The Last To Know - What I Did While We Dated

by Bridy McAvoy

  In four weeks I had three one-night stands, two on the Friday nights, and one on one of the Tuesdays. I was quite surprised, really. I’d expected to pull more often, but I guess most of the guys on a Friday were out with their girlfriends, or out with mates. I wasn’t going to put myself in a situation where I’d end up in a frat house, or some carpark pulling a train while everybody watched. Not my thing.

  I remember the following Saturday very well. For the first time, you’d taken me out dancing rather than for a meal or to a movie. By then, I was starting to fall for you, and on top of that I’d had a bad week. Things had gone a bit wrong at the library on a couple of days, leaving me with a mess to sort. Mr. Bryant had actually been ill since the Wednesday, and I’d had to cope with a stuffy stand-in sent down from the county seat. That meant no fun, and all work—especially no fun on the Thursday afternoon.

  That surprised me. I actually missed it, despite the sometimes humiliating things he made me do, and his often paper-thin reasoning for them. The weather hadn’t been good either. We had driving rain every night so I hadn’t seen Max, and I stayed in on the Tuesday and Friday. I literally had been without sex since a quickie with my boss on Monday. I guess I was frustrated.

  We grabbed a burger and a couple of beers and had a great time just chatting at a bar. We relaxed and just had fun. At about nine they had a band on, and I decided to find out if you could dance. After all, we’d never been anywhere for me to find out.

  We danced a few fast dances, and I found out you could dance and, more importantly, I could see the way your eyes watched my movements, caught how my legs moved, my thighs flashed as my skirt rode up, and how my breasts bounced. I don’t think you realized I was watching you watching me, but you watching me was getting me hot. Anyway, we had a few dances, followed by another beer, and then went back out on the floor. I was hot by then, and wondering about throwing Mr. Bryant’s rule book out of the window, blurring the lines between Bulls and Keepers. You were definitely my Keeper, and I’d been dreaming about us having a future together.

  Then the band went and spoiled everything. At the end of that song they switched to a ballad—a slow song. Without hesitating, you took my hand and pulled me in close, your arms circling my waist. Without thinking, my hands went around the back of your neck and I thought about what might be. My problem was simple. I was blinded by the conditioning Mr. Bryant had given me. You were a Keeper, so for you I was virginal. My body was screaming fuck…fuck…fuck…at me. The conflict was driving me nuts.

  Anyway you pulled me in close, lowered your head, and kissed me. For the first time your kiss was insistent, powerful and, letting your tongue enter my mouth, I eagerly kissed you back. Your hands dropped lower and cupped my butt. Without warning you pulled me into you and I could feel my breasts squashing against your chest. I could feel, too, your erection pressing against my stomach, only inches above my mound.

  I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, if I let you continue, I’d give in, drag you back to the condo, and fuck you. Then, three weeks later, I’d discard you. That was the way I played the dating game. I didn’t want that. My body wanted you, but my mind was screaming wait. It’ll be worth it if you make him wait.

  I pulled away, took my arms down from around your neck and pushed on your chest. You are always the gentlemen and let go. I already knew not to take your manners as lack of desire. I could see from your hardness, and from your face, that you wanted me. I melted inside, but I couldn’t do it. I pushed against you again, then spun on my heel and walked away, heading for the door.

  I wanted you to follow me, to claim me, but you didn’t—you took it as the rejection it was.

  Once outside, I sat in my car and watched the bar door for about fifteen minutes. We hadn’t said anything, we hadn’t said goodbye, or it’s over, or anything. But we’d broken up. The last thing I wanted, but the thing I’d triggered. I’d seen the hurt in your eyes as I started to turn away. But you didn’t come after me.

  “Why, why not, honey?”

  I shrugged and closed my eyes for a second, thinking back to my roiling emotions on that night, remembering that event as clearly as she’d just recited it. Her reactions now made sense, what she’d actually said when we got back together had been another fudge. Now, though, it finally made sense. Something good was growing out of this situation—honesty, trust, something good.

