Kitty Smithkin’s Tits
A short story about…
By Antonia Jai
GuinS Press
11874 Bridgewood Way
San Diego, CA 92128
Copyright 2009 by Jay A. Stout
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Design by GuinS Press
A Short Story about Kitty Smithkin’s Tits
Kitty Smithkin’s tits don’t look very much like the great big nudie magazine tits. They’re small and pointy, and they sort of very slightly angle away from each other. They’re very white too, except for the nipples. Or maybe they seem so white because her chest and belly are tan from sunbathing. Anyway, they’re the only real tits I’ve ever seen, not including the time I walked into the bathroom when my mom was getting out of the tub. That was scary—and it wasn’t just tits I saw either.
But I’m not going to be rude and complain to Kitty that her tits don’t look like magazine girl tits.
It’s not that I’m afraid she’ll get mad and put her shirt back on, but instead I like Kitty. I don’t want to hurt her feelings by telling her that she has funny looking tits. And her little brother Carl is hot-headed and kind of crazy; I’m not sure what he’ll do if I say that his sister has small, pointy tits that angle the wrong way. Carl’s one of those guys that’s always getting pissed off about something and starts fights he can’t finish. He’s small and gets his ass kicked nine times out of ten, but still, he’s not afraid to scrap.
So me and Carl and Kitty and Mark and Davy are splashing down the stream that parallels the railroad tracks between U.S. 36 and 10th street. We come over here a lot during the summer, mostly just to hike along the tracks and put pennies and nickels on the rails; the trains smash them almost paper thin and the presidents, like Abe Lincoln, look melted and squishy-like. We’ve all got drawers full of squishy presidents at home because we can’t spend them anywhere.
Carl and Kitty’s dad says that putting coins on the rails will make the trains jump the tracks and that we’re all going to end up in juvenile court. But it hasn’t happened yet. He’s a drunk and he’s mean and mostly full of shit even when he’s not talking about coins and trains. Like when he talks about President Nixon and the war in Vietnam. My brother is with the Marines in Vietnam and his letters don’t sound at all like what Carl and Kitty’s dad says. Well, anyway he’s a loony, but none of us says so to Carl because he’ll get bent out of shape and we’re all pretty much tired of beating him up.
Anyhow, Kitty’s pointy white tits are out for the world to see because it’s hot. We got tired of walking the tracks and scrambled down the embankment to the stream where it’s shady and cool. The water runs slow and not very wide, maybe twenty feet, and it’s only about up to my chest at the very deepest. So, Mark peeled his shirt off first and then the rest of us did too, except for Carl and Kitty. Carl is kind of self-conscious about going bare-chested. He always wants to play on the shirts side—never the skins side—whenever we split up for basketball teams. Well, we gave him a hard time and he finally stripped down with the rest of us. Kitty was the only one left with all her clothes on.
And then Mark said, “Everybody has to take their tops off if they’re going to walk the stream. If they don’t, they have to go back up to the tracks.”
And Carl started to bitch that he did take his shirt off, but he stopped when he realized that everyone was staring at Kitty. Kitty eyeballed us and then looked up through the brush and gravel and rocks and stuff to the top of the embankment. She thought about it for only a few seconds before she reached up behind her shoulder blades and unbuttoned the knotted blouse-thing she had on and pulled it off. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Davy’s eyes got bigger than Kitty’s tits and he started to giggle. Carl looked ready to cry. I couldn’t tell whether he was going to tackle Davy or just run away. I just said “okay,” and started splashing downstream like it was the thing to do now that everyone had taken their shirts off.
So now, we’re all walking through the water carrying our shirts and shoes and trying not to get caught sneaking peaks at Kitty’s tits. Except for Davy. He’s gawking right at them.
“Hey Davy,” I say. “You better pay attention to where you’re stepping. You’re going to fall down and bust your ass.” Kitty looks at me. She knows that I really don’t give a shit if Davy slips and falls. Still, the stream is kind of a dumping ground. Mark is bouncing up and down on the hood of a half-drowned Buick.
“Shut up asshole,” he says, “it doesn’t hurt anything to look.”
It’s really weird what a pair of tits can do to a bunch of guys. Only ten minutes ago we were counting our change and trying to decide if anyone wanted to put quarters on the tracks; a quarter is enough to buy a soda, or a candy bar and some gum. And now Kitty’s got no shirt on and Davy’s so stirred up that he might not even remember to breathe. Poor Carl is pouting and Mark is smug like he robbed a bank or something.
And I’ve got a boner even though Kitty’s tits aren’t that big.
Of course, I’ve always got a boner. All through the last school year I walked between classes holding my books in front of my crotch because I didn’t want the entire student body at Fulton Junior High School to think that I was some sort of pervert or something. And now I don’t want Kitty or any of the guys to see me with an erection. God help me if I have to beat up Carl while I’ve got an erection. I slosh out in front of the rest of them—careful not to step on anything sharp.
“Hey there!” I look up and there’s a big black man clambering down the embankment at us. He looks like he’s stepped out of some old movie about the South, or something; he’s wearing bib overalls and a straw hat and big brown boots. There really aren’t very many farms around here but I guess there are some houses with big gardens and chicken coops and stuff.
