by Sam Millar
The rope ladder came flying out of the treehouse, followed by Horseshoe.
Horseshoe was the only kid in the neighborhood with a treehouse. I would’ve given anything to have one, just to get away from Mom and Dad every now and again. Even the scrawny tree at the back of our yard would have sufficed, giving me somewhere to sneak out to at night. But Mom was wise to all of that. She made sure my room was at the front, where she could ‘keep a good eye on me’ at all times.
‘What do you think of these?’ Horseshoe asked, as soon as his feet touched the ground.
He was wearing a pair of plastic X-ray glasses, ones I had seen advertised in the back of a comic. Horseshoe was gullible that way, always buying crap. His family had plenty of money, compared to Brent’s and mine, so I guess his parents didn’t mind. It never bothered me, the money he had. He was generous with it, and always bought the Cokes we drank.
‘If you want me to be honest, they look silly, Horseshoe. Really silly. Almost as silly as when you painted your face green for Saint Paddy’s day.’ Horseshoe had painted his face green the year before last, for the annual Saint Patrick’s Day festivities. He looked ridiculous. Both Brent and I teased him mercilessly, saying he must have been trying to look like the Hulk, but had ended up looking like puke.
‘I don’t care if they look silly. They work. That’s all that counts.’
‘They’re garbage, like all the crap you buy, Horseshoe. Remember the Sea Monkeys you bought? So eager to please they can even be trained? Turned out to be just a bunch of dead, shriveled-up shrimps.’
‘Come on, we all make mistakes every now and –’
‘Or the Polaris Nuclear Sub, that was supposed to fire real rockets and torpedoes? You wasted seven bucks on that, only to discover it was cardboard, and a fart would’ve sunk it. You could’ve made a better one from an empty cereal box.’
‘But these are different, Tommy. I’m telling you. Here, take a look,’ he said, taking off the glasses and handing them to me. ‘Put your hand up in front of them. What do you see?’
I reluctantly put the glasses on, checking first that no one would see me, and then held my hand up directly against one of the lenses.
‘Wow!’ I was amazed. I could see my hand. Chillingly, it was all bones, no flesh, like something out of The War of the Worlds. ‘Shit, I can’t believe it, Horseshoe. They actually do work. You’ve finally bought a winner.’
‘Best buck-and-a-quarter I ever spent. Think of the things we can get up to with them.’
‘Things? What kind of things?’
‘All sorts of things. Like looking through Ann Cartwright’s clothing, for starters. We’ll be able to see her panties.’
Ann Cartwright was a gorgeous, big-breasted girl at our school. Everyone was in love with her. Especially Horseshoe. Even though he knew realistically he hadn’t a hope in hell with her, he never gave up the dream.
‘If Big Boobs Cartwright catches you gawking through her dress, you’ll be in big trouble with her three brothers,’ I said, handing back the glasses. ‘They’ll beat the shit out of you, just for the fun of it.’
‘It’ll be worth taking a beating just to see her panties. Bet they’re pink and lacey. I can’t wait until school reopens.’
I didn’t know if it was just the glasses, but Horseshoe’s eyes looked kind of strange when he spoke about Ann’s panties.
We quickly headed over to Brent’s house, in deep discussion all the way about the pros and cons of X-ray glasses. I had to admit, Horseshoe had me convinced. In fact, I had decided secretly that I’d send for my own pair, when I got back home from Brent’s.
I always enjoyed going to Brent’s house, because his parents were much more relaxed than mine could ever be. Mom called them ‘liberal’, which I took to mean something approaching Satanism.
Once, when Mrs Gleason – Mom’s old school friend and card partner – was over visiting, I overheard her use the word ‘swingers’, in reference to the Flemings. My teenage mind summoned up a picture of Mrs Fleming swinging on their tree-swing, being pushed by Mr Fleming. Could that really have been what Mrs Gleason meant?
The Flemings also smoked marijuana, according to Mrs Gleason. Lots of it. That was before Mr Fleming went to prison, after being caught with ‘a ton of it’ down in Florida. I knew what marijuana was, of course. Brent smoked it occasionally. I had even tried it once, but threw up and never touched it again. Ever. Dad said if he even suspected I had touched anything like that, he’d personally lock me up, and throw away the key. I was almost certain he wasn’t joking. Mom said she would kill me. She definitely wasn’t joking.
