“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!”