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.
It was mid-afternoon when she answered my doorbell ring. She was wearing a pink bow in her hair, pink lipstick, pink eye-shadow, a gauzy pink negligee over a pink shortie nightgown, fuzzy pink slippers with pink pompoms, and a wide toothy smile that revealed healthy pink gums. “How nice of you to come, Mr. Victor.” She held out a martini to me in one hand and a plate of brownies in the other.
Dripping gin and dropping crumbs, I followed Cindy Lou Marzipan into the livingroom. She was easy to follow. The way her hips and bottom rolled reminded me of making it on a waterbed. Soft. Basic rhythm. Lots of bounce.
She arranged herself fetchingly on a pink couch with a floral design of pink flowers and indicated that I should also seat myself there. She looked at me intensely. It was probably an illusion, but I could have sworn the pupils of her eyes were star-shaped.
“I wanted to speak with you, Steve-—you don’t mind if I call you Steve, do you? Good. And you can call me Cindy Lou. Anyway, I wanted to speak with you about this lady quarterback, Miss Terry Niemath.”
“All right, Cindy Lou.”
“We Whittier wives are worried about this wench,” she alliterated.
“You mean because of your husbands, Cindy Lou?”
“Oh, no, Steve. We know our husbands won’t stray. We are, after all, Total Women!” She rearranged the negligee to display a sleek and shaven thigh. “Total!” she stressed.
“I see. Then what is the problem?”
“Appearances, Steve. We are very concerned about the team image. How will it look? One lady and all those big, brawny, lovable men? When they go on the road, for instance. The fans are bound to wonder who she’s sleeping with.”
“We’re taking precautions to see that she isn’t sleeping with anybody.”
“But she’ll have to share a room with somebody on the road.”
“It’s no problem. We’ve got her rooming with Bubba Weaver.”
“The gay safety? But how clever of you, Steve.”
I saw no reason to tell her it had been the Coach’s idea. “Then you think Bubba and Terry will manage to keep it platonic?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! Absolutely! Every one of those cheerleaders has tried to seduce Bubba and failed. He lusts for men, and only for men. Confidentially, Steve, a couple of wives—Total Women, mind you!—made themselves available to Bubba. Their fidelity was not even dented. That’s how single-mindedly gay he is.”
“I thought Total Women never strayed. Particularly pro football wives.”
“Ordinarily, we don’t. We devote ourselves totally to our husbands—to fulfilling their domestic needs, their erotic needs, and their spiritual needs.”
“Coach Newtrokni isn’t going to like that last.”
“Our strategy is to avoid confrontation with him while continuing to meet our wifely obligations. We would no sooner stop praying for our husbands than we would cease cooking their favorite dishes or anointing and packaging our bodies to attract them.”
“But you said these two women almost did stray.”
“Strain, Steve. Can you imagine what a strain it’s been for us wives to be Total for our husbands when they never win a game?”
“Never even score,” I sympathized.
“Exactly, Steve. They never score. We drench ourselves in perfume, cook them aphrodisiac meals, pray for the split-second timing to achieve mutual orgasm, and do you know what the result is?”
“What, Cindy Lou?”
“0 for 36. That’s what, Steve! Is it any wonder that, occasionally, temptation proves too much for us?” She leaned forward pinkly, blinked her five-pointed eyes, and allowed the pink negligee to slip from her bosom to reveal the pink outlines of pink nipples under the extremely thin pink material of her shortie nightie. “Our husbands don’t score, Steve. That’s our problem. My problem! We Whittier wives are at our wits’ end. We simply can’t wait any longer for them to score. We need satisfaction now! Now!” Cindy Lou leaned towards me panting, lips moist, generous breasts heaving, thighs flushed. “What should we do, Steve?” Her hand burned on my thigh. “What should I do?”
“I don’t really think—” Considering my counseling position, it didn’t seem a good idea to take on the team captain’s Total wife.
“Help me, Steve!” Cindy Lou put her arms around me, pressed her soft breasts against my chest, and leaned back with her eyes half-closed and her pink lips parted and waiting to be kissed. “Help me!”
“Listen.” I tried to resist. “The first game is just around the corner. With Terry quarterbacking, the team’s bound to score. Just be patient, and your husband—”
“I can’t be patient.” There were tears in her eyes. “I need satisfaction. I need it now.” She unzipped my fly and slid to her knees in front of me. “I’m desperate!” Kneeling with her thighs wide apart, she slipped one hand under the shortie nightie. She pushed aside my jockey shorts and pulled my prick out of my pants. “You have to help me, Steve!” She opened her pink, girl-next-door mouth and took the head of my prick between her pink lips. “You have to help me!” she insisted in a muffled voice, speaking around it. “I need you!”
I’m a bleeding heart. I always come through for charity. I can’t resist a fellow human being in need.
I came in Cindy Lou Marzipan’s mouth.
A few nights later I was awakened by a rhythmic thumping over my head. The room above me was occupied by Terry Niemath and gay safety Bubba Weaver. It way my responsibility to investigate.
When I entered their room, the condition of the quarterback and the weak safety was in flagrante delicto, to put it mildy. Naked as uncracked eggshells, they had just broken the bed with their unbridled athletic enthusiasm. Terry had her long legs locked around Bubba’s neck. Her plump, rosy bottom was vibrating like a Mixmaster. Her voluptuous breasts were being shaken as ferociously as a bone in the mouth of a terrier. Their nipples stood up like bright red lipsticks.
As for Bubba, his meager ass was a blur of erotic motion. His brandy chest was huffing like a steam engine. And his fully erect cock was plunging in and out of Terry’s willing quim with an unquestionable heterosexual fervor.
Was it possible? Had Terry done the trick? Was it possible that the Whittier Stonewall’s gay safety wasn’t gay any more?
The following afternoon Terry Niemath played in her first professional football game. Watching her, I started thinking once again about Buffy Smith’s suggestion regarding a chastity belt.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“There’s only one solution, Victor. You’ll have to room with her yourself. Now, get outa here. I’ve got a gameplan to go over with my offense.” Such was Coach Newtrokni’s response to the sexual overindulgence of quarterback Terry Niemath when we discussed it shortly before the first game of the season.