Betty-Jo told Richard that her desire to know him better was rivaled only by her desire to know more about gingivitis—a big mistake because after that his verbal abuse became so intolerable that soon all she wanted from life was for him to leave her alone.
His weapon of choice was her public humiliation—her clothes, her hair, her breasts, her butt, or her pussy's extracurricular activities provided limitless fodder for his polluted mouth.
"Hey, Stud Plaything," he'd say, "with tits like you got, you could start a dairy farm," or, "Word is your squirrel's busier than a revolving door at Bloomies." He never let up. And he was even worse when he stopped trying to be funny, and settled into being crude. She feared and detested him.
Despicable as a dung beetle, she thought. If there's a higher order in the universe it's dung beetledom for the Dick, assuming that the gods are so inept that they'd submit his name for reincarnation in the first place.
She was determined to do something about Richard Whittle, but what? Then, the day before April fools day, she was hanging with the Fox and the guys when she hit upon a way to disgrace Dungie. Just the thought of what she was about to do to her nemesis, produced a giddy feeling.
When Richard strolled up to her, as repulsive and obnoxious as ever, she was ready.
"Big tennis star, eh Stud Plaything?" he said. "When you play tennis, those sweater-stretchers of yours remind me of Flopsy and Mopsy on a cottontail. And your squirrel's overrated—nothing but a big rat with a bushy tail."
She gave him her best smile. "Dungie, your understanding of squirrel anatomy is woeful. No wonder you never get any." The guys guffawed and the Fox grinned. "It's back to squirrel school for you, Richard," she quipped.
Richard's fist clenched, and his eyebrows pushed together. "If you were a guy, I'd rearrange your face."
"That won't be necessary," she said. "You must be snacking on Frosted Lucky Charms, 'cause this is your lucky day. We'll have an arm wrestle—you win, and I'll be your slave for a day."
A broad smile spread across Richard's ugly puss, and he licked his lips. "You'll be my slave?"
That Dungie is so thrilled with the prospect of being able to do whatever he wants with me that he's darn near drooling. "Sure. But if you lose, you wear a diaper to school, and a sign around your neck that says Whittle Dick."
Richard's face turned red in a hurry. "I'm gonna have a fun time with you, Stud Plaything. Imagine the worst thing that can happen to you."
"I run out of food stamps the day before Thanksgiving?"
"Let me sharpen your focus. You're gonna be neckin' with anybody who wants you. It'll be a buck a kiss to me—two if they wanta slug hug you. And you don't wanta know what'll happen to you if I have any dissatisfied customers."
She forced a smile. "You don't have to worry about dissatisfied customers, but don't you think you'd better win the arm wrestle before you start lining up clients?"
"Then picture yourself on your knees, your hands behind your back, suckin' dog food out of a bowl on the lunchroom floor."
That I don't want to picture, let alone participate in. "Sounds like a dream come true."
"It will be, because," there was an ominous pause, "that's the nicest thing that'll happen to you."
"Y'all cheer up now, B-J," the Fox whispered. "Maybe he'll feed you the kind of kibble that makes its own gravy."
Betty-Jo laughed, and hugged her friend. "Gravy Train," she said.
* * *
Betty-Jo could press 130 pounds, and she used hand grips to strengthen her wrists. She could take most men in an arm wrestle, but she was still taking a risk in challenging Richard. She knew that men had a major advantage over women when it came to contests that required upper body strength. Men's testosterone enabled them to bench press their body weight, if they were in reasonable condition, but women, morphed into females by their estrogen, possessed an upper body strength that only enabled them to press half their body weight. Estrogen weakened women the same way kryptonite wimped out Superman. And she was well aware that if she lost to Dungie, the indignities she would have to endure would far exceed her humiliation threshold. The thought of what he was planning for her, had her biting her lower lip, and running her fingers through her hair.
"How can slurping dog food out of a bowl be the nicest thing Dungie will make me do?" she asked the Fox. "I can't imagine anything worse."
"But apparently he can. May I suggest you win your challenge, 'cause you don't want to bear witness to the depths of his depravity—especially not when you're his guest of honor."
