Crossing a Line

Everyone is 18+ A young man falls in love with both his sister and mother crossing a line.

Crossing a Line.

It was the last week of May 2015; we had our nineteenth birthday party lined up like we do every year for June seventh, just after the school year; our birthdays are four days apart. However, I am a year older on June ninth, and Bobbie, my Sister, is on June fifth. So we get to have one party with hot dogs, burgers, and ice cream with cupcakes. We have not had a cake that’s for kids in eight years, or at least that was what our Dad told us. We also had BBQ chicken with salads for the grown-ups.

My mom and sister’s favorite was the chocolate fountain; last year’s party became a dance party. But our Dad stopped that when he found out we were dancing to that devil’s music, our Dad was a deacon in a local church. So he called the police and had them break the party up. So we have a pool party two days early for me and two days late for my Sister, depending on the weather. Our Mom, Billy Jo Bogart, says. “It was the only fair thing to do to keep peace with your dad.”

What our Dad, Bob Allen, said was another story. “It was cheaper, he was the Man of the house, and It was his way or the fucking highway. So what he said goes his wife, his house, his rules, and his damn kids like we were always an afterthought.”

Our Mom never treated us this way. It was as if our Mom’s life was more prosperous because of her love for us. I know for a fact because of our mother’s love, our lives were better because of our Mom. Just one example proves it I was twelve at the time, my Dad was drunk, and I was stupid and talked back. Dad started hitting me. I was not doing well. His open hand slaps tossed me around the room like a rag doll. My Mom stood over me as Dad hit her till my Sister and Mom could pull him off me. He passed out, stayed at his mother’s for a few months, and had to take court-appointed anger management for a few weeks.

He was to clean his mothers house out and to put it up for sale, we were to have helped him do it, but Mom put her foot down, not letting us go. I missed a few days of school to hurt even to get out of bed. I’m positive it’s why I close my eyes when someone swings at me.

My Dad was fifty-two; his ego was nine feet tall but stood six foot in two-inch tall heels in all his shoes, he weighed in at three hundred and forty pounds, half bald, all gray his hair turned gray four years ago, and with brown eyes that were red when he drank, and that was way too often. Our Dad was the Human Resources Director at a large Cancer Hospital for twenty years. His way or the highway was his way of handling things at work or home. As rude as he was, the bottom line was always under-budget. State hospital budgets made heroes of villains. At least it did where my Dad worked.

My Mom, Billy Jo Bogart, is forty-nine, standing six foot one in flats, never allowed to wear heels of any kind, and Mom tipped the scales at a sexy one hundred and thirty-five pounds of blue-eyed, blond soccer mom complete with 38 DD’s and a min-van a true MILF if there ever was.

Yes, it might even lead to the abuse of her panties some late night striking out on another date, coming home horny and clueless. Our Mom drove us to every sport we played and cheered us on. However, our Dad has never seen us play any sport or school recital. Instead, he stays at work or home watching TV in the Air Conditioner on full blast, drinking beer, and watching real sports like real men.

Bobbie, my Sister, and I talked one night after dinner a week before the party. Mom and Dad went to bed after a few odd words and strange cold looks from Dad all night.

I say to Bobbie. “Man of the house, It was our dad’s go-to saying, but it made us sound like we were just nice cars to own and do with as he pleased.”

My hot Sister Bobbie is on the Lacrosse team, plays Volleyball, and ran track. My Sister stood six foot one an inch shorter than I, and her weight was a light one hundred and twenty pounds. Her body was almost a perfect hourglass figure at 38-30-36 with a B cup. Her blue eyes and mine matched. We told secrets under the covers of our blankets with flashlights for years; it was just kids’ stuff.

I played soccer, baseball, football, shot-put and discus, and rugby, but not at school. It was at a college football pitch, an intramural sport anyone could play. I was good but unlikely to get any kind of scholarship to a college with my grades can’t stay on the team with D’s and C’s. I studied martial arts just for fun; that’s not true. I fought because an older boy at school was not listening to my Sister saying no.

I went to him at the end of gym class, planning on me kicking his ass even though he had two inches on me and forty pounds. He was the school hero and the football captain. Unfortunately, it ended with me getting my ass beat by two of his best friends holding me down, and they stuffed me into a trashcan in front of the whole gym class.

