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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2007 Sixties Erotica Contest
Honorable Mention

The Birds, The Bees and The Monkees

I discovered rock n’ roll the same year I discovered my sister’s tits. Well, let me rephrase that. ‘Discover’ might not be the best word. Perhaps ‘realize’ is what I mean to say. Because I was certainly aware of both rock and Paige’s tits well before my year of realization. In fact, I had heard The Who’s Happy Jack wafting from Brett Saylor’s open bedroom window next door every afternoon in my back yard after school since the first days of September the year before. And I had seen my older sister topless on an almost daily basis for as long as I could remember. It was truly no big deal. Her chest looked remarkably like my own. Whether it was bath time, bed time, getting dressed before school, running through the sprinkler in the backyard; the sight of my sister’s bare body was a very mundane, everyday occurrence. (Until one particular summer, that is. When I was suddenly banned from the bathroom when she was in there. When she started closing the door while getting dressed. When she stopped taking her bathing suit off at the outdoor shower at our beach house. And again, it all seemed very ordinary. I really didn’t think twice about it. She was a girl, after all, and girls are weird like that. Even as a boy I knew that.) And as for Happy Jack, well, it seemed quite mundane and everyday, too. That was until that day I actually listened to the words of “A Quick One While He’s Away”. Or rather, was gassing up the mower at the far edge of our yard (and thusly right beneath Brett’s bedroom) and could actually understand the words. And suddenly it seemed the exact opposite of mundane. A story unfolded of a lonely girl, an experienced engine driver and forgiveness. And the next day I spent my allowance on a copy Happy Jack for myself at Reznick’s Records. And the following week I bought My Generation, which I didn’t like nearly as well, but the die had been cast. Before school let out for summer I counted among my rapidly-expanding collection Their Satanic Majesties Request, Highway 61 Revisited, Procal Harum and, of course, Sgt. Pepper. Brett was bringing me his read copies of Creem (which I thought sucked) and his older brother’s read copies of Rolling Stone (which I thought didn’t ... that wouldn’t change for another decade.) I was excited. I was obsessed. I couldn’t get enough. And I wouldn’t feel quite that way about anything again until the day I saw Paige’s new tits. Well, again, let me rephrase. They were the same tits Paige had always had, except she’d never had them before. At least I’d never seen them before. Not like that.

I had first glimpsed them in Paige’s recently restricted bedroom, one afternoon when I was sure she was at cheerleading practice, or over at Dana’s or something. Because I was positive she wasn’t in her room. The door wasn’t even closed all the way, let alone locked. And I didn’t hear goddamn Davy Jones on that little Silvertone record player Grandma gave her for Christmas a few years earlier. Which is why I barged in without so much as a knock, on the hunt as I was for dad’s copy of Whipped Cream and Other Delights. (It should be noted here that I cared absolutely nothing about the music on the album, only about its cover, which featured Delores Erickson wearing only chiffon and shaving cream.) At any rate, I barged in. And there stood Paige, naked from the waist up, the way I had seen her so many times before. Only this time there were tits. Real ones. Now granted, they weren’t very large. They still aren’t to this day. And, yes, they were my sister’s. And despite the fact that I was instantly and irredeemably aroused by the sight of them, I am not sexually attracted to my sister. But still, they were tits. Pretty, perky, pert tits. Quite possibly the first real set I had ever seen. (I’ve been told I was strict drinker of Enfamil as in infant, so it’s altogether possible I had never even seen my mother’s.) But there they were. So unfamiliar, so new. And their pitch and attitude in relation to Paige’s frame, with the nipples aimed slightly skyward, seemed to lend to them the same air of stunned fear that was fleetingly on my sister’s face before she clasped her arms across her exposed breasts and shrieked at me to get out. Which I did. Even before she had finished shrieking. Because I was every bit as stunned as she was. And even as the bedroom door was slammed and locked behind me, I knew the image of that nubile pair had forever been burned into my memory. And from that day forward, my appetite for all things female and nude exploded, much like my appetite for rock had done only months earlier. And once I’d had enough time and to look back on my first musical discoveries with the earliest pangs of nostalgia, I could never hear those songs without seeing Paige’s tits.

