Despite the reasons she had to despise men, it was women who became the primary focus of her anger. She concluded that the major problem for the women's movement was the stupid or misguided women who cooperated with men to push women back into the subservient roles of servants, sex objects, or wives. Somehow, those traitors to the cause had to be stopped.
-26-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
A Love for Eternity
Betty-Jo was incensed. "I'm not going anywhere with a wart hog like..."
Brad interjected. "There seems to be a misunderstanding here. I thought B-J was my date. But perhaps we can settle this amicably. What say the guy who gets the best result on the StrongMan gets her for the rest of the evening?"
"The hell he does!" She tried to get away, but Brad still had a firm hold on her blouse. Then, abruptly, she was upside down, hanging over his shoulder. With an easy, flowing gate, he carted her toward the StrongMan. She yelled and fought, as best she could, given that she didn't want to drop I Love Only You Brad, but he was gripping her so tightly that she could hardly move.
"O'Hara," Brad said, "you go first. I'll hold the prize."
"The what!" she hollered. O'Hara laughed. "You won't think it's so funny when you're burning in hell!" A crowd had gathered, because of the commotion she was creating.
"Betty-Jo," Brad said, "hush up, or I'll have to put you over my knee in front of all these people." He put her down, but maintained a resolute hold on her.
When Jim Bob picked up the mallet, Betty-Jo felt a rush that was almost thrilling. It is kind of exhilarating having two guys compete for me.
Jim Bob positioned the mallet to strike his blow for her. Then, as the crowd pressed forward, Brad put his arm around her waist, and walked away with her.
She looked at him in disbelief. "So bite me! You're chicken! I can't believe 'I thought you were someone dangerous.'"
"That's like the Cowardly Lion calling Evel Knievel yellow. You did your best back there to make sure your friend got hurt. Hockey players know how to brawl."
"The Wart Hog thinks I belong to him. He's not going to let you wander off with me, and then do nothing about it!"
"If he's smart he will. You've heard of Badman José? Well now you belong to Badman Brad." He grinned at her.
I want to belong to you, she thought "You wish!" she said.
"O'Hara—what's his first name?"
"Jim Bob."
"Jimbo would have ended up in the hospital if I'd been unable to avoid a fight. Is that really what you wanted?"
She felt like a bottom feeder. "No," she said.
"And B-J, the guy's not all bad. Fabulous taste in women."
She gripped Brad's arm. "You weren't going to let him have me, were you?"
He grinned again, and disheveled her hair. "After the effort I put into getting this date with you? I think not. Jimbo can find his own prize."
"Why do I feel like a naughty girl, who's just swatted someone's pet mosquito?"
"Because you haven't been telling me your bear's name often enough."
He's right. She put her arms around him, and pulled herself tight. "I Love Only You Brad," she said.
As they drove south on 17, Brad seemed distracted. Finally he said, "You know, even a love for eternity has to have a beginning."
She had also been contemplating the meaning of their kiss. In many of her tennis matches there had been a pivotal point, a point, that if won, gave her the match, but if lost, meant defeat. And that was what had happened when she'd kissed Brad. She had lost the pivotal point. So now she belonged to him. She was his kite. His to fly as high or as recklessly as he pleased. That Betty-Jo could understand. What she couldn't understand was how one kiss could ignite a love that she knew would be forever.
There was an exquisite tension in her body as, vulnerable and apprehensive, she snuggled against him. I'm pretty sure I know what he's planning to do with his prize.
Time should be kind to lovers—it should give them an opportunity to make some sense out of what is happening to them, but time was being mean spirited with Betty-Jo. In what seemed like only a few minutes they were at Pawleys Island, crossing over from the mainland on the South Causeway.
"What's on this island?" Brad asked.
"There's a bird sanctuary on the southern tip."
"We'll drive south then—see if the birds are home."
