Kissing Cousins, Part Two (by Saviabella)

The following entry comes from acting contributor Saviabella. All hail her who helps one in need.

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Sexy cousin toes. Can you tell which ones are mine?

The prequel to this story can be found here.

When I went back to Italy this summer, I wasn't sure what to expect. A decade ago, my cousins Ella, Mona and Sandro were bratty teens and pre-teens. Now, they're in their 20s. I was hoping I could relate to them this time, instead of watching them bicker, hit each other, and play video games.

When I got off the train, I recognized Ella right away. She looked the same, only now, she's stunning. This gal is a size two (with D-cups) and has pretty blue eyes, thick dark hair, and a big smile. Wow. (How the hell did she get those genes and I got stuck with my mother's thighs?)

And then, I saw Mona. Double wow. She is even hotter than Ella, which you wouldn't think is possible, because they're twins. (Yes, hot Italian twins - eat your hearts out!) But there was something about Mona that was really sexy that I couldn't put my finger on. Her hair is curly, while Ella's is straight. She is slightly more curvaceous (uh - double wow) and her facial features are a touch more refined. However, while I can tell the difference between them, most other people can't. So, what was it about her? I vowed to figure it out.

Meanwhile, the twins told me about their brother, Sandro, and what he looks like now:

Ella: He is very big.

Savia: Oh, you mean he's tall.

Ella: No. He is not tall. He is...big.

Savia: Oh, I see. He's a bigger guy.

Ella: No. He is...big.

Savia: Oh. You mean, like, grown up?

Ella: Yes. He is beautiful, too.

The language barrier was frustrating. From their description, I imagined Sandro to be a pudgy short dude with a beer gut who looked old but could be mistaken for mildly attractive by family members.

I was not looking forward to seeing him. Sandro was the epitome of the spoiled Italian boy who was put on a pedestal because he was The Boy. And he took advantage of it, treating his mother and sisters like shit. I couldn't stand him. And he couldn't stand me because when he treated women in the family badly, I'd step in and take him down a notch.

One day during my last visit, he was hitting Ella's leg repeatedly with a leather belt, just because he felt like it. His parents were there, but no one did anything, even though she kept telling him to stop. So, I grabbed the belt and struggled with him until I tore it out of his hand. He screamed at me in Italian. I swore at him in English. He cried. Someone took the belt from me and returned it to him so he could continue hitting her.

The thought of him with a beer gut and a double chin was somewhat satisfying.

After a few days in Rome, we took the bus to a city near my grandparents' town. As we waited for my aunt to pick us up, I noticed this beautiful man swaggering toward us. And, God, was he beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful man I've ever seen in the flesh. He could easily be a model, with his dark hair, olive complexion, big hazel eyes rimmed with lush, thick lashes, and full lips.

'Uh, oh, here comes trouble,' I thought, as I braced for him to hit on the hot twins. Because there was no other reason he could possibly be swaggering in our direction. But then, he came up to me and said, 'Hi Savia.'

I stared at him, utterly confused. How on earth did this gorgeous stranger know my name, and why was he talking to me?

'It's me, Sandro.'

I stared at him some more. Those words did not make any sense.

[Long awkward pause.]

'I am Sandro.'

I grabbed his face with both of my hands and stared at him and exclaimed incredulously, 'No!' We stood there like that for awhile, with me staring and grabbing, and him looking a bit uncomfortable. 'You're gorgeous! Oh, my God - I can't believe it!' Then, I realized I was acting like a freak and quickly gave him the 'kiss kiss' on each cheek and a big hug. I still couldn't grasp that this was the same pudgy little brat from ten years ago.

Over the next few days, I kept staring at him. Just sitting at the supper table and staring, probably with my mouth hanging open. I'd catch myself and look away quickly, hoping that others wouldn't notice. He is just...so...beautiful.

I think part of the reason I was so taken with him is that he looks like my dead father. It was like seeing a ghost. A very hot ghost, mind you. God, he's hot.

And it's not just his looks. There's something about him, something suave and sexy and grrrrrrr. He just oozes mmmmmmmm. Anytime I tried to talk to him, I'd get all flushed and tongue tied and fluttery inside.

I did mention he's my cousin, right? And not even a 'little cousin', a first cousin. Is it wrong to appreciate hotness in all its forms, even if the form it takes is one of a drop dead gorgeous sexy first cousin? Who also happens to look like my father? Who kind of looks like me?

