The tight end

MEET THE WHITTIER STONEWALLS . . .

Nuke Outlaw

500 pounds of offensive penetration.

Pete Gorgonzola

a wide receiver as rough as he is far out.

Bubba Weaver

the weak safety with strong, gay forward motions.

Freck Foley

a thrusting linebacker who can't resist a pretty mouth

Plowboy Palmer

the offensive left guard with sheepish ways.

Hans Brinker

middle linebacker; he always plugs the wrong hole.

Grinder Meade

who tackles integration—and women —head on.

Horseshoe Cohen

the kicker who can't find the slot.

Craig Cramp

the up-tight end.

Ambrose Pierce

why is he always offside in the erogenous zone?

They’re in the pro football cellar with

a record of 0 (points) for 36 until Man from O.R.G.Y

Steve Victor joins the team

with the hottest new quarterback to ever

swing her way to the Superbowl!

THE TIGHT END

TED MARK

1981

AUTHOR ’S NOTE

There is no such team in either professional football conference as the Whittier Stonewalls. While the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Philadelphia Eagles are of course actual and renowned professional football teams, and the names of real players on both teams are mentioned in this work, this is to certify that no such games as those described here in actually took place and the participation of those mentioned by their real names is completely a matter of the author’s imagination. The games described are meant solely as entertainment and in no way to reflect on the considerable abilities of those Steelers and Eagles mentioned by name. It is the author’s hope that all those involved in professional football will get some of the enjoyment back through reading this book that the author has received over the years as a spectator of the sport.

Ted Mark

CHAPTER ONE

Ahhhh! Superbowl Sunday!

At the foot of the bed the color TV was on, the rabbit-ears finely tuned. I’d cracked open the six-pack and the first beer was already flowing down my gullet. On the screen the players stood at attention as the national anthem was sung. Beside me, under the sheets, Stephanie Greenwillow squeezed my penis.

The beer cooled my belly. Stephanie warmed my erection in her hands. Oakland kicked off. Superbowl XV was under way. God bless America!

All was right with my world.

Almost . . .

“Why do they all jump on that one man with the ball so brutally?” Stephanie inquired indignantly.

“It’s their job to stop him.”

“But they’re so big!”

“They’re defensive linemen. They’re supposed to be big.”

“They’re doing it again! It’s not fair! He’s already on the ground and they’re piling on top of him!”

“Stephanie! Don’t sit up like that! You’re blocking the screen!”

“But look! That’s vicious! Look what they’re doing!”

“How can I look if you’re blocking the screen?”

“I don’t care! It’s sheer brutality! It’s a clear illustration of football as metaphor for man’s inhumanity to man, wars, exploitation, inhumane—”

“Interception! Interception!” I couldn’t tell whether it was Engberg or Olsen announcing the pick-off from the set behind Stephanie. “Martin gets back to the Eagles’ thirty from the forty-six and he’s brought down there.”

“Stephanie,” I begged. “Get out of the way so I can see the instant replay.”

“The what?”

“The instant replay.”

“What’s that?”

I explained.

“You mean they show the same thing over again? What’s the point?”

“The point is that if a naked woman pops up in front of the screen so you miss the play the first time, you get a second shot at seeing it.”

“My goodness! They do think of everything, don’t they?”

“Lie down, Stephanie!” Too late! The replay was over. I’d missed it.

“Don’t be grumpy.” Stephanie’s red hair fanned out over my face, tickling my cheeks as she kissed me. Her large, round, naked breasts, the red nipples stiff, pressed against my bare chest. The swollen purple lips of her vagina nipped at my aroused phallus.

It worked. My grumpiness subsided. It's hard to stay mad when a young woman like Stephanie lays out the feast of her voluptuous body for you.

I licked her nipples. She bit my ear. I stroked her clitoris. She fondled my balls. I moaned. She moaned. And then—

“TOUCHDOWN! TOUCHDOWN!” The crowd was roaring. “Branch has the scoring pass and Oakland’s on the board!”

“Damn!” I shot up in the bed, almost shoving Stephanie to the floor. “Godammit to hell!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The matter? The matter? I bet Philly and I gave three! That’s the matter! And I didn’t even get to see the goddam touchdown!”

“You mean you’d rather watch these Neanderthals pulverize each other than—than—”

Stephanie was sitting up again, blocking the TV set, hands indignantly on hips.

“Christ! Now I missed the conversion!”

It was my own fault. I’d been listening to Stephanie Greenwillow putting down football since the pre-season games back in early September. Stephanie was a dedicated feminist, author of The Moving Needle, a definitive work on rape and seduction from the victim’s point of view. Her antipathy to gridiron mayhem came with the territory. I should have known better that night a week before the Superbowl than to challenge her attitude.

“You run off at the mouth about ‘macho’ and ‘violence’ and ‘brutality’ and ‘the battered wife syndrome’ and ‘frontier mentality’ and all sorts of other disconnected-—not to say remote—items, and you lump them all in with football, and the truth is you don’t really know the first goddam thing about the game!” I’d accused her. “Why, I’ll bet you’ve never even seen a pro football game.”

“I’ve never seen a war either. I don’t have to see one to know I’m opposed to it.”

“Football isn’t war.”

“It’s all part of the same sick manly syndrome.”

“Bull! There’s no connection! Football isn’t just physical. It’s intellectual and esthetic too. It can be like a game of chess. A well executed play can be like a perfectly choreographed ballet.”

Yeah, I know. It was a bit much. But what do you expect? She had me on the defensive.

“It’s a primary symptom of what’s wrong with our society!”

“There you go again! You’re just parroting the liberated woman’s party line. At least watch a game, so you know what you’re talking about.”

She thought about it a minute. “All right,” she decided grudgingly. “I’ll watch a game with you next Sunday.”

“Next Sunday is Superbowl Sunday.”

“Isn’t that all right?”

“Oh, sure. Sure.”

Superbowl Sunday! My luck!

So here we were. The game was only a smidgeon over six minutes old, and I’d already missed the first interception, the first touchdown, and the first conversion. I wondered if feminists feel as strongly about murder as they do about rape

Stephanie was sulking. “Do you think it would be all right if I had a beer?” she asked with petulant sarcasm. “Or would that be too much of a distraction?”

“Sure, baby. Have a beer.” My bitterness gave way to remorse. I’m a sucker for guilt trips, and after all, she was my guest. Her watching the game with me was my own doing. “Let’s be friends.” I kissed the little pulse at the base of her neck.

I didn’t have to see the red light flashing or hear the bells jangling to know I’d hit right on target. The sensitivity of that pulse was one of the first things I’d learned about Stephanie when we’d started sleeping together on a steady basis about a month before the start of the gridiron season. Kissing her there was key to fulfilling all of the erotic fantasies her body aroused in me.

It’s the kind of body that’s sometimes described as Amazonian, or Junoesque. Stephanie being a leading feminist, such descriptions, I suppose, are inevitable. But there is an implication in them of unyielding flesh which is very far from the reality of Stephanie.

She may be tall and hold herself tall, but she is also very soft and womanly. Her breasts are large and creamy and welcoming as fleece. Her long legs are sleek and shapely. Water jugs might be slung easily from her hips, and when they are in motion their rhythm is the raw stuff from which erections are erected. Her behind is high and plump, compact and springy. Lascivious traps lurk deep in her jade-green eyes and when she discards her inhibitions in bed, her mane of red hair swirls about like a demanding whirlpool sucking one deeper and deeper into the tempestuous depths of her libido.

Phew! But it’s true, all true!

Now my kissing of the pulse at the base of her neck unlocked that libido. She dug her nails into my back and spread her thighs and moaned and bounced on her volatile bottom. “Steve!” She kissed me urgently, her tongue deep in my mouth. “Ahh! ... I’m ... so . .. hot!”

My cock, flat up against my naked belly and prodding, told me it was mutual. Lying atop her, I rested my chest on the pillow of her breasts. Her long, excited, blood-red nipples burned into my flesh. I reached down and my fingers tangled in the silky hair over her Mound of Venus. I probed and found her honey hot and flowing. I played with her clitty and she sank her teeth into the muscle of my shoulder. “Don’t tease me,” she panted. And her ass burned and writhed under my squeezing, stroking hand. “Please! Please!”

I shifted position. I raised her legs over my arms and placed them on my shoulders, placed them high so that her thighs, their muscles straining and the insides shiny with a mixture of syrup and perspiration, pressed against my upper chest. This bent her long body double and raised her pussy and spread it wide. Sopping as it was, it was also deliciously tight and thrillingly ridged. I eased my cock inside her, savoring the rippling sensation. And then I began to pump with short, hard, deep, punishing strokes.

Stephanie began beating a tattoo on my shoulders with her fists. “Fuck!” she snarled, half crying. “Fuck!” And she slammed her pussy against me in a manner that kept my hot balls swinging, a manner that insisted that she was fucking me every bit as much as I was fucking her.

We went at it for a long time. Sometimes we pumped. Sometimes we screwed. Sometimes we teased and sometimes we punished. We aroused and we held off and then we aroused each other again. And we made verbal demands on each other as we humped:

“Squeeze my balls as I come down inside you!”

“Suck my nipples hard!”

“Ride up and down on it!”

“Play with my ass!”

“Squeeze tighter! Tighter!”

“Harder! Faster! Harder! Faster!”

“I’m gonna fuck the ass off you, Stephanie!”

“Yes! Yes! Yes! . . . Oh! I’m going to come! . . . I can feel it! . . . Your cock is—! Ooh! I’m going to come!”

And just then—-

“Jaworski to Rodney Parker, and it’s touchdown Eagles!”

My head shot up and turned as if my neck was double-jointed. Hell, I was betting Philly. Shit! I was just in time to hear the play called back. Illegal motion!

“What’s that? What did you say?” Stephanie panted.

“Illegal motion!

“What’s that?”

“Something like this!” I told her, slamming my cock so high up her cunt that I momentarily breached the mouth of her womb.

“Oh, darling!” She began playing her own version of Ravel’s Bolero with her quim.

I danced to her tune. Once again we writhed in sync, building to orgasm. Once again we took our time, savoring, teasing, fucking intimately, deep and hard. Once again we reached the point where Stephanie announced “I’m going to come!” And once again—

The crowd roared. Both announcers were shouting at once. By the time I managed to crane my neck around again, it was over. King had taken a pass from Plunkett and gone eighty yards for the Raiders’ second touchdown.

“What is it? What happened?” Stephanie, still writhing, noticed that I wasn’t writhing back.

“Touchdown.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Touchdown. A record-breaker. The longest play in Superbowl history.”

“The longest—” Suddenly Stephanie’s foot drew back and shot forward into my face. Her next kick went right between the goalposts to score a devastating blow to my testicles. And then she was out from under me and storming across the room. “I don’t believe you!” she was screaming. “I just don’t believe you!”

“Listen.” I tried to explain. “Try to understand. I took the Eagles and gave three points. Sentiment. Next to New York, the nicest people live in Philly.”

The pain in my balls was making me babble.

“What I mean, this is real tragedy. A TD called back. And now a fluke eighty yard run!”

“You listen to yourself! Just listen to yourself! There I am about to come and you—! Ooh! And now you stand here trying to tell me—! Ooh! I don’t believe you! Ooh! I just don’t believe you! Can this be Steve Victor behaving this way? Can this be Steve Victor, the reknowned man from O.R.G.Y.?”

“Come on now, Stephanie! What does that have to do—?”

“Steve Victor, the illustrious sex expert!” she jeered. “The fair haired boy of the sex research grant circuit! The sex-master who’d rather get his rocks off watching barbarians clash over a pig’s bladder than satisfy a woman! Yes, Steve Victor, whom they mention in the same breath with Kinsey¹ and Masters and Johnson² and Comfort³ , but whose real heroes are bone-breaking behemoths in human form. The Man from O.R.C.Y. indeed!”

“O.R.G.Y.,” I reminded her frostily, “is not meant to indicate my status. It stands for 'Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth’ “

“And is this what you call rational guidance? Make touchdowns, not love!”

“You’re beautiful when you’re angry.” I tried to lighten the hostility with a joke.

It was a mistake. Stephanie’s sense of humor was on vacation. She took the remark as an insult. “Don’t you dare condescend to me!” And she began scrambling into her clothes.

It took the rest of the first half to convince her to stay. I missed the Eagles’ field goal early in the second quarter. I didn’t see the Oakland attempt which failed. Neither did I view the second attempt by Philly in the closing minutes, nor the spectacular move by Ted Hendricks which blocked it.

Stephanie and I spent halftime getting it on again. We got into it so deeply that I didn’t even miss a stroke at the beginning of the second half when Branch wrestled Plunkett’s pass away from Young in the end zone to put the Raiders ahead twenty-one to three. Nor did I allow Bahr’s subsequent field goal to distract me. Hell, at twenty-four to three, I figured my bet was down the drain anyway. I put Philly-spot-three out of my mind and humped in keeping with my reputation as Steve Victor, the one-and-only Man from O.R.G.Y. The best rational guidance one can supply youth, after all, is to set an example.

“Ooh!” Stephanie was appreciative. “Ahh! There! Stick it there! That’s right!. . . Now there! Harder! . .. Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!” Her ass burned red hot to my balls bouncing off it.

The fourth quarter began with a grinding corkscrew motion that had the two of us twisting like tortured tops. Jaworski connected with Keith Krepfle and the Eagles had their first TD. “Don’t!” Stephanie moaned when I showed signs of interest in this development. Obediently I kept screwing while I listened for confirmation of the extra point. Who do I know who might be getting this on video cassette? I wondered to myself as I pounded away at the panting, moaning, writhing redhead.

“Now, Steve! I’m there again! I’m going to come! I’m—”

Bahr kicked a thirty-five yard field goal to make it twenty-seven to ten and my telephone rang.

“Don’t stop!” Stephanie begged as I answered It.

“Hello.” I didn’t stop.

“Hello, is this Steve Victor of the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth?”

“I’m coming! I’m co—!”

“Yes. This is Steve Victor.”

“This is Charles Putnam, Mr. Victor. Do you remember me?”

Did I remember him? Did Faust remember Mephistopheles? Now I stopped.

“Steve! What happened? You went all soft!” Stephanie was in tears.

“I remember you,” I told Charles Putnam grimly.

“Good. Then I’ll come directly to the point. I have need of your services, Mr. Victor.”

Collection Day for Souls, Brother Faust! I flopped limply out of the distraught Stephanie. “Need of my services,” I echoed. The words were like a warning bell reminding me of just who the devil was on the other end of my phone.

Charles Putnam, in the days when I’d had dealings with him, was the top shadow executive of the United States government. His niche was somewhere in the cracks between the spheres of diplomacy and espionage. Here, snugly hooked into the State Department and the CIA, although acknowledged by neither, Putnam influenced such decisions as the Bay of Pigs, the assassination attempts on Castro, the establishment of a series of puppet regimes in Vietnam, the toppling of Allende in Chile, the training of secret police for the Shah of Iran, the extrication of the Pahlevi booty when the Ayatollah came frothing to power, and many others less well known. Presidents from Eisenhower through Carter had been guided by his judgments in their continuation of U.S. foreign policy. And yet, according to each of them in turn, Charles Putnam did not exist.

His colorless persona was undisturbed by grey hair, a grey face, and an addiction to custom-made grey flannel suits which followed fashion in the width of their lapels, but otherwise were indistinguishable one from the other. The epitome of the laid-back policy setter, he was so adept at fading into the background as to have all but mastered the art of invisibility. The compleat patriot, the revelation of error in no way diminished his dedication. If the wrong cables were sometimes sent and the wrong armies sometimes moved (or the right armies in the wrong direction), Charles Putnam nevertheless pursued his course unquestioningly and without deviation, secure in his faith that despite minor misjudgments the rightness of Our Cause must ultimately prevail. His patriotic fervor was both dynamic and inspirational. So much so, indeed, that I had myself responded to it on more than one occasion in the past.

Need of my services. . . “Espionage?” Those past experiences phrased the question I now spoke into the telephone.

“Oh, no, Mr. Victor. I’m retired from government service,” Putnam informed me.

On the TV screen the game was winding down. In the bed beside me, Stephanie was glaring at me and playing with herself. “If not spying, then what?” I asked.

“I can only answer that, Mr. Victor, by asking you a question.” I could visualize his thin lips pursing. “What is the major focus of America today?”

I glanced at the TV set. The camera panned over the filled bleachers. Prime time. Sunday night. Millions watching. “The Superbowl,” I replied.

“Quite right.” Putnam agreed. “Football. That is the main concern of America today. The gridiron is a microcosm of our nation -- its raw energy, its spirit of cooperation, its smooth performance, its aspirations and goals. Indeed, American ideals are both formulated and expressed on the gridiron.”

Jesus! I glanced at Stephanie. Maybe she was right about football after all.

“What are you getting at, Mr. Putnam? Just what is it that you want from me?”

“Some associates of mine have asked me to retain your services as an expert in the field of sexuality. The assignment has to do with football.”

“I’m not interested. I don’t like working for you or your ‘associates’, Mr. Putnam. In the past, no matter how it started out, it always ended up with somebody shooting at me. I don’t like being shot at, Mr. Putnam.”

“This assignment isn’t like that, Mr. Victor. There is no danger.”

“Ha!” I snorted disbelievingly. “The answer is still no.”

“Would a great deal of money influence you to change your mind, Mr. Victor?”

I would not put a .45 slug into my mother for a great deal of money. I would not perpetrate atrocities against little children. I would not commit vivisection on cocker spaniel puppies. I would not vote for Ed Koch. Such are the principles I would not violate for a great deal of money. There may be a few others, but Putnam’s proposition did not seem to be among them.

“How much money is a great deal?” I inquired cautiously.

Putnam mentioned a figure.

“That,” I granted, “is a great deal of money.”

“I thought that you would think so, Mr. Victor. Stephanie’s tongue was licking one of her elongated red nipples. Two fingers of her hand were plunging in and out between her straining thighs. Her gasps were audible. Her eyes were slowly crossing.

“What do I have to do for it?” I asked Putnam.

“Are you familiar with the plight of the Whittier Stonewalls, Mr. Victor?”

“Sure. The Walls are the joke team of professional football. They just ended in the subbasement for the second season in a row. Any third grade Little League team could take ’em without eating their Wheaties. But why would they interest you and your associates?”

“Sentiment.”

I thought about that. “Bullshit!” I decided.

“Suppose I told you that my associates own a controlling interest in the Whittier Stonewalls, Mr. Victor?”

“Now that kind of sentiment I understand. But how do you come to be associated with people with such lousy business judgment, Mr. Putnam?”

“We provided the financial backing to enfranchise and run the team. No matter what you may think, it was and is pure altruism. We are paying tribute to the most famous bench-warmer in Whittier College football history. Surely I need not identify this statesman by name, Mr. Victor.”

“Nope. But why would you want to honor a 'statesman’ whose most famous public utterance is 'I am not a thief’⁴ ?”

“Compassion, Mr. Victor. Our sole motivation has been compassion towards one who once held, after all, the highest office in our land.”

“Which he left, in a manner of speaking, one jump ahead of the bank examiners.”

“Nevertheless, his fall moved us deeply.” Putnam ignored my cynicism. “When he held power, he had been sensitive to my associates’ interests, and so there was-—and is—an obligation to cushion his fall from grace. Knowing how fondly he looked back on his college football days, aware of his ongoing interest in the sport, what better tribute to occupy his mind than a professional football team based in Whittier.”

“Why Whittier? Why not the San Clemente Plumbers, or even the Washington Watergates?”

“Ooh!” Stephanie writhed. Her hand was a fist now, buried in the sleek red pubic curls. “Ooh!”

Putnam disregarded my alternatives. “Our tribute, however, has backfired. The Stonewalls, as you pointed out, are a professional football joke. In the two years of their existence, they are zero for thirty-six. That zero, by the way, does not only stand for games won. It also is the number of points they have scored to date. This record has pushed the statesman they were to honor into a deep and desolate depression worse than any he has ever experienced. He walks the streets of your city muttering bitterly to himself about six crises, a catastrophe, and now this!”

“In New York nobody will pay attention. They’ll think he’s just another subway rider.”

“This is not a time for levity, Mr. Victor. It is affecting his health. My associates are concerned. Something must be done about the Stonewalls!”

“How about a new team?”