Brent was resting beside a tree at the bottom of his garden, drinking homemade lemonade, when we approached. In his hands he had a copy of True Crime magazine, borrowed from me, which of course meant borrowed/stolen from Dad’s collection. Brent and I had something of a lending library in miniature going on. In return for a regular supply of my dad’s crime magazines, Brent would let me look at his father’s massive collection of Playboy magazines. I was in love with Little Annie Fanny, despite the fact that she was just a cartoon.
Brent was totally fascinated by the crime magazines, and their grisly black-and-white photos. Their monochrome depictions of blood did more for the imagination than any Technicolor rendering ever could.
‘Okay, blood-brothers?’ was the first thing he said, spotting us walking towards him.
I nodded, but didn’t say a word.
Horseshoe was more enthusiastic. ‘Feeling great, blood-brother. Strange, I always wanted a brother, and now I’ve got two.’
‘What the fuck’ve you got on your face, Horseshoe? Looks like some sort of bug,’ Brent said, spotting the glasses.
‘X-ray glasses. Want to try them?’
Brent looked at me, and then back to Horseshoe. ‘Are you fucking nuts? There’s no such thing as X-ray glasses. When the hell are you gonna grow up and stop acting like a kid?’
‘Try them on and see for yourself,’ Horseshoe said, offering the glasses to Brent.
‘Bullshit. No such thing.’ Brent refused to touch them. ‘Put them away – now.’
‘Try them first, and then tell me they’re not real,’ Horseshoe said, defiantly.
Brent looked at me. I just shrugged my shoulders.
‘Okay,’ he said, snapping the glasses from Horseshoe’s hand. ‘But if I catch you laughing …’
Brent put the glasses on. He looked so ridiculous that I almost laughed, in spite of the warning.
‘Put your hand up to them,’ Horseshoe instructed.
Reluctantly, Brent’s hand went to his face.
‘What do you see, Brent?’
‘Shit …’ Brent’s mouth opened like a trapdoor. ‘You’re right, Horseshoe. They work!’
‘Told you.’ Horseshoe grinned with pride. Finally, after a very long list of disappointments, he had actually managed to buy something that did what it said on the can. This was major. Respect would have to be given to him, after this.
‘Hold on a sec …’ Brent said. ‘I put my other hand up, and it looks the same.’
‘Of course it looks the same. It’s a hand, ain’t it?’
‘I know it’s a hand, smart ass, but why isn’t it moving when I make a fist?’
‘Huh?’
‘A fist,’ Brent said, making one, and holding it up to the glasses. ‘It’s still showing a hand, not a fist!’
‘Let me see,’ said Horseshoe, nervously taking the glasses from Brent and placing them back on his own face. He made a fist. Then a hand. Then a fist. ‘I … I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ Brent said, smirking. ‘You’ve been suckered again.’
‘What?’
Like lightning, Brent grabbed the glasses off Horseshoe’s defeated face, and began crushing them in his hands.
‘Hey!’ Horseshoe shouted, making a grab for them. ‘Don’t do that!’
But it was too late. The damage had been done. Brent tore the glasses apart, and then held some
thing in his hand.
‘Feathers,’ he said, grinning. ‘These were stuck in between the lenses, to make it look like you were seeing an X-ray. Either that, or the feathers came from your sorry ass, Horseshoe.’
Mortified, Horseshoe could only look at his latest investment blunder withering in front of his eyes, and witnessed by the entire world. Two feathers, cardboard frames painted black and, just to add insult to injury, cheap plastic lenses. The entire kit and caboodle was the equivalent of one cent worth of crappy leftovers, sold for a buck-and-a-quarter to the biggest sucker in town.
‘There ought to be a law against these sort of things,’ said Horseshoe, staring glumly at the wreckage of plastic.
‘Do something useful, Horseshoe. Go get you and Tommy a glass of lemonade from the fridge,’ Brent said, indicating towards the house. ‘Grab some more ice for me, while you’re at it.’
‘Why’s it always me has to go?’ Horseshoe said.
‘Because I say so, that’s why, Mister fucking X-ray Eyes.’
‘Maybe I’m not thirsty.’
‘Maybe you don’t want to be a blood-brother?’ Brent made a movement to stand, as if to confront Horseshoe.
