Technically, I wasn't. True, I had a sister. But I'd never touched her.
“I never touched her till she had hair on her cookie,” Davey declared, virtuously.
I admired his restraint with what enthusiasm I could muster. Fran, however, amended her brother's statement. “Davey's six years older than me. He was fourteen, I was eight when we started.”
“Gee, did you have hair on your cookie at eight? That's phenomenal!”
“I had hair there when he rubbed his fuzzy bush on it,” Fran giggled. Then she threw her arms around her favorite relative. “Isn't he gorgeous! You don't know how comforting it is for a growing girl to have a prick available whenever she wants it. Who needs sex education!” She wagged her finger at Davey. “For months all he'd let me do was blow him ”
They proceeded to forget my presence and indulge in one of those dreary family arguments. Hadn't she given him his first blow job the day after Thanksgiving? How long had he made her suck him before he screwed her? Was she still cherry on her ninth birthday? Or had Davey plucked it during the preceding Christmas week? Every fuck they shared had some festive connotation.
I stilled yawns while they squabbled. A triumphant exclamation from Fran made me sit up. “Davey darling, I remember distinctly! You didn't peddle me to Red and Kevin till the day they took Aunt Helen to the hospital. That was on a Good Friday.”
“Good Lord! Davey, did you really peddle your own sister, a nine-year-old girl?”
“Red and Kevin were my best buddies,” Davey protested.
“Red was a doll, a real clit worshipper. I never thought much about my clitty till I met Red. Kevin was altogether different. A fast ride, and back to his homework. Anyway, Davey gave me a dime each time I was with them,” Fran added, loyally.
“They seldom paid more than a quarter,” Davey said, with a trace of righteous indignation. “An' how many times did I hafta shell out carfare to bring 'em!”
I soothed the ruffled ruffian by assuring him that he was indeed one brother in a million.
“All that precious training-sucking Davey's tool when he was a boy, makes me go down for youngsters even today,” Fran mused, aloud. “If only Davey were younger.”
“I wish she'd fix her hair,” Davey grunted, in retaliation. “I dig blondes. It's my weakness.”
Impasse. Fran refused to bleach her hair. Davey couldn't get any younger. Bravely, they carried on anyway.
We had scraped the bottom of the booze barrel. When my next yawn came, I made no effort to stifle it. Davey, with logic known only to Davey, interpreted this as a groan of passion. He patted my shoulder sympathetically. “G'head, kid, you c'n screw 'er.”
“Big day tomorrow,” I observed, to the ceiling. I demurred… not out of squeamishness. Not economy, either; I could afford a quarter. Honest, I wasn't all that eager. Jacking off while Davey had boffed her deadened my appetite and left me deflated. Let that serve as a warning! If solitary whang-whacking doesn't grow warts on your fingers, it'll weaken you and thin out your cream and make you unfit for normal relations. So drop it. Right now! Drop it!
Weakened though I was, I bowed to persuasion. “Just a quickie,” I promised. But though Davey had been off in ninety seconds, it took me three minutes. Meanwhile, back at the cabin…
Back at the cabin the aborigines were sunk in after-fuck apathy.
Luckily it was my day off from bellhopping. I rode up to my little band of loved ones before breakfast. In the hazy morning light, I recognized a familiar figure facing the bushes at the side of the shack. Matt… mingling his piss with the dewdrops.
“Pray for the sun to come out, Matt. If the sun comes out, our ship comes in. A brand new career. The kind of work you like best, this is it, boy. Gold, Glory, and Cash!”
Matt seemed uncharacteristically skeptical.
“You do a lot of talking, Doug, but what do you produce?”
“I didn't produce Margo for you, did I? Or Ruthie?”
He could counter only with a feeble, “Yeah, but-”
“Yeah, but! But now I'm not producing. We're a step upward, all of us. We have a real producer. A genuine, professional producer.”
Mollified, Matt asked, “He got any good stuff for me?”
Ignorant, unlettered bastard, my buddy confused producer with procurer. I tried to explain the difference, but had to abandon the attempt. In Alec's case, the dividing line was too flimsy. An unimaginative stud like Matt wouldn't appreciate the fine points until he met Alec. And Fran. And the camera.
In the kitchen quarters, Beth was cooking something oily, with pimentos. She looked at ease and at peace with the world, which is more than you can say for the average nympho. But how many nymphos share a cabin with Matt and Ernie?
Remembering Davey's predilection, I suggested that Beth touch her hair up.
She patted her shining gold tresses. “No one's platinum these days,” she said, complacently. “I'm keeping my natural shade.”
“I didn't say dye it, darling. Comb it.”
She tossed those fucking golden curls till they were in danger of sizzling in the frying pan.
“Don't do it for me. Just for a friend of mine. A lad with twelve inches and only one fault.”
“What's that?”
“He has no sense of time. Once he gets himself in a hole, he stays there. An hour… ninety minutes.”
Beth's grasp of arithmetic was astounding. She added up 12 and 90, and the sum was reflected in her eager eyes. Alec would like her. She'd be a natural. I could see how she'd appeal to guys immune to Fran's charms. The perfect contrast.
My special protege, Ernie, also needed a pep talk. He had that bright-eyed, sassy look of a stud who funnels his gism into the proper channels. No hand jobs for Master Ernie. Except for a few livid welts scattered on his chest, back, and thighs, you'd never suspect he shared the cabin and channels with Matt.
“Get your drawers on, Ernie. Guests are expected.”
Ernie reluctantly searched for his Jockeys. I regretted giving that order. Alec might want to use him in his natural state. Well, how long does it take a red-blooded kid to drop a pair of Jockeys?
When the little group was gathered round me, I exploded my bombshell.
“We're gonna be in the movies!”
“What's playing?” Beth wondered. “I haven't been to a show since April,” Matt offered. “Movies gimme a headache,” Ernie mumbled. With a group like that, you have to be super-explicit. “We're not going to the movies, we're gonna be in the movies.”
Three puzzled expressions remained puzzled. I started again, speaking slowly. “The movie is gonna be made here and we-are-going-to-act-in-it.”
Matt frowned. “What're you talking about, Doug? We don't know how to act.”
“You know how to fuck, don't you?”
His brow cleared. “Y' mean the movie'll be like the ones I used to see in the penny arcade in Des Moines? What the Butler Saw; The Naughty Floradora; and like that.”
“The cinema has come a long way since then, Matthew. Now the butler isn't peeking; he's participating, screwing.”
“Then this friend of yours, the producer-he's a real producer, huh? Like Charlie Chaplin?”
“More like Hitchcock. You'll see. Now do you all have the picture?”
Matt nodded. Beth was still engrossed in mental arithmetic. Only Ernie required further elucidation. He had never visited the penny arcade. I outlined the essential situation. “My friend's bringing a chick for you. While you ball her, he'll take your picture.”
Now that he finally understood, the ex-bellboy was too excited to consider mundane matters like fees and salary. This made me so excited that I kept on prattling to keep him happy.
“The girl-Fran-is practically a virgin. Big dark eyes, hair like liquid coal. And a cunt! Why, her clit alone is famous on two continents. Bite her clit right and she'll do anything for you. She sucks, too. Hey, I almost forgot. Her specialty's chewing on young cock. She'll frig you to a frazzle.”