My brother seems to think so. I called home shortly after I arrived:

Savia: Oh, my, God, Bro - you should see Sandro. He's hot.

Bro: Uh oh.

Savia: No, seriously, he is like so hot.

Bro: Uh huh.

Savia: No, I mean it. He is so incredibly hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.

Bro: Quit saying that!

Savia: But he's hot!

Bro: Quit it, that's gross!

Savia: Hey, I can't help it that he's devastatingly hot!

Bro: QUIT IT!!

Savia: You're just jealous because he's FUCKING HOT!

While I did admire Sandro's beauty and magnetic pull, I knew better than to do anything, particularly after my own incestuous Italian cousin experience. It would be bad karma, no matter how motherfucking hot he was. No, I would be a bigger person, a better person than Mass was. I vowed to be non-incestuous. To do so, I had to avoid Sandro like an asthmatic does pollen (aside from leering at him from afar, of course) to ensure I didn't get any drool on his Italian leather shoes.

So, I spent a lot of time with the hot twins instead, which was great. In addition to being gorgeous, they're also sweet, hospitable, and interesting. Mona was particularly affectionate. She would hold my hand as we walked down the street, run her fingers through my hair and down the back of my neck when I was sitting in the front seat of the car, kiss me on each cheek every time I saw her...

Soon, I realized that in avoiding Sandro, I had inadvertently walked into a field o' pollen, so to speak. Because Mona is hot. She is fucking hot. The way she walks, the way she touches you, the way her breast grazes against your arm when you're looking at a book together...

Oh, God. She just oozes sexuality. Maybe even more than Sandro. She's not trying to - it's just part of who she is. And it doesn't matter that you're not into girls, or that you're related to her, or that you're in love with Superstar, you can't help but be sucked into the Mona Sexy Haze. She made me feel all flushed and fluttery inside. And confused. Very confused.

The hot twins, their hot friend and I went to the beach for my final three days in Italy. Because when you're feeling all kinds of weird, inappropriate incestuous lust, the natural solution is to spend a lot of time half-naked together. Did I mention these girls look like bikini models?

Oh, yeah. I did. Just checking.

For the most part, things were alright. Then, one night, Mona was in her bra and panties, smoothing lotion all over her bikini-model-hot-tanned body. Sitting on the bed next to her and trying not to stare, I held my hand out for some lotion for myself. She misunderstood me.

Mona: Oh, you put some on me?

Savia: Uh, okay.

I rubbed lotion on her perfect back.

Mona: You could give massage, too.

Savia: Uh, okay.

I massaged her back. Her very sexy back.

Mona: Ohhhh, Superstar is very lucky. You are...very...gooood.

Savia: Uh. Thanks.

After I was done:

Mona: Okay. Now, I do you.

Savia: Uh. Okay.

I turned around.

Mona: Lie down.

Savia: Oh....Okay.

I stretched out on the bed. Mona quickly straddled me, pulled down the back of my dress and started massaging my back. Like she'd done this before. A lot.

Savia's Brain: Oh. My. God. I have a hot Italian woman who's related to me straddling me wearing nothing but underwear with her D-cups spilling out of a C-cup bra and rubbing lotion into my back like she used to work at a massage parlor. One of the seedy kinds. I am in a porn. I am in a incestuous Italian cousin lesbian porn. I wonder if the other twin and her hot friend are going to join in next? Or if a pizza guy named Leonardo is going to knock on the door...right...now? How many of my guy friends would pay by the minute to be in this room watching this?

I stared at the wall in shock and horror. So very confused. And freaked out. Should I enjoy it? I couldn't even answer that question, because my mind was racing too much to even make that a possibility. It was just weird. But it would have been hot to watch, I suppose.

Anyway, I did finally figure out that je ne sais quoi about Mona and Sandro.

Pheromones.

Hot Italian family pheromones. Completely beyond their control. Biologically oozing sex without even intending to. No one is safe, not even direct relations. Sandro has them, Mona has them, and, judging from Mass' reaction to me, I've got 'em, too.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I've only got one question: what the hell is going to happen the next time I go to Italy? If the third time's a charm, I don't want to know what that means. (Unless they're really, really hot.)

The Blue Swing (by Leahpeah)

The following entry comes from acting contributor Leahpeah, and I am pleased as all hell to welcome her here for her second guest post, because this creativity-killing virus I have contracted has fallen in love with me, and our breakup is proving to be an excruciatingly slow and painful process.

