She knew they would know why she had that massager in her room. She knew they wouldn’t believe the story about a soccer injury needing massaging. She would never get over the embarrassment of having her parents aware that she was using their electric power tool to masturbate. As she put her hand on the newel to begin climbing up the stairs, she suddenly looked at me and scowled. She hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. Could it have been her little brother? My heart sank into my stomach as my perfectly rehearsed idea of how this conversation would go seemed all wrong all of a sudden. “What’s the matter? Lose something?” I said, with a nervous smile. I could see she was weighing whether or not to ask me. “No,” she said. “What are you looking for?” “Nothing,” she said, then turned to go up the stairs. Suddenly she stopped and turned around, coming toward the couch. Whispering, so mom and dad wouldn’t be disturbed, she said, “Have you been snooping around in my room?” “I might have. You lost. Now pay up.’ He sighed. ‘Two-hour back rub, coming up.’ ‘With oil.’ ‘Yeah, yeah. ‘ He smiled as they dried each other. Win, lose… Fun either way. ‘I love you, Little Heart.’ She smiled. ‘Bring the oil, Geoffie.’ — Their lovemaking was as apt to begin with a caress over dinner or a welcome-home kiss when Amy returned from class as with a planned encounter or a fantasy. He would stroke her arm or kiss her fingers, or she’d give him a hug or grab his ass, and their eyes would meet – and they might go on with what they were doing, or they’d kiss and hold each other and slowly grow more passionate – or they’d be seized with urgent need and strip each other feverishly, ending up in bed or on the floor or in the shower. Their moods seemed to reinforce each other and increase in depth, a sort of echo effect. If one felt warm and quietly affectionate, they both did, and they would make love gently and slowly, with a quiet, sweet tenderness and closeness that brought them to.
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