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A
Letter
2 The
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HouseBoat
By
Wallace Williamson
Copyright March 2011 by Wallace Williamson
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HouseBoat
June 2007
By way of introduction, let me refer you to the letter written by my husband Frank on August 12, 2006; I’m Lola and this time it’s my turn to tell the tale.
Now that we’re all caught up with who we are, I’m going to introduce you to a couple of our oldest and dearest friends, Jack and Dianne. Frank and Jack were on the same ship back in their old Navy days, Dianne and I were both brand new wives and became sister WestPac Widows — those who’re familiar with that term need no further explanation, those who don’t probably wouldn’t really understand anyway — let’s just say Dianne and I spent a lot of time together while our husbands spend most of their time out to sea. Dianne and Jack were married right out of High School, before Jack enlisted. Frank and I got married when he came home on leave just before reporting to his first (and only, thank God!) ship. Jack and Frank were assigned to the same engine room, and Jack told Frank about a vacancy in the shabby little apartment building where he and Dianne lived. We lived there for almost four years, next-door neighbors. Because the ship was gone about ten months out of the year, and even when it was in port the guys spent long hours working on repairs, Dianne and I bonded tighter than I ever did with my sister and brother. When the guys actually got a little family time, we did things together; movies, picnics, cards … cheap stuff. While the guys were gone, it was Dianne and me against the world. We grew up together in those few short years, and learned how hard life can be, and how to tough up and get done whatever needed to be done. We had practically no money, got pregnant about the same time, had our first children (both boys!) six weeks apart, and became closer to each other than I’ve ever been to anyone else, except of course for Frank. And then it was over.
Jack and Dianne got out first, and moved back home. We tried to keep in touch, swore that we would. But there were colleges to attend, children to raise, and jobs to work. We ended up in Alexandria, Virginia, while Jack and Dianne got lost in Louisiana. Frank and I would talk about those days from time to time and promise to look them up, but it never really happened for one reason or another. I actually tried to call once, but there was no listing for them in Shreveport. And so it went for twenty or so years, only memories and a little aching hole in our hearts where our old friends used to live.
And then, one night while drifting the Net, Frank found a website for our old ship ... and an E-Mail address for Jack and Dianne! I had the music up loud, the lights down low, bubbling in the patio hot-tub, and still I heard, “HOLY SHIT! YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!”
That was in December. We talked for hours on the phone. We exchanged photos by E-Mail. It was good, but of course not nearly good enough. We arranged a reunion as soon as possible, which turned out to be June — a whole week on a houseboat on a mountain lake in Kentucky. It seemed to take forever for the weeks to crawl by, but the closer it got, the more I began to wonder if maybe being cramped up on a little boat for a whole week with a couple we hadn’t even spoken to in over two decades was really the marvelous idea it’d seemed back in December.
And
of course it was …
all
that …
and so
very much more!
We actually met up at a cozy little diner just up the road from where we were going to rent the boat. Over lunch, we got used to ourselves again. By the time we cast off the dock, it was pretty much like the old Jack and Dianne and Frank and Lola — the Margaritas helped a lot. A couple of hours before sunset, we found a nicely secluded little cove to snuggle in for the night. That first night together, as old friends getting re-acquainted are content to do, we talked, we munched, we drank, we talked a lot more, and finally crawled into bed around two-thirty.
The next day started around noon with hangovers and hoarse throats. The guys drank beer and tried to decide if we should move the boat. Dianne and I went for a swim, made huge salads for dinner, and got the guys in for a moonlight swim with us (Frank and I had skinny-dipping inclinations, though we weren’t sure Jack and Dianne were into it), but even though the night was cool and the water frigid, the mosquitoes were horrendous! So we went in and played DreadfulDares that evening. We used only the questions, because we really didn’t have the supplies for the dares, and Jack and Dianne had never played before, so we decided to go easy on them. Since it was a rather relaxed game, we sat on the floor around Frank’s notebook. Jack and Dianne didn’t rack up many points; backing up my supposition that they were nowhere near as naughty as Frank and I had become these last few years. After an hour of DreadfulQuestions, we snuggled up with our lovers and talked some more with the gas fireplace as the only light — Imagine … a boat with a fireplace … who’d’ve thought.
It was very romantic, and seemed like a moment from our past that’d come back for a welcomed visit. By eleven we were pretty much Margarita-ed and beer-ed out (hey, none of us were as young and iron-gutted as we used to be!), so Dianne and I headed for the kitchen to make coffee, leaving the guys to argue about the movies showing the night we all went to the Drive-In and made out so heavy that the windows fogged up so much we never saw much of either double-feature. Our conversation, naturally, went right to those DreadfulQuestions Frank and I had virtually bragged about doing.