  “I thought…well, I thought you were mad at me, that I’d tried too hard. I’d crossed a line and, from your point of view, molested you. I really thought I’d blown it with you. I walked over to the bar and grabbed a beer. I wanted to follow you, to say I’m sorry, but initially my pride held me back.”

  I smiled. “You were sitting outside waiting for me to chase after you, and I was standing at the bar swigging beer, hoping you’d come back—both of us too stubborn to do anything about it.” I paused. “When I did finally come out, that nice shiny blue BMW was gone. I assumed you’d gone straight away.”

  “No, honey, I’d sat there for fifteen to twenty minutes willing you to come out, to let us both say sorry at the same time, and take it from there. I was too stubborn, too protective of my own self-esteem to return to the bar.”

  “I went back into the bar, and they ended up throwing me out at closing time—I was legless. Even a cab driver refused to pick me up and take me back to the college. I actually don’t know how I got home that night.”

  “You did do one thing, though.”

  “Yeah, I know, I saw the text the next morning. I couldn’t believe I’d said that. There was no going back after that, not in my book.”

  She smiled. “Calling me an ice queen didn’t go down well.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Calling me a cock-teasing ice queen was definitely a deal breaker.”

  “Sorry.”

  It was her time to smile. “You said sorry four weeks later, and that was enough. I’d triggered it. You know what? I cried myself to sleep that night.”

  I winced but she shook her head.

  “Not over what you said, but over the fact we’d broken up. From my perspective it had been my fault. I’d led you on, then pushed you away, acting like the ice queen I was supposed to be. I wanted anything to be able to go back and change that.”

  “So what happened afterward?”

  * * * *

  Saturday night I cried myself to sleep, then spent Sunday moping around the house. By Sunday evening I was going a little stir-crazy, so texted Max to confirm he was still on for the boating lesson on Monday. He texted back, and then asked me to stay for supper after. I assumed the boys were going to be out, so that meant I had a chance to get laid again.

  I couldn’t think of a better way of pushing you out of my mind. I found I was wrong on both counts. I guess I was a little waspish with my boss all day, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he just got me to give him a blow job at the end of the day. It was a bit perfunctory, mechanical even, but he didn’t complain. Then I headed for the condo. You hadn’t texted, so by then I was assuming you wouldn’t. On Saturday I’d wondered if you’d been drunk, but you didn’t send an apology the day after, so by Monday evening I was pretty sure you’d been sober and meant it. I know better now, but at that moment…different matter.

  Max brought the boat over and we went out on the lake. By now it was just the little bits and pieces—how to deal with emergencies like a stalled or flooded engine. How to signal for help—two weeks earlier he’d arranged for a ranger boat to be nearby so I could practice. That had made me feel like a fool, but it was the little details that I needed. I could handle the boat properly, and he even let me steer it into that island hideaway, although I just spun the boat in a circle and headed back out. He chuckled then checked his watch.

  “Head for the yard. Steve won’t be happy if we’re later than eight.”

  “Steve?”

  “Yeah, better cook than either his brother or me. I hope you like pasta.”

  “I love pa
sta.”

  “Good. He makes a mean Bolognese. Max Junior says he made the apple pie for dessert, but I saw the box in the trash, so I know he bought it. Don’t let on I told you so, okay?”

  I chuckled. “I promise.”

  “Good girl. I thought we could play cards afterward.”

  “Cards?”

  “Yeah, poker can get boring when there’s only three of us.”

  “You expect me to play poker with you three?”

  “Why not, we don’t play for large stakes.”

  “Seeing as we were just coming out for a boat lesson, I assumed we were going back to the condo before driving round. I didn’t bring any money.”

  “I’ll stake you. We only play for quarters. We’re not card sharks.”