“Exactly, Mr. Victor. And where would you start?”

“Quarterback, I guess. You had eight last season and not one of them ever completed a pass. Two of them broke the all-time league record for being sacked.”

“Right, Mr. Victor. Now how would you go about getting a competent quarterback?”

Pondering the question, I glanced at Stephanie. Humankind, the anthropologists used to say is distinguished from animals by the opposing thumb. It is this which grants human beings the dexterity to evolve. At the moment, Stephanie was evolving by using one opposing thumb to hold wide the swollen purple lips of her pussy in order to strum her protruding, rigid red clitoris with her other opposing thumb. The smile on her lips was both anguished and ecstatic.

“Draft picks.” I answered Putnam’s question.

“Four of this year’s Whittier quarterbacks were first round draft picks.”

“You’re supposed to scout them first.”

“We did scout them. And we just discharged the scouts and hired new ones. Indeed, one of those hired is a friend of yours, Mr. Victor, a former professional football defensive tackle known as ‘Rhino’ Dubrowski. Christian name, Elmer.”

“How did you know that Rhino is a friend of mine?”

“More than a friend, surely, Mr. Victor. He was a Marine serving in Vietnam when you were there on assignment for me just before the final excrement hit the helicopter blades. He saved your life as Saigon was falling. You are eternally grateful to him. It’s our business to know these things, Mr. Victor.”

“I thought you said you were retired.”

“Old habits die hard.” Putnam’s laugh was as dry as a peanut butter sandwich in a sub-Sahara drought. “In any case, your friend Dubrowski claims to have discovered a sensational young quarterback playing sandlot football in Little Rock, Arkansas He says that this quarterback can pass, fake and run—all to perfection. The name of the quarterback is Terry Niemath.”

Stephanie was lying on her back now, her sleek legs stretched straight up in the air at a very wide angle. The candle from the night table (I always keep a candle handy in case of sudden blackouts; with Con Ed you never know) was clutched in her hands, moving in and out of her like a piston. She was bouncing so energetically that the undersides of her breasts were slapping against her rib-cage. The nipples stuck up like miniature markers signaling quivering red lust.

“Terry as in Bradshaw?” I asked Putnam.

“That’s correct.”

“Namath as in Joe?”

“Not quite. It’s spelled N-i-e-m-a-t-h.”

“Close enough if you believe in omens.”

“Mr. Dubrowski says this quarterback is as good as Terry Bradshaw and Joe Namath put together,” Putnam told me.

“Well, Rhino should know. When he played pro tackle he could never lay a hand on either one of them.” I watched Stephanie bouncing and groaning, moaning and bouncing. Then she was suddenly quite still, the candle buried in her quim, poised on the razor-edge of orgasm. It was disconcerting. “If the guy’s that good, then what’s the problem?” I forced my attention back to Putnam.

“Sex.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot. Your friend Mr. Dubrowski refused to go into detail. He said he wanted to consult with a sex expert and he suggested you. We were in effect faced with a choice of either discharging him or acceding to his request. Needing a quarterback so desperately, we opted for walling you, Mr. Victor.”

“And if I didn’t agree to help you,” I realized, “Rhino would be canned. But just what is it that mu expect me to do?”

“Proceed to Little Rock immediately. See Mr. Dubrowski. Determine what the sex problem involving the quarterback is. Devise a plan for dealing with it if you can. Then come to San Francisco and report to us.”

“All right,” I agreed. Hell, the money was good and I really did owe it to Rhino. I exchanged a few more words with Putnam and then I hung up the phone.

“AAARRRGGGHHH!” Stephanie screamed ecstatically. “I'M COMING! I’M COMING! I’M COMING!” It sounded familiar.

“And so the final score is Raiders twenty-seven, Eagles ten,” Merlin Olsen summed up. So much for my bet.

“I CAME! I CAME!”

“You might have waited for me.” I was pissed.

“I might have. But I didn’t. It’s like my favorite feminist, Flo Kennedy⁵ , said: ‘A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.’ “

“Fuck you!”

“Sorry,” Stephanie trilled. “Too late!”

She was right. It was too late. As with the Superbowl XV, I’d missed the climax.

CHAPTER TWO

“Anal defecation!” On the other side of the picture window of the motel bar the Monday night traffic of Little Rock, Arkansas, was light as it zinged its way towards the fun part of town. “Kidney fluid!” Rhino Dubrowski wasn’t paying attention to the traffic. His mind was on his own problems. “And corruption!” he finalized, downing another in a long line of bourbons.

Rhino wasn’t happy. When Rhino wasn’t happy, he drank and he cursed. He drank pretty much the way everybody drinks. His cursing, however, was uniquely his own.

A former Marine, a former pro football lineman, at six-foot-six and two-hundred ninety pounds, walking away from you, Rhino looked like the back end of a steamroller. From the neck up he resembled the rhinoceros for which he had been nicknamed, except for his eyes, which were pure basset hound with an alcohol problem. The problem affected his cursing style slightly, but it didn't really change it.

“Cohabitating pain in the anus!” he mumbled, pouring another bourbon from the bottle he’d had the bartender leave at our table. Marine or not, pro tackle or not, Rhino had been brought up to watch his language, and the upbringing stuck. Four-letter Anglo-Saxon words never crossed his thick, blubbery lips. However, the impetus—the sentiment and the fury—was there for Rhino as it is for all of us when Fate sneaks in a particularly low blow. “No-good phallus-ingesting quarterback!”

The customary curses were translated in this fashion before they crossed Rhino’s lips. The snarling tone with which they were delivered, however, left no doubt that they were as heartfelt as their locker-room equivalents. And, given Rhino’s brawn, nobody was about to criticize the translations as being sissified.

“Why don’t you tell me the problem, old buddy?” I suggested for perhaps the tenth time since I’d joined Rhino in the cocktail lounge of the Little Rock motel where I was staying.

This time he pulled himself together enough to attempt a reply. He lubricated his voice box with another slug of bourbon and then he answered. “The problem, old buddy, is that the quarterback would rather ball than play ball.” The basset hound eyes filled with pain as he used the word ‘ball’ to designate the sex act. It was the closest I’d ever heard Rhino come to using bad language, including the time he’d saved my life in ’Nam, an incident hairy enough to inspire longshoreman lingo from the tongue of a Mother Superior who’d taken vows of silence.

“So, since when are pro football players sworn to chastity?” I responded. “Hell, you know better than that, Rhino. Besides, there are some really super-beautiful women in Little Rock, from what I’ve seen. I don’t blame the guy.”

“Fecal matter!” Rhino’s wide head wobbled drunkenly on his thick neck. “You’re not reading the signals, Steve. I’m telling you that Terry Niemath would rather ball the players than play with the ball!”

I stared at him. He tried to stare back, but his eyeballs kept getting lost in the basset hound pouches. “This quarterback doesn’t like women?” I said slowly.

Rhino made a noise like a Kikuyu spear had just been stuck in his hide. “You’re beginning to catch on, old buddy. Ain’t that a urinator?”

“Terry Niemath is gay?”

My friend emitted a non-committal snort, as if about to plunge into a mudhole. Instead, he toppled forward onto the table and passed out cold. The maneuver was not unlike that of a monument falling.

“Gay,” I repeated to myself. “What do you know about that?”

After I put Rhino Dubrowski to bed in my room, I went back down to the bar and had another drink by myself. I had to think. I sipped the scotch slowly and did just that.

Rhino was in bad shape. The toot he was on looked like it might be several days old. He was at that stage where the booze went down smooth as water, until the point when the brain turned out the switch.

He was my buddy. I owed him. This quarterback problem had him on the ropes. It was up to me to do something about it.

Rhino hadn’t given me much to work with before he zonked out. I’d managed to pry loose some facts about quarterback Terry Niemath from him before his final fizzle, but not too many. As I thought about them now, sloshing the melting ice cube around my scotch with my middle finger, they seemed less and less helpful.

Terry Niemath was a nineteen-year-old who’d dropped out of Little Rock Central High at the age of sixteen. Terry’s mother had died giving birth to Terry, who was an only child. Terry’s father was an evangelical fundamentalist preacher who’d thrown Terry out of the house for giggling while singing Drop-Kick Me, Jesus, Through the Goal Posts of Life at the close of a prayer meeting. According to Terry, Daddy Niemath refused to join the Moral Majority because he thought Reverend Jerry Falwell⁶ was too permissive.

Since the split, Terry had gotten by with a series of odd jobs including playing bush league football with Sunday morning pickup teams. Terry had made quite a name as a quarterback around the state of Arkansas. Rhino had heard the talk and one of his first moves as a scout for the Whittier Stonewalls had been to check out Terry.

“The kid was fantastic!” he’d told me before the bourbon took over. “Pair of hands like Fran Tarkenton. A head for calling plays like Bart Starr. Tricky as Unitas and fast as Luckman. Most fornicating one hundred thirty-nine pounds of quarter-back on the hoof I ever did see! A real kidney-reliever!”

“A hundred thirty-nine pounds? Jesus, Rhino, nobody that light can play pro football!”

“This kid can! Greased lightning! Knows how to fall with the hit too.”

“A hundred thirty-nine pounds know how to fall with two ninety on top? You’ve got to be kidding, Rhino.”

But he wasn’t kidding. He was dead serious. He reminded me of how little Namath had weighed in his prime. Which was true, but that was still a bundle over one-three-nine.

“You gotta see it to believe it,” he told me.

“Okay. When do I meet this marvel?” I wanted to know.

“I’ll take you over soon as we have one more drink. I got Terry a room at my motel to be on the safe side.”

Only the one more after the one more had kept Rhino from doing that. Hell, I decided, I’d go look up this Terry Niemath by myself. Maybe we could discuss this gay problem. Maybe it wasn’t a problem at all. Maybe Rhino was just over-reacting to it out of his leatherneck jock background. Still, he had implied that Terry might be making passes at his teammates off the field as well as on. At one hundred thirty-nine pounds, that could be a very big problem. It would only be a matter of time before he came on with the wrong guy and got himself hammered into the ground. Gay is one thing. Foolhardy is another. Grab-assing the wrong linebacker could be very foolhardy. Very foolhardy indeed! Yeah, I’d best look up this Terry Niemath and have a talk with him.

The Riverview Motel where Rhino and Terry Niemath were staying was a couple of rungs down the old traveling-man ladder from mine. One look at it, and I knew that Rhino’s expense account must have a short leash. The overage desk clerk must have been a loser in the last Little Rock bubble gum-blowing contest. The result was tangled all through his stubble. Watching him pop one as I came through the door, I could see why. The poor sixty-odd-year-old kid hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet.

“Try puffing in your cheeks a little instead of puffing ’em out,” I suggested.

He popped another bubble all over himself and didn’t deign to answer.

“Terry Niemath in?” I inquired.

“Nope.”

“Know where I can find him?”

He looked at me peculiarly, dribbling stickum from the corner of his mouth. I guessed from the look that the bubble-popper had pegged Terry as gay. Probably he thought I was, too, and that was why I was looking for him. “Football stadium,” he said finally, his latest bubble attempt disintegrating in a spray of saliva.

I glanced at the clock behind him. It was after midnight. “This late at night?” I reacted. “What for?”

“Practice.” He laughed and the resulting mess stopped up his nose and got in the corners of his eyes. “Football practice. All the players down there.”

“Just where is the football stadium?” I backed away from his struggles.

He told me. I left. Behind me, the oldster was trying to rub the gum out of his cheeks with cleaning fluid.

Ten minutes later I pulled my rented car up in the parking lot behind the football stadium and doused the lights. There were half a dozen other cars already parked there. One of the exit doors from the stadium was flapping open in the wind. I crossed over to it and went inside.

It was dark. I followed the ramp by feel and emerged in the grandstand at about the fifty-yard line. Here, it was unexpectedly bright. I glanced up at the sky. There was a moon there, and some stars, but that accounted for only part of the brightness. I looked behind me. Yeah. One bank of spotlights had been turned on to illuminate a section of the field in front of the goalposts to my right.

As I started following the aisle through the grandstand to get closer to the pool of light, there was a sudden commotion from across the field. A stream of beefy flesh was pouring out of one of the team dressing rooms. I blinked and looked again.

They sure looked like football players all right. Lots of muscle, lots of heft, lots of concentration, lots of aggressiveness. They were dressed like football players too—after a fashion. What I mean is that almost all of them were wearing helmets, some were wearing jerseys, a few were wearing shoulder pads, chest protectors, shin guards, and/or cleats. Not one, however, was wearing uniform pants, any kind of underpants, or even a jock strap. Bulling and snarling their way onto the field, they looked like so many hot dog vendors waving their weenies in the wind.

Most of them were also waving moonshine jugs or beer bottles. The mild wind mixed the scent of burning pot with the magnolia fragrance of the chill Arkansas air. Their shouts of uninhibited obscenities crackled through the night.

What the hell? The quarterback, evidently, wasn’t the only one on the team who was gay. Judging from the testicle-swinging game of leapfrog going on downfield, this team might have been recruited by Truman Capote as a muscular memorial to Mae West. And they sure were brawny, all right. There was nothing at all effete about these guys. There must have been a built-in gym in the closet out of which they’d come. Their scrimmages must really be a gas!

You shouldn’t leap to conclusions. When I refocused my eyes a moment later, I realized that. What I saw, stretched out seductively between the goal posts, was a sight which both explained the nudity and high spirits of the guys on the field and, at the same time, shattered the gay mold into which I’d cast them.

What I saw was a naked blonde who was to your average selection of naked blondes what the Mona Lisa is to a kindergarten display of finger paintings!

Some hunk of gridiron equipment! She was tall and voluptuous with firm, healthy, glowing flesh. In that very first moment of looking at her, I realized how much she resembled Stephanie Greenwillow.

Stephanie was a redhead, of course, and this girl had blonde hair which she wore shorter than quite a few guys I knew. Still, her long, limber, curvaceous body was remarkably like Stephanie’s and, while her face had more of an adolescent openness, the high cheekbones, the full sensual lips, and the tilted chin were all quite similar. Later, when I drew closer, I would see that her eyes were a different color—blue, where Stephanie’s were green-—and her nose, a different shape—snub, where Stephanie’s was classically Grecian.

Now, however, like the turned on football players, I was focusing on her body, and what she was doing with it. An end zone Circe, she was on her knees and swaying so that all of her best points might be appreciated. On the whole it was a very generous body, and the whole was made up of some very generous parts.

Her legs, even bent at the knees and with her weight resting on them, were sleek and slender. The muscles of her thighs stood out gracefully without bulging. Her hips were well-padded, but in no way heavy. Her bottom—ah, her bottom—!

It was a work of art, pure and simple! The cheeks were high and glowing and provocative as if molded by some sassy erotic sculptor. The cleft between them was a deep, pink valley promising wild, warm wigglings. Yeah, her ass proclaimed itself boldly, its movements announcing even now that it knew no inhibitions.

She was long-waisted, quite slim from the tapering of her upper torso to the flare of her hips. Her belly was flat, the skin covering it tight and tan. She was a girl who did her exercises and took her sun au naturel. Her deep navel was as sensual as an Egyptian dancer in motion.

The provocative swaying brought her breasts into prominence. The spotlights highlighted their golden tan and bright red berry nipples. They were large, like Stephanie’s, missile-shaped and carried high, with their delicious-looking tips pointing skyward.

A handful to fill the shovel-paws of any overdeveloped pass-receiver! Or a mouthful for a guy like me who was weaned too early!

Now she shifted position. She was on her heels, squatting, rocking back and forth. Her thighs were wide apart, her knees pointing outward in opposite directions. This revealed her pussy completely.

It was framed by a triangle of very light-colored, very curly blonde hair. The mound this covered was quite pronounced-—very high, very plump. It was cleft deep and opened wide to reveal inflamed purple lips and the bright red meatiness of female flesh engorged with lust. A deep, tight tunnel receded from this flesh. Squinting, as I came directly opposite her in the grandstand now, I could see that the entrance to the tunnel was silvery-moist and pulsating.

Suddenly she loosed a loud rebel yell. Then she spoke in a voice that was quite calm and soft by contrast, but quite insistent, as well. “Y’all gonna keep on hootin’ an’ hollerin’ there whilst I set here on my bare, burnin’ butt a-waitin’ an’ a-wantin’?” She tossed her short blonde curls demandingly.

“Yes, Ma’am!” A hefty fullback answered. He conferred with three of his fellows over a jug.

The four of them spread out in a loose formation. One of them—not the fullback—called signals. “Thirty-seven, fourteen, sixty-two, twenty, hipe!” The jug flew between his legs. The fullback caught it, rolled over on his back and began gulping, gurgling and guffawing all at the same time. The other three, echoing her rebel yell, made an onside rush for the blonde.

“Touchdown!” she squealed when they reached her, stretching her legs wide and pointing the toes toward the sky. “Here’s that good ol’ field goal kicker. And now for the point,” she added, eyeing the stiffest of the three unsheathed peckers.

The kicker placed it right between the goal posts. The blonde grabbed the other two stiffs, one in each hand, and hung onto them as she wrapped her long, golden legs around the kicker’s hips and started to bounce on that glorious bottom of hers. “Whoo-ee!” she exulted. “Ain’t nothin’ like the playin’ of the game if’n it’s done right!”

“Ain’t no way I can do it wrong!” the kicker panted. To prove it, he got his hands under her vibrating bottom and stood up, lifting her with him. Supporting her, he marched her around the goal posts, his large, brutal-looking, uncircumcised prick pumping in and out of her foaming quim all the while. Squealing, matching his rhythm, slapping wetly against his pelvic bone, the long, luscious blonde somehow managed to maintain her tight grip on the pricks of the two other jocks while all this was going on. Indeed, she did more than hold them. She actually frigged them in cadence with the balling of the kicker.

The kicker laid her back down on the ground. He bent her legs double and bent himself over her flushed, quivering ass and buried his cock to the hilt in her clutching pussy. Now he was fucking her in earnest. And now she was jerking off the other two guys with a vengeance.

Their balls swelled up. Their eyes glazed over. It was easy to see that they were on the verge of coming.

I could empathize. I wasn’t even in the scene, and it had me horny as a stallion when the mares are in season. My cock had lost its cool and kept trying to poke holes in my underwear as I watched.

“Harder, kicker!” the blonde gasped. “An’ y’all put more spin on it, hear now?”

“How’s this?” His massive, hairy ass moved as if an earthquake had struck as his cock made some corkscrew motion deep inside her.

“Y’all do that again! I do believe my clitty’s ’bout to bust!” She wrapped her legs around his neck. Her bountiful bottom bounced off the turf and rose high with deep, thrusting movements to match his. “Gettin’ there! Gettin’ there!” Her blonde head swiveled from right to left and back again. “How you boys doin’?”

“Cain’t hardly wait!”

“My balls is ’bout to bust!”

“Kicker? Thank y’all can put it to me now?”

“Yep! Here she goes!”

The kicker’s cock slammed down. The blonde’s cunt shot up. They met and hung in midair, vibrating and humming as he shot his load of cream high up inside her and she rode the crest of her responding orgasm. At the same moment, she did something with her hands so that both the guys she’d been frigging began coming at the same time. Laughing excitedly, still coming, the blonde aimed their spouting peckers so that their jizzum squirted all over the kicker’s ears from both sides.

“Hot damn!” Their spurtings waning to two dribbles, the pair of friggees fell on the grass roaring with laughter.

Still holding on to the comet-tail of her orgasm, the blonde echoed their guffaws with a trilling giggle of her own.

The kicker flopped out of her and sat down hard on his haunches. “Shee-it!” His hands went to his ears and came away sticky. “What for’d you go an’ do that? Y’all know I’ve got ’nuf trouble with my ears as it is. Shee-it! Now I’ll never hear them goddam signals!”

“But wasn’t it worth it, Leroy? Truth, now!” The blonde wiggled her pussy at him.

“Shee-it! Y’all ask me the nex’ time I boot for forty or more! Right now, I earned me a drank. An’ I need a towel.” He started back towards where the other jocks were sitting on the sidelines boozing and smoking pot. The other two followed him.

“Hey,” the blonde called. “Send one of them fellers back with a towel for me. I ain’t none too neat ’n’ shiny here myself.”