“You don’t really drive around naked, do you?”
“Not all the time,” I shrugged far more casually than I suddenly felt strange that Dianne, of all people, would be the one to make me feel self-conscious about nudity. “And only at night … out on the highway when the traffic isn’t so heavy.”
“Have you ever been … caught?”
“By the police?” I asked, and when she nodded I answered, “Well, we’ve never been pulled over or anything. I don’t think that many people ever even notice, really. Most drivers don’t really pay as much attention to the other cars around them as they probably should, I guess. Interstates are a lot riskier, because another car or truck can travel right alongside you, and there are a lot of stuck-up assholes who’ll call the cops and complain, I suppose. Truckers are not all as open-minded as you might think either, though a lot of them will just blow those big horns and wave. We had a trucker pace us for twenty miles once, watching us through the open moon roof.”
“Watching you … naked?” Dianne gasped.
“Watching me blow Frank,” I grinned wickedly.
Dianne’s face was priceless. It took her a second or two to catch her breath before she whispered, “I’ve never … could never do something … like that.”
“Sure you can,” I told her with an encouraging wink. “Two lane highways are generally less well lit, and most other cars are coming at you pretty fast. It’s not really as risky as it feels … but it’s still way … thrilling.”
“I probably wouldn’t believe this stuff from anybody else,” Dianne said with a soft smile as she filled the coffee pot from a plastic jug of spring water. “But he still plays with your breasts while we’re talking. So …”
“What?” I asked, certain that I hadn’t heard what I’d just heard.
“Even after all these years, you still sit in his lap and he fondles your breasts while we’re talking.”
Back in his Navy days, Frank’s hands were severely injured by a heavy piece of equipment that slipped while being hoisted. Many of the bones in his hands and fingers suffered hairline fractures, and both hands were in casts, then splints, for several months. As part of physical therapy, they gave him a couple of big foam-rubber balls to squeeze to exercise his hands. The balls were pink, Frank called them Nerf Titties … and swore they even had nipples. He was lax in remembering to do his rather painful hand exercises, so I motivated him by sitting naked in his lap and letting him massage my breasts instead. It became a habit that lasted well beyond recovery from his injuries.
“You know,” I said softly from the fog of old memories, “he hasn’t done that in years … but it felt so natural that I didn’t even realize it was happening.”
“We used to always sit on the floor and talk …”
“No furniture,” I remembered.
“Not that much,” Dianne shook her head in agreement. “You always sat between Frank’s legs, leaning back on him like a big, comfortable chair.”
“Just like you and Jack.”
“Yeah … but inevitably, Frank’s hands would somehow manage to sneak beneath whatever top you were wearing, and his hands would slowly and tenderly massage your breasts … Jack and I used to bet each other how long it would take him to start on you.”
“Really …” I smiled inwardly at the memories of our two couples sitting for hours on end on the floor in a cheap apartment, telling the stories of our lives to our new friends. So comfortable in our company that one night Frank slipped his hands beneath my loose blouse and began to unconsciously massage my breasts — like he did when we were alone. He didn’t do it all the time. Just every once and a while. Jack and Dianne used to get these little smiles, maybe give us a little wink — but they never said anything. “You know … you’re the only couple he ever did that in front of.”
“Really?” Dianne laughed softly, as if a bit embarrassed by the direction our conversation had taken. “He must’ve made up for it when you two were alone.”
“Hand raised,” I laughed along with her, cupping my breasts through my light sweater. “He used to always say these were Hand Raised.”
“I remember that …” Dianne said, nodding agreement. Then, holding her hands over her smaller breasts. “Jack never took nearly so much interest in these … though I remember feeling him get stiff as a board when Frank started playing with you.”
“Really?” I asked with real surprise. “I never noticed that.”
“Are you kidding? Think back, girl. Once Frank started playing with your knockers … and you never wore a bra! Jack would get so hard I could feel him throbbing through both our pants. And he was so embarrassed that he wouldn’t let me get up from his lap. You have no idea how glad I used to be when you and Frank finally went home some nights … just so I could finally go Pee!”
I laughed so hard I had to Pee! When Frank yelled, “Hey! What’s so funny in there?” Dianne and I both shouted in a single word chorus, “Tits!”
“Two of my favorite subjects!” Jack laughed back from the little living room just around the corner.
