Ain't No Mountain High Enough

“I’m never going out with you again!”

The words echoed through Ginny’s skull. 

She’d heard them a few times throughout the seven decades of her life.

Sometimes the words went in one ear and straight out the other, a direct line so to speak.

Sometimes they got trapped in the sticky cells of her brain and then trouble began.

The words would change from a simple interpretation to one that left Ginny sobbing in a corner ready to throw in the towel. Many had tried to control her over the years.

She had been threatened with expulsion, banishment, shunning and other forms of exclusion, many times in her life.

Ginny had a reputation for being a 'talker'. This puzzled her somewhat, as she liked to think of herself as a storyteller, who asked lots of questions. True, though she listened intently, she frequently took the answers and then made up wonderful stories. She may have had a gift for embellishment, but the kernel of truth usually shone through.

She had actually been a rather quiet child. Some called her ‘strange’. Those were the kind ones. 

Others expressed more definitive opinions, “That kid is weird. Someone should try to control her better!”

Ginny may have been strange, even weird, but what few would deny was the depth of her attachment and loyalty to those she loved, and she did love her people. Those people spanned the gauntlet of humankind, included beings from other species and even a multitude of inanimate objects.

For Ginny, it boiled down to energy.

She felt the raw power of molecules as they raced and sped along unseen trajectories.

She easily became immersed in pools of energy, swept away by the magic rhythm of the Universe, lost in the minutiae of life and all its complexities.

She loved adventure and she loved having company join her. Her ability to persuade others was legendary and had she ever gone into the business of selling cars, would likely have owned a dealership.

“I’m NEVER going out with you again” could well have been the cry of terror from some poor soul who had ventured out just a little too far for comfort, guided by Ginny at the helm. 

She had a knack for uncovering terrifying moments. However, most of her adventures were vastly entertaining and even though occasionally offbeat, provided much fun.

Ginny loved to have fun. She found humour in things that many did not seem to find funny. 

She did her best to maintain a properly sombre expression during these times. If she felt a smirk rising from within, she’d quickly cover her mouth and hope no one thought she was yawning.

The Covid pandemic brought much balance for her. Unlike many, she loved the masks.

There were so many levels that intrigued her with the donning of this simple piece of cloth.

When she first walked into a bank to find everyone masked and perhaps secretly armed, she knew the world had changed drastically.

Her wardrobe of masks began simply, with functionality being the main purpose. 

This evolved quickly and she began custom making her facewear to match her attire.

Then there was the added bonus that few chose to divulge, but smiled in agreement when brought forth.

For the vanity conscious, masks could hide a multitude of evils. Double chins, sagging neck muscles, old scars etc. could all be camouflaged by a beautiful designer mask. Ginny estimated that masks knocked a good ten years off a person’s age. 

Her deep regret was that few options existed to hide her body from the neck down. She often pondered how to camouflage that vast terrain just south of her shoulders.

The best she came up with was long flowing dresses, black skirts hiked up above her bare breasts, with a top, usually colourful, that attempted to hide more rolls beneath.

Her biggest dilemma was the ‘wings’ that flapped below her upper arms. No amount of camouflage seemed to hide that sight and she’d long ago given up on exercising them into a more presentable feature. She eventually just sighed, accepted the reality and went along with her grandchildren’s belief that the flaps were indeed wings and that if she tried hard enough, she could fly. Ginny only had to look into the expectant eyes of her two granddaughters as they clapped and cheered for her efforts to achieve lift off, to kind of believe that maybe, just maybe it was possible. To her knowledge, her feet never actually left the ground, so perhaps those more skeptical souls were correct. Sadly, it became evident that the wings were just skin and muscle gone bad. What Gin preferred to call adipose tissue, was just plain old garden variety FAT. Whatever, she never quite gave up the dream that flight was a possibility.

“I’m never going out with you again”, became a sad statement if you put a question mark at the end. A little theatrical sob, accompanied by a lone tear, puts “I’m never going out with you again???” into a whole new light.

Ginny sighed remembering back to a time when she was about nine.

She had been born the first in her family, with a sister following twenty-three months later.

Their mother had a hysterectomy shortly after the youngest sister’s birth and as she longed to have a large family, began the process of adopting more children.

For some reason, the social worker talked Ginny’s parents into fostering an older child, just to see what it would be like. The arrangement was to be a test run to find out if they were capable of loving a non-biological child as much as the ones they’d produced on their own.

The experiment was a wild success and at the age of five, Ginny became a middle child.

She gladly gave up her position as the first born eldest. Though she never quite got over the entitlement that role had produced, she was delighted to have found a Big Brother.

She adored her new brother Bill and they quickly became best friends. He had been tossed around from foster home to foster home, a rather neglected, injured piece of flotsam and jetsam who landed on Gin’s family doorstep with a whole baggage of history.