A moment later the fullback was walking towards her with a towel in one hand and a new jug in the other. His hard-on preceded him like a flagpole sticking out of a window and waiting for a parade. The towel was white, his straining pecker was red, and his balls were more than a little blue from watching and waiting. Red, white and blue. Very patriotic. “I am rightly primed to fuck for Old Glory!” he told his teammates over his shoulder.

“Now, Jeeter, I rightly have to give it a rest first,” the blonde cautioned as he reached her. “That Leroy, he left it a mite sore.”

“Sure ’nuf, honey. Y’all know I’m the soul of consideration.” He knelt between her legs and began to gently dab at her pussy with the towel.

“With a hard-on like one o’ them Greek satyrs!” She took the towel from his hands, spread the lips of her quim wide and wiped briskly.

“I do rightly seem to have a problem here.” The fullback bent his head and licked one of her red berry nipples with a long, wickedly thick tongue.

“Jeeter! You know my titties is my most generous zone! Oh, my Lord! I can feel that right down to my curly toes!”'

Encouraged, Jeeter took a healthy amount of her breast into his mouth and sucked on it. The blonde’s hands closed over the back of his neck and she began rocking back and forth on her haunches. “Land’s sake!” she gasped. “Land’s sake! How can a body ache so from havin’ her pussy reamed out by a big cock an’ at the same time want to get it on again! Land’s sake!”

“Knowed you’d feel that way!” Jeeter pushed her over on her back and tried to mount her. Now his hairy balls looked the color of a cloudless sky at midday.

“No! Y’all wait!” The blonde pushed him off her. “You do me now, I’ll just ’bout die!”

“Then what—?!”

“Don’t y’all worry none now. I ain’t gonna leave you in this disgraceful condition. Jeeter, you just lean against them goal posts an’ stick your pecker out now.” When he complied, she got on her hands and knees in front of him.

Her tongue snaked out and laved one of his swollen, hairy balls. Jeeter groaned and closed his eyes. The blonde kissed his other ball and then sucked it into her mouth between pursed lips. Her teeth snarled some of the thick, tangled black hair covering the ball and Jeeter groaned louder. The blonde crouched down lower and fondled one of her full, swaying breasts with her hand as she pushed Jeeter’s balls aside with her nose and contrived to kiss the ridge of flesh behind them and between his legs.

“Kiss my ol’ cock!” Jeeter begged. “Lick it! Suck it!”

The blonde laughed a low, knowing, throaty laugh. Her berry-nipple was red-hot and quivering in her hand. She ran the tip of her tongue along the length of Jeeter’s aroused prick. She repeated the movement on both sides, then top and bottom. Then she took the swollen, wedge-shaped tip of his thick cock between her pouting lips. As she tasted it, her proud, pert ass, jutting and widespread, described small, hungry circles in the mote-swirling beam of the spotlight.

Her hand fluttered from her panting, perspiring breast to the bottom of the blonde mound between her legs. She touched herself there very tentatively. She winced. Nevertheless her trembling hand remained lightly pressed there as she opened her mouth wider and sucked Jeeter’s cock more deeply inside it.

With half the shaft buried in her craw now, the blonde began making swallowing movements deep in her throat. At the same time her tongue was making eager, earthy slurping noises, and her lips were smacking rhythmically, and her head was moving back and forth with the sucking of Jeeter’s cock. Her gleaming butt was stabbing the air with short, hard, jerky movements.

One of the onlookers detached himself from the group and approached Jeeter and the blonde. He looked smaller and lighter than the others—about five-foot-nine, maybe one hundred sixty-five pounds. He moved quickly and smoothly, like a split end, his hands automatically getting ready to receive and hold onto a pass. His naked cock was thin and not too long—kind of puny-looking compared to the bludgeons of the others.

When he reached the couple at the goal posts, he cupped the blonde’s wild and wobbly ass between his deft, pass receiver paws. Alarmed, she spit out Jeeter’s cock and craned to look over her shoulder. When she saw who it was, an expression of relief spread over her face.

“Y’all can put it where the sun never shines, Little John. That should feel right nice whilst I’m doin’ Jeeter here.”

“Why cain’t I screw like Leroy done?”

“Now Little John, I have paid you a compliment! Ain’t hardly anybody I let do me in my bottom. An’ you bein’ a mite undersized, an’ me bein’ so very, very tight there, why, it’ll work out just right for both of us. Now you do what I say, Little John. Jeeter here’s gettin’ impatient, an he’s full of shine. He loses that temper of his, they gonna be pitchin’ your passes into a pine box.”

Little John separated the two halves of the shimmering flesh-globe in his hands and inserted his thin, hard prick there. The blonde took Jeeter’s glistening cock back in her mouth. Jeeter’s fingers tangled in her hair and he shoved it so far down her throat that his puffed up hairy balls were bouncing against her hard-sucking lips.

The blonde breathed heavily through her nose as she sucked. The hand between her legs tickled her clitty lightly and played with Little John’s immie-sized balls at the same time. Little John was holding onto her bucking hips and riding up and down on her thrashing ass like a bronco-busting cowboy.

I heard myself groan. I wished one of those moonshine jugs had come my way. I needed a drink. Or Stephanie. Or both!

“Whoo-ee!” Jeeter grabbed the blonde by the ears and slammed into her mouth. Her lips opened and his balls momentarily disappeared. “WHOO-EE!”

“WHOO-EE!” Little John echoed. His feet left the ground and he balanced his weight on the stiff, thin pecker buried in the blonde’s bunghole.

“WHOO-EE!” The blonde’s cry was silent, but somehow I knew it was the loudest of all.

She had to swallow quickly as Jeeter’s lotion gushed down her throat. Also she had to keep the cheeks of her ass clenched tightly together to suck in all of Little John’s lotion because he was thrashing so wildly on top of her as he came. She couldn't bring herself off with them when they came, however. I suppose it was because her pussy still hurt too much. Nevertheless, she was still trying, still tickling her clitty, when Jeeter and Little John both fell away from her exhausted.

“Y’all leave the jug,” she instructed Jeeter when they dragged back to the sidelines.

He left it. She took a deep drag from it and swished it around inside her mouth. She was rinsing her mouth out after Jeeter, but at the last minute she thought better of it and swallowed the combination of moonshine and man-cream. Why not? She’d already swallowed everything else he’d had to offer. Resting, she drank from the jug until it was empty. Then she sat up and surveyed the sidelines. “I reckon I can handle three more of you degenerates ’fore we call it a night,” she challenged.

“Thought your pussy was too sore.” The answer came floating back.

“I’m just plain too horny to fret ’bout that. Y’all come on over here an’ I’ll show you.”

The first one to take her up on her offer was a linebacker with a slow, slouching technique of a determined gorilla. He set the blonde on her stomach and did her doggie-style from behind. He was casually brutal, but she didn’t seem to mind. She came right along with him, squealing like a stuck pig while he emitted his great, wheezing gorilla roars.

A gentler giant followed him. He sat on the grass with his stilt-like legs outstretched and positioned the blonde on his lap. The thigh-muscles he usually used to outrun pass receivers bounded against her springy bottom while he squeezed her breasts with hamlike hands usually used to bat balls from the clutch of the opposition and fucked her with an eager cock more used to curling up inside jock straps. Primed now, made more excited with each succeeding lay, the blonde spread her pussy over his lap like a lady pirate tumbling jewels from a booty-chest. Later she slapped her gushing quim down hard on his sinew-jumping thighs and came just before he filled her with his pot-prolonged discharge.

“Phew!” She lay on her back panting, but not dissuaded. “Next!” she called. “Y’all hear me? Next!”

A short, powerfully built man with wide shoulders and narrow hips and a cock like a donkey’s swaggered over to her. He pushed her over on her back, sprawled over her and shoved his large, rigid dong up her cunt. He had a behind that looked like a craggy anvil, but it pounded up and down over her more like a determined hammer.

As I stood watching them going at it, his predecessor, the guy with the lope-legs and the pass-spoiling hands, spied me and came over. “Now y’all ain’t with our team.” Despite the words, his tone wasn’t unfriendly.

“No, I’m not.”

“But y’all are enjoyin’ the show.” He grinned.

“Yes, I am.”

“Hell, long as you’re here, even if you ain’t with the team, it don’t hurt to be hospitable. Y’all want a piece of the action?”

I thought about it. “I’d like to,” I said honestly. “But the fact is I’m here to see somebody and it’s kind of important.”

“That a fact? Who you lookin’ for?”

“A quarterback named Terry Niemath. You know where I might find him?”

“Terry Niemath?” A big grin broke over his lace. “Shoot! Ain’t nothin’ easier. Right there.” He poiinted

He was pointing at the couple wrapped around each other and straining under the goal posts. I looked at the grinding anvil ass and remembered the short, powerful build and wide shoulders. Yeah! There was even a passing resemblance to Joe Namath. The guy sure looked like he might be the kind of quarterback Rhino Dubrowski said he was. “Thanks,” I told my grinning informant.

I watched as he banged his way to a climax. Yeah. Great concentration. Really good moves. He grabbed the blonde’s breasts and twisted them cruelly. He had aggressive hostility too. No doubt about it, I thought, as they came together writhing and snarling. If he could only pass and run, he had all the makings of a star quarterback.

Giving him a minute to recover from his exertions, I thought about the problem which seemed to be weighing so heavily on Rhino’s mind as to drive him to drink. I’d been right. Rhino was exaggerating the difficulty. Terry Niemath might be gay, but he was also obviously bi. Hell, if he didn’t dig women, he could never have balled the blonde so enthusiastically. All we had to do was throw more blondes at him and make sure he stayed in line in the locker room. Hell, I’d have a talk with him. When he realized what was at stake, how he was going to play for a pro team, he’d surely straighten out. Yeah. The right kind of talk should do it. Problem solved!

I walked over to where the couple was sitting side by side on the grass. They’d gotten their breath back and were sharing a beer and a cigarette. I dropped down beside them with a smile. “Terry Niemath,” I said, “I want to have a talk with you.”

“Well, now, I do declare!” the short-haired blonde with the big boobs with the berry nipples replied. “Y’all are the first man all night who wanted to talk with me!”

Anvil-ass snorted through his beer.

I looked from one to the other of them and back again. “You’re Terry Niernath?” I said to the blonde, my stomach dropping like iceberg time for the Titanic.

“Sure ’nuf, honeychile. Now just what is your problem?”

“My problem. . .” My problem was not solved. My problem was just beginning!

CHAPTER THREE

We changed at Atlanta for the non-stop jet to San Francisco. Terry Niemath scrambled into the window seat. I sat in the middle, Rhino on the aisle. We hadn’t been able to get seats together on the plane out of Little Rock, and making connections had been a mad scramble at the world’s largest and most screwed up airport, so this was really my first opportunity to discuss the situation with Rhino.

“When you told them in San Francisco that there was a sex problem, you really did mean a sex problem!” I had turned away from Terry and spoke in a low voice so she couldn’t hear.

“It sure as excreta ain’t just gender,” Rhino replied glumly.

“Whoo-ee! I surely do love jets!” The blonde quarterback made a bid for our attention. “They’re so big! An’ they make me feel so horny!”

“Everything makes her feel that way,” Rhino sighed. “It’s not just that she’s female. It’s also that when it comes to coitus she ain’t got no quitting sense.”

“Is today the first time you’ve ever flown?” I turned back to Terry, trying to be polite.

“First time in a jet. I hopped ’round Arkansas an’ Tennessee in them little planes, but comin’ from Little Rock this mornin’, that was my first time in one of these here big, sexy mothers.”

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the intercom crackled. “This is Captain Corcoran, your pilot on the flight from Atlanta to San Francisco this afternoon.”

“He surely does have a ee-rotic voice,” Terry sighed.

What I heard in the voice was clear blue eyes, a square jaw, and a touch of grey at the temples-—all those intrepid hallmarks an insecure passenger looks for in the pilot of an airliner since Duke Wayne⁷ died—but, then, maybe that was the same thing Terry was talking about.

“That’s exactly the fecal attitude I mean!” Rhino told me.

“We’ve completed taxiing up the runway and we’ll be taking off in just a minute,” Captain Corcoran announced. “Our stewards and stewardesses will now check to make sure that all seat belts are securely fastened.”

Terry had her pea coat spread over her lap so our steward had to lean across me and reach under it to check on her seat belt. A look like that of a cat who has just discovered leftover tuna fish in the garbage pail spread over her face. She smiled meltingly at the steward and pinned his hand between her legs under the pea coat. His face was brick red by the time he managed to extricate himself.

“I just go absolutely ape over dudes in uniforms,” Terry announced to the cabin at large.

“Our cohabitating luck! We couldn’t get a stewardess!”

The plane took off. Terry stared out the window at the discharging jets and moaned low in her throat. The sight obviously jazzed up her libido.

“Aside from her promiscuity,” I said in a low voice to Rhino, “how did you ever figure on getting around the fact that this great quarterback discovery of yours is female?”

“I thought I might try passing her off as a guy,” Rhino mumbled.

“Really?” I glanced at Terry. Her breasts were large, delectable fleshy mounds spilling out of the carelessly buttoned work shirt she was wearing. “No way!” I told Rhino flatly.

“It was worth a shot,” he insisted stubbornly. “I didn’t say I was sure it would work. That’s why I pressured them to send you down to Little Rock, Steve. I wanted to test it out on someone I could trust not to blow the whistle on me if it fizzled. I was going to let you see Terry play and if you couldn’t tell it was a girl, why, then you’d be sold. You’d help me pull it off in California. But then,” he sighed, “you went to the stadium and caught her balling and that was the end of that.”

“Football is a contact sport,” I reminded him. I took another quick look at Terry’s boobs out of the corner of my eyes. “It’s played at close quarters.”

“With a chest protector and a loose jersey, she’s all flattened out. Nobody could feel anything. With that short blonde hair, Terry could be a home-grown Viking from Minnesota.”

“Not with a luscious butt like hers, she couldn’t!”

“I worked out a way to change the shape of that with an ace bandage and tape.”

“Bourbon’s turning your brain to mush, Rhino,” I told him. “You wouldn’t have fooled me or anyone else past the first play.”

“Then you don’t think we could maybe pass Terry off as a guy in California,” he wheedled.

“Not even in California,” I assured him. “Not even in Southern California. Not even in Beverly Hills.”

“Defecation! What am I gonna tell the Stonewall management?”

Before I could field that one, I was distracted by the very warm long fingers of a female hand on my thigh. “I’m gettin’ bored,” Terry Niemath complained. “Why don’t y’all pay some attention to me, Mr. Victor, steada just to Mr. Dubrowski?”

“Call me Steve.” I automatically reject formality.

It was a big mistake with Terry. She took it as an invitation to familiarity. “All right, Steve.” Her long quarterback fingers dipped between my legs and stroked the sensitive inner surface of my thigh through my pants.

“How’d you get into football in the first place, Terry?” I removed her hand from between my legs, patted it, and replaced it in her lap.

“I was standin’ on a street corner crotch-watchin’ with a girl friend one day. Along comes these two jocks wearin’ jerseys with numbers an’ tossin’ a football back an’ forth. One of ’em, he was what you’d call a real ten. Say bulge! Mmm-mmm! So I said somethin’ I guess I hadn’t oughta, an’ this dude, he got all frazzled. That made me laugh, which I guess I also hadn’t oughta, an’ he got so mad that he bounced the football right off my poor head. Hard! I seen every star they is an’ a few of them comets to boot. Well, that surely made me mad, too—madder ’n a wet hen too long ’thout a rooster! So what I done, I took that ol’ football an’ I just throwed it as far as I could, which is a whole lot further than anybody else in Little Rock could throw a football. An’ that there’s how a football star done got herself born.” Terry put her hand back in my lap and squeezed my groin.

I caught her hand and pinned it between both of mine for safe keeping. “But how did you actually start playing?” I asked her.

“Them two boys, they invited me down to where they was scrimmagin’ come the followin’ Sunday. A pickup game, you know? Whoever shows pretty much gets a chance to play. Well, they covered my melons an’ put me in at quarterback as a joke, I guess. Only it turned out I was so good it wasn’t funny. Next thing you know, I was playing regular on Sundays all over Arkansas and Tennessee.”

“But didn’t the guys you played against realize that you were a female?”

“Didn’t seem to bother them none.” Terry’s wink was worthy of a bought-and-paid-for Senator interrogating an organized crime biggie.

“Still, what about the rules?”

“Now, just what rules is that, Steve honey?”

“The rule ain’t been written could stop Terry here from coitus-ing her fundament off given the chance,” Rhino interjected.

Terry wriggled agreement. One of her lovely bright red berry nipples waved at me from inside the work shirt. I gave my eyes permission to roam over her voluptuous body.

“She doesn’t look like she weighs one-thirty-nine,” I observed to Rhino. She was tall like Stephanie, and about her build too. Stephanie weighed about one-twenty-eight and was always trying to diet off five pounds of absolutely superb pulchritude.

“This chick’s in great physical shape, really solid. There’s muscles you’d never dream about under that gorgeous flesh. Not an excess pound! Still, one-three-nine is right. You could weigh her yourself.”

“Please do, Steve.” Terry purred. “Please do weigh me.”

“I’ll take Rhino’s word for it.” I ignored the innuendo. “You just don’t look like you’re carrying that many pounds.”

“I’m big-boned.” She licked her lips. “Are you big-boned, sugah?”

“We have leveled off at thirty-five thousand feet.” Captain Corcoran’s announcement over the PA saved me from having to respond. “Passengers may remove their seat belts. Stewards and stewardesses will commence serving lunch.”

“Excuse me, Ma’am, would you like some lunch?” the steward was back, distracting Terry’s attention from me.

“Why, you darlin’ man, I most surely would.”

The eye-batting she laid on him was right out of Gone With The Wind.

“Let me put your tray table down for you, Ma’am.”

“You do that, sugah.”

As he unfastened the tray table and lowered it over her lap, Terry contrived to capture his hand again. His face was only inches from mine and I could see the wild, helpless look of a trapped stag in his darting eyes. I could only imagine what Terry must be doing with his hidden hand. “I have to serve lunch,” he pleaded.

“Y’all put lunch on hold, angel.” She writhed in her seat and the color rising from the steward’s neck to his forehead went from red to purple.

“I don’t have time!” he wailed.

“Why, you surely do, darlin’.” Terry closed her eyes. Time ticked by with the steward frozen into position. At last a long, contented moan escaped Terry’s moist lips. “See, sugah, I knew you had time.”

The steward fled. There was a clatter of out-of-control dishes from the galley. Later, when lunch was served, he was nowhere to be seen. A stewardess brought our rubberized club steaks and confetti salads.

“Now whatever do you suppose happened to that nice boy?” Terry wondered.

“Internal combustion,” I guessed. “He self-destructed.”

“Why, Stephen, you silver-tongued flatterer, you!” She knocked the mucilaginous cheesecake into my lap, groping me. “How did y’all know I’m just a willin’ fool for compliments?”

I evaded her by turning my body on one hip and facing Rhino. “I’m going to take a nap,” I decided.

“You do that, honey.” She patted my butt and left her hand there. The hand moved intimately a few times, but when I didn’t respond, she became bored. “I have to go to the necessary,” she announced.

Rhino and I got out of our seats to let her pass. She groped both of us successfully, and then she was gone. I stretched out on my seat again, meditating to relieve the tumescence of the organ strangling in my jockey shorts.

With flaccidity, after a bit, came sleep. Not for long, though. My stomach woke me serving notice that the plane was suddenly plunging earthward. As I shot up in my seat, my fellow passengers were already reacting.

“Oh, my God!”

“We’re going to crash!”

“I knew I should have flown Braniff!”

“We’re all going to die!”

“So flight insurance is for suckers, huh, Joe?”

“We are! We are going to crash!”

“Didn’t Momma tell you to go before, Herbie? Now look!”

“Holy shit!”

“Repent! Repent, and ye shall be saved!”

“Holy excreta!”

The last to speak, just before the plane pulled out of the dive and righted itself, was Rhino Dubrowski. A moment later, when our original steward reappeared jogging down the aisle, Rhino grabbed him. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Nothing to worry about, sir.” As he spoke, the aircraft pointed its right wing towards the ground and side-slipped vertically for another thousand feet.

The movement caught the steward by surprise. Clutching for support, he ended up sprawled across Rhino’s lap. “Nothing to worry about?” Rhino clung to him, more terrified than he’d ever been in ’Nam. “What do you call that?”

