Other Days: Relativity

"I love it when you call me that. You used to call me that when I was little, you know."

#

The Special Theory

Margaret stands alone in front of the mirror:

It was late summer. Uncle Fix's camp in Waveland. One of my sisters, I don't remember which one, and I were coming back from the Bay where we had been diving off the pier, and we were passing the cold shower stall at the end of the driveway, which Uncle Fix had put up just for swimmers. Jack, who was probably still trying to get out of college at the time, had gone fishing with his cousins and was taking a shower alone. There were a number of gaps in the wooden wall around the shower, and you could almost see inside without even trying. When you were trying no telling what you could see. My sister went on ahead, and once she was on the back porch, I went to have a peek. I wanted to see what a penis looked like in person, curious virgin that I was. I certainly found out. The gap I found looked straight on at the showerhead, and Jack was facing away at first. I didn't want to see his ass. I still had time to look away, walk away, be a good Ursuline girl. I didn't. Then, Jack turned around and satisfied my curiosity. . . and then some: He was pulling on his penis, which grew and grew and grew until it was long and thick and he began shooting his cum all over the shower walls. A shot hit me in the face. I was sure he didn't see me, but I hurried back to the pier. On the way, I took a finger to wipe my eye and taste my cousin Jack. I sat on the pier until dark, savoring those two drops of Jack and dreaming of Jack spraying his cum inside me. I masturbated at least three times sitting there on the empty pier, . . and again and again for weeks, months, years after. I now had a goal. That fall, back in school, I insisted everyone call me Margaret. I was grown-up now, a grown-up with a clear goal: Jack's cum inside me. Jack inside me, the new me, Margaret Strange.

The reservations made Chez Denise, and Doctor John on the Victrola, I pour myself a bourbon and prepare to wait. I try to sing along with the Good Doctor in order not to think about how much I enjoyed my cousin and how much I want to enjoy her again. She is unbelievably beautiful, her creamy skin is perfect and her body is lithe and willing and eager. She's also mysterious, even exotic, and smart too, yes, very smart. I could fall in love with her if she weren't my cousin. Or am I falling in love with her anyway? Or she with me?

Dennis, or whatever his name is, his sweater is too big for me, of course. But hell, I just fucked the guy's wife, so I guess I shouldn't worry too much about drinking his whiskey and wearing his sweater. Except for my coat I escaped pretty dry from the afternoon rain. Even my shoes came out just a little damp. The sweater is all I need. Of course what I really need right now is Margaret.

Before I masturbate to visions of my naked cousin or run home on account of those same visions, Margaret emerges from the bedroom. Gone are the school-teacher getup and granny glasses of Uncle Fix's funeral, replaced by an indigo dress whose sparkles seem to blend with the glint of her denim eyes and the light glitter of her blue cat-eye glasses - Audrey Hepburn should have looked as tempting. I found her desirable to the max at the cemetery. This is crazy. Maybe we should just stay here and fuck.

Chez Denise has been in Mid-City since as long as I can remember. A converted bungalow with tables scattered about a handful of rooms and an extended kitchen in the back. I have eaten often at Chez Denise thought I would never call myself a regular. Denise recognizes me, though I'm sure she doesn't know my name or anything, and as Margaret and I enter she smoothly leads us though the old dining room and off to the right into a tiny alcove they call the Blue Room.

I order an old fashioned. Margaret does the same.

"Our fathers used to drink them at Christmas when they were alive," Margaret begins.

"What do they drink now that they're dead?"

"Smart ass."

"And yes, I remember the old fashions at the Reveillons. Chin, chin."

And, when she lifts her glass, the sapphire ring on her left hand, which has replaced the huge diamond from earlier in the day, sets off a meteor shower of blue.

The v-neck, thin straps and deep décolletage of her dress reveal just enough cleavage for a dinner with one's cousin. Her dangling pearl earrings and the necklace that dips between her breasts are subtle enough not to get in the way.

"I've been hoping to see you at these family things for so long," she says. "I was really glad to see you today. Maybe that's not a strong enough word. But you get the idea."

"I've been getting the idea all afternoon really."

"I would hope so. You are supposed to be the smart one in the family."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"I would," Margaret says before finishing her old fashioned in a single gulp. "Why did you want to fuck me this afternoon?"

"Me? You were a bit on the forward side of things yourself, You were all loud and clear. You wanted to fuck me."

"True, but I asked the question first."

"Because you are beautiful and sexy, more so than your sister, and you know it," I begin a paean to my cousin, a hymn of praise that lasted through a second old fashioned and the turtle soup, and ended with my admitting I have now and have had all afternoon the hardest of hard-ons. "And I want to make love to you right now, right here in this restaurant."

"Do you masturbate a lot?"

"What kind of question is that? What do you mean a lot?"

And Margaret proceeds to tell me about watching me beat off in the shower in Waveland. I am kind of embarrassed by that and maybe more so when she tells me how she fantasized about sex with me ever since.

"And I still do," she adds. "Of course, you didn't know that, and I didn't know I could have this same type of effect on you, this power over you.

"You say you have an erection right now?" her voice begins to rise when I nod my head. "I LOVE IT!" And everyone in the Blue Room turns in our direction.

