a colossal tease. She had big, beautiful tits; they were hypnotic, magnetic. And she'd flat-out told me it was OK if I looked at them. What more would she be OK with? I wanted to know the answer to that, and I couldn't think of a good way to find out, not right then.

"Oh, hey, look at this," she grinned. Chloe had TikTok open on her phone and was showing me a video of a whole litter of kittens all play-fighting at once. "God, that is so fucking cute!"

She noticed that my eyes had drifted down to her tits again. "Hey," she laughed, snapping her fingers to get my attention. My eyes darted back up.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. "Hey, y'all," my mom grinned, carrying her work bag. She set it down next the floor and looked at Chloe. "So how'd it go today?"

"Pretty good," Chloe answered. "I mean, she's been a hungry girl, good little eater, but she slept a lot, too. No problems or anything. Oh, I refilled the wipes and I emptied the diaper bin. Cat's fed, and the Littermaid thing is clean."

"Oh, thank you. Well, I'm glad to hear everything was good."

No mention of the fact that Chloe was sitting there topless—it was as if this was a normal, everyday occurrence. Heck, maybe it was. Maybe my mom always came home to find Chloe without even a bra on. I had to wonder right then if my mom thought Chloe was attractive. She had to. Chloe was objectively attractive. Empirically attractive. Scientific fact. No one could not like her. She was less than half my mom's age, but still, c'mon, beauty is beauty.

What did Mom think of me sitting there next to Chloe, without a top? Apparently she thought it was fine. I didn't get any weird looks from her, no throat-clearing, no other kinds of hints. Everything was completely normal, apparently.

That was good, I supposed.

"Oh, and my—" Chloe started.

"I was gonna ask," Mom interjected.

"Yeah, my nipples are doing good. No soreness now. They feel great when she feeds, no problems."

"Good, that's good to hear. Definitely keep using the lanolin."

Well, that was a little strange to sit through, but all I kept thinking about was: there's a beautiful, buxom girl sitting next to you, talking to your mom, and she's half naked. Oh, and neither one of them minds that you're there.

---

Chloe went to check on the baby while my mom changed out of her work clothes. I just stayed on the couch, still scrolling idly through TikTok.

"Chloe?" my mom called.

"Yes!"

"Are you staying for dinner? You're more than welcome. I think we're just gonna order pizza."

"Oh, I can't, Angie," she called back. "I've got a test in chem on Monday and I really need to study."

"Next time, then!"

"Yeah, for sure!"

---

The weekend days were long and slow. Saturday dragged into Sunday, on and on. Sure, I had friends, I went out drinking, I talked to some girls. Lots of the girls there were 18 or only a little older, and so being in a bar was especially exciting for them. It was fun to be around that.

I missed Chloe, though. It bothered me enough that I tried playing devil's advocate: why? Why should I miss her? I barely knew her, had just met her. And c'mon, I tried to tell myself, she's a little bit of a weirdo, kind of a trip, right?

But no, it didn't work, because I didn't actually believe that. It wasn't fair to think of her as weird. Yes, she had breastmilk without being a mother, and that had been a surprising thing to discover. It wasn't right to think of it as something strange, though. It was a powerful ability, a revelation. Chloe herself was a revelation, really. She was amazing. She was bigger than life. She was perfect. Chloe was stunning: she was uniquely pretty, she had a beautiful fucking body, she was smart, and she was funny, and she was an interesting person. I liked being around her. Why wouldn't I miss her?

I knew that all this veneration would probably fade. I'd realize at some point that Chloe was not perfect, not really a queen, and she wouldn't seem bigger-than-life anymore. Fine, fine. That particular day, though, it felt real. It was real. And there would never be a day when I didn't think she was hot, so hot she had me under a spell. I decided to enjoy it, enjoy the enchantment.

That meant missing her, though, and it was kind of painful. When I was out with my friends, every once in a while, I would realize I was thinking about Chloe again, and it would take me right out of the moment. What was wrong with me? I wasn't like this very often, all hung up on some girl. And why her in particular? There were girls there at the bar who were home for the summer, and lots of them were younger ones who were suddenly legal drinkers, and they were right there with me. Why did I keep thinking about Chloe? I barely knew her. I'd known her for all of, what, two days, that was it. So why?