“Mild turbulence, sir.” The steward struggled to his feet. “Just a little mild turbulence.” He continued down the aisle towards the control cabin.

Before he reached it, the plane gave another sickening lurch and went into a spin.

From somewhere behind me a man called for help in a heartrending voice of pure terror. “Is there a priest on board?”

“I’m a priest, my son.” The answer came calm as a June day in a Killarney meadow.

“I have a confession to make, Father.”

“Yes, my son.”

“I’ve never been unfaithful to my wife, Father, and now, dammit, it’s too late!”

“Peace, my son. God will forgive you.”

“Maybe, but I’ll damn well never forgive myself!”

The dive leveled off. The cabin of the plane was horizontal again. Then it tilted backward as the plane started to climb to regain altitude.

Slowly, the panic in the cabin eased. The PA system made a sound like milk shpritzing breakfast cereal. This was followed by Captain Corcoran’s voice -- deep, experienced, mellow, confident.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it has been brought to my attention by one of our stewards that some of you are concerned by that little bit of bumpiness we’ve been experiencing. Now, I want to reassure you that there is absolutely nothing to be worried about. If anxiety is making any of you feel a wee bit sick, however, remember there are bags into which you may relieve your nausea inserted in the backs of the seats in front of you. But rest assured that there is nothing unusual in this turbulence. I personally have flown this route over one hundred and ten times, and I assure you that this flight is exactly like all the others.”

Captain Corcoran’s speech would have been most reassuring indeed had it not been immediately punctuated by his high-pitched, hysterical laugh. The next voice heard over the PA both explained the laugh and unhinged the jaws of Rhino and myself. “Now, lamb, that is such a crock! Y’all know you have never, ever had you a flight like this before!”

“Don’t touch his—!” I recognized the scream of the steward.

“Look out for the—-!” Another male voice which I assumed belonged to the co-pilot.

Once again the airliner started to plummet. The voice which accompanied this latest maneuver belonged to Terry Niemath. “Oh, Corky, when I put your dingus to me, I just feel so weak and dizzy and my head-—-! Oh, my, how my head does spin!”

“Where did he say that throw-up bag was?” A plaintive woman’s wail.

“The back of the seat in front of—!”

“I’m sorry!” Too late. “I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, shit! Why on me? Why me?”

“Why any of us?”

“Jehovah moves in mysterious ways his punishments to perform! Repent!”

“Oh, feces!”

It was like being on a roller-coaster. Just when you were sure it was all over, the ride leveled off. Only this time the plane was wobbling from side to side as it flew on its roughly horizontal path. This was not reassuring. Neither was the voice of Captain Corcoran when next we heard it over the PA.

“Steward! Steward! What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m taking command of this aircraft, sir.”

“Lady, stop that for a minute. I’ve got to get this straightened out. Now, steward, what did you-—? Ooh! God, lady, just wait one—! Ooh!”

“I am relieving you of command, sir, under Article Twenty-three, Section Sixteen-C of the Flight Attendants’ Code. You’re no longer fit to decide the course of this aircraft.”

“Mutiny! Steward, this is mutiny! . . . Oh, God! Not there! I go all out of control when a woman touches me there.. . . Mutiny, I—ooooh! That feels so good!”

“Not mutiny, sir. Article Twenty-three, Section Sixteen-C of the Flight Attendants’ Code says that, if the pilot in charge of the aircraft shall lose control of his command faculties, or if he shall commit a breach of public morality which causes the passengers to lose faith in his father image, then that member of the crew in the control cabin who is next in the line of command shall relieve the pilot of his responsibilities and take over the aircraft.”

“Steward, this is madness!... Oh, Jesus! Not under my—-! Yo-yo-yo! That feels fantastic.. . . And it’s not logical either, steward. How have I demonstrated loss of control of my command faculties for instance?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment, sir. First, is this switch here the rudder stabilizer, sir?”

“Steward, are you checked out to fly this aircraft?”

“No sir. Now, to answer your other question about loss of control of command faculties, sir. With all due respect to your rank, sir, might I remind you of the incident earlier in the day concerning the mini-bottles of liquor. The johns were unavailable to passengers and crew for forty-five minutes while you personally conducted a search for the three missing bottles.”

“Steward, the company holds me personally responsible in seeing that none of those mini-bottles of booze is filched. I was only doing my job.”

“Perhaps, sir, but in the middle of a hurricane, shouldn’t you have been flying the aircraft instead of putting it on remote control and crawling around under the toilets?”

“Let me remind you, Mister, that you know nothing about the pressures of command!”

“Corky, y’all are spoilin’ the rhythm. Pay attention! I keep gettin’ my little ol’ titty caught in this here instrument. What is this thang anyway?”

“It’s an ashtray. . . . Steward, there has been no breach of the public morality. Now get out of my control cabin!”

“Could y’all pull out your pecker an’ then stick it back in my pussy, sugah, so I can scrunch down an’ give better head to this here co-pilot?”

“I do believe that substantiates my case, sir.”

“Nonsense! Public morality! And it has to cause the passengers to lose faith in my father image! . . . Oh, God! Will you look at that ass move! Is that a thing of beauty? Twirl it, lady! Go-go-go! . . . Nothing public about the privacy of the control cabin, so how could the passengers lose faith?”

“I anticipated that objection, sir. That’s why I turned on the PA system. I wanted to be sure there would be witnesses for the Board of Inquiry.”

“You turned on the—! Ah-ah-ah! Stop-stop-stop!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, you listen to me, steward. Even if there were any excuse other than mutiny for this action, you would not be the one to undertake it. The copilot is next in the line of command after me. The only one in this cabin authorized to relieve me, therefore, is the co-pilot.”

“Ordinarily that would be true, sir. But not in this case.”

“Why not?”

“Because the co-pilot is incapacitated, sir.”

“What’s the matter with him?”

“He passed out soon as my lips touched it, Terry piped up. “I declare, it was too much for the poor boy.”

“Don’t you think you should stop doing it then?” the pilot suggested.

“Ain’t hurtin’ him none.” Terry disagreed, giggling. “An’ I surely do enjoy it.”

“Steward!” Captain Corcoran proclaimed. “I’m taking those controls back!”

“No sir! I’m flying this plane!”

“Don’t do that!” Captain Corcoran shouted.

“Don’t! It’s dangerous!” His mounting concern was obvious over the PA. “We’ll lose control! We’ll go into another spin! We’ll cra--!”

This time, most of us were braced. Most, but not all. One very young and attractive stewardess was flung sprawling into the aisle, her uniform skirt well up over her hips.

“Dear Lord! That poor girl isn’t wearing any panties!”

“Please, sir! Keep your hands to yourself!”

“Yeah! Get your paws off her! I saw her first, Father!”

“You have your wife, my son.”

“I should live so long.”

“So should we all!”

“What would the Pope say?” the stewardess wailed.

“I’m sure I don’t know. I don’t speak Polish⁸ .”

The stewardess fought her way to one of the johns and locked herself in as the plane once again righted itself.

“Pilot to control tower. Pilot to control tower.”

It was the steward’s voice. “Request landing instructions.”

“Just follow the radar beam in, Captain Corcoran,” the control tower replied.

“Negative, control tower. This is not Captain Corcoran. This is an inexperienced pilot at the controls. I don’t know how to follow a radar beam. Request manual landing instructions. Repeat, request manual landing instructions.”

“Where is Captain Corcoran?” the control tower wanted to know.

“I have relieved him of command because of erotic instability. He is tied to the bulkhead. He is also gagged.”

“Don’t y’all just adore bein’ trussed up an’ all? I mean, bondage is such fun.”

“Who was that?” the control tower wanted to know.

“A passenger. She’s seeing to it that Captain Corcoran remains calm.”

“Oh. Well, where is the co-pilot?”

“He’s unconscious.”

“What caused him to lose consciousness?”

“An attack of fellatio.”

“What?!”

“Look, there really isn’t time to explain it now. I have to land this aircraft. Will you please give me landing instructions?

“Roger. Turn thirty degrees and start your approach. . . . That’s it. . . Very good! . . . Now bank . . . gently . . . gently . . . Let down your flaps . . . That’s it . . . You’re doing fine. Now your landing gear . . . good, good . . . Now, turn ninety degrees . . . turn ninety degrees! . . . TURN NINETY DEGREES, DAMMIT! . . . NEVER MIND! PULL UP! PULL UP! PULL UP ON THE STICK! . . . Jesus! What happened?”

“I don’t know.” The steward sounded like a balloon with the air let out. “I just froze. I froze at the controls.”

“Well, get hold of yourself, man. Relax. We’ll try it again.”

“No!” The steward sounded panicky. “I can’t relax! I’m afraid! I can’t do it! I’ll freeze again. I can’t relax!”

“Jesus,” the control tower realized, you’re too low for the passengers to bail out. You have to relax.”

“I can’t! I can’t relax!”

“Wait a cotton-pickin’ minute, fellas.” It was Terry’s voice, self-assured and sexy. “I can relax him. Y’all just leave it to me. Now, sugah, you just lean back an’ close your eyes an’ do how that there control tower says you should. All righty, control tower, I have found the zipper to his uniform trousers an’ y’all can tell him what to do now.”

“Start your approach again . . .”

“My! Such pretty skivvies! I never did see such pretty skivvies! Now where is that-—? Ahh, here it is . . . Well, hello there, darlin’. You sure do stand up an’ salute pretty now!

“Bank slowly. . .”

“Mmmmm! Y’all do like to be kissed, don’t you now?”

“Check your flaps . . .”

“An’ I can surely tell you like to be kissed by the way y’all swell up.”

“Check your landing gear . . .”

“Now, steward, honey, y’all let me suck this here wonderful pecker whilst you just relax an’ enjoy it!”

“Now, turn ninety degrees . . .”

“Mmm! Mmm! I can tell you are so-o-o relaxed now! Mmmmm!”

“Now, a slow bank . . .”

“Ooh! You’re so relaxed that y’all are goin’ to come in my mouth right now. Wait! Let me get it all the way back in an’ down my throat! Mmmmmm! Mmmmmm! MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!”

“Now just set her down easy . . .”

“HERE I COME!” the steward yelled.

It was a three-point landing.

CHAPTER FOUR

“The quarterback is a nymphomaniac!”

“I hate it when you talk that way.” At the other end of the long distance line Stephanie Greenwillow’s voice bristled with unsheathed feminist bayonets.

“But she is. She really is.”

“Nonsense! There is no such thing as a nymphomaniac.”

“Really? Well what do you call a girl who balls the whole football team in one night and then the very next day nearly cracks up an airliner because she has to have sex so much that she takes on the pilot, the co-pilot, and a steward?”

“In the first place, I don’t call her a girl. I call her a woman. You got that, boy?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Stephanie --!”

“And in the second place, what do you call a man who has several women over the span of a day and a half? I’ll tell you what. A make-out artist! That’s what you call him! A stud! You admire him. But when it’s a woman, you call her a nymphomaniac! Really, Steve, I’d hoped you might have learned something from our relationship!”

“Oh, I did. I did. I learned how never to watch a Superbowl game.”

“But you haven’t.” She ignored my interruption. “You’re still a hopeless sexist!”

“That’s right! Call me names! I call you up long distance from San Francisco to discuss my problems with you, because we do have this relationship, and you get on your women’s lib high horse and call me names!”

“Did have!” Arctic fury. “Did have this relationship! Past tense! I am not going to fall into the trap of sacrificing my principles to keep from ruffling the feathers of some sexist male!”

“Okay, lady! If that’s the way you want it!” I went on to tell her specifically where she could insert her principles. The instructions were to no avail. She hung up on me before I got to the really graphic and pithy part.

Steaming, I flung my clothes all over the fancy suite Charles Putnam had booked for me at the Mark Hopkins Hotel and dived into the shower. I stayed there a long time. Water therapy. Nothing like it for terminating relationships.

Later, not at all hungry and feeling more sorry than angry, I went up to the Top of the Mark for a drink. Sensitive to my mood, the headwaiter gave me one of the desirable window tables. From it I had a spectacular view, particularly of the bay when the revolving cocktail lounge brought it into sight. Drenched in romantic starlight, with a moon like an orange basketball hanging over it, the sparkling vista only added to my self-pity and feelings of loss. Stephanie had been special—-infuriating, but special. I knew that there was no sense trying to call her back. Stephanie would have castrated her grandfather for The Cause. She’d never made any secret of just how expendable I was. So I sighed and stared out over the moonbeams at Fisherman’s Wharf and assuaged my sorrow with a third scotch.

“Excuse me, sir.” The headwaiter was at my elbow.

I looked up at him questioningly.

“We’re filling up,” he apologized. “I wondered if you would mind if this lady shared the table and view with you?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I minded very much, that I treasured my solitude, on this evening particularly. Before I could speak, however, the young lady in question edged out from behind the headwaiter and smiled at me.

“Well, I do declare! If it isn’t Mr. Steve Victor his very self. Hello, there,” Terry Niemath greeted me.

“Ah, you know each other.” The headwaiter was relieved. He held the chair out for her.

“Y’all don’t mind, Steve, do you?”

“Of course not.” I lied vehemently. “I’m glad of the company.” I compounded the lie. Of all the female company I didn’t feel like at this time, Terry Niemath’s headed the list.

The waiter came and took her order for a boilermaker. He looked surprised. I could understand why. This was a different Terry from the other two occasions I’d seen her. On the first she’d been the very picture of a voluptuous libertine who wore her lust as unashamedly as if it were a Dior original covering her nudity. On the second she’d been a brazen hoyden in too-tight, faded jeans and bosom-flaunting work-shirt.

Now, by contrast, she was wearing a simple, inexpensive dress of the sort a Little Rock matron might wear to an evening meeting of the Garden Club. Her sleek, blonde hair was combed neatly back from her face and held in place by a barrette. The skirt of the dark print dress hung demurely to mid-calf, and the top was buttoned all the way up to a high V. Although it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing a bra (I don’t believe she owned one), her nipples were lost in the busy print and her large, high breasts neither panted nor swayed to draw attention to themselves. She looked attractive and young, but not particularly sensual or available.

“Y’all look like your pet spaniel just got run over,” Terry observed.

Her perceptiveness surprised me. Before I knew it, I was telling her how I’d just split up with my woman friend. (I did not, however, tell her that the split-up had been precipitated by my labeling her, Terry, a nymphomaniac.) She listened sympathetically, asked questions about Stephanie, the length of the relationship, and the qualities that attracted us to each other.

“Sex surely is important,” she observed in response to my listing that as primary. “Y’all may not believe this, Steve, but I used to be real attracted to you that way.”

Used to be? I'd barely known her two days. “You mean you’re not attracted to me any more, Terry?”

“Nope. Oh, I like you as a person well ’nuf. But you don’t make me lust like at first. You see, Steve, it’s the way I am. If’n I know another woman rejected a fella, why, then he just loses all appeal for me.”

“You mean I don’t appeal to you any more?”

“ ’Fraid not.”

A surge of desire started down around my toenails and bubbled up to my sinuses. Yesterday Terry had wanted me and I hadn’t been terribly interested. Now she didn’t want me any more. Immediately, I knew that I had to have her!

I burned for her! Under the low table my instant erection was threatening to become a tilting embarrassment. My eyes devoured the sweep of her breasts. My brain reeled with the memory of her long arching legs, her hips in action, her pneumatic derriere—and with the effects of my fifth scotch.

“But we can still be friends,” I said carefully, cunningly, my mind already beginning to seethe with diabolically contrived plans to get her into bed. Rejection was not something that I, Steve Victor, the man from O.R.G.Y., could willingly accept from a (Up yours, Stephanie!) nymphomaniac.

“Of course, darlin’.”

“Then why don’t we go down to my room and have a friendly nightcap,” I suggested brightly.

“I do believe we have both had more than enough to drink,” Terry parried smoothly.

“Etchings?”

“My great-granddaddy warned me all ’bout that.”

“Then how about just plain, friendly sex?”

“Now, Steve, I already ’splained how I feel ’bout you in that department.”

“But you said we were friends.”

We are.

“Well, what are friends for?”

“To provide y’all with a shoulder to cry on when your lady friend gives you the gate.”

Some nymphomaniac!

“How about taking a drive,” I suggested desperately. Charles Putnam had arranged for a Mercedes 480 SL rental car to be waiting for me at the airport when we arrived. Now it was stashed in the garage under the hotel.

“Why, that’d be real nice. I’d love to see San Francisco by night.”

My contriving to get Terry Niemath into a car was really a form of sexual regression. Five scotches had reduced me to the basic stratagems of the years of my puberty. Hell, the old 'Let’s go-for-a-ride’ ploy had worked on Euphremia Hossenpfeffer when I was sixteen years old, so why not on Terry now?

Like Terry, Euphremia had had what in those days we called “a reputation”. (Fie, Stephanie Greenwillow! Fie, and plotz!) Of course, back then, I had been a virgin, and now I was the Man from O.R.G.Y., but the urge was just as strong. (Rejection makes me horny; I can’t help it.) Terry, like Euphremia, was being what I chose to regard as ‘coy’, but a quick spin in the moonlight climaxed by a parking interlude at a carefully chosen D.E.S. should take care of that.

I followed a zigzag, semi-scenic route from Nob Hill to Russian Hill to the Golden Gate Bridge. It didn’t provide the greatest views of San Francisco but, at that time of night, it drew less traffic than Chinatown, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Telegraph Hill in the other direction. Besides, I wanted to get across the bridge to Sausalito, where I figured I might find a suitable parking spot somewhere in the hills overlooking the waterfront. If you can’t pull off a seduction in the hills of Sausalito, you might as well give up on the West Coast altogether.

“Lordy! Isn’t that the most beautiful sight y’all ever did see!” Each step of the way—Russian Hill, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Sausalito waterfront itself-—Terry had been making comments like that. This one, however, was certainly justified. I had taken the high ground and found us a deserted scenic overlook on top of a bay-side cliff that provided a truly spectacular view of lit-up San Francisco across the water.

“Romantic, too.” Hell, how subtle do you have to be at my age with five scotches inside you?

“Yes,” she sighed. “It surely is.”

Some such dialogue had once been my cue to kiss Euphremia Hossenpfeffer, she of the pudgy thighs and questionable “reputation”. Such signals aren’t subject to change, are they? I put my arms around Terry Niemath and pressed my lips to hers.

Deja vu!

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me,” Euphremia Hossenpfeffer had told me on that long-ago night when I had accompanied that first kiss with Seduction Step Number One (as outlined to me by my friend Murray Wiener, who was two years older than me, going to college, and who claimed to have been laid, thus already the man of the world I was panting to become), the forcing of the male tongue into the female mouth.

“Y’all don’t get any wrong ideas now, hear?” Terry said as she released my tongue from between her lips.

“Of course not, just a friendly kiss between friends.” I slid my hand down from her shoulder to the tilted missile-mounds of her breasts.

“I don’t think I should let you touch me there, Stephen,” Euphremia had protested. (But Murray had said she was ‘hot to trot’, and Murray had been a Man of the World.)

“I do thank y’all might be gettin’ a wee bit too friendly.” But the polyester of Terry’s dress was thin and (unlike Euphremia) she wasn’t wearing a bra, and the stiffness of her nipple belied her protest.

I kissed them again to still their objections.

“You surely do know how to kiss,” Euphremia sighed. (How about that, Murray?)

“Y’all surely do know how to kiss real sweet an’ friendly,” Terry granted.

I played with their nipples through their clothing. (Seduction Step Number Two, courtesy of Murray Wiener.) Then I slipped my hand inside Euphremia’s bra and Terry’s dress and fondled their hot, bare nipples. (Step Three.) There wasn’t much in the way of breast around Euphremia’s, as I recall, but Terry’s soft-but-firm mammaries more than made up for my earlier deprivation.

“Ohh!” Euphremia moaned. “I get so excited when a boy touches me naked there!” (Aha! She’d been touched there before! Her “reputation” was deserved! . . . See, Stephanie!)

“Playing with my naked nipples surely does make me squirm,” Terry conceded. (A small, but significant sign of nymphomania reviving.)