The following summer, my dresser seemed to nearly buckle under the additional weight of everything from In the Court of the Crimson King to Tommy to Space Oddity and my mattress was crowning from the stash of pilfered issues of Playboy it hid between it and the box springs. And it was that summer that I accidentally learned how to masturbate. And the image I masturbated to most was that of my sister’s tits, either strangely disembodied or with Delores Erickson’s faced mentally superimposed over Paige’s. But the thing I will forever remember that summer for, infinitely more so than my own initial forays into self-pleasure, was my discovery that my sister was already well-versed in the practice herself. And much like the introduction of boobs (and later, masturbation) into my life, it was a discovery borne of happenstance and trespassing and my love of rock. My dad had forgotten (again) to give me my weekly allowance and had already left for work. And it was Tuesday and that $2, coupled with the previous week’s $2, would buy me Grand Funk’s eponymous second album later that day when I hitched a ride in Tim Mill’s mom’s black ’63 1/2 Galaxie down to Reznick’s. And with Dad absent, the two bucks owed to me would have to come from Mom. And as I roamed the house calling for her, I heard her call back to me from what sounded like hers and Dad’s bedroom down the hall. I followed the perturbed sound of her voice into the bedroom, where the only signs of life were the sound of running water and a sliver of light from under the door to the master bath. Being on a mission as I was, I walked directly into the bathroom, fully expecting to see my mom, clad in her powder blue robe, impatiently postponing her bath to see what her son could possibly need so desperately at ten in the morning. Instead what I witnessed instantly supplanted the image of Paige’s breasts as my primary masturbatory mental imagery forevermore. There, in my mother’s bathtub, lay my sister, her long legs splayed out on the wall on either side of the full-blast faucet, her naked body positioned so that the water pouring forth splashed directly onto her pussy, which was being feverishly kneaded with both of her hands. As before, I extricated myself as rapidly and inconspicuously as humanly possible. Only this time I did so without being noticed. At least I assume I was unnoticed. If I wasn’t, Paige never mentioned it. Not that she would, of course. But the water was still running as I trotted out of Mom’s bedroom, and it was another half hour before I saw Paige again, flushed and glowing, but not avoiding eye contact with me. Well, no more than usual. So, I felt (and still feel) safe in surmising that my presence at that scene went undetected. However, if I had no impact on that particular moment in time, it had a seismic impact on me. Never again would I beat off to the simple image of naked tits. Never again would I be content with a static still-life. This was real, live sex I had witnessed. Sure, it was solo sex. And, yes, again, it was sister. But Paige’s face was supplanted easily enough in my mind with Elly May Clampett or Brett’s latest girlfriend. But from then on, (at least until next summer) whenever I got off, it was to the picture of my sister getting off under the bathtub faucet.

