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Damn Women Golfers
Recklessly I drove down the twisting two-lane road to the Country Club. Golf is serious business and not to be trifled with. This was a men’s tournament not one of those best ball nightmares or worse yet, combined men and women’s marathons with all the handicaps. Match play was the only way to determine who was on tip. One more victory would put me in Sunday’s finals.
Just who Paul Jordan was, I didn’t care. He had come up the other ladder. He was to be my victim. I had to put him away today.
By hole 16, I knew I could take it. I had him dormie. I was up by 2 with only two holes to play. He was at least ten years younger than I and much stronger. At about 6’2" his long athletic body produced drives at least 25 yards beyond mine. I was the sly ole fox, however. Course management was the key. I planned every shot, chipped to allow birdie putts and put him away. I could see frustration on his face as the ole dude whipped him.
I hit a beautiful drive. Right down the center with a slight draw that put me on high ground with a chance to cut the dogleg to the green. Paul’s drive was far beyond mine, but sliced, and he had little chance of making a good second shot.
Time to put him away. I could just play safe, but I wanted a big finish, just to let this youngster know who was in charge. I pulled my three wood and began a few warm up strokes. About 220 yards...a high, soft shot...mentally I was ready. I addressed the ball. A slow, smooth backswing...
"Hold it!"
"What?"
"There’s someone still on the green."
Paul had walked up a small hill and had a perfect view.
"Damn, Paul. How long they been there?"
"Quite a while. They aren’t even on the green. Both of them are back there looking for balls in the woods. Looks like two women."
"Women. Hell, it’s well over the five-minute limit. It’s going to be dark soon. We have to finish."
"All right. I’ll take the cart and ask them to let us play through. Tournament players do have priority." I watched as Paul disappeared down the hill, around the dogleg and through some trees. Damn, I was tensing up.
Soon Paul returned, driving with his head down furtively. "Shit man. I can’t believe it. My wife’s up ahead. She’s playing with a woman that I’m ah, sort of, ah, doing. They didn’t see me. I came back."
"Doing?"
"Damn yes. She is hot. Met her about six months ago. Didn’t know she played golf here or knew my wife. She does love to fuck though."
"How often you screwing her?"
"As often as she calls me. Usually twice a week. As a matter of fact, I just had her this morning. She blew me, then got on her hand and knees, wiggled that beautiful ass and just kept smiling. Didn’t think I could get it up again, but she’s good with that mouth of hers. I’m in real trouble if they see me. Look, I’ll forfeit the match. Let’s go back the other way."
"Relax, Paul. There’s plenty of time." Now I knew I had him. He’d broken into a sweat, and I could see his hands shake. I put the three wood back in the bag. No need to take a chance now. I’d lay-up with a five and chip to the pin.
"She’s good, huh?"
"Definitely. First time I met her, she just flat out propositioned me. We were at a bar. She goes to the ladies room then comes back, hands me her panties and asks if I want to go home with her."
Hell, I thought. "Paul, I’ve got to see this woman. Just give me the cart and stay here. By the way, which one’s your wife?"
"Careful up there. My wife’s the one with the flaming red hair."
I rode down the hill, around the dogleg and through the trees. Abruptly, I broke into the open, 20 yards from the green. My wife turned to stare at me with a look of surprise, then smiled. She was playing with a flaming redhead.