Dianne rolled her eyes in a yeah … right! expression, which made me giggle like the girl I hadn’t been in more years than I care to count. Then, with only four (or maybe five … or six …) Margaritas under her skirt, Dianne flipped up her heavy T-Shirt and bra, stuck out her tongue and shook her boobs in the direction of the men well out of sight in the living room. For as long as I’d known her, Dianne always wore a padded or push-up bra ... I suspected that she even slept in one ... maybe that’s why her smaller breasts were still a lot firmer than mine, though I usually support my babies unless I’m alone with Frank … or playing … As she was tucking herself back in, Dianne tried not to giggle as hard as I was when she shrugged, “Maybe I should sit in Frank’s lap and let him work a little of his titty magic on me!”
“He is a Master of the craft …” I giggled on the verge of hysteria — tequila is wicked stuff — picturing myself sitting in Jack’s lap, watching my husband give sweet little Dianne the best boobie massage of her life. And before my brain caught up with my mouth, out came, “You know, Jack might pay more attention to those if you let’em out to play more often …”
Dianne gave me a startled-that-turned-curious-to-naughty look for an unnervingly long time … and finally grinned, “How does that question go … Would You Serve Drinks Topless?”
“Something like that …” I answered, watching the gleam in her eye grow to match the naughtiness of her smile. “You’re not that snockered …”
“I will … if you will …”
“Is that … a dare?”
“Absolutely!”
There we stood, a couple of shitfaced forty-something old ex-Navy wives, five grown kids and three grand-babies between us, daring each other to go topless in front our own pretty-well-wasted husbands. Thinking back on it now, it’s pretty lame I guess … but at the time it was like … stripping on stage or something. I watched Dianne give me her best what-the-fuck-let’s-party! face. “Frank!”
“Yeah babe?”
“We’re gonna need a bigger fire, hon!”
Our husbands were such gentlemen, neither one drooled openly ... much. We sat in their laps (no, we didn’t switch), their hands found our breasts well, Frank went to work right from the get-go and never missed a stroke; Dianne had to put Jack’s hands on her boobies and sort of kick-start the poor guy (it was more than obvious that this was NOT the sort of thing they EVER did in the presence of others). I swear that Dianne’s eyes glazed over when Jack started fondling her, following Frank’s every move with careful precision … I think she may’ve even had one of those quiet little panty-creamers some women can pull off without bringing the house down. The coffee in our cups went cold. The stuff left in the pot burned. We fell asleep cradled in their arms, snuggled against their erections. They put us to bed a little after midnight — and let us sleep! Chivalry lives on …
… or maybe we were just too damn drunk to fuck.
The next morning, I woke up hot&horny, Frank had morning wood — a match made in Heaven! Except that … for my thirtieth birthday, God gave me screaming orgasms. I’m not kidding, ever since the first time I had sex, I thought I was having orgasms. Then, a few weeks into thirty, I had a screamer — literally — that blew my mind and scared the shit out of Frank. The houseboat walls between our two bedrooms were pretty much paper thin, and neither of us wanted to start the day being embarrassed by our sexual acoustics. I told Frank that I was going to the bathroom, which was across the hall and down behind the kitchen, and start the shower. Good cover! Jack and Dianne probably weren’t even up yet. I slipped on my terry robe and headed down the hall while Frank was still trying to figure out how to conceal his stiffy in case he got spotted following me. Yeah, we were still that silly!
I slipped into the smallish bathroom, and saw Jack standing butt naked in the shower with his back to me. When he heard the door close, he turned around with a huge grin on his face, and the biggest hard-on I’ve ever seen in my life! I kid you not, the thing was enormous! We both froze, I’m sure his face was as flush and goggle-eyed as mine, but my stare was riveted on his great big dick. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed like a good half-hour or so, my brain finally paid attention to what my ears heard.
“I thought … you were … Dianne …”
“Yeah …” Smooth, huh.
He reached for a towel; I just stood there like an ogling dummy and watched his naked body flex and stretch. Then I heard my mouth working solo again. “Careful with that thing … you could put somebody’s eye out or something …”
He started to laugh. And the spell was broken. I slipped the knot in my robe, let it drop to the floor, and gave him a nice slow 360 spin with my hands clasped behind my head like one of those silly pin-ups. “Even?”
“Ok,” Jack laughed and shook his head.