Because no other girl was like her, not even close. It was obvious.

I ended up going down a rabbit hole while my friends and I were at The Bulldog, which was this beer pub we liked. It had a jukebox loaded with classic rock and some Taylor Swift songs, lots of stuff on display all over the walls, daily specials on pitchers, good variety of beers. I was sitting there on a stool, talking to my friend Jamie.

"Dude, I fucking love this new law," he chortled, taking a swig of IPA from a large mug. "I love all the young hotties."

I tried to point out that there was another side to it: that maybe we liked the "young hotties" because the girls our age didn't want much to do with us. "They're all off dating 30-year-olds 'cause they think we're not mature enough for them."

Jamie was completely unfazed. "So the fuck what? Let 'em date the old guys. We get all the young girlies. I fucking love it."

"Yeah, but—you don't think the situation is unfair? Like, imagine if we were still 18 and all the girls we knew were out in bars, and we couldn't even go. Best we could do is maybe get someone to buy beer for us."

"So, just like it was when we were 18," Jamie grinned. "I don't get the difference. And those girls wouldn't have been into us at that age, anyway."

I started to say something again about it being unfair.

"Dude," Jamie said. "You're 22. How old's this Chloe chick? 18, right?"

(I had been telling Jamie about her a few minutes before.)

"Yeah, she's 18."

He shrugged. "There ya go."

Jamie did have a point.

My mind was already drifting; I was sitting there looking around the room and wondering what Chloe was doing.

It was a Saturday. She couldn't still be studying. Where was she? Sitting at home binge-watching a show? Paying bills, doing housework? Out with her friends? The tables at The Bulldog were crowded with throngs of girls in their late teens. I watched the wait staff carting pitchers of hefeweizen to their tables, along with dishes of sliced lemons (which, dropped into a wheat beer, was a crime against humanity). Those girls were the same age as Chloe. Why wasn't she there, too, out with us, partying? She could have been. Where was she?

I had to stop. I barely knew Chloe, and it was ridiculous for me to be obsessed with her, especially this early on. I didn't even know for sure what "early" even meant—early in a relationship? I could imagine it, but I didn't know what was going to happen next. Neither did she, really, although I had the sense she probably knew more than I did.

Anyway, I had to stop myself, and I did. I started talking to this girl Georgia, who'd been a freshman at my high school when I was a senior; she had pretty blonde hair and big tits, and I always kind of had a thing for her. It was fun to sit together, talking and drinking beers. She'd just turned 18, and she, like Jamie, kept telling me how much she "fucking loved" this new law. I couldn't blame her. It did seem strange, though, to be there with all these teenage girls when I, at 22, was one of the younger guys in the room.

I mentioned that to Georgia, how it seemed kind of weird.

She just smiled at me and shrugged. "Girls mature faster than boys," she said.

---

Monday night was the worst. Knowing that Tuesday would arrive soon, well, that just put me in worse agony than even before. I went to my room after dinner, locked the door, pulled my pants down and started jacking it again. Immediately, in my mind: Chloe topless. I could imagine her breasts perfectly—it was like I was getting better at picturing her.

Big, full, elegantly rounded, conical bulges—her breasts seemed to me like potent works of art. And her face was so very attractive, like the face of a magical being, an angel, a beautiful elf, and it had magical powers, too: her broad smile had the power to completely illuminate a room and draw me in. I thought about her eyes, big and brown and soulful, and thought about how they were like magic, too. They bewitched me, lured me, maybe even more than her amazing breasts (and that, in my mind, was saying a lot). She could see right through me when she looked at me, I could sense it. It was like she could see me completely naked: bare body, bare soul. And I'd not even taken my shirt off around her. (Maybe, I thought, that should change.)

I came, hard. Big, gooey lumps landed on my pants and on the bedspread, and it was kind of a mess to clean up.

