It's the summer of 1988. I've been invited to spend a week at the beach with my friend, Mike, his sister Shaina, and his mother, Suzanne. It's a really cool experience, the first time I've gone on vacation with someone else's family. My friend's sister also brings her friend, Hayden. They're cheerleaders, practicing their dances and cheers poolside before grabbing their nostrils and doing a front flip in the deep end. We chickenfight in the pool, me and Mike's sister against Mike and Hayden. Shaina is on my shoulders, grinding her pussy up against the nape of my neck. When the pool play is over I'm the last to leave because of the throbbing erection tenting my trunks.

On a quiet evening early in the week, everyone is settled and doing their own things. My friend is watching TV. His mom is reading in the master bedroom. I'm reading in the bedroom I'm sharing with my friend. In the next room, Shaina and Hayden are playing cards and chattering and giggling. Their door is open.

"Have you ever walked in on your mom and dad?" Hayden asks.

“Yes!" Shaina replies, in a laughing, excited whisper. She says that one time she caught her mom laying on the bed wearing only a bikini bottom, and then her dad came into the bedroom from the master bathroom, totally naked, and bolted back into the bathroom covering himself. It was so obvious what was going on. I hear them giggling and chattering.

"Oh my God. Really?"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"I swear!"

"What kind of bikini!?"

"It was like a zebra stripe thing, it was so trashy, ohmygod."

"Gross!"

"I know!"

The thought of this fills my mind and completely takes over my imagination. Shaina is cute but her mother is smoking hot. Suzanne is a nurse. All the guys who know Suzanne talk about her in the way men talk about teachers, librarians, and older women with any kind of power and allure.

Suzanne wears glasses and her mousy blonde hair in a sensible bob away from her face because of her work as a nurse. But her boobs are simply amazing, especially if you haven’t yet seen a pair in real life. When we go to the beach, Suzanne puts on a big, floppy straw sunhat, large smoky stunner sunglasses, and a sensible navy one-piece swimsuit, but it struggles to conceal her mindblowing, jiggling triple-DDD bazoombas.

She walks to the beach, her strappy sandals clacking off the boardwalk, a beach bag in the crook of her right elbow, and a Cosmopolitan magazine with BIG SEX NEWS! blaring from the cover in her left hand. The tick-tock of her voluptuous, swaying, oh-so-grabbable ass hypnotizes me as I walk behind.

In the bedroom now, listening to Shaina talk about her mother as a sexual person, I’m so hot and flushed that I shut the door and quietly lock it. I shoot my acid-wash denim shorts to the floor and climb aboard a body pillow. Instantly I cum into it, gritting my teeth the whole way and wiping it off. But I’m pulsing red and my flesh is hot to the touch. No one notices.

• • •

Now it's the summer of 1989.

On Wednesdays through Fridays, I work downtown at a bar, washing dishes and delivering sandwiches and salads on a bicycle to local businesses. On Mondays and Tuesdays, I hang out at the country club pool, which is close to Mike’s house. I have such a close relationship with him and his family that I'm allowed in their house without an invitation, to make a sandwich, watch television, play Nintendo, or whatever.

Suzanne and her husband have separated. The rumor is he went to New Orleans on a business junket, hired a hooker for a photo shoot in his hotel room, and Suzanne found the pictures inside a case of liquor in the basement (he was the buyer for the country club bar). Suzanne kicked him out around Easter and it's been very hard on Mike and especially his sister, who is about to go to a good school, maybe Tulane or even Vanderbilt, and all the money that is involved. All of that has been jeopardized by the marital crisis.

One Monday this summer I'm up at the country club swimming and sunning. Stephanie, the lifeguard, is back from her freshman year at LSU and she tortures us with saucy anecdotes of drinking and screwing frat boys. I respond by loosening my swim trunks and diving straight in off the board so that they're ripped away on entry. Stephanie orders me out of the pool for the rest of the day. She doesn't think my little stunt was cute.

I catch up with Mike at the clubhouse and find he's going to play eighteen holes with Billy after a golf lesson. I don't play golf, and I don't feel like driving the cart again while they fuck around, so I beg off and instead walk over to Mike's house, alone, to watch their vast library of VHS tapes dubbed from rentals. Suzanne is at work at the hospital, and Shaina is a counselor at a summer camp up the river.