On the southern tip of the Island, at the edge of the sand dunes, he stopped. The full moon, with its coterie of stars, was etched on the blackness, creating an out-of-this-world backdrop for the want-to-be lovers. And there were fairies dancing—she could hear them—until she realized that what she was hearing was the murmuring surf, imposing itself on the silence.
Brad turned to her and caressed her—soft, exciting caresses, and he kissed her—tender, spellbinding kisses. Then, while searching her eyes, he started to undo the buttons on her blouse: taking his time, lingering when he came to the last one.
Please hurry, she thought. I need to feel your hands on me—now!
But Brad wasn't hurrying. He was savoring. His lips brushed hers as he undid the last button. Then his fingers teased the beckoning swell above her bra-covered breasts.
She relaxed, thrilling to the Brad made sensations. "This is so wonderful," she said. "Better than romance in France."
"B-J," he whispered, "come closer. There's something I have to ask you."
Surprised, she cuddled closer. Why is he whispering? No one's here but hopelessly-in-love-with-him me.
He grinned at her. "Tell me honestly. Where did you get that bra? Bargain Joe's?"
Her eyes locked onto his, and killed him—at least that's what they wanted to do. She tried to pull away, but he pinned her arms.
She was furious with him, but she was even madder at herself. Normally vigilant in her lingerie selection, she'd slipped up. That morning, running late, she'd grabbed the handiest bra and panties in the drawer; unfortunately, they weren't only handy, they were also certifiably shabby. The grape Kool-Aid stain on her bra, clashed with its faded yellow coloring.
"First time I've seen that," he said.
"What? A shabby bra?"
"Nope. Shabby bra rage."
"What you're seeing is my-date's-a-fool rage!"
"Let's get this thing off you," he said cheerfully. "Tomorrow I'll take you shopping for a bra that's deserving of pleasure pals as delectable as yours."
What a fantastic jerk, she thought. Are all men that way? Never owned a Barbie, but as soon as they get hold of the real thing, they become instant experts on women's clothing—especially their lingerie.
Betty-Jo's fury ebbed, and she went to work on being embarrassed. All I want to do is find an orphanage for this third string support. She took off her blouse, unhooked her bra, shrugged her shoulders, and threw the wretched support over her shoulder onto 'I Love Only You Brad' who had been lounging on Old-yellow's back seat.
* * *
Brad watched in awe as Betty-Jo's firm and ample breasts tumbled free; they looked like a couple of melons that had escaped from some honeydew heaven, but they were more mouth-watering than any melons he had previously encountered.
He grinned at his hopefully soon-to-be lover. "There'll be no sanctuary, in this sanctuary, for those boobies."
She tried to suppress a smile. "'I taught I taw a puddy tat.'"
"B-J, put your hand down on the far side of your seat. Do you feel a large, round knob?"
"Yes."
"Twist it backward, and keep twisting until your seatback is all the way down." She did as he asked, turning the knob until her seat became a lounger. He also lowered his seatback, but not as far as she had lowered hers. Then he leaned over her, captivated by her swells and recesses in the southern moonlight and shadows. His fingertips roamed as they pleased, finding fascinating places—places that felt like paradise.
"You have fabulous pleasure pals. But I'm sure I'm not the first guy who's told you that."
; "You're not." There was a sparkle in her eyes. "But you're the first guy who's told me that today."
He smiled down at her. "I'm lost in your splendor." She threw him back a happy face. "Your recreational vehicles are even more fun than the Play Dough I had when I was a kid."
That made her laugh. "Just make sure you treat them better than you treated your Play Dough."
He cupped his hands under his new playmates, and coerced them upward, watching euphorically as they swelled before their quivering return. Then he maneuvered one of them in a circular motion with the palm of his hand, marveling at how it ebbed and flowed with his touch—arousing passions, invoking desires.
"Don't ever stop," she said.
"Not to worry. You're more fun than a petting zoo."
She laughed again. "That's lovely, Brad. How did you know that every girl longs to out-fun a petting zoo?"