I fell asleep after that. When I woke up in a couple hours, the whole thing started all over: Chloe's beautiful face, her long, swan-like neck, her throaty, infectious laugh, the way her short hair emphasized her very cute face, the little hair clips she wore for no apparent reason (short hair, not really any need for control), the soft, pleasing tone of her speaking voice, her bare tits, those large areolas all puffed up and ripe, and those chunky, hard nipples—all these sounds and images passed through my psyche at once, and within a couple minutes, I was coming, just as hard as the first time. And then I was cleaning up again. I found myself really wishing my orgasms would last more than a few seconds. Maybe then I could get some real satisfaction. I felt like I needed a bunch of orgasms in a row, back to back, to get the lust and desire out of my system—not that anything remotely like that was possible for me, of course.

I fell asleep. When I woke up, the cycle repeated. I came three times that night, which, for a guy, is kind of a lot. But it still didn't feel like enough.

---

It was Tuesday, the day, and it felt like waking up on Christmas morning. My eyes opened, squinted at the summer sun, and I knew: she was already here.

Oddly, I had no plan, no sense of what exactly I should do at that point. I should shower, I supposed. So, I went and got the water going, came back to my room while I waited for it to heat up. I closed the door most of the way, and then stripped out of my sweatpants and t-shirt. I'd brought my bath towel with me, and when I headed back to the bathroom, I had the towel mostly closed around me—if she'd passed by and looked, she might have seen something. Something big.

No such luck, though. No sign of her, not yet.

I finished getting dressed and headed to the kitchen for coffee. She wasn't there, either, and a quick peek told me that she wasn't in the front room. So now, at least I knew where she had to be.

I sipped the coffee, forcing myself to calm the fuck down. You might feel like you're chasing her, I told myself, and you might very well be, but you're going to stay chill and act chill and not be a fucking tool. You're going to be casual about all of this. This seemed kind of hard to do, because I knew my mom was already long gone, so Chloe and I were alone together in the house, so to speak. My baby sister didn't really count.

I headed back to my room and just hung out there for a few minutes. I figured that if she was paying attention—and maybe she was—she would have known that I'd taken a shower, gone to the kitchen, and maybe she would start to wonder if I was going to go say hi to her. Going to find her too soon would come off as needy, though. She needed to feel like maybe she was more like an afterthought. I really hated doing this kind of thing, feeling like I was playing a game. But it was necessary, because the situation was a paradox: if you want the girl, you have to act like maybe you're not thinking much about the girl. This is how you give yourself a chance to get the girl.

After about 15 minutes, and after brushing my teeth again, I casually got up and wandered into Luna's nursery. There was Chloe, sitting in the rocking chair, completely topless, reading a chemistry textbook.

"Oh, hi!" she glowed.

It was nice that she was so obviously happy to see me. I allowed a smile. "Hey, just checkin' on ya." I wanted to spill it all, tell her I'd been really missing her, but I didn't dare even mention that. Not a word about it. This was just a quick stop on the way to do something important; that was the impression I wanted to give her.

"Yeah, I'm just hanging out, doing some light reading," she grinned, giving the textbook a wiggle. "I know it'll all be worth it, but god, some days ..."

My eyes had already drifted down to her beautiful tits. I was taking in every word she said, by the way, and no, I'm not bullshitting. I mean it. I really did listen to her, hung on her every word, but looking at all of her was just too great a temptation. I did love her eyes, so I would inevitably look up at her, and feel my soul being pierced by them. Then my gaze dropped to her tits again. I looked back up—she'd caught me. I wasn't sure what I expected, but she just went on, and acted like there was nothing unusual going on. She was telling me about her chem teacher, who was kind of a dick and difficult to deal with.

Within minute or so, around the time we started talking about parties and bars around town, my eyes headed back to her chest for a quick glance—only to realize that she'd caught me looking yet again. This time, she gave me a cute squint-grin, as if to say, "I caught you, but I don't mind." She had made that clear already, so I really don't know why I was worried about it.