BOUNCING BOOB HEAVEN
I was in bouncing boob heaven . . .
My uncle Don’s twenty-four year old wife, Bernadine, was a staggeringly beautiful young woman whose ancestral bloodlines were half French and half Spanish; and I often heard him say how Birdie had inherited the best of both worlds. I thought she had great boobs.
My uncle loved water skiing and frequently invited me to tag along. One of his favorite spots was a place called Pine Flat Lake—a beautiful eighteen-mile-long-lake in central California. Once you were in the cool water, it felt like you could ski forever. My first time up, Don taught me how to be a conscientious observer. The observer’s job was to sit in the boat and watch the skier in case something went wrong. On the day something did go wrong, however, I was watching something else.
Birdie was driving the boat, I was the observer and uncle Don was skiing. He was a world-class ham who loved to flaunt his expert water skiing skill, so he was busy jumping as high as he could over the v-shaped wake that swiftly fanned out behind the speeding boat. The wake was high and violently rolled up on each side of the fan like two turbulently churning water berms. It was dangerous stuff, and I should have been watching him more closely, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Birdie’s bouncing boobs. You see, the boat was shaking and jerking as it carved through the choppy waves and, with each jerky bounce, Birdie’s swimsuit top slipped lower and lower until it was just barely hanging on. I was seconds away from bouncing boob heaven. My heart pounded with lusty anticipation and my fifteen-year old eyeballs were pressured up and cocked to spring from their orbital sockets. Birdie, on the other hand, seemed to be totally oblivious to the situation as she gripped the wheel and concentrated on holding the boat steady. I flicked a shifty glance at my uncle and, seeing that he was skiing backwards, diverted my attention back to Birdie. Then it happened.
Birdie’s swimsuit dropped, she grabbed it, the boat swerved sharply throwing both of us from side to side, I grabbed the wheel, Birdie pulled her top up and awkwardly jiggled herself securely back into place. Then she took the wheel and brought the boat back under control. It was all over in fifteen seconds. Whew! We both sucked in a nervous breath and burst into laughter like we’d just finished a wild carnival ride. Then I looked back towards my uncle. Oh god no! The empty towrope was skipping up and down on the surface of the water—uncle Don was nowhere in sight.
Don was down all right. We found him about a mile back desperately treading water like he was about ready to go down for the third the and, to make mater even worse, his own swimsuit had gotten ripped clean off when he fell. Needless to say, he was spitting mad and, to make matters worse, I managed to tangle the safety rope into an ungainly wad of knots when I threw it to him. The heavy nylon rope landed right on his head and quickly curled around him like a giant slithering octopus. I was terrified he’d drown.
Back at camp, my uncle chewed me out unmercifully in front of everyone. “Always keep your eyes on the skier,” he barked. He was really angry. It was embarrassing for me, especially right there in front of Birdie, but I managed to tough it out without confessing the true nature of my licentious little crime. And if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the time I went water skiing in beautiful Pine Flat Lake, and those fifteen seconds when I was in . . . bouncing boob heaven.
My uncle Don’s twenty-four year old wife, Bernadine, was a staggeringly beautiful young woman whose ancestral bloodlines were half French and half Spanish; and I often heard him say how Birdie had inherited the best of both worlds. I thought she had great boobs.
My uncle loved water skiing and frequently invited me to tag along. One of his favorite spots was a place called Pine Flat Lake—a beautiful eighteen-mile-long-lake in central California. Once you were in the cool water, it felt like you could ski forever. My first time up, Don taught me how to be a conscientious observer. The observer’s job was to sit in the boat and watch the skier in case something went wrong. On the day something did go wrong, however, I was watching something else.
Birdie was driving the boat, I was the observer and uncle Don was skiing. He was a world-class ham who loved to flaunt his expert water skiing skill, so he was busy jumping as high as he could over the v-shaped wake that swiftly fanned out behind the speeding boat. The wake was high and violently rolled up on each side of the fan like two turbulently churning water berms. It was dangerous stuff, and I should have been watching him more closely, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Birdie’s bouncing boobs. You see, the boat was shaking and jerking as it carved through the choppy waves and, with each jerky bounce, Birdie’s swimsuit top slipped lower and lower until it was just barely hanging on. I was seconds away from bouncing boob heaven. My heart pounded with lusty anticipation and my fifteen-year old eyeballs were pressured up and cocked to spring from their orbital sockets. Birdie, on the other hand, seemed to be totally oblivious to the situation as she gripped the wheel and concentrated on holding the boat steady. I flicked a shifty glance at my uncle and, seeing that he was skiing backwards, diverted my attention back to Birdie. Then it happened.
Birdie’s swimsuit dropped, she grabbed it, the boat swerved sharply throwing both of us from side to side, I grabbed the wheel, Birdie pulled her top up and awkwardly jiggled herself securely back into place. Then she took the wheel and brought the boat back under control. It was all over in fifteen seconds. Whew! We both sucked in a nervous breath and burst into laughter like we’d just finished a wild carnival ride. Then I looked back towards my uncle. Oh god no! The empty towrope was skipping up and down on the surface of the water—uncle Don was nowhere in sight.
Don was down all right. We found him about a mile back desperately treading water like he was about ready to go down for the third the and, to make mater even worse, his own swimsuit had gotten ripped clean off when he fell. Needless to say, he was spitting mad and, to make matters worse, I managed to tangle the safety rope into an ungainly wad of knots when I threw it to him. The heavy nylon rope landed right on his head and quickly curled around him like a giant slithering octopus. I was terrified he’d drown.
Back at camp, my uncle chewed me out unmercifully in front of everyone. “Always keep your eyes on the skier,” he barked. He was really angry. It was embarrassing for me, especially right there in front of Birdie, but I managed to tough it out without confessing the true nature of my licentious little crime. And if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the time I went water skiing in beautiful Pine Flat Lake, and those fifteen seconds when I was in . . . bouncing boob heaven.