When I get to the house, though, I remember that time spent totally alone with no one able to intrude on you is a very precious resource. Mike’s dad was notorious for his stash of nasty skin mags, the kind you wouldn’t see in the rack at any respectable 7-Eleven. Glossy, overproduced trucker porn with titles like Swank and Cheri and Club International. Sure enough, it was still in the basement in a cardboard box next to the workbench. I picked my favorite and took it upstairs. It was just before 2 p.m., and no one should be coming home.

Instead of laying on the mat in the guest bathroom, though, I got a different urge. Why not jack off in Suzanne’s bed? Why not masturbate exactly where she sleeps? Why not beat off into a pair of her own panties? As I climbed the two flights of stairs, I kept adding to the menu of ideas of ways to fetishize and sexualize my friend’s oh-so-hot mother.

Soon I am laying on Suzanne’s bed with Suzanne’s perfume sprayed all over me, and a pair of Suzanne’s lace panties pulled up through my ass crack and "Suzanne" written in Suzanne’s own red lipstick on my rampant dick, and my penis is thrusting into Suzanne’s shoe, for Christ’s sake! Oh God, I’m fucking Suzanne’s sexy black patent-leather four-inch pump while Paula Abdul vamps it up with “The Way That You Love Me” on Shaina’s boom box from the next room across the hall. What am I doing?! But even all this is not enough, and I’m scanning the bedroom, cluttered and messy with dirty laundry and the mail and paperbacks and magazines, when I see the vacuum cleaner, a canister model with the big hose.

Yep.

Look, I’m not going to fuck the vacuum cleaner at my home, because that’s something my mom uses, OK? But here, now, I’m wondering about the temptation of the vacuum cleaner, which has claimed and humiliated so many of my friends in the discovery of their bodies, and I’ve wondered what that actually feels like. So I get up off the bed, pull Suzanne’s panties out of my ass crack, and return to the master bathroom to lube up with some baby oil, because I don’t want to hurt myself.

With the hose attachment poised over my dick, I hit the power on the back of the upright, and holy shit this is intense. I pull it away instinctively and that creates the most knee-buckling vibration my cock has ever experienced. I tense up and pull the hose off my dick, gasping, but then take several deep breaths and return it. It alternates like this: hose on my dick, with that squalling vibration and the ridiculous slurping-sucking noise, then hose off me while I recover. I do it for about seven minutes and I fantasize about plunging my cock through Suzanne’s bra and fucking her amazing big tits and cumming all over her face.

I have the volume on Shaina’s boom box jacked up so loud I can hear Paula Abdul, midway through “Cold Hearted,” telling me how nasty and bad I am. Finally, I pull the vacuum cleaner off my dick and finish off with my left hand.

“Co-co-co-cold hearted … ooh, ah, AHH,” Paula pants, and I shower hot pearls of pure lust all over Suzanne’s bed.

I get up, stomp on the vacuum cleaner to turn it off, and wipe myself off in the bathroom. I pull on my swim trunks and t-shirt and go into Shaina’s room to turn off the boom box, which has now automatically flipped back to the A-side of “Forever Your Girl.” And then I look out Shaina’s bedroom window and freeze solid in abject terror.

Suzanne’s white 1988 Chevrolet Beretta is in the driveway.

She’s here.

She came home from the hospital for a late lunch and I didn’t hear her because I was in her bed with her vacuum cleaner on my dick. I am ordinarily a good liar. I can contrive all sorts of scenarios to fade people’s perception of what might actually be taking place. But there is nothing I can think of that rationally explains why she would come home, hear a vacuum cleaner, and dance-pop upstairs with only her son’s friend in her bedroom. I'm helpful and courteous but that's obviously not what is going on here.

I pace back and forth as I pray to God to teleport me the hell out of there, but there is nothing I can do. I cannot slip out of this house undetected because Suzanne is downstairs. I can’t do anything except sit through what will probably be the most embarrassing lecture about my body and my urges and how frightening and dangerous they are to women. She knows I am a pervert, I know I am a pervert and there is no way to avoid this reckoning.

So I swallow hard and walk downstairs to take my whipping.

Suzanne is in the kitchen at the breakfast table with her back to me. She is reading People magazine and nibbling on a sandwich. She is wearing her white nurse’s uniform, with the cap, the traditional dress that some women still preferred in the 1980s before everyone shifted to those sexless blue or tan scrubs. Without looking up or at me, Suzanne says one word, but in a tone I have never heard before.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” I reply weakly.