He not only was taken in, loved and embraced into the bosom of a caring family, but paved the way for many to follow. Over the years, Gin’s parents fostered and adopted many children. She eventually lost track of how many brothers and sisters she had and when asked, would reply, “A lot, I’m not good at math and sort of lose count.” She would do her best to ignore the perplexed look on the questioners' face.

As her brother matured and blossomed in the love of his new found family, the bond between them Gin deepened.

He was her protector and God save anyone who even remotely threatened to harm his sister. Bill was one tough cookie and no one would dare lift a hand to hurt someone under his protection. Ginny enjoyed a sense of security that never left her. Even after his death at the age of fifty, she would often close her eyes and feel the comfort of his arm around her shoulder and hear his soft whisper, “Don’t worry Sis, I’ve got you covered.”

This deep love between the two did not entirely eliminate the odd contentious moment.

As her brother became a teenager, he grew more and more handsome. With a studied effort, he became a ringer for Elvis Presley and with his ‘bad boy’ reputation, was quite popular with the girls.

Their mother became increasingly more concerned about the trouble he so effortlessly seemed to attract and came up with what to her, seemed an ideal solution.

Ginny was to accompany her brother on outings. This not only freed up time for their mother, but also provided some insurance that Bill would perhaps stay on the straight and narrow. Gin was not exactly good at keeping secrets and their mother knew that were he to stray too far, she’d hear about it from Ginny.

Anyway, Gin about eight or nine, Bill, a handsome preteen, were gathered around in a circle with a gaggle of girls, all competing for his attention.

Ginny was by far the shortest of everyone there and unfortunately, what was available at her eye level was...breasts, glorious, budding and budded bosoms. Boobs in all stages of development displayed temptingly right in front of her eyes.

Now, not yet possessing these wonderful adornments herself, Ginny was fascinated with this bird’s eye preview of what she might expect in the future.

She observed, carefully, cautiously and with a certain amount of stealth.

She knew Bill would not tolerate much that interfered with his ‘cool’ persona and he was already embarrassed enough just to have her tag along. Prep time before excursions included him drilling her extensively on the expected protocol of behaviour.

For the most part, Ginny complied. She was not about to mess up her opportunity to examine live specimens.

The conversation circle was most stimulating and offered her insights into a world that so far had been kept from her awareness.

The teasing, flirting and other displays of mating rituals puzzled and excited her both at the same time. She paid close attention and for the most part was able to attend and focus on the task at hand, close observation of her subject matter.

Then came those moments when her attention became distracted. Some small detail would grab her attention, becoming an uncontrollable obsession. Ginny was powerless when in the grips of a obsessive compulsion.

Now, you have to remember this was the late nineteen fifties, early sixties. Mammary glands were to be contained, constrained and only very judiciously flaunted, that is if you had them.

The most popular bra on the market was a tight garment that featured two cones to hold the actual breast. This contraption looked for all the world like the twin peaks of Mount Vesuvius. When worn by a female, the results were quite spectacular and greatly provoked Gin's curiosity. These cones were so anatomically impossible that she simply could not believe that actual living tissue filled them.

So, picture the scene.

Bill strutting his stuff before a group of giggling teenage girls, all vying for his attention and Ginny, trying to look innocent as she quietly went about the business of gathering vital information.

Directly across from her stood Fay Weldon. A voluptuous young woman with breasts perfectly encased. She was the queen of Mount Vesuvius.

In a trance-like state, almost against her will, Ginny reached out, tweaked one of the cones and in an attempt to divert her actions with humour, said, “Squeak, squeak.”

No one laughed, Bill grabbed her arm roughly, turned and marched her back home.

He slammed into the house, pushed her towards their mother and vehemently proclaimed, “I’m NEVER taking her with me again!”

Ginny did her best to maintain a look of innocence, Bill refused to discuss what had happened and eventually they moved on and back to their devoted big brother/little sister routine.

However, Gin never quite got over the feel of those cones as she pressed through considerable air space to eventually touch raw boob. Her finger still tingled with the exhilaration.

Many years passed.

Bill and Ginny both married, had children and though separated by several provinces, remained close. 

Their journeys took them in very different directions, but the love they held for one another never diminished. Bill's protective shield may have slipped somewhat, but Ginny always knew she could turn to him for support.

Sadly, Ginny never found a man who treated her quite as well as her big brother. Had he lived to know some of her suitors, he would have been quite disturbed. Had he had the opportunity to meet with them privately, most likely Ginny would have had one less candidate for a lover.

Perhaps the following break up between Gin and one of her crushes, Harry, might never have happened.

Their relationship began with some promise, technically speaking, the 'honeymoon' phase. Over time, things became a little more strained and the strong attraction between the two began to weaken.

Perhaps Harry just had enough of wild and crazy and wasn’t able to handle more.

Whatever, the day arrived when he stood before her and firmly pronounced,

“I’m never going out with you again.”

Ginny smiled sweetly, nodded her head in apparent acceptance.

Harry had already begun to walk away and so missed the quiet snort as Ginny whispered, “Like THAT was ever going to happen anyway - Fat Chance!”