He played along. "I'm not sure. I may have read it in Reader's Digest." He caressed, kissed, and tasted her expectant polka dots. "Those erasers they put on pencils are useless, but I'm in love with the ones they've given you."
"Which of the petting zoo animals am I more fun than?"
"B-J Chance, you're more fun than all of those animals combined, bunnies included.
"Even the bunnies, eh?"
He grinned and nodded. "Have you ever been involved with a Canuck before?"
"No. And I have no idea why I'm involved with one now."
"You're probably thinking cheap Christmas tree for me come Christmas."
"Lucky guess," she said.
He thought for a moment. "Ever made love in a car before?"
"...No."
"No?" He focused on her concealing emerald-green eyes. "Have you ever made love anywhere?"
"None of your business!" She ran her fingers back through her hair, and bit at her lower lip.
"Of course it's my business. Could it be that I've cornered my first virgin? This may be my lucky day, thanks, no doubt, to my Lucky Ducky."
"Then Lucky's a bad ducky!" She tried to sit up, but he held her down.
"You're a rookie—aren't you?" There was no reply. "Okay, I'll have to check it out for myself." He held her wrists above her head with one hand while the other undid the button on her cutoffs. Then he tugged on the zipper.
"Yes," she said.
"Yes what?"
"Yes—I'm a vir... I'm inexperienced," she whispered, almost as if she were ashamed.
He loosed a half smile, half grin. "I don't believe it, a woman with her tamper resistant seal intact, and a zero reading on her puss-o-meter." She tried to hit him. "While that's fantastic for me, it's trouble for you, 'cause chastity is enemy number one of the happy hour."
"The happy hour? That's as long as you can make the happiness last?"
He grinned, and then brushed her lips with a kiss. "We'll work on lengthening it together. But first I want you to do something for me. Think pleasant thoughts. Think about Dorothy finally making it back home to Kansas, think about Snow White when she married Prince Charming, think about Red Riding Hood when she was saved from the Big Bad Wolf. Are you thinking?"
"Sure. I'm wondering who'll save me from the Big Bad Brad."
"My fault. Poor choice of fairytales. Forget the Wolf—think of me as Prince Charming, and you're his fairytale princess."
"Much better."
"Your fairytale will be the best ever—better even than Snow Whites'."
"Hard to believe that anything could be more fun than seven dwarfs."
I can't believe she said that. He laughed, and looked at her appreciatively. "We'll begin your fairytale at my place—in my bed. Role up your seat, and then tell me your bear's name." She rolled up her seat but said nothing. "Forgotten your bear's name already? Well cheer up. While it's true that most pigeons have a better short-term memory than you, to compensate, you have better pigeonholes. And mouth watering pleasure pals—much more fun than Play Dough."
* * *
Betty-Jo was delighted while trying not to be. "What a relief," she said. Then she thought dreamily about what being a fairytale princess in Brad's bed would be like; little imagining what was in store for her there.
-27-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
Forever a Virgin?
By the time Betty-Jo realized what was happening, Brad was driving north on Route 17, and her chest was bared to the world; bared, that is, to that part of the world that was driving south and looking in her direction.
What further ordeals will I have to endure before I can add ex-virgin to my résumé? she wondered. "Please, Brad, let me button my blouse."
He reached over and cupped her breast. "You have gorgeous playmates that should never be covered. But since I'm a reasonable guy you may do up one button."
"Do you have a preference for which button, or do I get to choose?"
He laughed. "Your choice. After all, we're living in the world's greatest democracy."
"The way you've embraced democratic principles is...heartening."
"When in America," he said with a grin. She frowned back.
The button that she chose to do up could scarcely contain her breasts, so she hunched forward to ease the tension.
"Don't do that, B-J, you're ruining the scenery." He moved her shoulders back against the seat. "Be a good little virgin, and keep your shoulders back."
The good little virgin frowned again, but did as she'd been asked. She could feel her breasts straining against her blouse, as the lone functioning button struggled to contain them.