I leaned over the stick-shift, bent my head and took their long, quivering nipples in my mouth. (Step Four.) My chin sank into the rhythmically rising and falling pillows of Terry’s breasts and bumped against Euphremia’s rib-cage. I used my lips and I used my tongue and I sucked. (Step Five a, b, and c.)

Euphremia gasped and dug her nails into the back of my neck. Terry gasped and dug her nails into the back of my neck. Euphremia began to pant noticeably. Terry began to pant noticeably. Euphremia squirmed and I could see the outline of her legs separating under her skirt. Terry, ditto.

I slipped my hand under the hems of their skirts. (Step Number Six. “Timing is crucial,” Murray Wiener—the Alex Comfort of my heretofore sexually joyless teen years—had advised.) I kept sucking their nipples as I established beachheads just above the knees.

“I don’t do anything below the waist!” (Aw, come on, Euphremia, what about your “reputation”?)

“Y’all are movin’ into mighty dangerous territory for someone wants to just be my friend!”

(“Step Six is usually where they try to stop you,” Murray had warned. “The trick is not to let it throw you. They have to say it, but they don’t really mean it. Just keep right on going and don’t worry about it.” I worried about it. “Suppose they yell ‘Rape!’ “ When I worry, I worry good. “No sweat. You’re underage.” Wow! The things Murray had learned in college!)

I continued to suck nipples and grope thighs. Euphremia’s pudgy ones and Terry’s sleek, long, shapely ones were equally hot and trembly under my fingers. Each time I ran my tongue over their nipples, Euphremia’s baby fat squeezed together and twin muscles jumped under Terry’s flesh.

From under eyelids drooping with passion, both girls noticed the bulge distorting my pants and smiled that secret smile that women smile when acknowledging their power to narrow the male down to the demands of his erection. “It really isn’t right for me to get you so aroused,” Euphremia apologized. “A boy I know told me you can hurt yourself like that because I won’t let you—you know.” Terry was similarly sympathetic. “Y’all are goin’ to have a terrible case of blue balls an’ it’ll be all my fault,” she said sorrowfully.

I forgave both of them, kept right on licking, kissing and sucking nipples, and inched higher until I felt panty material—loose and surprisingly lacy in Euphremia’s case, snug cotton bikini for Terry. My hard-on throbbed and jerked inside my pants. I had to restrain myself to keep from biting down on the straining nipples in my mouth, I was so inflamed.

Euphremia’s panties felt damp and slippery. Terry’s panties were warm and wet and sucked in tight against the swollen, open lips of her pussy. I pushed the tip of my middle finger against them rhythmically. (Step Seven.)

(“Even through the panty material, you should go for the clitty,” Murray Wiener recommended.

“What’s the clitty?” How are you going to learn if you don’t ask questions?

“You’ll know it when you feel it.”)

Murray had been wrong. I didn’t know it when I felt it with Euphremia. As a matter of fact, to this day I’ve never actually been sure if I did feel it. I was a lot older and more experienced with Terry, of course. Besides, her clitty was sticking right out there like a miniature hard-on. I rubbed it through her panties.

I pushed the panties aside. I dipped my middle finger in the wells. I moved it in and out according to the dictates of Step Eight.

“I shouldn’t be letting you do this,” Euphremia panted.

“This here is a bad mistake!” Terry gasped. My answer was the same to both of them. I took their hand and wrapped it around the throbbing cock tenting my pants. Both of them made a fist and began moving it.

I pulled their panties down, dropped my head between pudgy thighs and sleek thighs and kissed their pussies. (“You won’t be able to stop them from fucking once you do that,” Murray had assured me...another of the astounding things learned in college!)

“Omigod! No boy ever did that to me before!” Euphremia’s pussy squirmed under my tongue. (Her “reputation” had evidently not filled all the gaps in her experience.)

“Lick it, Steve! Kiss it! Suck it!” Terry was bouncing up and down on her beautiful ass, snapping at my tongue with the lips of her quim.

I undid my belt. I unzipped my fly. I pushed down my underwear and my pants. I wrapped their fists around my naked cock. And all the time I kept on eating their pussies, a maneuver which stilled my doubts they might have had about my unsheathing my outrageously elongated manhood.

The floor shift made matters a little tricky but, adolescent and man, I always was innovative. I slid to the floor on the passenger side of the gearbox and balanced on my hands. This way the top of my head was on the seat and my mouth was able to resume feasting on the quims. Also—and crucial at this point (although in truth Murray Wiener had never mentioned it)——my stiff cock stuck out exactly at lip level and probed demandingly.

“I never sucked a boy upside-down before!” That made two firsts for me with Euphremia.

“Mmm-mmm! There is nothin’ as dee-licious as steamin’ hard pecker!”

Euphremia’s fleshy thighs had locked around my ears, shutting out all sound. I widened the entrance to her cunt with my tongue and kissed the sensitive pink flesh deep inside it. The inside of her pussy was tight and ridged and it moved up and down grindingly as I frigged it with my tongue. Her own tongue was lapping at my balls, making hungry, wet, smacking noises. Then her lips were around the head of my cock and her sandpaper tongue was licking up the early drops of jizzum leaking there. Finally she opened her adolescent mouth wide and sucked my thrashing cock deep down her throat. She sucked and swallowed greedily. We sucked in unison.

The muscles of Terry’s inner thighs flexed and unflexed over my ears, creating an effect like holding a seashell near, then far away, and then near to one’s ear. I was riding her clitty with my tongue now, and this so excited her that she had reached under her with one hand and had spread the cheeks of her beautifully molded bottom in order to play up her own anus. She had wonderful control of the muscles inside her cunt, and they rippled over my tongue, squeezing it as I licked her. She bent her head between my legs and licked the cleft of my behind and the underside of my balls. She sucked first one of the balls and then the other into her mouth and probed each with her tongue. Finally she licked the length of the shaft of my quivering pecker and kissed the tip, probing the hole there with her tongue-tip. She took the prick deep down her throat and squeezed it in unison with her pussy muscles squeezing my tongue.

Euphremia was sopping with honey in a way I hadn’t known girls did. Terry was squeezing out her joy in thick, perfumed, oily little spurts. My balls were filling with jizzum. My mouth-immersed cock was straining and ready. It was tempting as hell to let go down those hungry throats, but neither then, nor now, was I about to let good old Murray Wiener down. Besides, the blood was rushing to my head. It was time for Step Nine.

I scrambled to an upright position. I pushed female thighs wide apart and raised female legs high for easier entry. I shoved my cock up the quims, one gloriously, adolescently tight, the other like a lemon squeezer equipped with wondrous womanly muscles. Flailing hands clawed at my buttocks. Frantic teeth sank into my shoulder. I slammed my prick in and out hard, my balls slapping against the hot, wet curve of writhing asses.

“Oof!” I exclaimed. “Oof! Oof! Oof!”

“You’re hurting me!” Euphremia cried out.

“Lordy, Steve! This position is purely murder!”

Originally, it hadn’t occurred to me that any other position was possible. Euphremia (she had a 'reputation’, remember!) had introduced me to the more automotively sensible and comfortable seated-man-on-the-bottom position. I slid into it a lot more easily with Terry.

Spreading her pudgy thighs, Euphremia knelt between my legs on the seat and gently lowered herself onto my steel-hard, frothing cock. Terry, on the other hand, sat with her long legs stretched up my body with the angles waving over my ears. Terry definitely had the edge, if memory serves me right. Her position allowed for much deeper penetration.

“Touch me here!” Euphremia put my finger where I supposed her clitty was as she rode up and down my cock, her sparse bare breasts hanging out from under the bra with the taut nipples beckoning the fingers of my free hand.

“Play with my no-no!” Terry guided my hand between the flushed and squirming cheeks of her behind as I sucked her stiff berry nipples and firm, large bullet breasts through the polyester of her dress.

(Hey, look, Murray. I’m fucking!)

“Does this feel good?” Euphremia licked my ear as she bounced up and down.

“Y’all like this, darlin’?” Terry twisted over my deeply imbedded prick in small, tight corkscrew circles.

“Yeah!” I told them. “Great! Keep fucking!”

I was straining so hard now that at no time did my bare bottom touch the car seat. My thighs were bathed with the lubrication of female passion. My balls were on fire and tingling with the mounting pressure for release. I opened my mouth wide and sucked in breasts—one entire, and one gloriously overflowing. I shoved my cock tonsilward with one last brutal, mighty thrust. I came! (Step Ten.)

“I came!” I announced to Terry, Euphremia and Murray Wiener. “Did you come?” I asked the first two, considerate from first to last.

“Yes. I did.” Euphremia, at least, had the courtesy to lie. “The earth moved.” She was, however, a little short on originality. “It was wonderful!” (Many years later I ran into Euphremia and we went to bed together for old time’s sake. On that occasion she confessed to me that she had not had her first orgasm until one month after her twenty-sixth birthday, and then only with a vibrator.)

“No, I surely did not!” Terry was annoyed. “Now don’t y’all dare pull out now until I’m rightly through with you!” She twisted and squeezed and panted over my limpening dick until she finally let out a squeal, and-ball-wrenchingly—came.

When it was over, we shared a cigarette. “I guess you changed your mind, huh?” I couldn’t resist needling Terry.

“Y’all thank so, huh?” She winked.

“What do you mean?”

But she only winked a second time. I had to be satisfied. It was all the explanation I was going to get.

We drove back to the Mark Hopkins. On the way, Terry asked me a question. “Who’s Euphremia?”

“What?!” I was startled.

“Who’s Euphremia?” she repeated. “When you came, you spit my breast out of your mouth, raised your head to the sky and brayed her name: Euphremia. Who is she?”

I winked at her. It was all the explanation she was going to get. Now we were even.

I pulled the car into the underground garage at the hotel. We took an inside elevator up to Terry’s suite. I kissed her good night at the door and took another elevator up to my suite.

There was a note on my door to call the desk for a message. It was from Charles Putnam. He had left word for Rhino Dubrowski and me to be at Baroquian Orchard, a three-thousand-acre retreat for members of the Baroquian Club deep in the redwood forests about eighty miles north of San Francisco, at noon the following day. We would meet there with Putnam and the other interested members of the group behind the Whittier Stonewalls. There were careful directions on how to drive there. There was an additional instruction to the effect that nobody was to come but the two of us. The meaning was obvious. They were planning to discuss Terry Niemath and they didn’t want the quarterback to be present.

I stuck the instructions where I couldn’t miss them when I dressed in the morning and went to bed. Five scotches and a good lay. I slept like a log.

The next morning, when I awoke, I had time to kill. I decided it would be a nice gesture to have breakfast with Terry before leaving her alone for the day. I took the staircase down to her room and knocked at the door.

My first knock went unnoticed, but my second one brought a muffled answer. “Y’all come on in.”

I entered the sitting room. There was no one there. The door leading to the bedroom was closed. I walked over to it and knocked again.

“I said y’all could come right on in.”

I entered. I looked. My jaw dropped.

“Steve, darlin’. Welcome to the party.” Terry grinned up at me from her bed.

She was lying on top of the sheets. She was naked. There was a naked man on either side of her. One of them had his semi-erect penis resting between her voluptuous cheeks of her behind. The other was embedded in her pussy. Two bellhop caps perched side by side on the nightstand.

“Take off your clothes an’ join us, darlin’.”

“No, thanks.” I backed out of the room.

Well, Stephanie? How about that? Is there still no such thing as a nymphomaniac?

CHAPTER FIVE

En route to the Baroquian Club’s redwood retreat with Rhino Dubrowski, I was reminded of a time when I was a kid and my only erections came from inadvertent rubbing by a corduroy crotch and led nowhere. Back then, I was one of five founding members of an exclusive boys’ club. We met in a cellar and debated the joys and consequences of masturbation and ejaculation (which none of us had experienced yet). Being an elite group, we had no one to question our expertise. Occasionally we measured our weenies against one another. We felt, as I recall, very manly.

This feeling was bolstered by barring from membership all boys who were too fat, were too puny, had pimples, wore glasses, always raised their hands with the answers in class, covered their heads when a ball was thrown at them, or lived outside the neighborhood. All girls, having no weenies, were blackballed by definition. Another reason for their exclusion was our need for masculine privacy to figure out just what we were going to do to them as soon as we got old enough to be able to do it. Sometimes, one of us would snitch his sister’s bra and put it on and pretend to be a girl so we could act out these fantasies.

Our exclusivity was power. We were the ‘ins’; they were the ‘outs’; we were superior, and all the other poor zhlubs were inferior. I remember how delicious it was to intimidate and overawe the occasional guest a member was allowed to bring to meetings of our private club.

Now here I was on my way to being the guest of Charles Putnam at the ultra-exclusive Baroquian Club, where you not only had to be superior to be a member, you also had to be grown up! Wow! What an honor! I’d get to rub shoulders with really important guys who were 'in’, who were expert in many grown-up fields, and who had lots and lots of power. They probably wouldn’t measure their weenies against each other but, then, that’s how it is when fellows grow up. They have to put childhood pleasures behind them. Some childhood pleasures, anyway. Others were still indulged at the Baroquian Club.

Like most people, I had first heard of the Baroquian Club when the California Fair Employment and Housing Department brought a suit charging them with sex discrimination. The legal action was taken because of the club’s policy of not hiring anybody who lacked a penis. (“What have girls got there?” we used to wonder. “How can they stand it'?”)

The resulting publicity revealed that, in addition to discriminatory employment practices, the Baroquian Club, just like my boyhood club, barred all women from both membership and guest privileges. The Baroquians also excluded all blacks, Jews who were not either former Secretaries of State or former National Security Advisors, Italians who did not own casinos or run major automobile manufacturing corporations, and all other minority group members who were not board chairmen of one of the Fortune Five Hundred. The exceptions mentioned within these groups were, of course, not eligible for membership, but they were allowed guest privileges.

Unlike my club, the Baroquian Club did not discriminate against the obese, the spindly, the pimply, the near-sighted, the smart-asses, or the athletically uncoordinated. Indeed, most of the Baroquian Club membership seemed to fall into one or another of the categories my boyhood organization had blackballed. So it goes. One group’s pariahs are another group’s elite.

Their elite ranged in importance from former and present Vice Presidents and Presidents of the United States to oil company executives and bankers who regularly decided the Prime Rate. These select gentlemen awoke one morning to find that a Baroquian Club spokesman had revealed to the press the club tradition of holding frolics and staging shows in which the members dressed up as women. Such transvestite activity, he pointed out (not, however, in those words), required a suspension of inhibitions which would most certainly be hampered by the hiring of non-male menials. How, he asked the reporters man-to-man, could a fellow feel comfortable in pantyhose if he was to come under the eye of a gender trained from childhood to detect flaws in feminine dress? The Baroquian Club’s male members, after all, were an executive group with tremendous responsibilities causing daily strain and pressure. Weren’t they entitled to relax?

(“There’s nothing so relaxing,” feminist Stephanie Greenwillow had remarked when she read this, “as slipping into a girdle and putting your feet up.”)

It was shortly before noon when Rhino and I turned onto the access road leading to Baroquian Orchard. Driving between evenly-spaced rows of giant redwoods, we approached a high, chained iron gate. There was a guard booth outside. Two uniformed men holding shotguns brought us to a halt beside it.

“I’m Steve Victor, and this is Mr. Elmer Dubrowski,” I told them. “We’re guests of Mr. Charles Putnam. He’s expecting us.”

“One moment, sir.” The first guard’s politeness as he retreated to the booth and picked up a telephone for confirmation was cancelled out by the second guard’s shotgun still held at the ready.

“Tight security,” I remarked to Rhino.

“Tighter than a constipated Presbyterian center’s anal cavity.”

“You’re expected, sir. Welcome to Baroquian Orchard.” The iron gates were opened, and we were waved on through.

As we followed the road winding beside the river up the mountainside, the redwoods gave way to gardens of sculpted flower beds and meadows being grazed by sheep and cattle. The last half-mile provided a view of rolling lawns, some with croquet setups; a beautiful, geriatrically banked golf course; tennis courts which, although carefully maintained, didn’t look as though they got much use; and a selection of heated swimming pools, jacuzzis, and natural baths. Rising from these, on the tip of the mountain, overlooking the river on one side and the blue-green vista of the Pacific Ocean on the other, and framed by another careful planting of giant redwoods, stood the mansion-clubhouse of the Baroquians. Done in the baronial style of a Portuguese castle, its turrets and parapets were not so much reminiscent of San Simeon as an enlargement upon its vulgarity which nevertheless could not fail to impress a first-time viewer like Rhino Dubrowski.

“Holy fecal matter!” he exclaimed, massive jaw agape.

“Onward to the Crusades!” I responded.

“Huh?”

I didn’t bother to explain. I pulled the rented Mercedes around the circular driveway to where a liveried footman waved me to a halt. When Rhino and I alit, he slid behind the steering wheel and, I presume, drove the car to where it was to be parked.

A second footman escorted us up the steps to the huge, oaken castle door. Here he turned us over to an elderly gent who resembled a skinny penguin in his black and white formal butler’s garb. “Mr. Putnam is waiting for you two gentlemen in the library,” he informed us. “If you’ll come with me, please.”

We followed him on a safari through halls of Byzantine marble, trudging dutifully over polished redwood floors, eyeing Moorish tapestries and Dresden figurines and artifacts from looted Egyptian pyramids arranged on weavings from sacked Buddhist temples. All this was illuminated by the bright California sunlight streaming through the high, long castle windows. Here and there, an occasional original abstract print by Kandinsky provided a particularly jarring note. But the decor was such an incredible hodgepodge of all that money could buy that a critic would have been hard put to justify any criticism. Since the Medicis, artistic taste and moneyed indulgence have increasingly gone their separate ways.

“Hey, look!” A nudge from Rhino broke into my musings.

“Isn’t that--?”

I looked. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”

Walking towards us was a former President of the United States of America. As he came abreast of us, he craned his head to look at a display of prize-winning Ruth Orkin photographs taken from the window of her apartment on Central Park West. “Drop dead, New York!” he mumbled, stumbling as he popped his chewing gum. He shot us a sort of sheepish grin, ducked his head and continued on his way.

We rounded a corner and almost bumped into a world-famous evangelist coming down the hall. He was holding a Bible in front of him with both hands and paraphrasing it aloud. “. . . and Nelson begat Henry and Henry begat Zbigniew and Zbigniew begat Alexander and Alexander begat⁹ . . .” He passed out of our hearing.

“This way, gentlemen.” Distracted, we had not been keeping up with our formally-garbed guide. Now, we performed a fast shuffle and fell into step with him. A few moments later, he stepped aside, so that we might pass through the doorway to the library.

It was a large room and, while there were murmurings from various groups which had arranged themselves around it, the atmosphere was, on the whole, quite hushed. Waiters in livery glided about on soundless ball bearings. Their trays held large snifters of brandy so rich in color as to create a positive aura of investment capital. The waiters themselves looked as if they had been selected by Central Casting to portray New England church elders in a period drama about Cotton Mather¹⁰ .

Across the room Charles Putnam rose to greet us—or, rather, rose and waited for us to cross the room and greet him. He was not much changed from the last time I had seen him. The grey flannel suit; the navy blue tie with the Old School design dotting it sparsely with grey; and the high, white, round-collared shirt all looked the same as always. Likewise the unflinching steel color of his hair and the noncommittal, blander greyness of his face. The years may have added a line or two to his frozen features, but they weren’t pronounced enough to be read as evidence of any aging process. And his blue eyes were still as clear and sharp and friendly as diamond chips.

“Good to see you, Mr. Victor.” His hand was an over-refrigerated flounder.

Rhino’s presence rated only a brusque nod of acknowledgement. Putnam indicated that Rhino and I should be seated in deep, red plush arm-chairs. Three of them had been arranged about a small, round redwood table. Putnam sat in the third chair without disturbing the crease of his trousers and signaled a waiter. “Brandy, gentlemen,” he suggested.

“I’d rather have scotch,” I said, just to watch him grimace.

He took that in his stride but had trouble controlling the muscles dilating his nostrils when Rhino requested bourbon with a beer chaser.

“So how’s the discrimination suit going?” I asked. There has always been something about Putnam that pushes me into needling him when the opportunity comes up.

“'Could you lower your voice, Mr. Victor. I don’t wish to distress our other members.”

“The suit distresses them?”

“Of course. It threatens our traditions.”

