Turn Me On Again--Tell Me Another Story (A New Erotic Anthology) by Terrance Aldon Shaw

Author:Terrance Aldon Shaw
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: seduction, erotic humor, interracial erotica, sexy read, steamy read, mature literary, erotic coming of age

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‘Aunt’ Penny

(excerpt from Summer of ’69

from Take Me Like the World Ends at Midnight)

It was the summer of 1969. I remember. The Blind Faith album had just come out—the one the record stores had to hide behind the counter because of that naked chick on the cover. Plus, I think we’d recently put a couple guys on the Moon or something crazy like that. Tricky Dick Nixon was president, and there was a lot of weird stuff happening back here on earth. But the thing I remember most from back then—the time I will never forget—is the week my Aunt Penny came to visit us up on Lake Michigan.

She dropped in unexpectedly one day at the family vacation place on the eastern shore, taking some time off from the Post-Hippie Circus she was traveling with. The tour had started at Woodstock a couple weeks earlier and would, if all went well, end up at another big musical happening out in San Francisco. I had just turned 16 that August and Penny was the hippest, most exciting, worldly woman I’d ever met, perky and irreverent, subversive and sexy—the quintessential space-cadet meets classic flower child—pixie-ishly mischievous, infectiously touchy-feely.

“You must be Nate.” She gave me a tight, full-frontal hug by way of introducing herself. “It’s been awhile. Not sure you’d remember me.”

“I ruh-ruh-rrr-remember.”

“Like, baby! You are super cute!” She reached out and tousled my hair. “I could just roll you up and toke you!”

“M-m-mm-me too!” I was already in love.

And who could blame me? Penny wasn’t turned off or grossed out by my stutter. Not like the girls my own age who wouldn’t give me a second look once I’d opened my mouth. This honest-to-god woman was actually paying attention to me. She was laid back enough to give me the time I needed to get things said, and gracious enough at least to pretend that what I did eventually say was worth considering. She didn’t laugh at me, or call me a retard, or try to finish my sentences for me, or interrupt me in mid-thought to enunciate the word I was struggling with, or suggest the one she thought I was aiming for.

Everybody else did it as a matter of routine: Mom and Dad, Bubby and Zayde, teachers, coaches, rabbis, speech therapists, school psychologists. Never mind that I had the best grades in my class. Everyone kept insisting it was all in my head, telling me to shape up or shut up, grow up or get lost. Even my sister Valerie, who was a year and a half older than me and the closest thing I had to a best friend, had her limits with my plodding, tortoise-like elocutions. “Just spit it out, Nate!” Her exasperation would boil over and I’d be forced to abandon my brilliant jewel-like deliberation in favor of some charming bon mot like “fuck!” or “shit!” For some reason, swear words never gave me a problem—I could cuss up a storm if the occasion called for it.

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