"Ah, you’d adjust," Lily tweaked. "Anyhow, to answer Frankie’s earlier question, my Dad is a huge baseball fan. Both my parents, actually. When you’re a baseball fan in Boston, you’re a Red Sox fan-and when you’re a Red Sox fan, you’re serious about it. We live and die with the Sox. Die, mostly." We all laughed at that. "Anyway, I just grew up with it, and I remembering asking Dad, real young, if he’d teach me to throw. He did, I loved it, started Little League young, and kept on going. And here I am. Still love it."
"Oh, you weren’t pushed by your father or anything," Ty said.
"No, not at all. He-both my parents-have been incredibly supporting, but neither of them push."
"How do they deal with a girl pitcher?" I asked her.
"Great. They’ve accepted it all along. Although, Dad once said that if he had known that he was getting a baby girl that was going to grow up to be a flamethrowing pitcher, he would’ve named her something a little less blatantly girly than Lily April Woodard!"
I howled at that. "I see his point."
"My little sister plays soccer. She’s 11, her name’s Amber. That’s almost as bad. Though her teammates call her Woody."
"That’s cause they’re 11. Once puberty hits, and they figure it out, they won’t be calling any little girl Woody, no matter what her last name is!" Eddie said, to general merriment.
It went on like that for a while-and I was amazed. She was one of the guys. Perfectly, as natural as you can be, one of the guys. She laughed at the blue humor, got into the insult games, talked sports. If Eddie, the pig, had suggesting a piss-for-distance contest, she probably would’ve been game. I kept expecting her to belch. Especially when Ty did, and she broke up laughing.
But, at the same time, she was with me-she was my girlfriend-and she acted like it. She had her arm around me, snuggled up onto my shoulder, her hair smelled like honeysuckle from her shampoo. She even kissed me on the cheek once.
It’s my experience that when you get one couple around a bunch of guys, one of two things happen-either she gets offended or he gets embarrassed, or the guys are uncomfortable and just want her to leave. With Lily, there was none of that. And then Jared and Amanda showed up and joined us, and after we introduced them, Lily and Amanda started in with the typical girl small-talk. But Lily kept up with the guy talk, too. Even Amanda-who has far more male friends than most girls, and spends more time with guys because of it-wasn’t that adept. Lily switched like it was nothing. Natural.
She was all girl. She felt damn good with my arm around her, snuggled up to me. But she was one of the guys.
Jesus Christ, and my mother had to ask if I was attracted to her? Fuck attracted. I was halfway gone already.
And, remember, this was after sex. I wasn’t horny. I was quite satisfied, thank you very much, so I was not thinking with my dick. Yes, I had in my mind the memory of the greatest sex of my (admittedly young) life-but sex, even great sex, doesn’t hold my interest in anything other than more sex.
My interest was held with her. And how.
Anyhow, we finished up, and headed home. She dropped me off-leaving me with a hellacious kiss that almost woke it up again-and then was gone.
I went in and found my Mom. "Hey, Mikey. Lily make the team?"
"Sure did."
"And how’s my ninny?" she giggled.
"We’ve banished the ninny. He’s gone. Ninnys don’t get laid in right field and get a girlfriend in the bargain." Mom screamed in delight. I knew she liked Lily. That was fine with me.
I dragged my ass upstairs and did some homework. I couldn’t concentrate all that well, though.
Yeah, big surprise, huh?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN LILYAfter I dropped Mikey off, I drove home. Humming. I admit it. I was actually humming. Little singsongy things, I didn’t even know what they were.
I think I was insane. Deliriously, gloriously insane.
What a day. Made the team. Had fantastic sex. Then got asked out. Went to dinner with him, crowded around the table with a group of friends, and had a great time.
Now that was weird, actually. Look, when you’re a ballplayer, you tend to have a lot of guy friends. I’d never dated anyone who I could bring around my ballplaying friends. And it wasn’t because of baseball talk-I dated baseball fans-and it wasn’t because of my friends-some of my boyfriends were friends with the guys on the team. It was the mixture. It was combustible. Because when I’m with the guys, I’m one of the guys. Boyfriends are threatened by that. They get possessive. I can’t imagine any of my previous boyfriends not reacting in horror to some of my banter with Ed and Frankie and Ty. Shit, most of them would’ve turned purple in embarrassment with just the cheerleaders crack.
But not Mike. I actually had a boyfriend who treated me like one of the guys. Well, sort of. Not completely. That was the best news yet. Because you don’t generally sit all snuggled and cozy with one of the guys, now do you? Well, he did say all along he knew I was a girl, right? So he treated me like a girl, his girlfriend. But treated me like one of the guys, too. And didn’t seem to mind at all when the other guys treated me, one hundred percent, as one of the guys.
Shit. I wanted to pinch him. To make sure he was real.
Look, I’ve always known I was different. There are some days I think I should’ve been born a boy. But not really-look, I wasn’t lying when I told Mike’s mom that I could pretty up just fine. And I like doing that. I like the whole makeup and hairdo and frilly underclothes and slinky dress and make-all-the-men-drool bit. I do. Hell, I even own pantyhose. And high heels. And a couple of push-up bras. Sometimes I even wear them-when I’m allowed to go to school in clothes, that is.
But I also own cleats. And baseball mitts. And a replica Pedro Martinez Red Sox uniform, and a couple of tins of eyeblack, and baseball caps galore. Plus, I can gossip with the girls, and bullshit with the guys. I can dance, and I can cook, and I can sew, and I throw ninety miles an hour. I have a perfectly fine set of tits, and I have muscular thighs. I’m in perpetual conflict. All of it, both sides, is part of me. I’ve come to live with it. The only thing about me that’s completely over to one side or the other is my sexuality, since I’m completely straight. But, that’s it. Everything else is nebulous.
So, as I said, I’ve learned to live with it. But I always had to hide at least part of my ‘guy’ side from anyone I was dating. Guys are so damn insecure about their heterosexuality, most of them, that when they’re with anyone who is at all "masculine", they think they must be half-gay or something. Last year, over the winter, I was dating this guy I had convinced myself I was in love with. During the winter, when I could play girly-girl to my heart’s content, it was fine. When baseball season hit, forget it. The minute he saw me with eyeblack, it was all over.
And Mike just made love to me-while I was wearing eyeblack.
Well, as all this was running through my mind, I made it home. Dad and Mom were waiting for me.
"Did you make it?" Dad asked.
"Of course. Blew ‘em away." I grinned. "All the guys that have seen me pitch and know I’m from Boston have started calling me Pedro."
"Well, doesn’t that just warm your heart," Mom said.
"You betcha."
"We haven’t seen you much this week. How’s The Program going? Outside of the problems with the nude pitching, that is," Mom asked.
"Fine. No worries. You know me, I don’t mind showing off a little skin. Well, a lot of skin, this time. But it’s been fine."
"Anything interesting happen?" Dad chuckled.
"Well, you know. A grope here, a grab there, a little finger here, an orgasm there. Normal program stuff." They laughed. They had read the brochure, and they were cool. They had known about me being sexually active since it had started, and were cool with it.