This is tale, like all tales, is of the cautionary variety. I can only tell you what I’ve observed and what I’ve heard about my horny aunt.

“You can’t choose your family,” my uncle often joked kiddingly at family functions. And it’s true, you can’t. I didn’t choose my aunt, she was just there. And there, often times was everywhere.

She was in her time, a cutie, and like all cuties, knew it, and yearned for other people to know the same. She was the type that sparkled in every picture; posed in each like she was a Greek sculpture; and hurried to develop every roll of film she knew she was in.

She married a rich man– a descent man of morals and philosophy, a traditionalist who believed in bread winning, and financial appeasements– out of love as she acclaimed when retelling their story. For reasons left undiscussed, she decided not to have kids, and he agreed. This barrenness was the reason why we believed she gravitated towards our family much more often than a normal aunt would.

She visited our family twice to three times a week, often spending the night. Although, I had thought that it was our game room that made me popular among my friends, it was in fact, her visitations. More accurately, her tits.

She was many things: loud, condescending, and even vindictive at times, but she was never shy. She had a nice natural rack, and at almost every chance, made sure everyone knew. I didn’t know how to feel, on one important hand, she was my aunt, a blood relative, but still that fact alone did not make me shut my eyes when her tits were bouncing around threatening to escape from whatever garment she loosely called a top.

I tried, half-heartedly, to look away those down-blouse moments, but most times, I couldn’t. Even when I found the will to look else where, she held one more attention-hogging weapons– her ever-hard nipples. She peaked, always, braless or not, she always peaked. This as it turns out, and not the game room with the table tennis table, the 50 inch tv, and the array of gaming systems, was the reason that the game room was always packed with friends those hot summer days.

Table tennis was the only game she played. She was not good at table tennis, in fact I remember her begin quite horrible at it, but that nonetheless, did not stop her from trying.

One particular hot summer day, as she was attempting to hit balls with some friends, she stopped, called a time out, and removed her top to reveal a wife-beater tee shirt underneath. She waved the paddled like a fan, stuck out her tongue to the side of her mouth, panted, and said, “it’s hot in here.” She then continued with her the game as the room fell into a state of silence and stares. She would until the end of summer, only play ping pong wearing an undershirt like that. Her nipples raged against the fabric each and every time, her tits bounced as if in slow motion with every swing.

I guess I should have known, but I was too naïve at the time to make sense of it all. I thought maybe she didn’t know; that she was ignorant to her own physic; that she was a creature who couldn’t understand the tendencies of college boys.

As I was observing the frequencies of her physical gloating among my friends, and the unusual giddiness which was hardly ever present with her husband, I should have seen the signs, but like them, I was too distracted by the sights. Sights which were focused on places it shouldn’t have been. Sights which she provided with frequent regularity. Sights that clearly displayed not just an aunt, but that of a really horny women.

On one morning, after a previous night of heavy drinking with the friends, she walked into the game room wearing one of my baby blue dress shirt. It was the shirt I used when applying for internships. She held in her hand a tape.

“Does any one want to watch chilly chilly bang bang?” she asked, quite enthusiastically.

Perhaps it was the morning haze, or the every present nipples, but the room consisting of me and two buddies were relatively silent. One of my friend moaned. She made room on the floor by pushing some stuff to the side, laid a blanket on the ground, and crawled her way to the vcr.

Anyone in the position to view the TV (which was everyone), saw her crawling, exposing her undies. They were pink, and held shapely to her firm ass. From my view on the floor, I saw her tits as they swayed rhythmically to each crawl.

This, no doubt, let to a lot of razzing from the friends, and even cause the ending of a few. But like my uncle said, you can’t choose your family. This acceptance is perhaps the something you can only learn with time. Everyone, the family, her friends, my uncle knew she was the way she was, and had accepted it blindly.

Years later, as I was killing time at the urban outfitter waiting for friends, I noticed a book in their stuff section hilariously titled, “Nude Pix of my X’s.” Needless to say I picked it up.

It was one of a kind, a man had somehow published a book of pictures he had taken of all his previous girlfriends, naked. That in and of itself is a ballzy task. The lawsuits, the risks, it was spectacular. Mostly it showed pictures of girls taken in bed in the 70s. You could tell, the girls had real tits, thick shrubs, and a much different sense of sexiness.

On the side page to each picture, there were captions of the writer’s thought and history with the ex-girlfriend. Some of short, some where long. Most were written with a true sense of honesty.

It was with quasi-shock and denial that when I turned my eyes on page 45, I saw what looked like a picture of my young aunt. It stopped me immediately. I had to take a closer look. The face was an exact match but much younger than I was used to. The nipples were damning evidence as well. They were erect and long, a freakish looking volcano peak standing out in the horizon. They were thick and redish in color. They were amazing.

She was on her knees leaned way back, on a green couch. Her tits firmly pointed in the air, and head leaned as if she was looking skyward, moaning.

I wanted to reach into that page and pick up that picture of a Polaroid to get a closer look. I wasn’t sure. But the evidence matched. She was a horny girl.

The caption read:

Mimi,

She was by far the craziest of my Xs. We would make love for hours, and first thing in the morning, she would want more. She did everything, and wasn’t afraid of a making a mess. It was short lived, she wanted more zest than I could offer. Mimi, I’ll always have a soft spot in my heart for her.

The evidence was mounting. I wrote to the writer, because the name used on the pictures was not hers, but it was understandable I figured for publication and privacy reasons.

I still gave her the benefit of the doubt, even if it was her, who’s to said that in the wild 70s that I wouldn’t have been caught up myself in the love, purposefulness, and reckless joy of a cultural revolution. So she took nude pictures, who hasn’t? right? Especially, beautiful shapely girls with recklessly long nipples.

