The Breastfeeding Blues
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The next morning I showed Penny how the monitoring station worked, and
went over the business records I kept, and explained why I kept
them. She wanted to know how the systems themselves worked, which
called for a lecture on electronics and some math, but she sucked all
that in with no problem. She had been making good grades before
she dropped out of school.
When I thought of that, I Googled GED and found a number of entries,
including some that said you could get a regular diploma online.
I didn't trust those off hand, but I'd look into them later. I
had a sales call and a warranty repair on a bad motion sensor to do
that morning, so I told her to explore the GED thing herself and see if
she could come up with a plan to finish school while working for
me. She wasn't going to work for me forever, after all, so she'd
need some kind of high school completion to move on with her life.
She wanted to know how to answer the phone, and how to get in touch
with me, so I answered both questions and then took off to get work
When I got finished, I would normally have eaten out, but decided to
go home instead. I hadn't asked Penny to fix me anything for
lunch, but if she had, I didn't want it to go to waste. When I
got there, and walked in, she was sitting on a chair in the kitchen,
And she was crying softly. It was that low, really hopeless kind of crying.
"What's wrong?" I asked, only a foot inside the doorway.
She jumped, and Dilly squawked as he lost the nipple he'd been sucking
on. It looked very dark and large and turgid as her wide,
tear-filled eyes rounded on me. She tried wiping her eyes and
giving him the nipple back at the same time, which didn't work well,
but eventually they got straightened out and he was sucking again.
"Nothing," she said, looking away.
"You were crying," I said. "That's not nothing."
"Look, it's no big deal, okay? I just still have things on my
mind, that's all. How did your morning go? Did you make the
sale? There's tuna salad in the fridge, and I cut up a
cantaloupe. There are strawberries too."
It was obvious she didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering
her. I figured it would come out when she was ready. Maybe,
now that her life was a little more normal, she was upset about her
parents being the enormous butt-faces they were.
"He's thinking about buying a system. It turned out a squirrel
had chewed through the power cord to the motion sensor. He won't
do that again. Fried the little sucker but good."
"That's awful!" she squeaked.
"Well, next time you're online, see what you can find for armored
service wire, eighteen or twenty gauge. If you can find something
that's not too expensive, we'll start using it in areas where little
gnawing animals might be able to get to the wire."
"Okay," she said.
Apparently the nursing bra wasn't for use around the house. She
was braless under the T shirt she was wearing, and when she finished
with Dilly she just let the shirt fall to cover her breasts. I
was beginning to think those nipples were permanently erect, but tried
not to stare.
And that was the way it stayed, there at home. If we went out,
she put on the nursing bra, and carried what I would have called a dish
towel with her that she used to put over her shoulder and cover Dilly's
head with as he nursed. But at home, she just went braless, and
when it was time to feed him, simply bared a breast for him to suck on.
On this particular day, while I was eating my sandwich, I noticed that
he spent ten minutes on one breast, but only two or three on the
other. I asked her about it.
"He doesn't empty me," she said. "He eats really good, but I produce a lot of milk."
"Well," I said.
"Well, what?" she asked.
"He eats really well, not good."
"He thinks it's good," she said, one eyebrow rising.
"I'm sure he does," I said. "But you know what I mean.
You're a professional woman now. You need to sound like it."
"Oh pish," she said. "Who cares about that stuff?"
"Customers care," I said. "If they hear a hillbilly talking,
they'll think it's a hillbilly operation, with hillbilly service."
"I do not sound like a hillbilly," she said, obviously miffed.
"You know what I mean," I insisted.
"Why do grownups do that?" she complained. "Here I was, having a
perfectly wonderful day, probably the best day I've had in months and
months, and you have to go and ruin it by giving me talking lessons."
"Speech lessons," I corrected. I grinned. I thought she'd laugh.
She didn't. Instead, thunderclouds gathered on her face.
"Wa'll I'm sure soree, there, mister, that mah talkin' is so poorly an'
all, but us hillbillies don't hardly git no edumucation lahk all them
city slickers do. Whut I wuz sayin' wuz that my brat here don't
suck 'nuff of my titty milk, an it leaves me kinder sore
sometimes. That's why one of my titties is a little bigger'n
t'other, I 'spect. You s'pose?"
"Take it easy," I said, no longer smiling. "It's not that big a deal."
"Well if it's not that big a deal, then why did you bring it up?" she yelled.
Dilly got upset, because his mother was upset.
I got blamed for that too.
That night, I woke up in that special way that makes the waker
tense, suspecting something is wrong. Usually it's because the waker thinks some sound woke him,
but that sound has gone, now, and it's worrisome. It's happened
to you before. Maybe you thought somebody - a stranger - was in
the house. Of course, usually, you figure it out. The
furnace banged. One of the kids went to the bathroom and flushed
the stool. Maybe someone in the house coughed.
But that night I couldn't figure out why I had awakened.
Then I heard the sob. It was soft, but I recognized it instantly. Penny was crying again.
