The sweat isn't terrible, if you lifted up your arms there may not be a sweat stain, but the sweat pooled in small droplets along you. In your chest, on your scalp, the back of your knees; slick, unnoticeable places that nobody would notice. You're not really sitting anywhere, so there is no stain on your back, and your mama doesn't let you wear the tight clothes, so the sweat bead dripped down your neck and through your shirt, resting on your bra didn't show through your shirt.
Although your sweat isn't bad, it made the heat worse. The sticky, thick heat that stuck to your body for hours. You were wading through it like a pool. The kind that you didn't want to go outside for, but your mama made you so she did not get smoke in the house from her cigarette from watching you all day.
And when you were outside, Mama stayed on the porch and talked to all the other mamas. They had their hair twisted in tight buns so that their hair did not add to the heat on the back of their necks. They wore their husbands shirts because they were thin and not tight, the air moved through them freely, and shorts to their knees. The denim stuck to their thighs and they were a pain to take off, but they didn't want to go to the pool yet. They smoked cigarettes and talked across the lawns to each other, comparing gardens and recipes.
Some mamas had older kids. Ones in fifth grade or middle school. Young boys and girls who took the task of watching the others on their bikes. Although not really allowed in the street, they still went to retrieve the ball when the mamas weren't looking. The ones who could hula-hoop with no problem at all, and could watch the one baby from the house next door as that mama came to gossip.
And then the daddies would get home from their jobs, thick and fat from sitting all day. They would sweat no matter if the aircon was on. They got out of their cars, and even kids that were not theirs came to greet him. He would shove them away, his wife telling him something he didn't care about. Now he had ten minutes to beat off. He did that in the bathroom, walking back out and putting on swimming trunks- no matter if they were going to the pool- and one of the shirts that his wife happened to not be wearing. He came back outside to see all the other daddies sitting on their porches, watching their wives asses and comparing work. And he would come sit down and they'd give him a beer and they'd drink.
It would get to a comfortable temperature, and the little kids would relish in it. They would climb the tree in the dimming light, the blue and scary light. The kind for Ghost Tag. The kind that the mammas would start saying "only five minutes more" every ten. The older kids have gone back inside now, aching to play with the little ones, but they had to be big.
And when the first little one had a meltdown, the daddy of that baby turned to his wife, scolding her for how late it was. That mama would apologize and take her kids inside, dunking them in the bath and then rubbing cream on their mosquito bites. And that daddy would sit outside as the next baby cried, watching his friend scold his wife, until all the babies and wives were gone and it was just beer and mosquitoes.
Once the babies were now in pajamas and in bed, the mammas would come back out and sit on the daddies laps, talking and now drinking wine. They'd rub their asses that they knew their husbands had been looking at since they got home against their dicks and wait half an hour for them to finally show that they were getting hard.
Then, one of the babies, usually the older one, would come outside, asking for something. The daddies were too drunk and horny to care, and the mommas were getting tipsy; they'd respond with something along the lines of "we'll be up in a minute" and that baby would stay up all night, listening to the bedsprings and sobbing until a sibling held them until they fell asleep.
Then, in the morning, it would all start again, and that was the cycle of summer.