As the table for the arm wrestle challenge was moved into position, and her classmates jockeyed for an optimum viewing position, Betty-Jo became increasingly annoyed with herself. I'm being petty, even nasty for wanting to humiliate Richard in front of everybody. "Why am I doing this?" she asked the Fox. "Beside having a face like a ripped open sausage, a foul mouth, a rancid personality, and the social maturity of a gerbil, what's Dungie's crime?"
"Stupidity—for being in love with you."
"I really shouldn't blame him for that."
"You wouldn't have this problem if you'd converted to Islam and worn a burka."
She gave the Fox an obligatory smile. "I can't see myself in a burka."
The Fox took her hand, and squeezed it. "If you think a burka would be bad, make sure you don't commit your bod to a day on the dark side with Dungie. That psychopath could make a burka seem like a fashion statement."
* * *
Betty-Jo's arm-wrestle challenge was the biggest thing to hit Grand Strand High since hurricane Hazel leveled the school in fifty-four. Word of the grudge match, and the stakes, spread quickly. It wasn't long before Jim Bob O'Hara, the student council president, was clasping Betty-Jo's hand with Richards'.
She was pumped. "I never would have guessed that I'd be holding hands with you, Dick," she said. Then she fixed him with an icy stare.
"Enjoy me while you can, Stud Plaything, 'cause your world is about to sewer."
"I should warn you that I'm not as dumb as you look. Only you will be sewering."
"Ready?" Jim Bob asked her. But she wasn't, because something weird was happening. Dungie was twitching, and his eyes were changing—from cold and black to warm and blue.
"...Ready," she replied.
"Ready, Richard?"
She felt Dungie's grip tighten on hers. Something bad's going on!
"Ready," said the future dung beetle.
"Go!" Jim Bob O'Hara shouted.
-10-
BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE
You Sexy Thing
Sandra Manderville was about to take a shower when her friend, Belinda Rawlings, called. "You know my Sheik's taking me to the Empire Canada formal."
"Sure. It'll be you, and the private school gropers."
"Not exactly.... My Sheik has a friend."
Since when have I ever been that desperate? "Don't even think about it!"
"Sandy, you must! For me?"
"Who is this guy, the school mascot? Dumbo the Clown's younger brother?"
"His nickname's Grasshopper."
"Grasshopper! You expect me to go out with a guy named Grasshopper." Damn you, Robert! Why did you leave me?
"He plays on the hockey team. My Sheik says he's tall and handsome. We ride in a limo, drink champagne, and..."
"It's happening Friday, right?"
"We'll pick you up at a quarter to six."
"Do you swear that if this jock's a wildebeest you won't desert me?"
"You know I wouldn't. But a wildebeest might be fun."
To you, maybe. Sandy took a deep breath, and shrugged. "I haven't any idea why I'm doing this."
"Best friend ever, I love you!" Belinda said.
"I'll tell you if the feeling's mutual after the formal."
"Don't worry. My Sheik says the Grasshopper's the kind of guy that even you might misbehave with."
"Your Sheik's an ass!"
"If I didn't have my Sheik, I'd
be jealous. Talk soon."
Sandy let her robe fall from her shoulders. Not too shabby, she thought. I could pass for a short haired, azure-blue-eyed Shania Twain. Spirited, pinkie-brown nipples highlighted her full, firm breasts, and her long, statuesque legs merged enticingly. If I can't make it as an English scholar, there's potential here for me to turn pro. But it would have to be in the carriage-trade end of the profession. That thought amused her as she stepped into the shower, and turned on the hand-held water massage. She moved the setting to three, pulse. She knew why she was willing to chance a blind date.
* * *
Greg and Belinda picked Sandy up in the white stretch-Lincoln rental at her Bridle Path estate. She stepped inside, and Belinda began to twitter.
"What a marvelous dress, and look what you've done to your hair. It's adorable—don't you think, Sheik?"
Greg, who had zeroed in on Sandy's breasts, managed a sheepish grin. "Yeah, love em," he said.