I got up and went barefoot to her room. She had installed a
nightlight in the outlet on one wall, probably because she still had to
get up and feed Dilly in the night, and that made it easier to see and
change his diaper and so forth.
She was sitting on a hard backed chair she'd borrowed from the kitchen,
and feeding Dilly. I realized she must sleep nude, because the
only clothing being worn in that bedroom was the diaper on the
baby. And she was sobbing gently, whispering "I love you," to her
I almost didn't go in. I figured she was still missing
David, Dilly's father, and the only thing I would be tempted to tell
her was that she was well shut of him, and to move on with her
life. Since she probably wouldn't want to hear that, I almost
didn't go in.
But she was in pain, and my job, as her uncle, not to mention only
friendly relative, was to support her. So I cleared my throat and
stepped into the room.
She jumped, squeaked in distress, and clutched Dilly to her breast.
"You okay?" I asked. I never was any good at ice breaking.
"I'm naked!" she yipped. Then her head tilted. "You're naked!"
That's when I remembered I sleep nude too. I know that, in the
movies, or on TV, when someone gets up at night and goes to investigate
something, they get dressed. But in real life, they come as they
are, so to speak, grabbing the golf club, or ball bat or whatever, and
tending to business first and fashion later. Maybe before the
cops get there after you've beaned the intruder.
"I heard you crying," I said. "Again," I added. I
figured I might as well go for broke. "And based on the little
boy fastened to your breast right now, you've seen a naked man
before. I'm more worried about why you keep crying, and why you
won't talk to me about it."
She was quiet for quite a while, but I learned a long time ago that
when a woman wants to be quiet, to let her, because she's probably
thinking about things. Men tend to do, rather than think, but
sometimes thinking is the better choice.
"I don't want to tell you," she finally whispered.
"Obviously," I said. "But if you keep crying all the time, neither of us will be happy."
"I don't cry all the time," she defended.
"True," I admitted immediately. I didn't want to argue.
There was a pregnant pause, and then she said "Only when Dilly's eating."
That gave me pause. I couldn't figure out why the act of a baby eating would make a woman sad.
So I took the psychologist approach. "It might help if you talked about it."
"You'll think I'm a pervert."
Dilly fussed and she changed him to the other breast. Even in the
relative darkness I could see how large and distended the "used" nipple
was. I felt a twinge in my penis, and slight panic in my
chest. I couldn't back out now.
"I find it extremely difficult to imagine anything you could say that would make me think you are a pervert," I said.
"You will!" she insisted. "It's not normal!"
"What's not normal?"
She moaned. "I am a pervert! It happens even when you're
watching! I thought if you watched, that would make it go away,
but it's not! Uncle Bob, what am I going to do?"
I went and got down on a knee beside her.
"Honey, please ... just tell me what's wrong. Please. I want to help you, but I can't if you won't talk about it."
Her head turned toward me, her blond hair bright in the
semi-darkness. It was easy to imagine those dark green eyes
staring at me.
"When he sucks ... I have feelings," she whispered.
I admit it. I was a bit brusque.
"Of course you have feelings!" I said brusquely. "He's your son!"
"That's the problem!" she practically shouted. "He is my
son! And I shouldn't get horny from my own son sucking my
When you're a big, mean ex-cop, a man of the world, a guy who's seen it
all, who's rough and tough and hard to bluff and used to many a
hardship ... you can't really be prepared to confront a situation like
that. First of all, most guys never get their nipples
sucked. And I'm just guessing here, but those who do, don't get
off on it very much. Men's breasts are vestigial, and the nipples
with them. And while the primary purpose of a woman's nipples are
to deliver milk, they have lots of nerve endings in them to assist in
that. Some of those nerve endings are good for other things
too. But most men don't have the same nerve endings. I'm
not a doctor, but that's what I think, based on my own body.
So the first problem is that men can't imagine what a woman feels when
her nipples are lovingly sucked. It's kind of like our
orgasms. Both genders have them, but the mechanics are completely
different, and the sensations are too.
Then there was the fact that, over the years, I'd been attracted,
sexually, towards people I wasn't supposed to be sexually attracted
to. Every boy, at some time in his life, realizes his mother is
hot, on some level or another. Most boys are interested in seeing
what their sisters look like naked. Actually, to be more nearly
correct, most boys are interested in seeing any woman naked, whether
she's related to them or not. And don't snort and say that boys
don't want to see what ugly, or fat women look like naked. Every
driven by a train wreck? Part of you didn't want to look. Did you look anyway?
Of course you did.
So maybe guys think about these things from a different
perspective. Suffice it to say that I did not consider this to be
the world-shaking event that Penny obviously did.
I stood up too fast, and swayed on my feet, light-headed.
"Oh my!" yipped Penny, whose head was still turned toward me.