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When the girl came home, there was no one in the house. After walking through the kitchen to the backyard, she shut the door gently behind her, not wanting to disrupt the vibe of the early evening.

The sun was just a tiny slice from setting. It shone brilliantly, radiantly, directly over the barn, the beginnings of color promising to pierce in seconds. She smiled, quietly to herself, thankful to be alone in this moment, her favorite time of day. The dragonflies were just beginning their dance, their bodies back-lit, sharing their beat and rhythm while they chased and feasted on the tiny gnats gathering in clouds above the trampoline.

Delicately making her way through the grass and clover, the girl took her place on the swing. The swing in the center. The blue swing. The swing just slightly higher than the other two. The swing her big sister pushed her on before she left for college over a month ago. It was the best swing and she tried never to sit in any other, quietly waiting near the sandbox while her brother finished his turn rather than climb on the ones on either side. But not today. Today she was alone and didn't have to wait for anyone.

She sat down and reached her arms slightly up and grabbed the chains on either side. Deliberately pushing with one bare toe, she slowlyincreased her speed until the motion created a slow and calming creak-creak, creak-creak and she shut her eyes, feeling the warmth of the setting sun on her face, a quiet, tiny smile on her lips.

She kept her eyes closed, imagining the colors instead of actually looking at them. Right about now there would be a swelling of Mother's Sunday lipstick coming up from the top of the mountain, whose mighty flat top just peeked over the top of the barn. Next, a sharp burst of her sister's scarf along the red and turning into coral in between. On either side would be the deep ocean she'd seen in pictures inside the fattest book on the bottom shelf in the living room, with columns of the Morning Glory blossoms on the vine cutting in between them all. And finally, the end of the show would be patches of her favorite quilt made of white and yellow checks. It was perfect and if you looked very, very closely, you could see her tiny smile increase just a teeny bit.

The heat on her face cooled and she knew the colors would be almost gone. She felt the wind, who had been lifting her hair during her glorious journey, remove his fingers ever so slowly until he was gone, as her swing made its way to stillness, the creak-creaking vanishing and echoing in her ears. She opened and then looked with her eyes, taking in the entire backyard at once in all its glory.

Near the apple trees to the left she saw a figure. A man. Her father. He had the shovel and the hose and was busy watering and packing the reservoirs in the orchard. He had his shirt untucked and his work boots were encrusted with red mud. Was it possible he had been there the entire time while she flew through the air and painted in her mind? How could that have been? Her father took the shovel and with a grunt, shoved the tip into the ground near his right foot. He placed the hose near the trunk of the closest tree, allowing the water to fill, slowly, determinedly, higher and higher, licking the parched, peeling ground. And then he placed his left hand up to his nose, closed one nostril and violently blew air out the other side, dislodging a large snot missile that flew towards the ground, splashing in the puddle with a mighty thunk.

As her father replaced his worn work glove and grabbed the handle of the shovel, pulling it out of the dirt, she knew with all certainty that he had not been there while she had been flying in the sunset. Impossible. She would have known. But tomorrow, she'd look around more carefully before allowing herself to be seen in such vulnerable terms.

Perec (by the Palinode)

The following entry comes from my partner and acting contributor, the Palinode, who has chosen a rather bizarre and somewhat unsettling meat-oriented contribution for today's guest entry. I should have known. Enjoy!

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pig knuckles by barlight   salt and brine
pickled eggs   chitlins & grits
in the morning   sweetbreads for brunch -
pancreas spleen   miscellaneous glands
baluut sloughed   down the throat
jellied hoofs jellied   heels jellied eels
turkey in a tin   vegemite marmite
peanut butter   on wonder bread
angels   on horseback

pataje oorlog surstromming   for the hard of nose
natto   for the chopsticks
ludefisk gefilte fish   for the strong
armor pork brains   soaked in milk
pork gristle drizzled   in chocolate sauce
a haggis hiding   in the freezer section
turducken in turducken in turducken

lardo headcheese   blood and ouns
blood sausage blood   pudding blood
dumplings pair well   with snake wine
My grandfather ate raw   cuttlefish with pepper sauce
at the chrome legged kitchen   table
steak tartar with a beard   of pepper
prairie oysters   sea cows

Spam Klik Hormel   light corned beef
wash down with ouzo toast   with tequila
retire for retsina   puke
to the grapeskin music   of grappa

geoduck goddamn   geoduck