Sandy knew that men found dress discussions painful—it was a topic for the ladies room. Now, however, reciprocal compliments were mandatory. "Belinda, and look at you! You look fabulous! Sheik, you keep your hands to yourself."
"What? And ruin Belinda's evening?" Greg deadpanned.
"Speaking of ruining evenings, where's the grasshopper guy."
Greg chuckled, and gave her a wink. "We're picking him up last. He lives on the way to the pre-prom."
"You mean I have to go to his door and get him?"
"Not my date," Greg said.
* * *
Brad thought he'd swallowed the bluebird of happiness when he saw Sandra Manderville get out of the limo, and walk toward his house. A form-fitting, black-satin dress, with white trim, hugged her in all of her interesting places—stopping both top and bottom as soon as decency permitted. Black designer nylons combined with her short black hair to complete the effect—drop-dead yummy!
I don't believe that Sheik. How'd he pull this off?
When the knock came, he was ready. He flung open the door, grabbed Sandy around the waste, and kissed her.
She looked as if cardiac arrest would have been preferable to what was happening to her. When she swung, he sidestepped her blow, and caught her wrist. "Steady Sandy," he said as he worked to keep a grin at bay, "you're trying to hurt in a no hurting zone. And besides, I knew nothing about this. 'Twas the Sheik who set you up."
* * *
Sandy stomped back to the limo with Brad trailing along behind her. Not surprisingly, the limo door was locked. The window opened a couple of inches.
"I'm sorry! You have to believe me! I didn't know!" came Belinda's plaintive cry.
"Not half as sorry as your Sheik's gonna be when I get my hands on him!"
"Hey," Greg said, "it could be worse. At least we have all the Champagne we can drink, compliments of the Grasshopper."
"You got this grasshopper guy a date with me so you could get free Champagne?"
"Even you gotta admit that the poor guy wasn't faring very well on his own."
"He called me a horses ass, and a mouse."
"And now you know that you're the second mouse."
"OK Sheik, what the hell is this second mouse shit!"
"Sandra, just take a look at that Grasshopper. You've lucked out! Everyone knows it's the second mouse that gets the cheese."
Sandy glanced over at Brad, and her heart softened a little. He did look kind of sexy—like 007—in his white linen dinner jacket, black vest, ruffled white shirt, and classic black bow tie. His light-brown hair was now short, brushed back and gelled, his mouth offered a Tom Cruise sort of grin, and he had that 'V' for very sexy shoulder and waist alliance that she was so fond of. If hockey doesn't work out for this one, she thought, he has a future as a male model. Why do men look so scrumptious in formal wear? It's enough to make a poor girl give up crocheting for less noble pursuits.
"Grasshopper, tell Sandy you're sorry," Greg said.
"You're a very sexy mouse," Brad ventured.
Greg opened the limo door. "See, Sandra, he's sorry. So now you can get back in if you promise to behave...."
The very sexy mouse was still floating following her first date with a college man. Robert was a couple of years older than she was, and he knew what he wanted. She had been more than ready, but what if she hadn't been? No means no, as everyone knows. But how does a girl say no to a college man without implying that she still wears a training bra?
Sandy had learned a thing or two on her date with Robert. One thing she'd learned was that The New Joy of Sex was accurate in its upbeat assessment of the world's most popular recreational activity. Unfortunately, Robert was inconsiderate. He'd left the next day to plant Douglas fir on Vancouver Island.
The pre-prom cocktail party was fun, because Brad was being attentive, and the beverages were flowing freely.
When Sandy was alone with Belinda she asked, "Why does your Sheik call Brad, Grasshopper?"
"I just asked him that."
"And?"
Belinda giggled. "He's green—as in inexperienced when it comes to women—and lately he's been hopping all over town trying to get a date."
Sandy grinned, took a long pull on her gin and tonic, then said with a smirk, "Do you know what the guys call gin?"
"I give up."
"The panty dropper. And if it works this time, that Grasshopper will no longer be a grasshopper—he'll be a James T. Kirk.
"A James T. Kirk?"
"Yea, James T. Kirk. He'll be boldly going where only one man has gone before!"
