Village Bhabi On Fire

When I finally screwed up the courage to join them in the pool, Wendy was already almost twelve, as were most of her friends, save for the occasional younger sister or brother.My sister and her husband were constantly having these weekend cookouts, so there ought not to have been any opportunities to act irrationally.But where there is a will, there is a way.With no diving board, kids tend to get inventive, to entertain themselves. It didn't take long for Wendy to discover that she could walk up my body (with my help) and turn around, standing on my shoulders as a diving platform.My sister's rule was that diving wasn't allowed (a wise safety protocol) but the kids enjoyed jumping, some even doing cannonballs. After seeing the confidence exuded by Wendy in my ability to remain a stable platform, the other kids begged to be allowed the same.This afforded me a new opportunity: In order to keep these little exercises safe, I needed to keep my eye on each child as they climbed me,. Granted, I still received attention, it was impossible not to be dressed, as I always was, in this crowd of largely careful married men, polite rebuffs were generally enough. This could not be said for all places in town. I ordered a martini, another habit I quietly absorbed from Melinda, and was given the drink on the house accompanied by the friendly wink of the bartender. He had never aggressively tried to pick me up, but had shown interest within the bounds of professionalism; a wink here, a free drink there, nothing over the line.I smiled at him, wondering as I always did, how he would feel about my true gender. How any of the men who courted me here would. There had been, over the weeks, the occasional man who did seem to suspect. An off hand and extremely subtle remark here and there told me of both their interest and their feelers to determine if I were in fact a t-girl. But these were men who, despite their immaculate suits and corporate hair cuts, sought out t-girls who.
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