“Traditions . . .” I glanced around the mahogany-paneled room. Across from us, I spied the Secretary of Defense of the United States chatting over a plate of crackers and genuine Russian caviar with the president of a concern seeking a contract to manufacture atomic warheads for the government. The chairman of the board of a major oil company being sued for an off-shore oil spill which had destroyed the recreation possibilities of two-thirds of a coastal state’s beaches was lighting a genuine Havana cigar for the State Attorney General in charge of investigating the spill. A major national building contractor was sniffing rare Chinese brandy with the chairman of a Senate sub-committee considering his petition for a waiver of restrictions protecting the environment. “It’s nice,” I told Putnam, “that the club’s traditions jibe so well with the members’ self-interest.”

“That is nonsense, Mr. Victor. Because we are a private organization and shun publicity, a myth has grown up that the Baroquian Club is a front for international power brokers, and that all sorts of high-level political and business deals are made here. Nothing could be further from the truth. In point of fact, it is a sanctuary from such concerns.”

“I guess that explains why the membership includes at least one officer from forty of the fifty largest manufacturing concerns in the country, one director from twenty of the twenty-five largest banks, and one ranking executive from more than half of the nation’s largest life insurance companies.”

“It is no secret that this is a rich man’s club.” Putnam’s tone turned very frosty.

“But within its hallowed walls, neither business nor politics is ever discussed,” I said sarcastically. “Is that it?”

“Exactly.”

“Then why are we here?” My smile lacked sincerity. “Isn’t it to talk business about the Whittier Stonewalls?”

“A philanthropic enterprise. I told you that over the telephone, Mr. Victor. I will concede that the members of the Baroquian Club frequently discuss such charities among themselves during their visits here.”

I eyed the Secretary of Defense and the munitions contractor, the oil company board chairman and the State Attorney General, the Senator and the building contractor. “I can see that must be it,” I agreed.

“And we should get down to our own discussion.” Putnam ignored the irony.

“Concerning the Whittier Stonewalls.”

“Of course.”

“Which the Baroquian Club financed to have enfranchised as a tribute to-—”

“No, no, Mr. Victor!” Putnam interrupted me. “The Baroquian Club did no such thing. It has no official connection with the Whittier Stonewalls whatsoever. A few gentlemen met in private to arrange this matter. Believe me, the meeting was quite informal.”

“But it took place here?”

“Well, yes.”

“And the gentlemen involved are all members?

“Yes.” Putnam’s sigh was painful, the sound made by a parent hearing for the hundredth time the query “Why, Daddy?”

“But that’s mere coincidence,” I summed up for him.

“You may think what you like, Mr. Victor.” Putnam reacted to my tone. “But I would ask you to restrain your cynicism when we meet with the other gentlemen concerned with this matter.”

“Why should I do that?” I felt like being difficult.

“There are certain proprieties to be observed,” his parent informed my child.

“Nuts to the proprieties!”

“If you do not behave, Mr. Victor, your services may have to be dispensed with. I would really regret that.”

“Dispense away!” I waved a hand airily.

“So, too, would the services of Mr. Dubrowski.”

I looked at Rhino. His basset hound eyes said he needed the job.

“Okay.” I owed Rhino. “I’ll behave.”

“Then, if you’re finished with your drinks, gentlemen, I suggest we join my associates in the conference room.”

“ ‘Associates’? ‘Conference room’? How unbusinesslike can you get?”

“Mr. Victor—!”

“Sorry. Sorry. It won’t happen again.” I stood up and fell in with Rhino to follow Putnam from the library.

En route we passed another former President of the United States¹¹ . “Charles!” He stopped Putnam by stepping directly in front of him. “Ah want yew to know Ah tol’ Mama not to let Billy play with them Libyans!”

“I’m sure you did, Mr. President.” Putnam’s tone was soothing.

“Billy ought to of known not to do his own brother thataway!”

“He certainly should have, Mr. President.”

“An’ that business with the Shah, Charles. Why, that was jus’ plain ol’ Southern hospitality!”

“Of course it was, Mr. President.”

“An’ David¹² an’ Henry¹³ an’ that Helms fella¹⁴ , why, they all said how he did for us an’ so now we had to do for him. Why, hell, what could be more bipartisan than that?”

“You’re absolutely right, Mr. President.”

“Also, Ah’m a good daddy, Charles. An’ a good daddy, he talks about current events with his little girl. An’ he listens serious to what she has to say.”

“That is most certainly what a good parent should do, Mr. President.”

“Then answer me somethin’, Charles. Jus’ how come Ah’m not the President of these here United States anymore?”

“Vox populi, Mr. President. Public ingratitude.”

“The people didn’t ’preciate me, Charles.”

“Indeed not, sir.”

“They’ll be sorry, Charles. Look what they got. Aged ham¹⁵ ! They’ll be wishin’ Ah was back!”

“They already do, Mr. President.”

“Amen!” I echoed, all politicians being relative.

We continued on our way. Putnam ushered us into a small, comfortable room with a round oak table surrounded by well-padded chairs. There was also an oak sideboard, glowing with the inevitable brandy and snifters. A cloud of cigar smoke rich as OPEC hung over the room.

There were four men already seated around the table when we entered. One, as conservatively dressed as Putnam, although his grey suit had a muted pinstripe, sported a belly as rotund as a bank vault, along with a moustache which had shaped itself like feline whiskers. A fat cat!

Beside him was a ruddy-faced man wearing plus-fours and a golfer’s tam. He was chatting with a small, trim, square-jawed man meticulously clad in the uniform of a three-star General of the Army of the United States. The fourth man, in Arab robes and burnoose, sat with his fingers folded in an arrangement that might have been prayer or might have indicated that his mind was occupied with calculating a per-barrel price raise in keeping with the latest equipment depreciation allowance granted American competitors.

Putnam identified us to this group without introducing any of them by name. “Are we all here?” he wondered.

“Except for the Governor,” Fat Cat told him. “He had a rehearsal, but it should be over.”

“Here he is now,” the Golfer said as the door which Putnam had shut opened and closed again.

I recognized the man who entered immediately. Besides being the governor of a Southwestern state, he was one of the shakers and movers of the Republican Party. His power was so consolidated that few decisions in the areas of energy, military appropriations, or highway subsidies were taken at the national level without a representative of the President’s consulting with him first. He was wearing a body stocking with a tutu and angel wings. His legs were shaven. The Governor had really shapely legs.

“Sorry, gentlemen. I didn’t have time to change,” he greeted us.

“Perfectly all right, Governor,” the General assured him. “How’s the show going, anyway?”

“It would be going a lot better if Caspar didn’t have two left feet. If he runs the Defense Department the way he performs entrechats, the country’s in serious trouble. He’s throwing off the whole chorus line in the wood nymph number.”

He crossed his legs, flashing high thigh under the tutu, and lit a cigar. “Did I miss anything?” he inquired.

“No, Governor. We were just about to begin,” Putnam told him.

“Now, gentlemen, as I understand it—” Fat Cat, a take-over type, led off the discussion. “-our new scout here, Mr. Duworski—”

“Dubrowski,” Rhino corrected.

“Sorry. Mr. Dubinsky here has found us a quarterback. That right, Mr. Balinsky?”

“Dubrowski.”

“Whatever.” Fat Cat was annoyed. If people didn’t like the way you pronounced their name, why didn’t they go back where they came from? “But you have found us a quarterback, haven’t you, Mr. Kaminsky?”

“Dubrowski,” Rhino muttered to himself. “Yes sir, I have. And I can tell you that Terry Niemath has more potential than any new quarterback I’ve seen in years.”

“Terry Niemath!” the golfer exclaimed. “I like that name! It has a lot of promise!”

“Sounds like a serious, God-fearing fellow,” the General agreed. “Prayer breakfasts and all that. Is he born again like that other Terry? What’s his name?”

“Bradshaw, sir,” Rhino told him. “No, Terry Niemath’s not born again. As a matter of fact, Terry Niemath’s not—”

“More the fun-loving, flashy type, like Joe Namath,” the golfer supposed. “Well, we can live with that. It’s good box office.”

“I hope he doesn’t have Joe’s weak knees,” the Governor worried, plumping up the stuffing in the brassiere he was wearing under his body stocking. (I wondered if he’d snitched it from his sister.) “And I hope he doesn’t chase skirts like Joe always did.”

“The knees are fine,” Rhino assured him. “And there’s no problem with girls. The problem is—”

“Yes, tell us,” Fat Cat interrupted. “Some sort of sex problem, isn’t it? Isn’t that why we hired Mr. Vector here?”

“Victor!” I snarled.

“Umm, yeah. The problem . . .” Rhino shot me a pleading look.

I shook my head slightly, but firmly. There was no way we could pass Terry off as a man with this bunch. “Tell them,” I told Rhino.

“Terry Niemath is a chick!” Rhino blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?” The confusion on Putnam’s face spelled out poultry.

“He means a girl, a woman,” I explained.

There was a stunned silence while the all-male members of the all-male Baroquian Club raised their eyebrows at one another. The Governor lowered his eyes and contemplated his fingernail polish. The Arab, who had not spoken before, broke the silence now.

“A female quarterback,” he said in perfect English, “is against the teachings of Allah, the laws of nature, and the rules of professional football.”

“That about sums it up, Mr. Dumasski!” Fat Cat’s tone was nasty. “What the hell are we supposed to do with a woman quarterback anyway?”

“There’s nothing in the official rulebook against it,” Rhino told him. “I looked it up.” He took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t know about Allah, or nature,” he added. It was obvious that he figured he was going to be fired anyway. “And the name is Dubrowski. That’s spelled D-u-b-r-o-w-s-k-i. Pronounced Dubrowski. I get real hostile when mother-fornicators like you coitus it up!”

“What was that last?” The golfer cupped a hand to his ear.

“He called him a mother-fucker for fucking up his name,” the Governor explained.

“Oh, Grace, I just love it when you talk dirty!” The General pinched the Governor’s left buttock.

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Putnam restored them to order. “We don’t have time for frivolity now.”

“Nonsense, Charles.” The General took exception. “That’s what the Baroquian Club is all about. Fun and games. Relaxation. Letting our hair down. After all, we’re all Old Boys, and Old Boys will be Old Boys!”

“Nevertheless, General, I must insist that we get back to the matter at hand.”

“Who the devil are you, Charles, to insist on anything?” The General was piqued.

“A retired government employee who has kept up his files, General.” Putnam’s smile cut his throat. “Now, may we proceed?”

“Of course, Charles,” the General muttered. “Of course.”

“All the same,” Fat Cat said, “how can we countenance a female quarterback? We, who belong to a club that not only bars women as members or guests, but won’t even let them on the premises as waitresses?”

“That’s right,” the Arab concurred. The Golfer and the Governor nodded their heads in agreement. The General looked to Putnam for a signal.

“On the contrary, gentlemen,” Putnam told them. “This may well be a God-given chance to improve the club’s image with the public.”

“What the devil do you mean, Charles?” Fat Cat wanted to know.

“The Baroquian Club has been made to look foolish because of its all-male politics.” Putnam ticked off his points briskly. “This reflects badly on us as members. It reflects on all of our members and some guests as well in their areas of expertise. Unwanted publicity revealing our practice of occasionally dressing up as women has made the public doubt our abilities to run our government, deploy our armed forces, distribute our natural resources, manufacture our automobiles, produce our motion pictures, grow our grapes, and so forth. Our image, in short, is quite tarnished. But suppose a group of prominent Baroquian Club members such as we became the driving force behind the gender integration of professional football? Overnight, gentlemen, we would become civil liberties heroes—forward looking, fair-minded, unbiased men of strong conviction! As a group, we would be likened to Branch Rickey introducing Jackie Robinson to professional baseball¹⁶ .”

“Is this woman black?” The General was confused.

“No, General. I was just drawing a parallel,” Putnam clarified. “And don’t forget, gentlemen, that we also get a competent quarterback, something the Whittier Stonewalls badly need.”

“I don’t understand, Charles.” Fat Cat was deliberately slow on the uptake. “If we won’t let women in our club, how can we be in favor of letting one play on our professional football team?”

“If we’re for democracy, how could we justify putting the Shah on the throne¹⁷ ?” Putnam responded softly.

“If we’re against welfare, how can we justify bailing out Chrysler¹⁸ ?” the Golfer reminded him.

“If we’re for conserving energy, how can we justify the use of electricity to light up outdoor advertising?” the Arab added.

“I see.” Fat Cat nodded his head. “Like our humanitarian policies in Vietnam¹⁹ .”

“Exactly,” the General told him. “Past history, but that’s exactly right.”

“Then it can be justified.”

“Of course,” Putnam continued. “More than justified. It will divert attention from our anti stand in the E.R.A.²⁰ “

“Is that still around?” the Golfer wondered.

“I don’t think it’s going to go away,” the Arab told him. “The houris of my harem had a bonfire the other night to burn their veils.”

“My wife burned my dinner,” the Governor remembered, “when she found out the legislature tabled the vote on the amendment.”

“I can see it now.” The General looked to Putnam for approval. “The headlines in the papers, I mean. ‘Elite Group of Baroquian Club Members Sponsor First Woman Quarterback in Professional Football’!”

“ ’The Right to Organizational Privacy Does Not Mean the Right to Discriminate, Vow Baroquians’!” The Golfer picked up on the theme.

“ ‘A Woman’s Place Is in the Huddle, Not the Baroquian Club, Pro Fem Lib Members Declare’!” Even Fat Cat became part of the general enthusiasm.

“We will steal the fire away from them!” The Arab’s eyes were aglow. “While the activists talk, we Baroquians will act!”

“Wait a minute!” Only the Governor had reservations. He smoothed his body stocking nervously over his padded bosom. “Last year, we invited the team to our annual show. Does this mean this quarterback will be invited this year? I mean, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing my wood nymph erotic dance with some woman watching! Besides, it wouldn’t be right for a lady to hear all those dirty jokes on the program.”

I thought of Terry Niemath and swallowed a laugh.

“Miss Niemath will not be invited to the show,” Charles Putnam reassured him. “Mr. Dubrowski will see to that. Won’t you, Mr. Dubrowski?”

“Sure. But there’s one other thing that ought to be --”

And you’ll take care of all the other details, won’t you, Mr. Dubrowski?”

“Well, yeah. But I’m trying to tell you there’s another—”

“Then it’s all settled.” Putnam stood up. “And since we have other matters to discuss, I wonder if Mr. Dubrowski and Mr. Victor would mind excusing themselves now?”

“You’re not listening, Mr. Putnam,” I told him. “Rhino here is trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you there’s another problem. Another sex problem.”

“Another sex problem?” Putnam sat down. “Explain, please, Mr. Victor.”

“Our lady quarterback has an over-developed libido,” I told him succinctly.

“You mean --?”

“She’s a nymphomaniac,” Rhino defined, not having to worry about what Stephanie Greenwillow might think.

“Insatiable,” I confirmed.

There was a long silence broken by the Arab and the General, speaking together. “Allah save us!” said the Arab. “Oh, shit!” said the General.

“I don’t see where her private life need concern us.” Fat Cat was calmer.

“If we’re worried about our image,” pointed out the Governor, biting his knuckle and smearing his lipstick, “it sure as diddly-poo has to concern us.”

“Couldn’t we get one of our Moral Majority preachers to have a talk with her and make her see that virtue is its own reward?” suggested the Golfer.

“I don’t think that would work,” I told him.

“I’ve got it!” The General sprang to his feet. “We’ll have her spayed!”

“I don’t think she’ll go for that either,” was my opinion.

“Why not?” The General pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand excitedly. “I once had this bulldog bitch, horniest critter you ever saw, and we took her to the vet and, after he altered her, she was chaste as Maggie Thatcher.”

“I don’t think she’ll go for it.” He obviously hadn’t heard me the first time.

“Hell, we didn’t ask this bulldog bitch! We just hauled her on down to the vet and did it!”

“I wouldn’t suggest you try that, General.” Rhino spoke up. “This female canine is one tough football player.”

“What do you suggest, Mr. Victor?” It was Putnam who spoke, but now all eyes turned to me, the Man from O.R.G.Y., the sex expert.

“Somebody will just have to ride herd on her every minute of the day and night. Otherwise, the papers will get hold of it, and you gentlemen will look more foolish than you do because of the waitress brouhaha.”

“Would you be willing to take on that job for us, Mr. Victor?”

“Hell, no!”

“We sure would be appreciative, Mr. Victor.” The Governor batted his false eyelashes at me.

“And generous too, Mr. Factor,” Fat Cat added.

“Victor!”

“Very generous.” The Arab’s eyes measured my weakness. “Doesn’t that interest you?”

Chivas Regal. . . beautiful women . . . lots of money... these are a few of my favorite things.

“Yeah,” I surrendered. “It interests me.”

“It will not be a problem.” Charles Putnam brought the discussion to a close. “We will work out the details between us later, Mr. Victor, and then you and Mr. Dubrowski and Ms. Niemath can proceed to Whittier to join the team. Will that be satisfactory?”

It would be. Rhino and I were eased smoothly from the room and entrusted to another formally dressed butler whose job it was, I presume, to be sure we left the premises. As we went out the front door, I glanced back over my shoulder.

Two middle-aged men in Shirley Temple dance outfits stood licking giant lollipops. “Dig those hoofers.” Rhino had also spotted them.

“Hoovers²¹ , not hoofers,” I told him. “One of those guys is top ranking FBI, and the other’s a CIA bigwig.”

“That kind of excretion going down sort of makes me curious,” Rhino remarked.

“Curious? Curious about what?”

“Well,” he answered, “I wonder who’s Kissinger now?”

CHAPTER SIX

The first challenge of my new job presented itself sooner than I expected. Terry Niemath, Rhino, and I had taken a night flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles. Another rental car, this one a Porsche (why, I wondered, did Charles Putnam always lean towards German products?), was waiting for us at the airport. I drove it thirteen miles east to the slopes of the Puente Hills, where the expanding city of Whittier once nestled but now sprawls.

Whittier was founded in 1887 by Quakers. The Quakers who followed were mostly farmers, and so Whittier became a farming community. World War II changed both the pacifist solidarity of the area and its bucolic ambience. The farms were replaced by factories manufacturing oil well equipment, machine parts and products made of various steel alloys, car radiators, oil burners, chemicals, plastics, cutlery, and parts for commercial and military aircraft. A miniature Pittsburgh of the Far West, Whittier today has grown to a metropolis of over three hundred thousand people.

I drove through it towards the northwest section, which is bounded by Ross Hills Memorial Park, one of the largest cemeteries in the United States. Not far from it was the residence hotel where the Whittier Stonewalls were lodged during the training season and during the regular season when they weren’t on the road. It was a large, squarish structure on a quiet, tree-lined street near the stadium. The inside lobby was clean, airy and unpretentious. It was after midnight, and the desk clerk was sleepy but polite. He didn’t chew gum—always the mark of a class hostel. He was expecting us and had our room assignments and keys ready.

Rhino and I were sharing room 310. Terry was in room 318, down the hall. Naturally, I assumed that hers was a private room, and that she’d be alone in it.

Lesson One for the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth: Never assume!

The obliging desk clerk helped us up with our baggage. We stopped at Terry’s door first. He opened it and handed her the key. Before she could enter, a light went on inside and the doorway was bocked by three hundred plus pounds of pro football offensive tackle on the hoof.

“Howdy, guys. Been expectin’ you.” His yawn was high and toothy enough for a dinosaur. “Which one of you’s Niemath?” As he spoke, somewhere up in the stratosphere where his head was, his brain sent a message to his eyes, and he opened them. They were blue, and large and wide enough for a quick dip, if you like alpine pools. “Dumb, huh?” He ducked his elephant-sized head at Terry. “Sure can’t be you, Ma’am.” His bright smile—displaying teeth like those on a brand new harrow—said he’d figured it all out. Terry must be the wife of one of us, and the other must be his new roommate. At the same moment, he realized he’d been standing there in underwear which clearly revealed a genital outline the size of two basketballs and a baseball bat-—or so it seemed. Out of courtesy to the wife of a new teammate, he quickly did his best to cover this with hands like coal shovels. Standing there like that, he even dwarfed Rhino which, believe me, isn’t something even most other football players can do. “Beggin’ your pardon, Missus.” He acknowledged his state of undress and started backing away from the door.

