Lawrence Block - Speaking of Lust

I told him I didn’t see why not, and that I would certainly consider myself to be so bound.

The tavern we went to, a busy place in the evening, was dark and quiet of an afternoon. We sat off by ourselves, and Bill told me his story.

He grew up in another city on the other side of the country. He had an older sister-Carolyn, of course, but that revelation was to come later-and lived with her and his mother and father in a pre-war brick house in one of the older suburbs. He and his sister took after their mother, who was tall and blond. Their father was tall, too, but dark-complected, and heavily built.

His sister taught him to dance, took him shopping, and clued him in on all the things a young boy was supposed to learn. She comforted him, too, when he got a beating from their father. The man was a drinker, he said, and sometimes when he drank Bill would piss him off without knowing what he’d done wrong. Then he’d catch it.

One night when he was thirteen years old he said or did something to upset the man and got a few whacks with a belt as punishment. Afterward, his sister came to his room. He had been crying, and he was a little ashamed of that, too, and she told him he’d had a punishment he hadn’t deserved, so now he was going to get a reward. Just as she’d taught him how to dance, now she would teach him how to kiss.

“ So you’ll know what to do when you’re out with a girl,” she said.

She sat next to him on his bed and they kissed. They’d kissed each other before, of course, but this was entirely different. Do you know how an unexciting activity may be said to be “like kissing your sister”? This was not like kissing your sister.

Over the next several months, the kissing lessons continued. She always initiated them, coming into his room when he was doing his homework, closing the door, sitting on his bed with him. This was very exciting for him, especially when she let him touch her breasts, first through her clothing, then with his hand inside her blouse. When she would leave his room, finally, he would relieve himself.

He was so occupied one day when, having recently left his room, she returned to it, opening his door without knocking and catching him in the act. He covered himself at once, but she had seen him, and she asked him what he had been doing.

“ Nothing,” he said.

“ You were touching yourself,” she said. “Right? But you shouldn’t have to do that, Billy.”

He said he couldn’t help it. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help it.

“ I’m not saying it’s wrong,” she said, “but you shouldn’t have to do it yourself.”

She did it for him. And, from then on, that was how their sessions concluded, with her hand doing what his hand had previously done, and making a far more satisfying job of it. When they hadn’t had time together during the day, she would make a point of slipping into his room at night after he’d gone to bed. He would usually pretend to sleep, and without a word she would satisfy him with her hands and return just as silently to her own room.

One night she used her mouth. The next day he asked her if she would do that again, and she said, “Oh, you mean you weren’t really sleeping?”

Their play continued, and over time she led him on a veritable Cook’s tour of sexuality, which eventually included every act either of them could think of short of actual coition. Their pleasure was hampered only by the fear of discovery, and on more than one occasion they narrowly escaped having a parent walk in on them. Thus they limited themselves to relatively brief encounters, and had to avoid crying out in fulfillment. Quick and quiet, that was the nature of their coupling.

Not surprisingly, they dreamed of being able to spend an entire night together in safety and privacy. The sister raised the subject often, telling him just what she would like to do to him, and what she would have him do to her.

“ Maybe when we’re older,” she said. “When we’re both out of the house. Unless you find somebody else by then.”

But there would never be anybody else, he assured her. She was the only one he wanted.

What she didn’t point out in response, and what he knew without being told, was that what he wanted, what they both wanted, could never be. They were brother and sister. They could never be man and wife.

He couldn’t imagine himself with anyone else, couldn’t bear the thought of her in someone else’s arms. She was his and he was hers. How could he marry another woman, a stranger?

“ I thought of becoming a priest,” he told me. “If I couldn’t have her, then it would be easier if I never had to have anyone. Then the absurdity of the notion struck me. I was in bed with my sister, I was committing all kinds of sins with her, and the fact that I wouldn’t be able to go on committing them forever made me think I had a vocation. But I swear it seemed perfectly logical to me at the time.”

One day she had an idea. He was still a member of a Boy Scout troop, although he’d become less active. The troop had a camping weekend scheduled. Suppose he signed up for it? And suppose she drove to the encampment and picked him up down the road around the time the troop’s bugler blew Taps and turned in for the night? They could go to a motel-she’d take care of booking a room-and they could have a whole night together and get him back to camp before Reveille.

That’s what they did. On Friday night, he waited until his tent mate was sleeping, then slipped out and trotted down the road to where she was waiting. It was all set for the following night, she told him. The room was booked, and she’d bought some massage oil and something provocative to wear. She wished they could go there now, but she had to get home. She had an excuse lined up for her absence the following night, but not tonight, and she had to get home.

They got into the back of the car and she brought him off quickly with her lips and fingers. Then he went back to his tent and lay grinning in the darkness, thinking of his tent mate and the other boys, thinking what they were missing.

The following night, Saturday night, he feigned sleep himself so that his tent mate would finally shut up, and then had to lie there listening while the other boy brought himself to lonely fulfillment. Then, when the boy’s breathing deepened in sleep, he crept out and hurried to the appointed spot. The car wasn’t there waiting for him, and he worried that she wasn’t coming, worried that she’d come and gone, worried that something somehow had gone wrong.

Then the car appeared, and minutes later they were at the motel. She had already checked in, signing a false name on the register and paying in cash. She drove straight to the unit, unlocked the door, and led him inside.

She apologized for having been late. “Mama wanted help folding laundry,” she said, “and I told her I was expected at Sandy’s, and she said Sandy could wait. And then he came home, and the two of them started going at it, and that gave me a chance to slip out. Oh, but I don’t want to waste time talking. I want to do everything. We don’t have to be quiet for once and I want to make noise. I want to make you scream.”

They both made noise, although no one screamed. They made love with the tireless enthusiasm of youth, and toward dawn she sighed and swore she couldn’t help herself and threw herself astride him and took him deep within herself.

Years later he would recall thinking that this was it, that they’d crossed a line. Up until then they had done everything but, and now they had done it all.

Before the sun was up she dropped him off where she’d picked him up, then headed for her friend’s house. “Sandy thinks I’m at a motel with a frat boy,” she said. “Little does she know. But she’ll let me in, and cover for me.”