Being the well bred lady that I am (no, I’m not even going to mention any of the slutty thoughts that shot through my mind like bullets in a biker bar!), I slipped my robe back on and left Jack standing there butt naked with his big stiff flagpole and went to intercept Frank before this thing got … awkward. I found him in the kitchen with Dianne, who was pouring him a cup of coffee. He gave me one of those I got caught shrugs as I slid up on a stool next to him. When Dianne handed me a cup of coffee I told her without looking at either of them, “Your hubby’s got something for you in the bathroom, sweetie.”
Dianne gave me a quizzical glance, caught my drift, smiled and headed for the bathroom. “Frank and I are going back to bed!” I called after her just as the bathroom door closed and locked.
“I take it you finally saw Jack in the flesh,” Frank smiled through a sip of his coffee.
“Oh yeah.”
“Hard?”
“Very.” I shook my head slowly, remembering Dianne complaining so long ago about how painful sex was, though she was so circumspect that I never really understood her problem.
“Impressive even when it’s not,” Frank chuckled. “Dianne ever talk about their … difficulties?”
“Yeah … hope she did her stretches this morning.”
Frank leaned a little closer and tried to whisper, “Jack told me he masturbates a lot to keep the beast tamed. Dianne still bleeds sometimes after intercourse and it scares the shit out of him.”
“That sucks,” I mumbled, then leaned closer and breathed into Frank’s ear, “I wonder if they play with each other or just with themselves …”
“I’m not all that sure they play with each other all that much anymore,” Frank replied with a sorrowful sigh. Then, with a naughty grin, asked, “You wanna play with me?”
“There could be screaming,” I warned him.
“I’m counting on it.
“That’s my man …”
That afternoon we took the little skiff back to the dock where we rented the houseboat, piled into Jack and Dianne’s SUV and headed to town for some shopping and a big dinner we didn’t have to fix or clean up after. We needed beer, booze, faster food, and DreadfulDares supplies. The little village was way cute. The winding mountain roads replete with awesome scenic turnouts. Jack and Dianne teased and kidded that it was ok with them if we wanted to ride around naked … as long as we didn’t get the leather seats too sticky! We stopped and took a little hike up a cozy winding trail, split up at a secluded Y, got off the beaten path a little and had quickies no screaming, but satisfying in a primal sort of way. Dinner was in a historic old inn, and was fantastic. By the time we got back to the houseboat it was way late and the guys wanted to hit a fishing hole they’d heard about early in the A.M. We turned in and snuggled naked under the sheet on the gently rocking houseboat, listening to Dianne give Jack one more ride before heading to Snoresville. This trip was shaping up to be a whole lot more fun than Frank and I dared hope it would be. Little did we know …
Frank and Jack were up before the sun and already bobbing their bait in the aforementioned fishing hole by first light. Dianne and I had a much lazier morning. We sat around the fireplace in our oversized T-shirts, swilling coffee, munching, gabbing, waiting for the morning sun to kill the night chill. We had, for no real reason, assumed that the guys would be back around eleven. So when noon came and went, we headed up to the top deck patio to see if we could spot them. The sun was high and hot, which put us in the mood to catch a few rays.
Dianne started out with a one-piece grandma suit, but took the teeny-weenie-stringy job I offered when she saw the one I was wearing. It fit her like it was made for her, and I think she finally believed me when I told her around the tenth or twentieth time (and second Margarita!) how hot she looked wearing almost nothing sadly pale though she was. We stretched our big towels out on a couple of deck-loungers and began the sunscreen ritual. I shed my top and bottom to afford unobstructed coverage, having recently discovered my allergy to tan lines. When I looked up and saw Dianne just sitting there staring at me, I shrugged, “What?”
“You’re really going to do this naked?”
“Well … It’s not like this little thing really covers up all that much anyway.” The houseboat was anchored in a little cove secluded from the main lake, and the deck was surrounded by a three-foot tall privacy screen on all four sides. “We’ll hear that outboard when the guys come back, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Dianne looked around, as if scanning the tree-lined shores for signs of voyeurs; then I guess she decided it wasn’t that big a deal anyway, though I didn’t have the heart to ask her if she’d ever sunbathed in the nude, because she finally slipped the knotted strings and went for the full dose of good old Vitamin D. We lotioned each other’s backsides and settled in for a simmering bake. Our chairs were close together, and we lay facing each other. Dianne still had a hint of sexual afterglow lingering on her smile as she laid with her eyes closed, perhaps daydreaming of her last rapturous roll between the sheets at least that’s the shade my naughty mind colored her demeanor. I watched her for a good long while, and finally whispered as if not really wanting to disturb her, but too curious not to, “Did you and Jack have an eye-opener this morning?”