“Y’all hold up just a minute, now!” Terry stopped him. “It’s Ms.”

“Sorry, Ma’am. Guess I ain’t up on that new women’s libber lingo.”

“What I mean, sugah, is that I am Terry Niemath.”

“You’re funnin’ me!” He stared. The effect was like freezing the searchlights at a Hollywood premiere.

“In the flesh!”

“Yes, Ma’am!” There was the kind of enthusiasm in his voice that offensive tackles usually reserve for thick, rare steaks. “I’m Nuke Outlaw.” He remembered to introduce himself.

“Listen,” I interjected, turning to the room clerk. “I think there’s been some mistake.”

“No.” He consulted his list. “Terry Niemath rooms with Nuke Outlaw in 318. That’s the way the team manager set it up.”

“Even so, I think you’d better let us have another room for the lady.”

“I don’t rightly want another room!” Terry pouted.

“I don’t have another room,” the clerk told me. “We’re all filled up. If you hadn’t been with the team I wouldn’t have held yours.”

“All right then,” I said desperately. “Rhino, you room with this gentleman and Terry can room with me.

“My roommate’s supposed to be Terry Niemath.” There was just enough of an edge in Nuke Outlaw’s voice to remind me that he stood almost two feet taller than Muhammad Ali.

“And my roommate’s supposed to be Nuke Outlaw.” Terry removed one of his hands from over his groin and took it between both of hers. The effect was like Fay Wray’s holding King Kong’s paw.

“Rhino—?” I turned to him as my last resort.

His gaze rose from eye-level, which was Nuke Outlaw’s chest, to up around the ceiling where it was met by a look of stubborn possessiveness. “I don’t think so, Steve.” Rhino shook his head with a sigh. “Not even the two of us.”

“See y’all in the mornin’.” Terry sashayed into the room.

“G’night, guys.” Nuke Outlaw closed the door on my nose just as I had decided that duty dictated l should retrieve her.

Duty! Hell, there was more to the first challenge of my new job than Terry Niemath’s over-active libido. There was brawn like I still couldn’t believe, combined with male horniness focused into the single-minded, gridiron-forged concentration of a right tackle determined to get laid. Duty? I’m loyal but I’m not suicidal. Let Charles Putnam try standing between a seven-foot, three-hundred-pound-plus lineman with a hard-on and a willing woman. Not me. After all, she wasn’t even officially a member of the team yet. Technically, my assignment hadn’t started. And, if it had, why then, I guess I’d simply caved in to the first challenge. I’m the Man from O.R.G.Y., a lover, not a fighter.

“Come on, dearie,” I told Rhino. “It’s time for beddy-bye.”

The reason we’d taken a night flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles was that Rhino had thought it important that Terry be in Whittier the next day to meet the new coach. He wasn’t new just to us, but to the rest of the team as well, having been hired as the sixth replacement in two years who was supposed to have the moxie to revitalize the team. He’d called a meeting for nine the next morning, and Rhino wanted Terry there, so she’d start even with the rest of the team.

To make sure of her attendance, Rhino and I stopped off at her room to pick her up. Nuke Qutlaw was with her. His red eyes were slit like oyster shells protecting their pearls. As they walked down the hall in front of us, Terry’s gait reminded me of John Wayne’s after a week or two of busting new broncos. The long legs of her blue jeans formed a mobile parentheses.

We drove the Porsche to the stadium. Despite our prodding, Terry and Nuke were so somnambulistic that we were the last to enter the locker room where the meeting was taking place. The other members of the team had their backs to us, and the coach, who was about to speak, merely peered at us through thick glasses and motioned for us to take seats in the rear. Either the glasses weren’t thick enough, or Nuke’s bulk blocked Terry’s femininity from his vision. It couldn’t have been any ordinary thing to him to have a woman in his locker room. In any case, since Rhino and I shared a philosophy of never facing today what you can put off until tomorrow, we positioned Terry in a chair behind Nuke where she wouldn’t be easily seen. Few coaches, we figured, would take the signing up of a female quarterback in their stride.

The coach rapped for quiet. When he had it, he started speaking. “My name is Newtrokni,” he said. “Coach Newtrokni. My first name is none of your fuckin’ business. You call me ‘Coach’ or ‘Sir.’ I don’t like jokes about my name. I don’t like jokes about Notre Dame, Pat O’Brien, or the Gipper. Player fines start at fifty green ones for those jokes and go up from there. Same for mispronouncin’ my name or puttin’ a ‘K’ on the front of it. Any questions?”

He stood there and waited, as wide as he was tall, but with no more fat on him than a Pamplona bull. His brown eyes had the consistency of constipated turds behind his thick glasses. His jaw stuck out like a sledgehammer. Now he resumed speaking, his voice, as before, sounding like a cattle stampede over a gravel pit.

“No questions. Good. Now, this here is a get-acquainted meeting after which you guys can suit up, and we’ll have a scrimmage. I’ll have more to say before that, but first I’m gonna have the assistant coach call out your names to make sure you’re all here and to see what you look like.”

The assistant coach read off the names in a voice like the computer in 2001²² . Each player responded by answering with his position—”Right guard,” “Center,” and so forth. Finally he reached the “O’s” on his list.

“Outlaw, Nuke,” he called metallically.

“Here. Right tackle.”

“Why are you yawning, Outlaw?” Coach Newtrokni demanded. “Are we boring you?”

“No, sir.” Nuke was sheepish. “I just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“That’s no excuse, Outlaw. Too much sleep is bad for you. I don’t believe in sleep. I like my boys to keep active. You keep active, Outlaw, and you won’t be yawning when you shouldn’t.”

“Yes, Coach.” Nuke’s jaw muscles worked like tractor valves to suppress another yawn.

“Niemath, Terry.” The calling of names continued.

“Here,” Terry answered in her fluty feminine voice from behind Nuke Outlaw’s heft. “Quarterback.”

“You got a cold, or what, Niemath?” Coach Newtrokni demanded.

“No, Coach.” The flutiness was more muffled now, as Rhino and I shifted in towards Nuke Outlaw to block her further from view.

“Quarterback...” Coach Newtrokni mused. “Make a note to ask the Doc, can he do something about that voice box,” he told the second assistant coach. “Else, how they gonna hear him call the signals?”

The assistant coach completed the roll call. Coach Newtrokni elbowed him aside and again faced the team, rocking from side to side on thick bandy legs. There was open hostility in the gravel being kicked up as he resumed speaking.

“Cards on the table!” he proclaimed. “The Whittier Stonewalls are to pro football what President Ronald Reagan is to the art of summit diplomacy, which is another way of saying this team is a total disaster. Hold it!” His snarl silenced the murmur of protest. “I know most of you guys weren’t here the last two seasons when the Stonewalls earned this rep. On the other hand, if you were any good, you wouldn’t have been signed up by us this year. You’d have been snapped up by some halfway decent team.”

“That go for you too, Coach?” a redheaded linebacker with a faceful of freckles like a measles epidemic wisecracked.

“Now hear this, Foley!” The Coach’s voice sank to a hiss like bubbling lava. “I don’t like honesty. I don’t like forthrightness. I don’t believe my players should tell it like it is. I place a high value on humility, kowtowing, and groveling. My good graces are best entered by a regular tugging of the forelock. In short, Foley—and you’d better remember this—my ass is here to be kissed. Any questions?”

“No, sir, Coach. Foley’s face had turned so white that it looked like the freckles were dribbling off it.

“The first time any of you forget that could cost you fifty; the second time, a hundred; and the third time, you’ll be long gone. Now, to get back to what I was saying about the team. The way I look at it, you guys are a batch of mixed turds, an’ I’m the guy with the shovel who has to mold you into a solid shitpile. Practice and training will do that on the field. Discipline will back that up off the field. Now, you’ll find I don’t operate like other coaches. But the one thing I do have in common with them is that I expect absolute subservience and obedience as regards the rules I set down when it comes to training. These rules have to do with your physical well-being and with your morale.”

“Excuse me, Coach Newtrokni.” A defensive linebacker named Simon Sabbath held up his hand respectfully. “But I’m sure you want to keep our spiritual well-being in mind, as well.”

Lesson One for Defensive Linebackers: Never assume!

“Negative!” The Coach didn’t actually breathe fire it just seemed like he did. “Now hear this! I am an atheist! I will tolerate no Bible-thumpers on my team! All crosses, mezuzzahs, plastic Jesuses, Buddhas, and other religious artifacts will be turned in to the assistant coach here. There will be no prayer breakfasts! There will be no praying at all! Any player who breaks training by sneaking off to church to pray will be fined. There is no place on my team for born again sinners, Catholics who confess, Jews who observe the High Holy Days, dunked Baptists, Buddhists on the track of Nirvana, transcendental meditators, or any other religious believers of any sort. And, since we are a team, I expect you all to feel the same reverence for atheism that I do. Questions?”

“Beg pardon, Coach.” A halfback who had made a name for himself at Columbia dared interrupt. “I’m an agnostic. Is that okay?”

“Negative! Resolve your doubts, Luther. There are no maybes. You want to backslide, you pray I don’t find out about it. And you pray to me, ’cause I’m all there is! Your only deity! Anything else is heresy. Questions?”

The room was silent.

“Okay. Now Training Rule One is, no religion. And Training Rule Two is—” He snapped his fingers at the first assistant coach.

“Curfew.” The f.a.c. came in on cue smoothly, as if someone had pressed his response button.

“Right. Curfew. There will be no curfew for my team. I want my players to stay out late and get up early. Sleep dulls the senses, and I want my players sharp. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. No curfew! No catnaps. No lying around in bed when you could be out cavorting. Now, what do I mean by cavorting?” He snapped his fingers again, this time at the second assistant coach.

“Women!” The s.a.c. spit out the word the way a Salvadoran says “Yankee!”

“Right. Now, some misguided coaches feel that their players should stay away from women and conserve their bodily fluids. I know better. The disposal of semen by use of the orifices of willing women is the best outlet there is for cleansing the body of distracting fluids. It relieves the pressures of desire and frees the body for the business of football. It keeps the whole thing out of the locker room and away from our training quarters. So, go out every night and screw your asses off, fellows. And come back every morning with clear heads and cleansed bodies and play football.”

Simon Sabbath looked on the verge of tears. First he’d been deprived of his religion, and now he was being ordered to sin. What next?

“What next?” Coach Newtrokni snapped his fingers at the f.a.c.

“Diet!” The word whirred from the lips of the f.a.c.

“Right. Diet. Now you men should know that the cornerstone of my atheism is vegetarianism. Some atheists are not vegetarians, and some vegetarians are not atheists, but those poor souls are misguided and could certainly never run a professional football team. Understand me. There will be no steaks at my training table. There will be no red meat. There will be no eggs, milk, or other dairy products.”

“What will there be, Coach?” a tight end was brave enough to ask.

“Carrot salad. Alfalfa with wheat germ. Zucchini. Raw coconut. Sunflower seeds.”

“Potatoes?” another player inquired desperately.

“Yams. Mashed, with yogurt. Other health foods, as well. This will build you up and give you the strength to devastate all those lead-bellied meat-eaters you’re going to come up against.”

“But won’t a diet like that leave us hungry, Coach?”

“Of course it will! That’s the whole idea. Nobody ever felt satisfied after a meal of raw beets and bean sprouts. You’ll be so hungry you’ll be savage. You’ll be unsatisfied carnivores. You’ll tear into that opposing line like a starving pack of jungle cats tear into fresh-killed springbok carrion!”

“Kill!” The s.a.c. snarled.

“Kill!” The f.a.c. gnashed teeth like computer gears.

“Excuse me, Coach. But do we have to drink carrot juice and squeezed celery and like that?”

“Negative! You get to drink—” The finger snap again.

“Beer!” The s.a.c. beat the f.a.c. to the punch. Lesson One for Second Assistant Coaches: Never assume!

“Wrong!” The brown turds behind the thick glasses condemned the s.a.c. “Beer bloats! Hard liquor is much better for you. Hard liquor and stout, which has body. As of right now, bourbon and stout is the official drink of the Whittier Stonewalls! Any objections?”

There were no objections.

“I like to see my men plastered. Plastered is relaxed. Come home sober, and you’ll play like a deacon the next day. Come home relaxed and you’ll be loose as a goose.”

“How about smoking, Coach?” someone inquired.

“Develops the lungs. I recommend a minimum of three packs a day if you want to last on this team.”

“Grass, Coach?”

“Stoned is even more relaxed than plastered. I suggest a joint at the start of each game and another one at halftime. Any more questions?”

There were no more questions.

“Okay. Now, just one more thing.” The harsh tone changed, softened, became more conciliatory, more paternal. '°There’ll come a time for each of you when you have a problem that you want to talk over. Maybe it’ll be a problem having to do with the team. Maybe it’ll be financial. Maybe it’ll be personal. Maybe it’ll involve a girlfriend, or a sick mother, or a faithful old dog that’s dying. Now, guys, do you know who you can go to when you have some such problem?”

Their trusting faces said they knew.

“Coach Newtrokni.” The f.a.c. issued the answer.

Lesson One for First Assistant Coaches: Never assume!

The Coach ignored him and kept looking at the players. “Well, I hope you know who you can go to when you have some such problem, men. I hope you know, because you sure as shit can’t come to me! I don’t want to know about your fuckin’ problems! Keep ’em to yourself! I’m a coach, not a fuckin’ sky-pilot! And don’t you guys ever forget it. Now suit up and be out on the field in five minutes. Hop to it, you batch of uncoordinated turds!”

Rhino and I held a quick meeting with Terry behind the bulk provided by Nuke Outlaw. We reached a quick decision. Neither Rhino nor I felt up to facing Coach Newtrokni with the news that one of his new quarterbacks had an empty space where his macho was supposed to be hanging. Rhino summed up our cowardice:

“Let’s let Coach get a look at Terry in action before we spring it on him. After he’s seen her, he won’t mind so much. Believe me.”

I didn’t believe him, but I was for anything that would postpone the moment of truth. “You don’t think maybe he’ll notice when she comes out on the field?”

“With a loose jersey, shoulder pads, and her hair under a helmet, she’ll get by.”

That’s what I liked about Rhino. Once he got his teeth into an idea, he never gave up. He was still hoping we could pass Terry off as a guy. It was the kind of sticktoitiveness that had made him a good Marine, the quality that had propelled him to save my life in ’Nam, the trait that would probably get all three of us fired by Coach Newtrokni.

Nuke sneaked the uniform and helmet out of the locker room for us. We found a deserted hallway and Terry dressed there. Rhino and I stood guard at either end of the corridor.

Actually, it wasn’t too bad. Terry really didn’t look particularly female in the loose-fitting uniform. Rhino added some padding here and there that served to square off her curves. When he was through she looked like a tall candidate for a junior high school team.

We were late getting onto the field. The rest of the team was there already. Coach Newtrokni noticed. “That’s fifty, Niemath,” he announced. “Late for practice!”

Terry started to protest, but Rhino clapped his hand over her mouth and led her away. He sat her down on the bench with some other players and parked himself between them and her. I hustled over and sat on her other side. We didn't want any premature revelation.

The coach was testing out the candidates for the offensive and defensive lines. He’d set up a four-man standard defense against a five-man split offensive. He kept changing the players, but not the pattern. He wasn’t interested in plays. He was trying to gauge speed and muscle and knowhow.

The linemen as a group were short on all three. They looked hefty enough but, when they slammed into one another, you could see there was a lot more grunt than brawn. They were as light on their feet as a bunch of sea tortoises, and their reflexes were strictly slow-motion. Their instincts, on the other hand, guided them as jerkily as Keystone Cops.

I paid particular attention to the offense. These were the guys who’d have to block for our underweight female quarterback if Terry made the team. In pro football, that meant that more than her success in any given game would depend on them. There would be many, many times when her life would depend on them. At her weight, being sacked could definitely be fatal.

Nuke Outlaw was decidedly the size lineman Terry would need for protection. The three of us watched him hopefully as he towered over the opposition when they lined up. When the ball was snapped, Nuke moved surely to the left and took out his own guard and center. The defensive line gratefully paraded through the hole at right tackle. If there had been a quarterback there, the poor patsy would have gone down under more than a thousand pounds of hard-charging and ferocious tacklers. If that quarterback had been Terry, they’d have needed a magnifying glass to find all her pieces and a blotter to pick them up.

Coach Newtrokni was pacing back and forth on the sidelines. As Nuke took out the right half of his own line, he paused in front of us to make a note on his clipboard. I peered over his shoulder, curious to see what it was. Next to Nuke’s name, he’d scrawled, “heft plus zilch.” A quick glance showed me that Nuke wasn’t alone. Next to the names of the other linemen there were similarly derogatory comments.

He started shuffling the linemen around. He tried out the first of the candidates for quarterback with them. With Nuke again blocking away from the play, the poor guy was creamed in the pocket on his first pass attempt. On the second play he tried to run. Coach was writing even before they hit him: “Lollypop legs” was his judgment. From the crazy angles they were pointing at when they carried him off the field, that sounded right to me.

The second candidate handed off three times running to a teammate who wasn’t there. The fourth time, he handed off to the defensive guard who—typically—ran the wrong way to score a touchdown for the other side. The quarterback looked pleased with himself at how well things had worked out—almost as if he’d convinced himself he’d planned it that way—and trotted off the field. But then, he hadn’t seen Coach’s comment: “Puts on pants over head!”

Coach Newtrokni decided to test the third quarterback candidate’s passing ability. He stationed a receiver twenty yards away in the right-hand corner. The quarterback underthrew him by ten yards and was at least twenty degrees to the left. After he’d repeated this a dozen or so times, Coach sent him to the showers. The comment was: “Dependable as a Pinto.”

“Niemath! Get your ass out there! Let’s see what you can do! Let’s see your arm. How far can it go?”

“Try forty yards,” Rhino suggested.

Coach deigned to notice his presence for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”

“Rhino Dubrowski. The scout who signed Niemath.”

“You sign those other clunkers?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I guess that’s a plus. Let’s see what your boy can do.”

Rhino winced at the word ‘boy’ and then yelled to Terry. “Forty-yard pass.”

A hopeless receiver jogged forty yards to the ten yard line and stood there with his hands dangling at his side. Obviously he didn’t expect the pass to come anywhere near him. A moment later the football bounced hard off his gut, knocking the wind out of him. We could hear him go “Oof!” from the sidelines.

Coach Newtrokni’s eyebrows reached for his receding hairline. “Again,” he decided.

Terry threw a dozen more passes in a row. The Coach had receivers criss-crossing the field like roadrunners to test Terry’s accuracy. She never missed. The receiver didn’t always make it, but the ball was always exactly where it was supposed to be when it was supposed to be.

Coach penciled in a comment with my chin on his shoulder. “Arm super; heft puny.” Compared to the other comments on his sheet, it was exorbitant praise. “Try a handoff,” he ordered Terry.

She handed off so smoothly that the opposing linemen didn’t even bother tackling her. She repeated this five or six times. On two of the plays, the running back fumbled the ball and Terry smoothly slipped a hand under it and bobbled it back up into his gut again. A couple of times, the defensive guards broke through in time to break up the play but, in each case, Terry reversed smoothly, avoided them, and managed to hand the ball to the running back so that he caught the tackle instead of her.

The Coach wrote another comment: “Elbow smooth; heft puny.” Then he told Terry he wanted to see some fakes. She performed them so well that, even though I knew they were coming, I’d have sworn she handed off the ball when she kept it. Three times running, the defense hit the wrong man and left Terry out in the clear.

The Coach’s comment was “Neat magic act, heft puny.” He scratched his head and stared out across the field at Terry, who was waiting for further instructions. “How are Niemath’s legs?” he wondered aloud.

“Like you wouldn’t believe, Coach,” Nuke Outlaw told him, remembering.

Coach ignored the comment. “Get out there and tell Niemath I want to see him break out of the pocket and run,” he instructed Nuke.

Nuke trotted out onto the field and relayed the message. Terry nodded towards us to show she understood. It wouldn’t have mattered if she hadn’t. With Nuke invariably pulling her pass protection the wrong way, she had no choice but to run, anyway.

She was fast, really fast. More important than that, she had a sure instinct when it came to making her moves. She reacted the instant a tackler committed himself and her reverses and side-slips were smooth as whipped cream cheese. She suckered one man after another—sometimes two at once—and was always somewhere else as they came up empty.