"Lovely," he murmured, before he moved his hand into her cleavage, and then downward between the swells.
A short time later he pulled into an all night supermarket. "I'm going to buy some champagne and lemonade for our celebration. Keep a low profile until I get back."
"'Cause there are trolls everywhere?"
"Trolls and Jimbos."
A few minutes later he was back with two bottles of champagne, a can of frozen pink-lemonade, and a short stemmed rose.
"What do we need champagne for?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.
"Not we, little one. The champagne's for me." He stroked her hair. "The lemonade's for you. I can't be giving champagne to a fledgling. Hell, I'm not even sure you've been potty trained yet."
She could feel her mouth turning up at the corners, despite her effort to stop it. "And you need champagne because?"
"To celebrate. It's not every day that a fairytale princess loses her flower."
"And it's not every day that a Big Bad Brad gets to deflower one. You're probably thinking that women are like a box of chocolates, and you've found one with a cherry in it."
When he'd stopped laughing, he gave her a hug. "Forrest Gump couldn't have put it better." He handed her the rose. "Guess what I bought for you?"
"My first guess has to be a rose."
"It's a replacement flower. An American Beauty rose for an American beauty."
She held up the rose and breathed in its fragrance. "A very short stemmed Beauty rose."
"It's for your hair."
She put the rose in her hair. "But why?"
"In the middle-ages, only virgins were permitted to wear rose garlands in their hair. It's a custom that should have endured so lecherous hockey players could single out the virtuous virgins for special attention."
"That makes sense. But why do I need a rose garland when you already know I'm virtuous?"
"You're missing the point, young princess. Tonight will be your last opportunity to legitimately wear a rose garland."
"What makes you so loveable? While it isn't much of a garland, the thought is precious...."
Brad's cottage, overlooking the seventh hole at the Ridgewood Golf and Country Club, was fifteen minutes west of Myrtle Beach on the 501. When they arrived there he lit a candle and amber incense, then he turned on his CD player. As the haunting melody of the panpipes filled the room, he pulled her to him. But they didn't really dance—they just s
wayed against each other.
When the last note faded, he popped the cork on the champagne, and poured them each a glass. "Your beauty is enhanced, if that's possible, by the candlelight." He raised his glass, and admired her through the crystal and the fizzing champagne. "To my American princess," he said.
She studied him, amused. Then she shook her head and lifted her glass. "To your American princess," she replied. This is absurd. Why am I so delighted to be his princess? "Now may your princess button up her blouse?"
"No—and since you mentioned it, would you kindly undo the button that's still done up." She ignored his request. "Betty-Jo, you really are an ingrate."
She wished she'd unbuttoned her blouse like he'd requested. "Why do you say that?"
"Because there you were on Route 17, your pleasure pals free, mine to admire. You seemed embarrassed, although I can't understand why because most women would kill for fun puppies like yours. So, gallant guy that I am, I allowed you to do up your blouse. Now this is the thanks I get for my chivalry."
She couldn't help it. She laughed at him. "Stop, before you have me in tears."
"And you don't play fair," he continued. "I had you out of your blouse and bra, and was well on my way to separating you from your cutoffs, when you told me you were a virgin. You, on a bed in my car, with the waves murmuring, the breezes caressing, and the moon casting its spell—it was more than I'd dared to hope for."
"You believe that the moon casts spells?"
"Only on virgins—the moon hates virgins."
How does he dream this stuff up? "Hates virgins?"
"As I understand it, the moon hates having to tug on women as hard as it does each month to release that egg. But with virgins, it's especially galling for the moon, because it knows its efforts are for naught."
This guy has no idea how women work. "That's what you learned from The Farmers Almanac?"
He grinned. "I can't reveal my sources."
"That's 'cause you have none. But tell me, why does the moon cast its spell only on virgins?"
"It wants to show them off to best advantage so they'll be ravaged by hockey players."
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 10