  “Hmm…”

  I couldn’t turn him down for the supper, not now—especially if the two boys had gone to such trouble to get the meal ready. I called them boys because Max did. Max Junior was, of course, anything but junior, even if he didn’t look like a chip off the old block—much leaner, rangier even, although he was as tall as his dad. Steve was smaller, more compact, and quieter than his older brother. There was about eighteen months between them, and Steve was approaching his nineteenth birthday in a few weeks. His brother was almost the same age as me.

  We tied the boat up at the outer end of his pier rather than alongside—that way I could get away easier in the dark. I had learned my night-time navigation, but Max always thought about the little things like that.

  The house was next to the yard. Max used a torch, allowing us to thread our way through the clutter in the yard, and we walked up the steps to the house. Max Junior opened the door and smiled as I walked in.

  “Welcome. Come on, my bro will pitch a fit if we’re not at the table in about thirty seconds flat.”

  “He’ll have to stall for a minute. Let the girl use the washroom.”

  I smiled a thank you at Max who nodded toward a door under the stairs. Having had the chance to wash lake spray off my face and hands, I followed the food smell through to the kitchen. Living on their own, the three guys didn’t exactly set silver service, but the kitchen was spotless. The little kitchen table was covered by a white cloth, everything clean and tidy on the counter tops that surrounded the room.

  There wasn’t a lot of space—three big men take up a lot of space in a room like that. It turned out his father was right to be proud of Steve—the guy could cook, the spaghetti and meatballs rather than mince was fabulous. Not exactly a Bolognese but a very nice meal. If anything, I was full and I only had half as much as the three of them had. You could have fed ten or twelve people from the amount he’d cooked, and there was none left. The apple pie was lovely too, and I praised Max Junior for that about as much as I praised Steve for the main. Steve shot a look at his brother, and Max chuckled, but I kept a straight face. I didn’t want them to start arguing.

  I tried to help with the clear up but Max made me sit at the table with him while his two sons did everything. Max, I guess in keeping with his image, had served beer rather than wine with the meal, and we’d all had a couple of bottles. I refused a third, citing I needed to keep a clear head to pilot the boat home. Steve, in particular, found that amusing, and I noticed the look his father shot him to quieten him down. I wondered if Max was planning something, but I didn’t have any evidence.

  Once the table had been cleared they took the tablecloth away, and I found the table was covered in green felt, making it a card table. It was obvious the three of them spent a lot of time in here. In fact, I’d been in the house for nearly two hours, and all I’d seen was the kitchen, the downstairs washroom and the hall at the bottom of the stairs. I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to show me the bedrooms, didn’t want him to, but…it felt a little odd.

  We were playing Texas, of course. Nobody seemed to play old-fashioned draw anymore. Each of the three men put a pile of quarters on the table, and Max handed me a pile.

  “Hey, not fair, Dad.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re fronting up our own money…”

  “I didn’t give her time to get home and fetch her purse, all right? Now shuffle those paste boards and deal.”

  I was lucky. My first three or four hands were duds, so I was able to fold early and watch them. I used to play with my mum and dad sometimes, so I knew the rules and the basics of the game. It was soon apparent that these three were regular players, and were in a different league. They played fast but not loose, and money changed hands with speed. None of them won or lost any real amount, so nobody got ahead.

  At the next hand I was dealt a pair of jacks, a good enough hand to play—not the best, but one worthy of a bet. Max, sitting on my right, had dealt, so I was the first to bet. I pushed in another quarter on top of my blind, and one by one they glanced at their cards and tossed them in. Either they all had really crap cards, or they weren’t prepared to face off with me for a pot. Every other pot was contested. Four hands later I had a hand worth playing, and the same thing happened. Two hands later, with me playing last, Steve and Max bet a quarter and I had an eight and a queen suited, so bet in order to see the flop. The flop did nothing for me, and the other two both bet a quarter again. I thought about it, and I could see Max Junior, who’d sat out the hand, watching me. I bet again and the river card was useless. I had a queen high—the best I could make was a pair of queens and I was sure that wouldn’t be good enough to win. I folded.