“Hey there, you kids,” he’s shouting again. I look back at everyone else and they’ve stopped. Kitty has her arms crossed and is holding her blouse-thing against her chest.
“Yeah?” I say as the big black man stops near me on the bank.
“Have you kids seen my goose?”
We blink blank-faced at the overalled giant. We’ve all spent our entire lives in goose-less neighborhoods. This is the first time that any of us have fielded a barnyard animal question.
I give him another look. Jesus Christ, this guy is big. “What?” It’s the only reply I can choke out.
“My goose,” he says again. “It’s a big white one and when it gets away it usually comes down here and . . .” he finally gets a good look at Kitty and stops talking for just an instant. “And Missy, you need to put your shirt back on. You don’t want to parade around half-naked in front of these boys and besides you’re going to sunburn your bosoms.”
Kitty’s frightened. “Okay,” is all she says to the black man.
“So,” he says turning back around to me. “Have you seen my goose?”
“No. We haven’t seen any gooses . . . geeses—I mean geese.” All the heads behind me shake back and forth. No goose.
“Well, if you do, I’d appreciate it if you would catch it and bring it to my home,” he says. “My wife loves that bird. We live in the white house with the green roof back on the other side.” He points up toward the top of the embankment with his wrist and finger pointed downward as if he’s actually reached up and over the tracks.
We all nod. Sure, we’ll return his goose if we find it.
I’m actually not certain how to catch a goose. I remember one time at Lake Sullivan a huge bastard of a goose or gander or duck or something started hissing and honking and flapping, and knocked my sister Polly down and took the bag of bread she was feeding it. My family laughs when we tell the story now, but I remember that I was really scared shitless at the time. And I’m not going to try and catch this guy’s goose if it’s like that Polly-knocker-downer one at Lake Sullivan.
No one moves as the big black man makes his way back up the slope to the tracks. I don’t have a boner anymore. Finally he makes it up over the top and disappears. Davy starts laughing and pointing at Kitty. “Whoa, that guy saw your bosoms—he’s gonna call the police. You’re in big shit now!”
Kitty drops her arms and we can see her tits again. She’s acting kind of mad, but we can tell she’s really not. “You’re such a dumb ass, Davy. No one gets thrown in jail for going topless.” We’re all standing in knee-deep water and Kitty’s tits jiggle just a little bit every time she moves or talks. To be honest, the way her tits look . . . I’m starting to get used to them. I guess they’re not so small or funny looking. They suit her. And water has soaked the bottom of her shorts and wicked its way up to her crotch. A part of me wants her to be completely naked. Carl would freak out.
After we walk a bit further we come to a point where the stream makes a hard left turn and crosses under the tracks to the other side. All of us climb out of the water and up to the top toward where the bridge is. Dirt and cinders and leaves stick to our wet legs and feet. All of us notice how Kitty’s tits take on a different shape and how they point nearly straight down as she leans hard up the slope. Once we’re on top we sit down on the railroad ties and brush our feet off so we can put our shoes back on.
Kitty’s still got no shirt on. I feel another boner growing in my trousers and get up to walk a little farther down the tracks. I sit on the edge of the bridge with my legs hanging and look down between my feet to where the water is swirling over a gravel bar. Kitty follows and sits down right next to me. Davy, still in his tit trance, scuttles after her and plops his ass down too. It’s not very long before Mark and Carl make their way over and sit with me and my boner and Kitty and Davy.
“Kitty, you better put your top on,” Carl says. “Your . . . boobs are getting pink.” Carl’s not quite sure what to call his sister’s tits.
Davy takes advantage of what he sees as a legitimate opportunity to scrutinize Kitty’s chest. “No, they’re not sunburned. They’re fine.”
Kitty’s looking down at her tits. Her face makes a sort of double chin as she tries to focus on them. “Do you think so?” She cups her breasts with her hands and lifts them both up a little.
“Yeah, you better put your shirt back on,” Carl says again.
“Nah, they’re okay,” Davy waves Carl off.
“Shut up Davy.”
Davy is just one stupid comment away from wearing a fist-swinging Carl around his neck. He’s only a little bigger than Carl and sometimes ends up on the losing end of that contest. Those are the best fights; the ones between Davy and Carl. Mark is so much bigger than Carl that he just holds him and twists his arm until he gives up. And I don’t really fight him anymore ever since I broke his front tooth. He had to get a root canal that cost a shit-pot of money, and mom told me not to fight him anymore or we might get sued. She hates Carl’s dad too.
Kitty is still looking down at her chest. It looks nice—a little shiny from sweat. And Carl’s right, her tits are getting a little sunburned. They’re freckled too; I hadn’t noticed that earlier. She’s looking at them like she hasn’t seen them in a while. She looks good doing it. Davy’s got his face so close he’s practically breathing on them.
“I think,” she announces, “that I will put my blouse back on.”
Davy opens his mouth to say, I’m sure, that she doesn’t need to, but is interrupted by a whistle. The train snuck up on us. We get to our feet and turn to look up the tracks. The light on the front of the engine is doing that wavy mirage thing and looks almost as big as the engine itself. There’s still time to run to the end of the bridge to get out of the way, but none of us does.