Less than a year later, while rifling through Paige’s bedroom in search of my Led Zeppelin that I was absolutely certain I would find amongst her This is Donovan and The Birds, The Bees and The Monkees, I stumbled across something more dazing and confusing than even a Jimmy Page solo. It was a tattered paperback titled The Alpine Spa. The cover was a faded blue and had a crudely sketched drawing of a woman wearing only her bra and panties, flanked on either side by two very attentive, muscle-bound men with strategically placed towels slung loosely around their waists. The pages were yellow and brittle and musty. And certain pages were dog-earred, and on those pages, certain passages had been circled with a blue ballpoint. And in those passages I read descriptions of things I’d only heard the older kids say as insults to one another. The foremost example being “suck my dick”. I had heard that particular phrase uttered at least two dozen times a day on the bus, in the locker room, in the dugout, you name it. Anywhere there wasn’t an adult within earshot, one of my friends was mockingly inviting yet another one of my friends to suck his dick. And I was no exception. At least once a week I was being offered the opportunity to suck a dick, or extending said offer to someone. The particular insult was so prolific that it carried little to no weight as an actual insult. In fact, it was exchanged between teasing friends with such overwhelming regularity that when it was sincerely uttered (well, as sincerely as a Little Leaguer can utter “suck my dick” to another Little Leaguer) in the heat of a verbal confrontation, it typically did more to defuse the situation than to escalate it. And while I think I probably realized that sucking a dick was something that could be performed by a female as well, its sole purpose as an insult was to call into question the recipient’s sexual orientation, as if the insulted party might seriously considering acquiescing in a show of masculine inferiority. But this book, Paige’s book, had a completely different take on sucking a dick. In The Alpine Spa, the dicks being sucked were done so willingly, enthusiastically even. And the suckers of these dicks were exclusively female, and they enjoyed every minute of it. And the part they seemed to enjoy most was what apparently happened after a dick had been sucked long enough and with enough vigor. And this part was never discussed on the bus. And it’s not as if I was unfamiliar with this part. It happened to me as frequently as my schedule would allow, usually on my belly, or on the glossy pages of the previously referenced Playboys. And it was always removed and disposed of with extreme prejudice, not out of disgust necessarily, but more from a desire to meticulously hide the evidence. But the thought that someone else, a second party, would not only be not repulsed by this, but would actively facilitate the creation and, yes, the consumption of it? It was unfathomable to my young mind. Yet there it was in black and white. Page after page of it. Literally dozens of ballpoint-ballooned examples of women apparently starved for the stuff. Sometimes to the point where one man alone could not sate them. And I forgot about Led Zeppelin, at least for that day. And The Alpine Spa found a new home under my mattress. And if Paige knew who took it, she never accused me. And for the next year, I was freed of my sister’s image while masturbating. Instead, visions from that mythical spa filled my young brain. But even if Paige herself was mercifully absent, it was her book that had made it so. And that summer became the third in a row that would forever be intrinsically linked to my sister’s burgeoning sexuality.

And as I became an adult years later, I became aware of the idea that while most of my peers, at least the ones who loved music, associated the trajectory of their lives with their favorite albums or memorable concerts, I had associated my times with my sister. Or rather, the converse of that, to be specific. Because, yeah, just like Brett, whenever I heard something off Beggars Banquet I was instantly transported back to the last summer of high school, and those first, pure tastes of freedom that came with it. But just as quickly I’d think of my sister from that same summer, and what I’d watched her do with Bobby Fulton and Damon Hester on our couch that Friday night when I just barely beat my midnight curfew. What I saw that night would make all the tits, bathtub masturbation sessions and paperback blowjobs in the world instantly and forever obsolete.

Along with Tim and Shane Minton, I had spent Friday evening the same way I had spent every Friday evening since acquiring my license, by hanging out in Tim’s bedroom listening to records. I had cut it way too close to my curfew, drove home way too fast, and gotten home with maybe a minute to spare. And, yes, technically I was home on time. But for my mother, “on time” was five minutes early. So as to avoid any maternal entanglements, I decided to enter through the rarely used front door. It was further away from Mom and Dad’s bedroom than the customary kitchen door, which I hoped would overcome the front door’s noisier latch. As an added bonus it opened into the living room, which was as rarely used as the door itself and provided a shorter path to the stairs that would lead me quietly to my room. However, upon stealthy approach to the front door, movement from inside the living room caught my eye and I froze. Through the front door’s sidelight I could see swaying silhouettes, and knew it had to be my parents pacing the floor, eagerly awaiting my arrival so they could lecture me on the virtues of being better than simply punctual. But as I turned to slink back around the house to the kitchen door, something about those shapes inside the house struck me as very non-parental. At least, very non-my-parental. And instead of slinking away, I crept closer. And the closer I crept, the more certain I became that the shapes were most definitely not my parents. I stepped gingerly onto the steps that led up to our front porch, keeping my weight at the edge of each riser to keep the wood from creaking and popping. I considered my viewing options; the big picture window would have provided the fewest obstructions and widest angle, but the same could be said for the view out the window, and I knew the odds of getting busted were significantly less if I contented myself with the front door. I sidled up to the sidelight and peeked inside.

