Copyright 2003 Frank Downey. All rights reserved. Any use other than personal archiving requires the permission of the author. Do not repost.

This story contains adult material. If this is illegal where you reside or if you are underage where you reside, begone.

There was no game on Friday. However, that’s when the whole business started to unravel.

Melanie knocked on my door after supper. I let her in. "So, did you talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"And the bet’s still on?"

"Mel, she was adamant about it. I’m sure she feels a lot better now, too, now that the Yankees evened the series up."

"Yeah, she does, but—well, I had a talk with her. And she has no intention of going through with it even if she loses."

"What?"

"She’s not going to back out, mind you," Melanie explained. "She’s got something else up her sleeve. I don’t know exactly what, but I think, if she loses, she’s going to do something like make the prospect of sleeping with her so unattractive to you that you’ll back out."

"Damn. Then why did she accept the bet?"

"I don’t know. Mitch, she’s completely fucked up. And she’s treating you like shit. You don’t deserve it."

"Thanks for that."

"Well, you don’t. Anyhow, sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not going to get laid. At least not by Callie."

"At least not by Callie, huh?"

"Well, yeah. Some girls around here appreciate you, you know," she said. And then walked right up to me, a little smirk on her face. "Some of us have appreciated you for a while."

"Mel?" I said, as she stopped right in front of me.

"I want you, Mitch. I’ve wanted you for some time." She started undoing the buttons on her blouse.

"Melanie? Come on! You’re Callie’s best friend!"

"Callie has no claim on you."

"She has claim on my heart," I asserted.

"I know that, God only knows why," she snorted. "But I don’t want your heart. I want your body. Mitch, you need to get laid—and so do I."

Her fingers were still working away at the buttons on her blouse—in fact, they were down to the bottom couple. I could see, through the part in her blouse, the black lacy bra holding back her ample breasts. Then the blouse was off.

Look, if it were just about looks, between Callie and Melanie—well, there’s no contest. Callie’s pretty, and sexy, don’t get me wrong—but Melanie should be in Playboy. I mean, she’s stunning. Blonde, blue-eyed, big tits, nice ass, long legs—she was grade A. I’d never been attracted to her personality like I was with Callie. But her body? Oh yeah. And she wanted me?

I wish, right then, I had remembered that the reason I had never been attracted to her personality is that I didn’t quite trust her. But I didn’t remember that. And, hell, I didn’t have to trust her—just fuck her, right?

By then, she had stepped out of her skirt—and was undoing my pants. "You do want me, don’t you?"

"Yeah," I admitted. Jesus—I mean, who wouldn’t? She got my clothes off—and then off came her panties. My JESUS what a sight! She got into my bed and pulled me on top of her. We kissed and fondled her for a bit, then she hissed "Fuck me!"

"Uh, one moment," I said, reaching for my pants, digging out my wallet. There was a condom in there. Hey, I might’ve been thinking with my dick at the moment but I’m not completely stupid. I rolled on the rubber, and then sunk myself into Melanie.

She was a complete animal—and, damn, did she look good writhing and squirming beneath me. She wrapped her legs around my ass and pulled me in deeper, moaning the whole time. I’m pretty sure she came—yeah, I know, girls can fake it, but if she was it was a performance worthy of an Oscar. I know I came!

Afterwards, she cuddled up to me for a bit, then got up. She threw her clothes on, then came back over to me and kissed me. "Thanks, Mitch," she smiled, "that was fantastic." Then she was gone.

I slept very well that night.

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You know, I’m an idiot. Thinking with my dick, yes indeed.

I remembered that conversation with Tim earlier in the week, about the differences between guys and girls and how they deal with relationships. Well, there’s another difference—how they deal with sex. Girls use sex. Guys don’t.

Well, that’s not completely true—but what guys use sex for is simple and uncomplicated. To get off, of course. Also, to prove their manliness. It must be some leftover caveman thing—but, yeah, it’s there. Melanie, a gorgeous specimen, wanted to fuck me. That makes me a heavy-duty he-man, of course. That’s what I mean by proving manliness.

But that’s generally all guys use sex for. (I’m talking about sex, not love.) Girls use sex for a whole bunch of things. Getting off and ratifying their ‘femininity’ is part of it, for sure. But they use it for lots of other things. To keep a guy. To prove something to themselves. Rebellion.

And, sometimes, to stir up shit.

Cammie pounded on my door Saturday afternoon. She stormed in as I answered the door, and look at me, furious and accusative.

"Did you fuck Melanie last night?" she demanded.

"Why is that your business?"

"She’s my best friend!"

"So what? You have no claims on me."

"You keep telling me you’re in love with me," she sneered.

"So I am," I told her. "But you haven’t been too receptive to it. The only way I could even get you to think about being with me is by making a bet. And Melanie told me last night that you’re still thinking of ways to get out of paying up if you lose."

"She what?"

"Is it true?" Callie didn’t say anything, confirming it. "How did you know I slept with Mel, anyway?"

"She told me?"

"Why the hell would she do that?"

"To make me jealous."

"Are you?" She just looked at me. "Why would you be jealous? I’m yours any time you say the word, and you know it! Why the hell would you be jealous? I don’t get it, Callie. Damn, we wouldn’t even have to sleep together, not at first, if you didn’t want to. And if we were together I certainly wouldn’t be with anyone else. You know all this. Jealous shouldn’t even enter into it."

"You say that now," she whispered.

"Excuse me."

"You say that now. How long would it last?" Then, she burst into tears. "I can’t do this!" she wailed—and ran out of my room.

Perfect. Just perfect. I will never understand women.

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After that wonderful start to the day, what happened with the game should’ve been no surprise. I didn’t find the gang. I locked myself in my room and watched it by myself. Jack, my roomie, was instructed to tell anyone else that asked that I "wasn’t feeling well." Which I wasn’t. But it wasn’t physical.

Of course, after the game I felt like throwing up. The Red Sox needed this one—and with Pedro on the mound, they should’ve gotten it. They didn’t. Pedro was shaky, there was a big beanball war, and Roger Clemens—Goddamn that fat traitor hick to hell—was very good. And Nomar and Bill Mueller still aren’t hitting. The Yankees won four to three, forcing us to rely on John Burkett’s pitching in Game Four—a very scary proposition.

So, what a lovely day. The Sox were one step closer to being out. I was one step closer to having to give a blowjob. And I wasn’t sure if Callie was still speaking to me.

Of all these things, the blowjob, frankly, bothered me the least.