It took me almost sixty days of four hours in the gym, running two miles to school and back till I felt fit enough to find a gym to learn to fight. I worked part-time in a martial arts gym just to pay for classes. I used my pay to hire two tough-looking instructors to beat the crap out of me every day for two weeks, teaching me how to fight. I had my friends at school watch out for my Sister. They recorded and reported his every move to the teachers.

With everyone watching him, he finally got caught and thrown out of school for taking kids’ lunch money, and he received a two-month suspension. He was noticed by everyone now when he returned to school. I insisted Bobbie always had to be with three friends, which kept her safe.

My two guys who beat me for cash at the gym was a smart move on my part. They thought I was a debutante till they beat the crap out of me. So I got up and wiped the blood off my nose. Asking them to show me how to move, how to flow.

I was more scared of getting hurt the time I ended up in the trash can. I was learning how to fight back through pain. I had just been knocked down with a roundhouse kick, and blood was coming out of my nose not the first time either, but I stood and fought two grown men to a standstill. I stopped and bowed, and my bow was returned, and we went into dirty fighting from then on. What I learned over the next few days was worth the bruises on my face and body. I took it every day for three weeks and then learned fast. My skills improved; I became good at blocking and was not hit too often again.

During this time, Bobbie heard from friends at school about me eating a trash can trying to save you. My Sister iced my bruises and bandaged my cuts from that day on. I know it made us closer. My Dad slapped me awake the day before our birthday party at four am. He handed me coffee. Dad ordered me to drive him to the airport, giving me enough time to pee, wash my face, and get dressed because he wanted to save parking fees. It was an hour’s drive to the airport. My Dad talked about what my summer would be like basic boot camp, and he said he signed me up for the Army. I needed more coffee to know what Dad was talking about.

I do know enough to not talk back to Dad before finding out what my Mom and Sister thought about this idea or any idea my Dad tossed at me. I have not lived to the ripe old age of nineteen without this. I am sure it keeps me safe and not in a military academy. It did get close once, but my Sister talked me out of doing anything stupid. Dad went to China at the request of the government to lend his hand in setting up their hospitals. Dad’s way of running a hospital is based on the bottom line over people.

I skipped school and went to a friend’s Dad’s place, who was a lawyer, and asked him. “If my dad could sign me up to join the Army without me signing.”

Thankfully, my Dad can’t send me off, but he can and will toss me out of the house. So I spent the morning moving my money out of the bank. Unfortunately, my Dad was a cosigner on my account when it was opened.

I was nineteen, held back a year by being sick, but now I had to use my lawyer for two days. I changed my accounts, invested some, added the bulk to a 401k, and ordered a credit card in my name. I had more than enough college money from my grandfather’s estate on my Mom’s side. This was two years ago. Dad served me an invoice for nineteen+ years of room and board. Dad turned the damn thing to a collection agency. I had the lawyer get a court order for Dad to stop this money-grab bullshit.

The bank informed me that Dad tried to cash out my inheritance, but I had to sign to get the money out. My lawyer set it that way when it was opened years ago. I had to; it was enough that Dad got his Dad’s money almost twice what I had in the bank, but my Dad always had to have all the toys or go home rather than share. My Dad had a full-size refrigerator in his master closet with ice cream and cold beers, but we never had ice cream but once in a while. Dad often spent the weekend in bed, drunk and mad at something or someone.

I come home to Mom working out to some exercise video cast to the TV. Your tight hot pink yoga tights showed your lady parts from behind excellently; I stopped and watched you.

I say. “Hello, Mom; damn, it’s weird. Dad told me I joined the Army today or get out of the house, no talk of college, but he said I will be gone the last week in June. What the hell, Mom. If I’m getting tossed out, I should do something worth getting tossed out for.”

Mom says. “Dad said he wanted you to attend the service, but we discussed it after college. So what the heck are you talking about?”

Hell, here it goes, I say. “Mom, no kidding; what you are wearing is not son-proof. You only have to say maybe, and I will be all over you in two seconds. I can see how you shave Mom down there. I got to talk to a cold shower; Mom, you’re making walking too hard. Is that enough to get me tossed out of my home, Mom?”