‘That’s not fair. It’s always me who has to –’
‘Stop arguing like two girls!’ I said, walking towards the house. ‘I’ll get the damn lemonade.’
A few seconds later, I was rapping politely on the door, even though Mrs Fleming always encouraged me to ‘walk right on in, don’t bother with that knocking crap’.
‘Hello? Mrs Fleming?’ My voice carried itself into the house.
No response.
‘Mrs Fleming?’ I called again from the doorway, before entering.
Walking fast, I headed straight through to the kitchen, and there – to my shock but juvenile delight – was Mrs Fleming, in a pair of very tiny white panties, and nothing else. She stood at the open fridge, cooling her very cool body, a bottle of beer in one hand and a reefer in the other. Flaming red hair fanned onto the balcony of her shoulders. Her eyes were green and luminous as moonlight on the lake. Silver earrings were tooled tightly into the lobes of her ears. A sickly sweet aroma drifted across the room from the reefer.
I couldn’t help but look directly at her crotch, where tiny sunbursts of hair pushed out from her panties.
‘Oh, hey, Tommy. What’s up?’ she asked casually, as if being practically naked was the norm.
‘I … I’m looking for …’ My eyes went straight from her crotch to her gorgeous face, then to her beautiful bare boobs. Embarrassment bled up my neck and into my face, like a rising tide of hot oil. I tried blinking away her nakedness, but the blinking only made it worse. The more I blinked, the more naked she became, shaping into Little Annie Fanny. ‘I … lem … lemons …’
‘Lemons?’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘You want lemons?’
My cock began pulsing. Oh no! I pushed my hand down, hoping to block the bulge from Mrs Fleming’s view, terrified it looked like a miniature dowsing rod.
‘Lemon … ade … I mean …’ My brain told me to get out of there quickly, but my crafty cock-a-doodle-doo cock paralysed my legs.
‘Oh, lemonade …’ She smiled, before sucking seductively on the reefer. She placed her beer down on top of the fridge. ‘I’ll get you some.’
Bending elegantly into the fridge, her long legs tightened. I could clearly see one of her butt cheeks as her tiny panties rode up, tight into the crack in her beautiful ass. My heart did a little double movement. I swallowed hard. Couldn’t breathe. Fainting was becoming a strong possibility.
‘Here you go.’ From the fridge, she handed me an ice-cold pitcher, filled to the brim with golden lemonade.
Her cool fingers touched mine. I almost dropped the pitcher.
‘Thank … thank you, Mrs Fleming.’
‘Grab a glass from the cupboard,’ she said, indicating with her head.
‘Okay …’ I reached and quickly grabbed two. My hands were shaking so much, the glasses began rattling horribly.
‘That was a very brave thing you did, Tommy, trying to save that poor boy, Joey Maxwell.’
‘I … it wasn’t just me. Horseshoe and Brent helped, too.’
‘But it was you who jumped into the water to save Joey. Not Horseshoe, and definitely not Brent. That’s what distinguishes a hero. Doing what others fear to do, even if you’re terrified when it’s happening.’
‘I … I don’t think I’m a hero, Mrs Fleming.’ My face was turning an even deeper shade of crimson.
‘And modest with it.’ She smiled. ‘Bet your father’s so proud of you.’
‘I guess,’ I replied, shrugging my shoulders, trying to maintain a cool facade. I wanted desperately to kiss her.
‘No guessing about it. He’s proud of you. I wish Brent would do something to make me proud. I only hope he doesn’t end up like his useless father.’
This was just as embarrassing, the conversation’s sudden turn of direction. She kept talking to me as if I were an adult. I suspected she was lonely for adult company. I doubted Mrs Fleming had many visitors. No one in the neighborhood wanted to be associated with the family, because of the drug dealing down in Florida.
‘Hot outside, isn’t it?’ She waved away the smoke curling about her face.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. And then nodded some more. Like a freakish, broken toy, stuck in nodding mode.
‘They say this is going to be the hottest summer on record. I just can’t seem to stop sweating.’ Tiny beads of sweat were trickling languidly down her stomach, congregating in her bellybutton, like a glorious garden pool. I wanted to dive right in there, and swim to the bottom, tickle her stomach.