“Fast feet,” the Coach noted. “Heft puny.” He called over a defensive linebacker and conferred with him. He clued him in on the next play and sent him in. “I wanna see how that puny little guy stands up when he’s really hit,” he confided to nobody in particular. “This time when he gets going he’s gonna walk into a brick wall.”

That’s just what it must have looked like from Terry’s vantage point. Her defense folded to the left and the entire four-man defensive line reached for her as one man. A thousand pounds is a low estimate.

Terry faded back in the pocket, which was all she could do. But they were too close. She couldn’t run. It was too late to pass. It looked as though Terry Niemath was about to be the victim of her first professional football sack.

But I didn’t know Terry. None of us did. Not even Rhino knew her well enough to expect what she did next.

She faded way back very quickly. She tucked the ball snugly against one hip. Then, with her free hand, she yanked up her jersey from the bottom and pushed her naked gourds out into the faces of the charging linemen!

There’s an old Tarzan movie where the elephants are charging a helpless safari party when Tarzan swings down from a vine directly into their path, yells, “Kawabanga!” and holds up his hand. The elephants screech to a dead stop as if some cosmic force has hit their brakes. That’s the way those tacklers stopped now. Terry’s naked jugs were sign language for “Kawabanga!” and they stopped those behemoths right in their tracks. Later Rhino swore to me that one of the defense sprouted an instant erection and pole vaulted through the goal posts just as Terry trotted into the end zone for a touchdown.

I missed that. I was distracted by the Coach. He wasn’t writing on his clipboard this time. He made his final comment aloud as follows: “Heft puny; great tits!”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Immediately after the scrimmage, Rhino and I met with Coach Newtrokni in his private office. “You didn’t tell me Niemath had tits.” He wagged a finger at Rhino coyly.

“Sorry, Coach.”

“I mean, that’s the kind of pertinent information a coach has the right to expect a scout to provide, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, Coach.”

“I read the report you submitted when Niemath signed up and you mentioned a good arm and smooth handoffs and fakes and excellent play-calling and great inside and outside moves, but you never once mentioned that Niemath had tits. Was there some reason you withheld that information, Dubrowski?”

“No, sir,” Rhino replied miserably.

“Oh, I think there was. I think that you thought if I knew about those tits my suspicions would be aroused. Isn’t that right, Dubrowski?”

“I don’t quite follow you, Coach.”

“I think you thought, if I saw those tits, I just might begin to suspect that maybe—-just maybe Niemath might not be of the masculine gender.”

“Masculine gender?” Rhino was slow on the uptake.

“I think you thought I might suspect Niemath of being a woman. Now, tell the truth, Dubrowski. Isn’t that so?”

“Yeah, Coach.” Rhino’s misery deepened.

“Well, Dubrowski, you would have been right. If I’d known about Niemath’s tits, I would have suspected Niemath of being a woman not of the masculine gender. Yep! I most certainly would have!”

“That makes sense, Coach.”

“I’ll bet you thought I wouldn’t like the idea of your signing up a female quarterback for the team, Dubrowski. That right?”

“It crossed my mind, Coach,” Rhino admitted.

“Well, you were wrong. Flat-out wrong. To tell the truth, I kinda like the idea of going down in the record books as the coach of the first team to sign up a woman to play professional football. Women are a force in this country today, Dubrowski. I don’t at all mind scoring points with them. But do you know what I do mind, Dubrowski?”

“What, Coach?”

“I mind being lied to—even if the lie is just leaving something out. Now, a woman quarterback is gonna give me problems. I shoulda known about them from the start.”

“I was gonna tell you, Coach. I was just sort of waiting for an opportune moment.”

“Is there anything else you’re waiting for an opportune moment to tell me, Dubrowski? Because, if there is, I’m telling you that right now is an opportune moment.”

Rhino gulped hard. “Terry likes coitus,” he said in a very low voice.

“So?” Coach Newtrokni wasn’t too concerned. “I think sex is a healthy outlet for my players. I thought I made that clear this morning.”

“It’s sort of a little more than likes, Coach. Obsessed, I guess, is more like it. I mean, she wants to have sex all the time. She never stops.”

“Well, of course, I wouldn’t want her disrupting the team.”

“That’s the problem, Coach. The way Terry goes at it, it could disrupt the team.”

“My luck!” The Coach was bitter. “I finally get a quarterback with really strong potential and there has’ to be some goddam picayune problem to spoil

“It’s not picayune.” I spoke up for the first time. “It could be major.”

“I’ve been wondering who the hell you are.” Coach Newtrokni stared at me suspiciously.

Rhino introduced me and explained about my O.R.G.Y. expertise. “Steve’s job is to keep Terry in line and deal with any problems come up ’cause she’s a nymphomaniac woman,” he summed up.

“Can you do that, Victor?” There was a decided lack of faith in Coach Newtrokni’s voice.

“With God’s help.” I was being ironic.

“You believe in God?” Coach Newtrokni was shocked.

“Somebody must make the subways run on time.”

“The subways don’t run on time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t want to hear about any deities, Victor. I need a quarterback I can depend on. Now, can you—?” He interrupted himself and looked up annoyed as the f.a.c. entered. “What is it?”

“Responding your request immediate injury reports first scrimmage, Coach.” His computer voice announced the data output.

“Oh, yeah. Let’s see.” Coach studied the printout the f.a.c. handed him. “What the hell is this?” he exploded. “There are six groin injuries from the last lousy play!”

“Result of tacklers ditto blockers erections response to quarterback mammaries, Coach.”

“Yeah? So? A hard-on isn’t a groin injury that I know of.”

“Team medic reports quote injuries due to combination blue balls and stubbing dicks against steel jocks unquote.”

“Victor?” The Coach turned to me. You re supposed to be the expert. I can’t afford those kind of injuries. What’s going to happen when we play a real game?”

I was saved from having to admit I had no answer when the s.a.c. came flying into the room. “Coach! Coach!” He was very agitated. “Come quick! There’s a fuckin’ riot in the shower room!”

“What kind of riot?” the Coach wanted to know as we all followed the s.a.c. back towards the shower room.

“A fuckin’ riot, Coach. I told you.”

It was an accurate description. When we reached the shower room, there was a riot going on as well as some spectacular fucking. Both elements seemed to emanate from a hub which consisted of Terry Niemath, Nuke Outlaw, Luther the halfback, and redheaded linebacker Freck Foley.

Terry was on her hands and knees, her long, tanned, sinuous, naked body all slippery and shiny with soapsuds and drops of water. The way she was crouching, her large breasts with their bright red berry nipples swung athletically while her plump, sculpted, pink-clefted ass stuck up high in the air. Just below it, in her wide-stretched pussy, Nuke Outlaw’s donkey-size dong was pushing in and out with a rapid rhythm that threatened to split her luscious body in half.

Luther the halfback and Freck Foley were kneeling in front of Terry and attempting to push both their cocks at once into her wet, greedy, red-lipped mouth. Her tongue was extended full-length to lick the undersides of each of their scrotum sacs in turn. Her expression managed to be ravenous and blissful at the same time.

On either side of Terry there was an unconscious football player. Each of them had a slow-dying erection and a large, purple bruise where his jaw should have been.

As we stood staring in the doorway to the shower room, Nuke let out a bellow, slammed his cock hard all the way into Terry’s tight—-but oily and clutching quim, and threw a downward punch that caught Luther flush on the jaw. The halfback toppled like a tree and lay behind the other two downed players as Nuke proclaimed his property deed: “Terry is my girl!”

“Y’all shut up an’ keep fuckin’,” she told him. “I ain’t nobody’s girl! I’m a woman an’ the only one whose woman I am is my own!” She signalled to a waiting player to replace Luther.

“No!” Nuke swung and missed.

“Ooh! Sugah! That felt so good!”

Just beyond the two stiff pricks that Terry was sucking, a pair of guards were slugging it out to be next. Beyond them, other soapy, naked players were arguing and struggling to establish their places in line. There were three or four more unconscious bodies strewn around the shower room. Closest to us, defensive linebacker Simon Sabbath was trying to beat up a weak safety named Bubba Weaver. Although Simon had a good fifty to sixty pounds on Weaver, the weak safety was managing to dodge his punches easily. The reason for this was that Simon was fighting one-handed, his other hand forming a firm protective shield over his groin.

“Grinder!” Coach enlisted the aid of Grinder Meade, a black defensive tackle who was almost as large as Nuke Outlaw. “Help me break this up.” Coach was trying to get a handle on the overall situation, and Grinder was closest.

The Coach, the two assistants, and Grinder managed to separate Simon Sabbath and Bubba Weaver. Both players stood naked and panting as the Coach faced them down. Bubba, dwarfed by Grinder and Simon, had an impressive hard-on.

“I’ll kill him!” Simon Sabbath was in tears.

“Why?” the Coach asked.

“He tried to stick his-his-—in my—my-—”

“He came right over to me and turned around and faced the shower room wall and wagged his ass,” Bubba Weaver said. “I was provoked.”

“I wanted to get as far as possible from that depravity!” Simon pointed dramatically at Terry licking the two sets of prick-and-balls by turn as she slammed her ass back and forth on Nuke’s embedded cock. The look on her face was sheer bliss. “I turned around because I didn’t want to look at that Jezebel seducing my poor, flesh-tempted teammates.”

“You saying you didn’t wiggle your butt at me?” Bubba Weaver demanded.

“I always move like that. Serpentine. Evasive action. I trained myself to do it reflexively.”

“Why?” the Coach demanded. “You’re a defensive linebacker, Sabbath, not a ball carrier. Why should you be practicing offensive moves?”

“I don’t always want to play defense, Coach. I want to better myself.”

“Better yourself?”

“What he means, Coach,” Grinder explained drily, “is that offense gets paid better—which is probably why most of the brothers get stuck on defense.”

The Coach leaned over to Grinder and spoke in a low voice. “You think that one tried to stick his pecker in his bunghole?”

“Sure he did.”

“Why?”

“Old Bubba’s gay. Everybody knows that. He don’t keep it a secret. Waggin’ your ass at him like Simon did is just askin’ for it.”

We were distracted by the sound of two loud, crunching punches. Nuke was holding his fists up threateningly. In front of Terry’s now empty mouth there were two more unconscious bodies with slow-dying erections. “My woman!” Nuke was bellowing as his balls slapped hard against Terry’s hot-flushed and quivering ass and he prepared to come.

“Why is that tackle decking all my players?” Coach demanded.

Rhino explained about Terry rooming with Nuke. “Now he thinks she’s his property,” he concluded.

“I’ll put a stop to that!” Coach was firm.

“How?” I was curious.

“Outlaw and Niemath won’t room together any more. And, if he insists, I’ll suspend him. Don’t worry. Outlaw wants to play. He’ll fall into line.”

“Who is going to room with Terry?” I wondered.

“You’re some sex expert, Victor!” the Coach snorted at me. “That’s easy. And it solves the problem, too. The question is, why didn’t you think of it?”

“Think of what, Coach?”

“Having Terry Niemath and Bubba Weaver room together. He’s gay. Gay! Get it, Victor? No lech for women. Gay! Ergo, no problem!”

“Ergo!” I echoed, keeping any doubts I might have had to myself.

“Now, let’s break up this scene,” Coach ordered.

“How?”

“Throw cold water on them.”

And that’s what he did. He and the two assistants turned on the ice cold water full blast on all the showers. The fights and arguments tapered off. Finally even Terry screamed and achieved her icy orgasm. As she and Nuke finally uncoupled, Coach asked a question. “How did this start?” he demanded.

“It was my fault, Coach,” Terry admitted. “Sorry.”

“I guessed you provoked it. What I’m asking is how?”

“I dropped the soap.” Terry smiled her Cheshire smile. “I dropped the soap and when I bent down to pick it up, the orgy began.”

Events moved quickly after that. For one thing, the Whittier Stonewall cheerleaders arrived on the afternoon bus. They were not happy to learn that a member of their sex had been signed as a team quarterback. They went en masse to protest to the Coach. “Mr. Steve Victor deals with all matters having to do with sex and so forth,” he told them. “See him.” So they descended on me.

Their spokesperson was Buffy Smith, a brown-haired girl-next-door type with all-American breasts. “Two-four-six-eight, this we don’t appreciate,” she informed me. “Boys play football. Girls are cheerleaders. If you let a girl play footbal, then a boy might want to be a cheerleader. What about that?”

“There are lots of male cheerleaders,” I reminded her.

“Not on the Whittier Stonewalls cheerleading squad.”

“I should think you’d be glad to see a woman open up new horizons.”

“We’re cheerleaders. We root for the ’Walls. She’ll confuse the boys on the team. She’ll undermine their morale. She’ll interfere with our keeping their spirits up. They won’t play as well.”

“As well as what? They’ve lost their last thirty-six games.”

“That proves my point. They lost thirty-six games and their morale couldn’t have been better. We girls take credit for that.”

“How the hell could you keep their morale up when they’re 0 for 36?”

“Show him, girls.”

They lined up in front of me. Buffy gave a signal. “STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE, PINEAPPLE PIE! V-I-C-T-O-R-Y! WILL WE WIN ONE? SOON, WE GUESS! WHITTIER! WHITTIER! YES-YES-YES!” They went through their cheerleading motions as smoothly as the Rockettes. And on the final ‘YES!’ they raised their short white pleated cheerleader skirts all together. I stared. “See what I mean about keeping up morale?” Buffy asked.

“Yeah.” I kept staring. “I see.” They weren’t wearing any panties!

“It keeps our loyal fans coming back, too,” she pointed out.

“I’ll bet morale isn’t all it keeps up.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Victor.”

“What do you do about the TV cameramen covering the games?” I wondered.

“It gives them a real approach-avoidance conflict. They have to resolve it for themselves.”

“Approach-avoidance conflict, hey?” I managed to get my eyes up from the pudenda display to Buffy Smith’s face.

“I was a psych major before I dropped out of college to devote myself to the Whittier Stonewalls.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Admiration for the man the team honors.”

“What the hell could you find to admire about him?”

“What are you, Mr. Victor?” She definitely didn’t like the question. “Some kind of rad-lib Commie-pinko or something?”

“Well, I do live in New York,” I admitted modestly.

“That figures!”

“Let’s get back to your beef. Just what is your concrete objection to Terry Niemath?”

“We’re fearful that she might have intercourse with the players.”

“Why would she want to do a thing like that?” I inquired innocently.

“You don’t know women, Mr. Victor.”

Well, that was true. The more I find out, the less I know. But I am the Man from O.R.G.Y., and so I keep on investigating. “You don’t want the players to have intercourse with her?” I inquired.

“What do you think cheerleaders are for?”

“I’ve often wondered,” I admitted. “I’ll do everything I can to keep Terry from shtupping the players,” I promised, to mollify Buffy Smith. “Everything in my power.”

“Such as?”

“Well, we’re going to have her room with Bubba Weaver.”

“He’s gay.”

“Exactly.”

“A step in the right direction. Women are anathema to Bubba.” She said it as if she had reason to know. “Still, we’d prefer it if she were dropped from the team.”

“We need a competent quarterback. Terry’s the best we’ve got.”

“In that case, Mr. Victor, I have a suggestion to make. It may seen extreme, but I want you to promise you’ll give it serious consideration.”

“I promise. What’s the suggestion?”

“Outfit Terry N iemath with a chastity belt, Mr. Victor, and give me the key. Will you do that, Mr. Victor?”

“I’ll think about it,” I promised.

I was true to my word. I did think about it. Incredible! I was still thinking about it one night about a week later when offensive left guard Plowboy Palmer knocked on the door to my room and entered. “ Coach said I should see you, Mr. Victor,” he announced.

“What about?”

“I got me this sex problem, sorta.”

Somehow, Coach Newtrokni had interpreted my function as that of sexual counselor to the entire team. No way had Putnam hired me for that purpose. Nevertheless, in the interests of harmony, I went along with it.

“What kind of sex problem?” I asked Plowboy.

“Ain’t no sheep in Whittier.” He hung his head unhapily.

“That’s true.”

“Yes, sir.’

There was a long silence while I waited for him to explain. When he didn’t, I repeated the question: “What’s your problem, Plowboy?”

Slowly, haltingly, but with agrarian candor, Plowboy spelled it out. He’d grown up on a sheep ranch in Montana. His first sex experience had been with a pet lamb who had innocently performed fellatio on him. His first coitus had involved a full-grown sheep and hip boots. He had not been faithful to his first love. Having once tasted the joys of ovine amour, the adolescent Plowboy had more or less run amok. Before he left to join the team, he balled every ewe on the ranch. “I ain’t had a sheep since shearing time,” he confessed, “and my balls is turnin’ sky blue.”

“Have you told any of the other fellows on the team about this?”

“My roommate.”

“What did he say?”

“He laughed a lot. You know how them offensive backs is.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, he did allow as how he thought he might be able to fix me up with a chicken, but he never did come through.”

“Plowboy.” I had a sudden thought. “Were you in the shower room the day there was all that to-do?”

“No, sir. I was late showin’ up for trainin’. Coach fined me. It was worth it, though. I was at the San Diego Zoo lookin’ at them horned Barbary critters. They sure ’nuf are sexy.”

“Plowboy, you know what you did with those sheep? Well, you could do the very same thing with a woman.”

“Gee, Mr. Victor, I don’t think so. It’s be too hard a-gettin’ ’em set up in the hip boots.”

“Plowboy, you don’t need the hip boots.”

“I don’t rightly think ladies ’d let me tether ’em to the wall of the stall,” he said doubtfully.

“You don’t have to tether them, Plowboy.”

“Just truss ’em up, hey?”

“Nope, Plowboy. Just climb into bed with them.”

“But what holds ’em still?” Plowboy was confused.

“They don’t hold completely still. They move around a little. But you’ll like that, Plowboy.”

“Maybe.” He was still dubious. “But what’ll keep ’em from jumpin’ the corral—I mean the bed?”

“They won’t want to do that. Trust me.” I had a sudden idea. “You know Buffy Smith, the head cheerleader?” I asked him.

“Sure thing.”

“You think she’s—umm—-attractive?’

“Well, she’s no Merino, but she’s not bad.”

“You invite her out for a beer tonight.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“See what develops.” From my experience, something was sure to develop. If I was any judge, Buffy Smith was just the lady to guide Plowboy out of the pasture and into the hay.

“Okay.” Plowboy got up to leave and turned in the doorway. “But what about sheep, Mr. Victor?” he asked plaintively.

“If it doesn’t work out with Buffy,” I promised him, “I’ll buy you an angora dildo.”

My reputation as a solver of sexual problems spread. Each day brought a new dilemma to rny doorstep. Football players, it seemed, were just like the rest of us in having trouble getting their erotic shit together.

There was the tight end, Craig Cramp, toilet-trained too early, who had trouble relaxing with a woman because of his fear of making caca in bed. There was Horseshoe Cohen, the field goal kicker, who had difficulty positioning his equipment between the labia of his ladylove. There was defensive lineman Ambrose Pierce—the team’s most penalized player for offsides encroachments, and penetrations of the neutral zone -- who, whenever he got near an erogenous zone (which he Freudianly called “the erroneous zone”), ejaculated prematurely. There was Hans Brinker the middle linebacker, known for frequently plugging the wrong hole onfield, who was always making the same mistake in the sack. And there was wide receiver Pete Gorgonzola who couldn’t sustain a relationship because, whenever he had an orgasm, he picked up the woman in both hands and bounced her on the floor and yelled “TOUCHDOWN!”

I advised Craig Cramp to seek out a playmate who was into water sports. I recommended contact lenses for the field goal kicker on and off the field. I counseled the defensive lineman to memorize the political speeches of Ronald Reagan²³ and to repeat them to himself while making love or waiting for the snap. I enlightened middle linebacker Brinker on the joys of anal sex. And I assured wide receiver Gorgonzola that his compulsion to claim credit by smashing the ball—or the woman—on the ground would be cured just as soon as he actually did score a touchdown.

Time speeds by quickly during the training season. The period was all but over when I received the telephone call from Cindy Lou Marzipan asking me to pay her a visit. Cindy Lou was the wife of offensive team captain Mitch Marzipan, the center. She was the organizer and leader of the Whittier Stonewalls wives’ Total Woman movement. An invitation from her was a command.