The lights were off, only the bluish glow from the fluorescent fixture in the kitchen illuminating the scene. There, on one end of the loveseat knelt Bobby Fulton. Facing him, but on the other end, knelt Damon Hester. Now, I certainly wouldn’t say I knew either one of them on a personal level. But at the same time, every kid my age knew them. The same way we knew John Bonham or Keith Moon. They were local heroes, Bobby and Damon. Bobby for his 390-powered ’66 Fairlane and Damon for his hair. He had the kind of hair me and all my friends had every intention of growing when we were free from the oppression of conservative parents: long. And for just a minute I was more taken aback by the fact that both Bobby and Damon were here, at my house, than by what they were doing. But there on the loveseat, completely naked, on her hands and knees between Bobby and Damon, was my sister. In front of her was Bobby, his hip-hugging jeans peeled open, his stiff cock disappearing into Paige’s waiting mouth. Behind her was Damon, hunched over and mounted up, pants pushed down around his skinny, hairy thighs, clutching my sister by her hips and thrusting away. I could feel my heart pounding at my sternum and own cock was rapidly hardening. This ... this was the sort of thing I’d read about in The Alpine Spa. I didn’t even beat off to those scenes because I couldn’t quite get my head around the geometry of it all. But this, this was it. It was real. Happening right before my flown-wide eyes. I watched Paige’s body quake as Damon drove into her relentlessly. Her hands crawled across the bulging terrain of the loveseat cushion, seeking purchase there, trying to brace herself against each entry. She had let Bobby’s cock slip from her lips, concentrating only on Damon, and for a moment Bobby seemed willing to make this sacrifice for his friend’s sake, but just as quickly grew impatient with Paige’s neglect and stuffed his cock back into her mouth.

In my pants, my cock had quickly grown to its hardest and I had to consciously resist the urge to squeeze it. Damon was thrusting into Paige harder still, pumping away wildly, a sheen of sweat starting to form on his forehead. Bobby was almost reclining now, propping himself up against the arm of the loveseat, legs spread wide, his cock jutting up from his lap proudly as Paige worked her mouth down over it. From my removed vantage point, the trio was oddly silent. No doubt the living room was filled with Bobby and Damon’s labored growls, Paige’s muffled mewling, the wet, slurping sounds of her mouth and pussy, all while Dad snored and Mom kept one ear on Johnny Carson and the other on the kitchen door.

Paige was arching her back as Damon penetrated her, her tits swaying pendulously underneath her, the same tits that only a few summers ago had fueled an entire year’s worth of my self-induced orgasms. Damon was rough with her, which stirred something in me which I swear felt like jealously. Paige struggled to keep her mouth on Bobby’s cock, and Bobby awkwardly stabbed at it each time Damon’s actions momentarily separated the two. And on one of these times, I could see Bobby’s stomach quiver, just like mine did every time I was close to making myself come. And I became aware of a growing dampness in my pants, a dull throbbing in my cock, and I realized that, as always, Paige had made me come again.

With a flurry of staccato thrusts and a freeze-frame flourish, Damon came next. Once he’d regained control of his muscles, he disconnected himself from my sister and like Bobby before him, collapsed to the loveseat. I could see a thick rush of semen running down the inside of Paige’s thigh. She got to her knees in the floor and began to gather her scattered clothes and I quickly stole away and made for the kitchen door.

Maybe it was the kettledrum pulse in my ears drowning it out, but the door seemed to open almost noiselessly. I took my shoes off and climbed the stairs like a burglar. As I passed my parents’ bedroom, I could hear Dad and Mom both snoring.

From my open bedroom window I saw Bobby and Damon pushing the Fairlane down the street. When they were a few houses away, they both hopped in. And in the beat between Bobby turning the switch to ON and START, I could hear a second or two of Johnny Cash’s “Wanted Man” playing on WTOB. The 390 burbled to life, and they were gone. And I lay in bed for a long time before finally falling asleep. And when I woke up the next morning, the first thing I did was masturbate to my sister. And then next thing I did was hitch a ride with Tim Mills to Record Exchange to buy At San Quentin.

P. S. Haven was raised on comic books, Star Wars and his dad’s Playboy collection, all of which he still enjoys to this day. His work has been published online at,, and; and in print in The International Journal of Erotica; Taboo: Forbidden Fantasies for Couples, MILF Anthology, B is for Bondage, as well as in Best American Erotica 2005 and Best American Erotica 2007. Other examples and links to his work can be found at P.S. Haven peddles his smut from deep within the Bible Belt, where he fights a never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American Way.

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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2007 Sixties Erotica Contest
Honorable Mention