She was young in the picture. But as the years came, she aged. Fortunately for her husband, in a matter that was physically graceful. Unfortunately for her husband, not in a way that was emotional stable. She was by no means ugly at the age of fifty, but had plumped up, acquired slight wrinkles, and developed saggy tits. This happens to everyone. You can’t pick when you age. It just happens. But perhaps because of this fading of her much accustomed to beauty and all the insecurities that comes along with it, she began to up her level of… exposures.

During another hot summer evening, we had decided that the beach was the best place to cool down and liquor up. Since they lived near the beach, I called her up and told her that we were stopping by to pick up firewood. My uncle had cut down a tree, and for many years held a surplus of firewood which he insisted to give away to anyone who would take it. He was giving that way. We drove in three different cars, but all the friends wanted to come by to help out with loading the firewood onto the truck.

Pulling up in front of the house, I could see that she was outside watering the plants, but I couldn’t believe that she was only wearing her night gown, which as they say, left nothing to the imagination.

She was bent over again, her ass sticking defiantly in the air, the dark region of her womanhood shining through with the help of the setting sun. I yelled to get her attention.

She turned around, looked up and smiled wickedly. “Hi honey,” she greeted me, and with rehearsed insincerity, looked over at the other cars and said, “I didn’t know you were coming so early. And look you brought her friends. Oh my!” I had in the phone conversation, mentioned that a group was coming by.

I thought of two questions I wanted to ask her: How often does someone go build a bond fire at the beach alone? And why was she gardening, when they had always paid a gardener? It was embarrassing to say the least. I could hear the girls that were with us snickering in the background.

“Is that Thomas? Thomas?,” she cheered, “I haven’t seen you in years, how are you? My lord, how you have grown. Come here, gimme a hug.” She proceeded to give him an affectioned hug, and continued with the others, some in which she met years ago, and some who she was meeting for the first time.

As old as she was, she still had nipples that defied gravity. They stood promptly out, and along with her see through clothing and complete lack of under garments gave her the attention that she held easily years ago by simply choosing to wear skimpy clothes.

Question of infidelity always arises when dealing with women like her. There were rumors here and there, and much gossip among family, but through the years, she, unlike others in the family, had maintained her marriage.

Although the gossips were rampant, they remained merely that– gossip. I didn’t take much to that kind of talk. They could have been true, and they could have been lies. It all depended on the sincerity of the talker towards this woman, and the willingness of the listener to make it true. I was an observer, and that was it. I didn’t listen to the rumors, mostly because they always came from women who heard it from another women, who heard it from her girlfriend, who had a relationship with someone in the know.

It wasn’t until much later, during a drug filled night of my life that I heard anything, any rumors from someone I actually knew. Rolling, lofty, and confessional from the numerous E pills we took, my closest friend confessed one night relaxing after a rave that one of those hot summer evenings, he had hitched a ride home from my aunt. And that was true, he had lived her part of town, and was carless that summer after crashing it after a party. In fact, she had given rides many times to those that needed rides, often driving out of her way. As he recounted the story, my heart beat mightily.

“I’m sorry man. You know it was weird. You knew she was hot. I couldn’t help it. She was just giving me a ride home, and out of nowhere, she tells me that she needed to stop by the mall to pay her bills.”

“I just wanted a ride home, ya’kno? Remember I didn’t have no car at the time? So I didn’t care. We went into macy’s and I followed her, she went to pay her bills. But like on the way back, she started looking at some clothes. Man, she told me to hold the clothes while she was shopping. And I was just doing what I was told, u’know? She tells me to get a fitting room. You know? We go get it together. She lead me there. To the fitting rooms. And I was like scared man…”

“She told me to hang on to the fitting room while she goes look for something else, so I did. I was there for like five minutes, and she came back with clothes, and she just– hmn—started to change right in front of me. Like right there. In front of me.”

“I didn’t know what to do man. All I know was she let me watch, and I couldn’t stop. She took off her bra and everything. Man, she had like the longest nipples…the longest nipples!. She took off her pants, and was wearing just her underwear, and trying on everything.”

“I didn’t know what to do man. I kinda just put out my hands out to grab em. And she let me. U’know, I started to fondle those thangs, and she was cool with it. She let me.”

“She let me do that for awhile. And then we just stopped. And she puts on her clothes again, and she tells me ‘come on, time to go home.’ So we leave, and go to the car, and she starts the car. But then she drives to da back of da place, ya’know? To the place where all the trucks park and unload. ‘She just wanted to talk’, she kept saying.”

“We talked like all night in her car. Like for hours. It got dark. She wanted to know everything about me man, about the girls I’ve been with, about my sex life. She kept talking about sex ya’know. And she kept asking how big my dick was. I was shy, but she said she wanted to see it. So I showed her. And…man…she was all over it. She got down in the car and sucked me off, but I swear that was all that happened. She just wanted some. And I wanted some. Sorry man. “

Maybe it was the MDMA still pumping in my system, but it took me back. There were nights after intense table tennis matches that I remember my uncle calling asking if she had left our house for home.

“yeah, she left like an hour ago,” I think I said once.

“oh you know your aunt, she’s probably shopping again,” he joked.

I didn’t want to believe it. Although the evidence was there, I didn’t want to think that she cheated, and that gossip were true, but the evidence was extraordinary. We were on drugs, and it was hard to tell, but I know that it’s hard to lie when you’re feeling so connected.

I didn’t know how to feel. I just kept it in the back of my mind that perhaps she was a nympho. It wasn’t until one day that I would discover for myself exactly how nymphoic she was. But that’s another day, for another cautionary story about my horny aunt and her amazing nipples.