-11-
BRAD RAIDEN & SANDRA MANDERVILLE
The Rain Dance
When the limo pulled up to the revolving doors of the Royal York Hotel, Brad moved his hand to support Sandy. He had dissuaded her from mixing her drinks at the pre-prom, and when she seemed intent on overdoing it, he'd watered them down. I should get a Good Samaritan award, he thought. Everyone knows that liquor is quicker.
The music of AC/DC, Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam and other 'in' rock bands followed dinner, speeches, and numerous toasts. Sandy was in constant demand, so he tried to establish a proprietary sphere around her, but the way she moved on the dance floor beckoned to males the way blood in the water calls out to sharks. It was attention that Sandy wasn't encouraging, but she wasn't discouraging it either. She possessed an earthiness that, judging from his below the belt assessment, was impossible to ignore.
I like this babe—I like her a lot. Now all I have to do is figure out how to privatize her. Sharing is for saints, not for a wanta-be, born-for-the-first-time sinner like myself.
The first slow dance is often a test for a budding relationship, and—as Brad promptly discovered in his first slow dance with Sandy—heaven sent. One hell of an event! Perhaps she's my reward for the celibate life I've been leading.
Sandy swayed against him, her every move a revelation. Hesitantly, she asked, "Is that some kind of fruit in your pocket, or are you just happy to be with me?" Brad tried to pull away, but she held him against her, and hid her face in his shoulder. "Poor pathetic me is mortified, but that's something I've always wanted to say."
"Isn't poor pathetic you the brazen one." He grinned, bent down, and kissed the tip of her nose.
"Mmm," she murmured as she traced her satin dress-covered breasts across his chest. "I do love to dance with you."
He slid his hand down her back until it settled on her bottom. "Funny," he said, "with you my hand heads for your derriere as if led by a seeing-eye-dog."
She laughed gleefully. "More likely it's being led by a dirty-old-dog."
"You'll be pleased to learn that the gods have favored you with a comfy behind."
"And you've decided to make yourself at home there?"
"What I've decided is that you're proprietary software."
"Meaning?"
He shifted his hips to remind her that she was still enchanting him. "I'm a generous guy, but you're not shareware to be handed out to the great unwashed, and if I
were to loan you to my friends, I'd risk giving one of them heart failure. So to be on the safe side I've decided to keep all slow dances with you for myself."
Sandy looked charmed. "You're afraid you'll be sued if you let your pit bull off her leash?"
"Something like that. You can fast-dance with other guys if we're unable to keep them at bay. I can live with them looking, but I can't be giving them too good a time for free. Comprenez?"
"Is that all you want?" she asked as she rubbed herself against him.
"Not necessarily."
"And what do I get in return? If I'm forbidden to slow dance with other guys, why are you allowed to slow dance with other women?"
He thought quickly. "That's a fair question, but our primary concern here isn't gender equality. It's the containment of a sexually lethal weapon."
She gave him her best happy face. "Okay. You win. Do with me as you please."
Magic words, he thought. Magic beans? No, not a believer. But magic words! Is there a guy under eighty who doesn't recognize them when he hears them? He placed his hand under her chin and kissed her forehead.
"If you move a little closer, I'll teach you my rain dance," he said.
"We're going to make it rain?"
"I call it my rain dance, but when done properly, only you get wet."
"Animal," she said, and moved suggestively against him.
-12-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & THE DUNG BEETLE
Richard Wins a Party Favor
If Betty-Jo had blinked she would have missed it. In less than a nanosecond—or so it seemed—Richard had smashed the back of her hand onto the table.
"Don't you just hate it when that happens, Stud Plaything?" His ugly puss was inches away from hers, and the warm blue eyes were gone: the cold black ones—with their pinprick pupils—had returned.
Darn right I do! A butt-ugly wimp had just kicked sand in her face, and the horror of what would soon happen to her was sinking in fast.
"How can I be delicate about this?" Richard said. "'Your ass is grass, and I'm your lawnmower.' Tomorrow you'll wear what I tell you to wear. I want a very short skirt, a garter belt, black stockings, and a tank top that shows off your tits. I want you to be looking your decadent best for my clients."
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 5