Vast rivers of sweat were meanwhile trickling down my spine, pooling in the crack of my ass. If the sweating didn’t stop soon, I’d have the cleanest ass in Black’s Creek.
‘Staying for lunch, Tommy?’ she said, retrieving her beer from on top of the fridge.
‘I don’t really know, Mrs Fleming.’
‘Sally. You don’t need to keep on calling me Mrs Fleming. It makes me feel old. You don’t think I’m old, do you?’ She smiled, waiting my response.
‘No! No way. You’re not old, Mrs … Sally …’ It felt distinctly weird to call her by her first name.
She smiled further, but added something to the smile, something mysteriously seductive and arresting. There should have been a law against that paralysing smile. It was criminal.
‘It’s only cold cuts and bread, but you’re more than welcome to stay. I like seeing you about the house, Tommy. You’re always a good influence on Brent, helping to keep him out of trouble. I feel much better, knowing he’s with you. You’re a terrific young man, growing up fast.’
Tilting her head back gracefully, she took a sip of beer. Her neck was beautiful, like a swan’s. A beautiful swan. I imagined what it would be like to kiss that swan-like neck, tasting its honey sweetness.
Just as I was getting lost in the moment, a dark vision of Mom entered my head. She was holding a carving knife and the Swingline stapler, preparing to dismember my member for all my impure thoughts of swans and honey.
After I cut it off, you’ll be able to staple it back on. Click-click!
‘Perhaps I should give you a handsome reward?’ Mrs Fleming said, thankfully breaking my thoughts.
‘Huh?’
‘A reward for being such a good influence on Brent. Keeping him out of trouble.’
‘Oh … no, that’s okay.’ Handsome rewards always had a way of turning ugly for me.
‘You sure?’ She gave a secret smile, and moved closer to me; so close I could smell her exhilarating womanly smells and perfume.
‘Tha … thank you anyway for the offer, Mrs Fleming,’ I finally manage to stutter, edging slowly backwards from the kitchen.
‘Sally.’ She gave me a little wave. Smiled some more and then sucked very slowly on the reefer. I swore she winked.
I staggered out goofily, waiting to trip on somet
hing, but miraculously reached the front door and freedom without a hitch. I turned and fled back down the garden, towards Brent and Horseshoe.
Brent glanced up from the magazine, as I approached.
‘What the hell kept you?’
Your mom, half-naked. Her beautiful lemonade boobs! I saw her sunburst of bush! And her little Annie Fanny!
‘Noth … nothing …’ I mumbled, holding up the pitcher. ‘I was just fill … filling her up.’
‘Huh? Filling her up?’
‘I … I mean the pitcher … It was empty.’
For a second, Brent looked puzzled. ‘Where’s the ice?’
‘Ice? Oh! The ice …’ I scrambled for an answer. ‘I … I couldn’t find any.’
‘Couldn’t find any?’ He looked even more puzzled. ‘Shit, there’s tons of the stuff in the fridge. How the fuck could you not find ice?’
‘I just couldn’t find it!’ My voice sounded like a choirboy with his nuts being squeezed in a vice. ‘Must’ve been looking in the wrong place.’
Horseshoe giggled like Shirley Temple being tickled. I thought seriously about crowning him with the pitcher. I poured out a glass of lemonade instead, and drank. Just the way Mrs Fleming did, only not sexy. I imagined her long fingers in the lemonade, stirring it, before she places one in my mouth, demanding that I suck the juice clean off.
Shaking myself back to reality, I handed Horseshoe the pitcher and the other glass. He could fend for himself.
‘I’ve been getting good ideas from this, Tommy,’ Brent said, holding up the crime mag.
‘Oh?’ I tried looking interested, but my mind kept wandering back to the kitchen scene.
‘Yeah. Lots of good ideas.’
I thought of Mrs Fleming again. Her crotch. So much red hair down there, as if it were on fire. Frightening, yet mesmerising. Who the hell needed X-ray glasses, with Mrs Fleming running about butt-naked? I quickly sat down, lest Horseshoe and Brent spotted the bulge of my cock stirring again.
‘Tommy? What the hell’s wrong with you!’ Brent shouted, practically into my face.
‘Huh?’
‘I said, I’ve been getting good ideas out of these crime mags. Been doing a lot of thinking about our big surprise for Mister Pervert.’