  Two hands later it was Max dealing and again I had a pair of jacks, so bet a quarter. This time Max Junior and Steve both called and their father dropped out. The flop turned over nothing again, and I checked. Max Junior bet a quarter, Steve threw in his cards and I saw his brother. The river card was again no improvement but I could see how, if Max Junior had the right cards, he had me beat hands down. Consequently it wasn’t a surprise when he went all in. I folded, and he raked in the chips. I was down to maybe four quarters now, my coins pretty evenly distributed around the rest of the table.

  Two hands later, and dealt a pair of queens, I only had two coins left, so went all-in. Max saw me and called. After the cards had been turned over, he was sitting on a pair of kings. My only chance was if another queen was turned over. It was not to be, and in less than a half-an-hour they’d wiped me out.

  “That’s me out, guys. Thanks for supper and thanks for the game.”

  “Don’t go yet, the game was just getting interesting.”

  Max laughed at his son’s comment then covered my hand in his.

  “I’ll stake you some more, baby, if you like.”

  “That’s hardly fair. You’re all too good for me. I’ll end up losing my shirt.”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth I realized what I’d said, and probably what their plan had been all along. The initial game play had been about sucking me into the game—getting me competitive. They were waiting for an opening to move onto the real stakes for the evening—my clothes.

  “Well…”

  “No.”

  “You said it, not us, and if you’re volunteering…”

  “I’m not.”

  “It would make the game interesting.”

  “For you, not for me.”

  Because we were going out on the boat in the evening, I’d worn shorts not a skirt. They were denim cut-offs—not exactly daisy-dukes, but they were tight. I’d worn a T-shirt over that and then a button-up shirt over the top of that for warmth. Once we’d come back ashore from the boat, I’d undone a couple of buttons on the shirt, allowing the T-shirt to peek through. Since I was wearing shorts, I’d dispensed with my usual stockings, and was wearing socks and sneakers.

  You have to remember why I allowed myself to be persuaded. I’d been without sex for over a week, not counting a couple of blow jobs with my boss. I’d been hurt on Saturday night too and had no dates lined up. Max hadn’t touched me—now I knew why. He wanted to get me naked in front of the three of them. I wasn’t sure if they would th
en all take advantage of me, or just Max take me home and fuck me. I was pretty sure if I gave in, I’d get fucked.

  The idea of displaying myself like that suddenly made sense. I made them work for it though. It took them another ten minutes and another bottle of beer before I finally agreed.

  The quarters disappeared from the table with alacrity and a new pack of cards was broken out. I guess this was a special set. All the cards had pornographic pictures on the face of them—came out on special occasions, I guess.

  I was quite surprised the money disappeared, then learned the rules. It wasn’t just going to be stripping if I lost a hand—they were playing by the same rules too. Winner picked who lost from the two bottom hands. Guess who that was going to be if I didn’t come first or second? That person lost an item of clothing. Shoes and socks didn’t count.

  They let me deal the first hand, and we’d switched to draw rather than Texas now. With no betting, the hand was fast and furious. Steve drew three, Max Junior drew four, and Max himself drew one. I looked at my hand, a pair of threes. Not bad. I was sure I’d beat someone out of the three of them. I drew three cards but didn’t improve. Now the question was where I was in the pecking order—I needed to be first or second.

  Max had a busted straight draw and came bottom. Steve had a pair of aces and won. Max Junior had a pair of threes, just like me. However his high card, an ace, beat my bare ten. That placed him second, and me third.

  I started to push myself away from the table, expecting Steve to tell me to lose my shirt, but he chuckled.

  “Sorry, didn’t realize you were that eager, but I’m picking Dad. Lose the bib on the overalls, old man.”

  Two more hands were played and on both occasions I finished second. Both of the younger men now had their bibs unfastened. The next time they lost, they’d either be removing the overalls completely or they’d be losing their T-shirts. Either way it would reveal stuff to me.