Suzanne says nothing. I go to the pantry door, pretending to get something to eat. I pick up a box of Wheaties with Michael Jordan spread-eagle on the front and pour a bowl.

“Cereal?” Suzanne says, arching an eyebrow.

I mumble something about not having had breakfast yet, even though it's almost 3 p.m. The kitchen and den are separated by a large sectional couch that has its back to the breakfast table. I walk over to the couch and sit down, turn on the TV, and pretend to be interested in Santa Barbara or whatever fucking soap opera is on right now.

I do everything except make eye contact with Suzanne. But I’m staring straight ahead, waiting for the guillotine. I’m waiting for Suzanne to come over, sit in the wing-backed chair across from me, cross her legs, purse her lips, and tell me I am never allowed in her home or near her daughter again. I’m waiting for that firm, piercing tone of voice, where you know you’ve wronged someone in the worst way, to tell me how upset she is. Instead, I hear her get up, rinse off her glass and plate in the sink, and go up the stairs.

I hear her soft footfalls on the heavily carpeted steps and in the upstairs hallway, which turn into a loud clump on the hardwood of her bedroom floor, which is directly above the living room. I hear a lot of walking back and forth like she’s picking up things. And then, oh my fucking God, I hear her drag the vacuum cleaner. It growls a long, guttural accusation across the floor into its lair in the closet.

I am so fucked.

I hear Suzanne leave her bedroom and return down the stairs, twice as slowly, this time it seems, and come into the den through the kitchen. OK, now we’re going to have the talk, I think. She’s investigated the scene and fully documented what took place there. My eyeballs are shooting lightning as I try not to break down and pre-emptively start spluttering shame and "mea culpas." Suzanne walks up and stands behind me.

Yet the next thing I feel is the zipper on her nurse’s smock against my neck.

And then I feel her boobs, those pillowy-soft, mindblowing fantasy balloons of femininity, on each side of my neck, the rough fabric of her polyester uniform scraping up and down my neck, whose hair is literally standing straight out on end.

My body is on fucking fire.

Then, I hear the slowest, sexiest growl a zipper has ever uttered.

And now Suzanne returns her big tits to my neck, rubbing up and down me even more slowly. I can feel the elastic in her bra and the underwire in the cups. My rampant penis tents my orange swim trunks. Suzanne’s warm, womanly scent fills my nostrils as her wonderful big boobs caress my neck. I am horny, excited, confused, afraid, every single intense emotion all at once and she knows this. She knows she has me paralyzed while she rubs her tits all over me and a huge dot of pre-cum darkens the upper thigh of my shorts.

Finally, she leans into my ear and, in the breathiest, Marilyn Monroe-iest voice I have ever heard, says, “I won’t be home until 5:30,” and she turns and leaves.

I’m shaking as I hear Suzanne’s car keys clink and the front door open and close. Her engine turns over and the car pulls out of the driveway and I’m still rooted to my seat as if her eyes are still on me. Finally, my mind processes the situation.

I turn off the television and go to every single door in the home and make sure it is locked. Then I storm upstairs into Suzanne’s bedroom and see that the bed is partially made, with the bedspread covering Suzanne’s side.

That’s not how I left it or found it.

I pull the covers back and underneath are the bikini panties. The zebra bikini panties. And the top. This is the bikini Suzanne wore in the giggling girly-girl story Shaina told. This is what Suzanne wears when she feels sexy, fun, like a pornstar, When she is with a man. A man whose mind she wants to blow. A man she wants to fuck. When she’s not a mom or a nurse, but when she is a woman and sex and desire personified, smoky eyes half-slitted with lust, skin hot to the touch, tasting her makeup in the corners of her mouth as the headboard gently bumps the wall and the bed springs whimper.

Fully empowered, I strip naked and roll myself into Suzanne’s perfumed bed. My stripling cock points straight up out of a nest of wiry, wispy pubic hair, and I close my eyes and once again, imagine Suzanne’s big tits, heavy against my neck, nipples jutting out.

I close the cool stretchy fabric of her zebra bikini panties around my shaft and murmur a soft thank you. There is no trilling dance-pop, no roaring vacuum cleaner, only my soft cries and her name and the soft pitter-pat of cum gently falling on my body and the mattress and the pillow next to my ear