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“I feel like shit about how I treated her.”“We all feel bad about how we treated Gwen, Ted. But it’s too late now, isn’t it?”Susan was right, however bitter she sounded. And that is my memory of Susan, right and bitter.The first time I noticed her bitterness, she’d been right. We were sophomores in high school working on a science-fair project together. We’d worked at school and at my apartment; but, when Mrs. Johnson heard that I’d be home alone, she insisted that I come over to their house to work with Susan. Her worries weren’t groundless. Susan was one of those girls who carried their books so as to hide their new boobs from the boys. When I walked up the stairs behind her, I watched her butt work. Mostly, I was interested in her as a science-fair partner, but I was interested enough in the other things to justify a rule that we couldn’t be alone in private together. At least, I was until Gwen opened the Johnson’s door to me.Straight as a stick then, Gwen still exuded more. On weekends when she had a date I would hear her come in, slipping up the back stairs. I laid on the floor and watched her undress and play with herself, probably thinking of her date. Eventually she had toys to get herself off, not knowing that she was my toy to jerk off with.This was just before the big internet boom and at that point what I knew of the female anatomy was what I saw in Playboy, Hustler, and Penthouse magazines. My friends told lies about their female conquests, probably reenacting a Penthouse letter they had read, but I don’t think any of them had actually seen and heard as much as me. BUT, I never told a soul about what I saw and learned. I was probably on my 1000th jerk off before I turned 16. Just seeing my sister at the dinner table clothed would make me pudgy in my pants. It was then I began to wonder about my other sister Erin. She was 16, and was getting to be as pretty as Sis, but had a more pronounced hip, meaning she had a great ass in jeans. I began to.
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