She said she never thought much about the cousin thing: "I never wanted to marry you or have your babies, so all the legal and bio crap doesn't count. I just wanted to fuck you -- OK, make love to you."

"And now that you have?" I cut myself short.

"Don't be stupid. I want this to continue and continue and continue."

"But we will probably have to be more discreet," I add.

"Not really. We're cousins, remember. As long as we don't make out in public or look too sneaky we'll be fine. Which is why I think we should get to your Porsche right nowt so you can drive us to Algiers while I take care of that woody we were talking about."

We more or less rush through the filets and guzzle most of the wine before heading for dessert and coffee at my house across the river.

I aim for the bridge, Margaret's hand in my lap the whole way. I try not to look around at the other drivers as we head down Canal Street, and Margaret pretends to be discreet, sitting overdramatically straight in her seat. But as we take the entrance to the Expressway and head to the West Bank, she pulls down my zipper and rubs the tip of my cock as it bursts through the slit in my shorts. As I begin the climb up the bridge, she lightly licks her hand and puts her palm to my lips: "I couldn't take it all for me, I must share." (I'm a salty son-of-a-bitch. I am.)

I slow down in the far right lane, not doing a great job of staying in any one lane at all. I push the seat back as far as it will go, and Margaret, holding my cock as close to my body as she can, goes down. I almost hit the bridge railing. She begins going up and down and up and down until as I reach the foot of the bridge I just explode in her mouth. She retreats slightly and sucks hard, making sure to get every drop. I am, naturally enough, going nuts. I am also going down the West Bank Expressway with my dick out. Margaret doesn't seem to be in a hurry to zip me back up, either.

As I pull off the expressway and onto a surface street I come to a stop light. But, as I move to zip my pants, Margaret reaches over and gives me a wet, juicy, cum-filled kiss. (I'm a salty son -of-a-bitch, I am.)

#

Morning in Algiers.

Beautiful. Sensual. Sensuous. Sexual. Desirable. Fuckable. All of it rolled into one woman, a cousin I didn't know I knew, a woman I didn't know I wanted. Is a cousin's flesh forbidden? Is a day and night of forbidden fruit a perversion high on the list of mortal sins, or just a latent hang-up from Sister Christopher? Would I gladly go to hell if I could fuck Margaret along the way? Probably, at least this morning. I've just spent a day and a night making love - or enjoying damnation?? - with this wonderful woman, whose sleeping body is pressed against mine this morning.

The rain is coming down quite hard, pounding the roof and slapping the windows, while the final dead leaves on the thinning trees rustle in the wind, and the loud claps of thunder compete for attention with the varied blasts of horns from boats and ships in the River. It would all be erotic and exciting in itself, but with Margaret under the covers next to me it is over the top. I just might be ready for yet another trip across the Styx, done in time to the sounds outside.

#

Margaret is awake.

"Earth calling Jack Strange," she says looking up at me. "Are you still worried about fucking your cousin?"

"Yes and no."

"Shut up and make love to me again." And we do. Or at least I do, make love to my special cousin. Her body is so soft under mine, her skin so warm, her lips so desirable and her hairless pussy so sinful. With the slightest of preliminaries I enter. I guess our sexual exercises of Tuesday allow me to stay in control longer, though I can still feel my cock hard as ever, Margaret's waiting pussy is tight as a girl's, with the rhythmic caresses of a whore's Singapore kiss .

But I am doing my damndest to make this about love. Yes, sex with Margaret is beyond pleasure but so is the love.

"Don't think too much, Jack. Just let it happen. And happen. And happen, Oh, that is so, so good, so, so terrific. You're wonderful, you know, Jack. Wonderful."

I want to reply, but I won't. I'm afraid I will say I love you, and I don't want to do that. So, I stay quiet for the most part. For half an hour we roll in each other's arms across my bed in angles, atop the sheets, under covers, alongside and inside and outside, but always in pleasure and a certain joy or happiness that comes with it. And we come, hers in minor and major spasms and "wonderful, Jack, wonderful," and I in two volcanic eruptions and "Oh, Peggy." I feel good inside her, her muscles tightening about my cock as I plunge in deep and come out slow.

We moan and sigh and whisper our names in our ears and declare our undying lust for each other. And with that last blast I am finally spent. I hold her in my arms tightly, silently. We just relax pressed against each other. After what must have been hours, we get up and shower.

#

"Will we ever be able to do this again soon?" I ask as the old Porsche climbs the bridge to the East Bank. At ten-thirty on a rainy Wednesday morning there is not too, too much traffic.

"I'm sure one day when the planets are in proper alignment," Margaret jokes. "Don't be silly, of course we will. We just wait for the right moment. We'll have our times."

"I've wanted to say I love you all last night and all this morning, but I couldn't, I can't."

"Maybe because you don't," Margaret replies. "Our relationship, our love will have to be a special kind of love, you know," Margaret says. "The emphasis on our bodies joined, lots of sex but no holding hands."

In silence we exit the Pontchartrain Expressway, and turn on Metairie Road toward Jefferson Parish and over to her house.

"Pull into the driveway just enough to get out of the street so you don't get smashed in the rear. Sorry, no kisses. Neighbors and all." And, as she opens the door: "Next time."

Yes, next time.