I looked down to find that maybe I hadn't stood up too fast after
all. Maybe the reason I was light-headed was because every extra
drop of blood in my body was now being used to sustain a really nice
erection. Well, not nice, exactly ... not under the
circumstances. But it was one of those rock hard ones a guy is
normally proud of, if you get my meaning. I realized, somewhat
dully, that the concept of a naked Penny being turned on by having her
nipples sucked ... had affected me on an unconscious level. And
what was now jutting from my groin was only a couple of inches from
Penny's lips. For some goofy reason I imagined her eyes again,
except this time they were cross-eyed.
"Sorry," I said. I squatted again. My knees
complained. My mind wasn't listening to them, though, because it
was trying too hard to come up with something to mitigate the
unfortunate circumstances I found myself in.
"About the being turned on thing," I said. "I think you're
probably over thinking it. A lot of that stuff works on an
unconscious level. It's just biology. Stuff can just
happen, even when you don't want it to."
I waited for her to say "Like just happened to you?" but she didn't.
Instead, she said "It makes me feel so dirty."
I could hear deep pain in her voice, the kind of pain caused by
self-loathing. And self-loathing can poison a person's entire
life. Maybe it was that that led me to try to convince her she
wasn't the only sinner in the world, so to speak.
"Look," I said. "Do you believe I love you?"
"You have to," she said.
"The same could be said of your parents, but that's obviously not true."
"They're right not to love me," she whispered.
"Stay with me here, Penny," I said, somewhat gruffly. "Do you believe that I love you?"
Another pause, but then a soft "Yes."
"And could I have tossed you in the trash, like your parents did?"
No pause this time. "Yes."
"But I didn't."
"That's true." This time there was a note of wonder in her voice.
"And the reason I didn't, is because I really do love you. Not because I have to, but because I just do."
"I don't understand that," she said.
"You will someday," I said, unwilling to expand the conversation in
that direction. Trying to prove love exists can be a frustrating
and painful argument. I needed to get her to have a little faith
first, and then maybe understanding would come later. "But the
point is that I care about what happens to you, and I want you to be
happy and successful in life. Do you believe that?"
"Yes," she said, quietly.
"And I did not bring you here to have sex with you. Do you believe that too?"
"Yes!" She said it with so much conviction that it made me want
to ask her why she was so convicted. I didn't, though.
"And yet, just now, my body reacted to you. Something natural
happened, not because I wanted it to, or was trying to, but just
because that's how my body works sometimes. Are you afraid of me?"
"Of course not," she said.
"Then don't be afraid of what Dilly's natural actions do to you
either," I said. "It's normal for your nipples to react to being
I would have been fine if I'd have just stopped there. But my mind was working so fast and I was trying so hard to show her how trivial this problem really was, that I sort of coasted on a bit. Somehow I added: "I can even prove it."
There was another of those long, pregnant pauses just then.
That's because I had made that last little comment without thinking it
through. What had popped into my mind, while I was talking about
Dilly sucking her nipples, was ... well ... me sucking her
nipples. It was just an errant thought. But the inherent
legitimacy of the argument was there. My brain was telling me
that it was likely that if I sucked her nipples, it would turn her on
too. Makes sense, right?
Well, actually, there probably needs to be an emotional bond of some
sort between the woman and whoever is sucking her nipples. I mean
if it's some guy who disgusts her, it isn't likely to work. But a
mind like mine - only half there sometimes, if you get my drift - sees
things on a more simple level. That didn't mean I should
share that with her, though.
"How can you prove it?" she asked. After that long pause, her
question was probably a real one, and not just her, being polite.
"Well ..." I said, thinking furiously. "I'm sure I could design
an experiment that would give us the kind of empirical data that would
support my hypothesis, in such a way as to overcome your objections to
accepting my premise."
"Uncle Bob," she said, her voice quite calm. "That's double talking BS. You said you could prove it. How?"
I sighed. I had an idea. "You know how you thought
I'd think you were a pervert if you got sexual feelings from nursing
him?" She nodded. "Well, something silly popped into my
mind, that's all. If I told you what it was, you'd think I was
the pervert. It was just a guy thought. Forget that.
Like I said, it was silly. Let's concentrate instead on how
normal you are, and how what's happening to you does not make you a
pervert in any way, shape or form, okay?"
"No! It's not okay. People keep treating me like I'm a
little kid. I made a mistake. I had a baby. I know I
was too young ... and that it was a bad idea. Maybe if I could
have asked somebody some questions, it might not have happened. I
don't know. All I know is that nobody will answer your questions
when you're a teenager. I couldn't go to my mom because all she'd
do is yell at me for thinking about sex. My dad was even
worse. Well, I had the baby and I can't un-have him. I
don't want to un-have him. I love him. But how can I ever
learn things if nobody will answer my questions? So if you don't
mind ... how can you prove I'm not a pervert?"
"Sweetheart ... it was stupid," I groaned.
"Uncle Bob!" she yelled. Dilly started fussing again.
I gave up. She'd get over it eventually. I just told her.
"I thought that ... If I sucked them ... you'd feel exactly the same thing," I whispered.
She blinked four or five times, staring right at me.
"Really?" she asked. "You think so?"
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