“That’s Marcus.”
“You lucky bitch,” she hissed. “No wonder you slept with him on the first date, hoe bag!”
I was still worried about that. “Does that make me a slut? What if he thinks I do that on every first date?”
“Well, given that your next date would be your second one, that issue’s moot. And absolutely, you’re a slutbag for sleeping with him.”
I wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not, and it just made me feel even more stressed about it.
“I meant, does he think I sleep with every guy on the first date?”
“I can’t answer that because I’m not him, but let’s look at the problem a different way,” she began, sounding much older than she was. “Times have changed. Women no longer have to save themselves for marriage and not show their ankles, while men fuck whoever they want.
“We can vote, we can wear pants, we don’t have to ride horses side-saddle, and we can sleep with a guy on the first date. If someone thinks that makes a woman slutty, fuck ‘em. Why doesn’t it make the dude slutty, ‘cause it was the first date for him, too. Having a penis doesn’t make you immune to being looked at as a slut.”
She took a deep breath. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t want a man with more road miles on him than a car made in the 1960s, but do I give a shit if he’s ever had sex on the first date? No, so long as he doesn’t have so many women in his past that I can’t walk around without bumping into one of them. That’s not fair on me, and it’d make life fucking awkward. The same would be true vice versa.”
I was so caught up in her wisdom that it took me a moment to ask, “What’s your point?”
I mean, we weren’t talking about how many women he had in his past, and as far as I was aware, I wasn’t going to bump into them everywhere I went, so I was lost. However, she did make some good points about men in general.
“My point, my tiny boobied sister, is that you did nothing wrong. Even if you’d done the horizontal hula, you wouldn’t have done anything wrong, so stop worrying about it. I was also making a point about how hypocritical people are about men versus women and what they do sex-wise.”
“I thought your points were well thought out and verbalized. Well done.”
“Thank you. It’s funny, normally I struggle to open my mouth for big things like that, but this time it was easy.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the guys on the first date,” I snickered, then began laughing harder when she mumbled, “For fuck’s sake!”
“Although, how many dates do you get if you can’t open your mouth for big things?”
“Careful, you keep laughing like that, and you’ll laugh your tits off,” she muttered, then sang, “Oops, too late.”
This was a bone of contention between us. My sister developed her D cups when she was fourteen, whereas I’d gotten stuck with B cups. Because of the difference, it’d become a source of relentless teasing over the years.
Sitting down behind the piano, I started playing a jaunty tune on it.
“Don’t you dare,” Adia hissed through the phone.
Ignoring her, I started singing.
Oh, Adia has bouncy jugs on her chest,
They bounce and bounce and bounce under a vest,
And boys all around love this the best.
* * *
Well, Adia’s tits are as big as melons,
They’d make the day of every single felon,
And when she runs, they bounce and jiggle all over the place,
But if she fell, they’d stop her from landing on her face.
* * *
If you saw Adia’s boobies, you’d understand,
They’re almost the biggest in the land.
We call her jugs because they juggle all day long,
And boys see this and react with their schlongs.
* * *
But don’t expect to see her and get a hug,
Because she can’t reach you around her jugs.
Those wobbly boobies have a will of their own,
They’ve even answered Adia’s telephone.
“That was one time,” she yelled, “and I was leaning over when it rang.”
Ignoring her, I upped the pace of the tune I was playing to end it.
Gotta love those boobies,
Those bouncy, jubbly boobies,
You’ve got to love, really, really love, you’ve got to love Adiaaaaaa’s juuuuuugs!
The second I played the last note on the piano and the room went silent, I expected my sister to start yelling at me.
Instead, a deep voice said behind me, “What the fuck?” making her burst out laughing this time.
Spinning around on the stool so quickly I almost fell flat on my face, I gaped at Marcus and Remy, who’d obviously come in through my open front door and witnessed my inspirational titty song for my sister.
Hearing her still laughing, I snatched my phone up and took a photo of them both standing there in t-shirts and jeans, their hair ruffled from working outside, and hit send on it.