The Tabatha Diaries – Ch 7

I walked home from Jo’s house in a bit of a daze. My loins still radiated warmth and happiness from that wonderful, wonderful head job. But my heart was in turmoil and my mind was confused.

Before today, what was left of the “good Catholic boy” in me seemed to yearn for the pretty, shy, “good Catholic girl” in Jo. But that part of me tried to deny that Jo was a busty cock tease and put her up on a pedestal of purity as some unobtainable goddess.

As unexpected as it was for me to discover that Jo was really a dirty talking, cock teasing size queen, who could lick her own nipples and swallow my cum, it was even more surprising to find myself instantly and madly infatuated with such a girl. The old me, who would have judged the new Jo to be a wicked slut, seemed to be left behind entirely as I fell, guilt-free, down the rabbit hole with Jo in that laundry.

But then she mentioned Tabatha, and guilt came rushing back. Not moral guilt that I had been a bad boy with a bad girl, but guilt that I had so quickly and easily forgotten about Tabatha. I felt like I had betrayed her in some way.

In my naivety as a teenage boy, I equated my feelings with “love”. How could I fall in love with Jo so easily when she was such a slut? And what did that mean for my love for Tabatha?

That was the turmoil of my heart.

Overlayed on that was a lot of confusion in my mind. I could not reconcile what Jo said with what she did. So much of what she said was open to more than one interpretation. And she seemed to play dumb, when she clearly wasn’t.

Lisa told Jo that Tabatha fucked a boy from Xavier with a cock thicker than her wrist. Jo knew that I went to Xavier and had a cock thicker than her wrist. And yet Jo did not seem to connect me with the boy who fucked Tabatha. She didn’t accuse me. She didn’t allude to any connection. Was she actually that dumb? or was she just playing dumb?

And if she was playing dumb, and she knew I had fucked my sister, why did she not care? Or, if she cared, why had she gone ahead and sucked me off in the laundry?

It didn’t make sense.

“It’s the baby!” My Mum gushed and fussed over me as usual when she opened the front door. “You’re home! I missed you! I was worried about you! Are you OK? Did you enjoy your dinner at Jo’s?”

“Mmn.”

“What did you have?”

“Pizza.” I pulled away from Mum’s warm hug and headed up the stairs to my room.

“Is Jo your first girlfriend?” she called after me. I blushed, but I kept going and didn’t answer. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

“MMN!” I grunted loud enough for her to hear me at the bottom of the stairs.

My head was spinning. But my mum was the last person I could talk to about any of it.

I lay awake late into the night and I slept in on Sunday morning. The questions still remained, but they seemed less urgent after sleep. I avoided Tabatha until we all sat down to dinner on Sunday evening.

“So, Andy, tell us about your afternoon and evening with Jo. What did you two get up to?” Mum asked. She made it sound like an innocent question, but I blushed and choked on a mouthful of mashed potato that I accidentally inhaled. When I looked up, Tabatha and Mum were both staring at me.

“So she is your girlfriend?” said Mum, as if my choking was a confession.

“Have you called her?” asked Tabatha, in her usual hostile tone.

“No!” I said defensively, trying to imply that it was the answer to both questions.

“Why not, Andy? You’re not going to be one of those arsehole boys who kisses a girl and never calls!” Mum and Tabatha exchanged looks before Tabatha went on. “Not in this house! And especially not with my best friend’s sister!”

“OK, OK, I’ll call.”

That seemed to placate both of them. We continued eating. Tabatha and Mum made small talk as if I wasn’t there. Tabatha showed no sign of being jealous about me hooking up with Jo. If anything, she seemed less hostile. That was not what I expected.

After dinner I called Jo and she sounded pleased. I called from the landline beside Mum’s bed. We talked for ages. I told her how much I had enjoyed last night and she teased me by asking me to list the various things I liked.

“What did you like best?”

“The best bit was when you swallowed my cum. I never expected that.”

“Mmm. I could tell you liked that. That was probably my favourite part too. The way you kept coming and coming and coming. That, and your reaction. It made me happy to give you so much pleasure.”

I was hard again listening to her talk. My heart was pounding and I closed my eyes and I was back in that laundry again.

“Andy? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. When can I see you again?”

We made plans to meet after school the following day at the Fish ’n’ Chip shop. I bought her a bucket of hot chips with tomato sauce and made her suck and lick the sauce off every chip as we walked home together.

“You know what?” she said.

“What?”

“I think these chips would taste better with mayonnaise.” My mouth dropped open. “Thick . . . white . . . salty . . . creamy, mayonnaise.” She smiled a sexy smile. At least now I knew she was teasing me. And I let myself enjoy it. I imagined squirting my “mayonnaise” on more than just her chips. I smiled. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Andrew Hall. What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking that when I’m trying to put mayonnaise on your chips, some might accidentally squirt on your beautiful face.” I was pretty pleased with myself for giving Jo a taste of her own double entendre. But she didn’t seem to like it. She stopped abruptly.

“What kind of a girl do you think I am, Andy?” She sounded offended. I didn’t know what to say. “I’m not one of your porn star sluts, you know!” Really? I sort of thought you were.

“No! No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just thought that . . .”

“Since I swallow, I’ll do anything?” Well, yeah. Won’t you?

“No! Not at all!”

“There’s two things I would never do, Andy. Anal . . .”

“Eew! No! I would never do that either!”

“. . . or let a boy come on my face. That would be so humiliating! The only reason a boy would ever want to do that would be to humiliate me. I could never be with a boy who wanted to do that to me.” Shit, what have I said?

“I’m sorry. I would never do that to you. I promise.” She seemed to calm down a bit. But there still seemed to be the problem that I had said it at all in the first place. We stood looking at each other for a moment.

“I was actually only talking about mayonnaise.” She tried not to smile and then she burst out laughing. She put her arm in mine and we kept walking. Phew!

Jo suggested we meet at a café for brunch the following Saturday. That sounded like such a grown-up thing to do. And it sounded expensive. I didn’t have a job yet and I didn’t get much pocket money.

“They do the best French toast there. Have you tried it?”

“No.”

“They sprinkle it with cinnamon. I love cinnamon, don’t you?” I nodded, but I didn’t quite share her level of enthusiasm. “I read in Cosmopolitan that when a guy eats cinnamon, it flavours his cum.” She looked at me and let that one sink in for a moment. “I’ve always wanted to try it. It’ll be my treat. I’ll take you to brunch and you can order the French toast and afterwards I’ll suck you off and taste your cinnamon cum. Does that sound OK to you?”

I was speechless but I nodded like a bubble head.

Saturday would not come quick enough. I even abstained from wanking on the Friday night. I met Jo at the tram stop, as arranged, and we caught the tram down Glenferrie Road into Hawthorn. The café was called “Café Vamp”. Jo told me it was her favourite and she liked the name. It was only later that I understood the significance.

Jo is wearing a black tank-top that conceals her big breasts beneath a gaping chambray shirt that is open to the waist, where it is tied rather than buttoned. She wears pale blue denim shorts that are modestly made from an old pair of jeans, and cut modestly above the knees. Fashionable rips and holes hint that her thighs are just as brown and lovely as her bare calves. She must be wearing fake tan.

As we sit opposite each other at a table for two in the café, I take the opportunity to study her pretty oval face. She has a fine nose with a sharply defined ridge that scoops into a little ski jump.