Copyright 2004 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.

Sunday. Game four. The possible end of the Red Sox’ season. And the day I’d have to show my boobs to a guy for the very first time.

Honestly, I was more upset about the Red Sox.

Not to say I wasn’t nervous--I was, believe me. A lot. But I think I’d come to terms with it.

I did some homework and called Vinnie about two in the afternoon. "My turn to supply the supper. What do you like on your pizza?"

He laughed and said, "Anything. As long as it includes sausage and mushrooms and doesn’t include anchovies."

"Cool. I like that, plus onions."

"Onions are good."

I got the pizza and went to his room shortly after five. We ate the pizza, chatting happily. However, when it was done he got all serious again, like he had last night. He kind of faded out of the conversation. So, I finally asked, "Vinnie, is something wrong?"

"Yeah." He took a breath. "Freddie, I think we should cancel this bet. I don’t think it’s a good idea to keep going with it."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Well, it just, I don’t know...." he faltered.

I got my back up a little bit. "You don’t think I can go through with it, do you? You think I’m scared to take my bra off, don’t you? Well, I’m not! I made this bet and I’m not going to welsh out on it!" I don’t like to be doubted. I got in trouble when I was a kid because I never could refuse a dare. "Don’t coddle me!"

He looked up at me--and he didn’t look happy. "Fred, that’s not it. That’s not it at all. I know you’d go through with it. You’ve been a real trouper right through the whole thing. I almost feel guilty that the Yankees won three games so quick, because you’ve been so good about it. I’m sure you expected more time, even if the Yankees did win." I sighed and nodded. "But you’ve been great. This isn’t about you, really."

"Then what’s it about, Vinnie?"

"It’s about me," he sighed. "Look, when I first proposed your penalty for the bet, I didn’t know you. I thought you were sexy and I figured it would be cool to have a look," he said with a little grin. I had to chuckle. "But I didn’t know you. Now I do. Two things happened. One, you’re a hell of a lot sexier than I even realized. Two, well, the thing is, I like you. A lot. And it’s not just attraction, though it is that. The more time I spend with you, the more I realize how cool you are. I mean, I like like you, OK?"

My God, he actually said it. I felt like I was going to faint.

He took a breath, then went on. "However, there’s a problem. I can’t do this. I watched you sit in your underwear last night. The Yankees were kicking ass and I barely noticed. All I could see was you. And I have to tell you that after you left I needed to take one hell of a cold shower." WHAT?!?!? Because of me? Unbelievable.

He kept going. "Look, Freddie, I really am a gentleman. This bet was about looking, not touching. But I can’t do it. You’re going to take your bra off and I’m going to have to sit here like a good boy and it’s going to drive me crazy. That’s why I want to call off the bet."

Wow.

I thought for a minute. What he had said burned into my brain. What did I want?

I realized that in a lot of areas of my life, that that was a question I’d never had to confront. It wasn’t about what I wanted--it was about what I was allowed. And this area--boys--was one of the big ones. It hadn’t mattered what I wanted.

Now it did.

I probably didn’t think about it long enough. I was probably just reacting. But react I did. I reached for my shirt and pulled it over my head. I quickly shucked my pants. Then I reached around for the snaps on my bra--the purple one today--and went to unfasten them.

"Didn’t you hear what I said?" Vinnie asked in a shaky voice.

"Yes. Which is why I’m doing this now. If you’re going to put moves on me you need to do it before the game starts because I’m going to want to watch the game. So, you have two hours." With that, I shrugged out of the bra. And questioned my sanity. Oh, well--I was fully in it now, wasn’t I?

Vinnie let out a little gasp. "God, Freddie. God. You’re serious."

"Yes. Now get over here on this couch before I change my mind. You’re not the only one that’s been taking cold showers."

"I’m not?" he said with a little grin. Then he dropped the grin and looked at me. "You really are beautiful, Princess." I just blushed. He got up off his chair and moved over next to me on the couch.

"One thing," I said. "The rules of the bet are still in effect." He looked at me, a question in his eyes. "The panties stay on tonight."

"OK, Princess," he said with a laugh. Then he leaned in, and gently kissed me.

I almost expected him to go right for the you-know-whats. I expected him to be all hands since I’d given him the go-ahead. He wasn’t. He just kissed me and kept his hands gently resting on my arms.

As I’ve said, I wasn’t completely inexperienced. I’d been kissed. Not like that, though. I mean, wow. And even though I barely knew what the hell I was doing, Vinnie seemed to enjoy it when I kissed back.

And he did this for a while, gradually turning me into a puddle of goo. I mean, goodness! I expected to be manhandled, and instead I was getting the kiss of all time. It took quite a while before I felt his hands move--and they started out just gently resting on my stomach. I waited for them to move. He was still kissing me. I waited for his hands to move. I think I was moaning into his mouth before his hands moved off my stomach.

God, he knew what he was doing.

By the time his hand finally slipped up my stomach and wrapped itself around my boob, I was ready, believe me. I wasn’t even nervous at all anymore. And it felt so damn good. He just kept kissing me as he rubbed my boob and flicked at the nipple with his thumb. I almost came right then.

Unfortunately, it was an almost. And, yes, I do know what it is--I did say I’d played with myself. I only got close from him playing with my boobs. Shit. Did I say the panties had to stay on? Shit.

I felt a little self-conscious, though. I was practically naked and he was fully dressed. I at least wanted his shirt off, so I started tugging at it. He chuckled and backed away, then helped me get his shirt off. God, he was a hunk.

And I was wrong about the back hair. Chest hair--oh, yes. I actually liked that.

He went back to kissing and fondling. Then he took it a step higher--he backed away from the kiss, and lowered his mouth to my boob.

Oh. My. God!

It was fantastic. It was torture. He was actually getting me right to the edge just by sucking on my boob. Who knew?

I was so damn close I had to do something. So I kind of let my hand drift down there. It was kind of lingering at the waistband to my panties. I was trying to be sneaky. That was futile--I quickly felt his hand brushing mine away.

"You said the panties stay on. You didn’t say my hands had to stay out of them," he pointed out. I could’ve argued, I’m sure. Maybe I should have. Uh-uh, no way. I let his hand slip into my panties.

And it took him three seconds to find my hot button. And not much more than that before he set it off. Whammo!!!

As the shattered pieces of my brain reformed themselves, it occured to me that I had actually had an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced. Wow. How the hell did this happen so fast?

I opened my eyes and looked up at Vinnie. The big galoot looked mighty pleased with himself. Well, OK, he should. But as I looked up at him, his grin faded a wee bit and he asked, "Was that OK?"

I could only groan back. That he laughed at. Again, couldn’t blame him. That was just too good.

As I regained coherence, I caught a glimpse of his crotch. He still had his pants on, but the bulge was unmistakable. As I thought about that, he asked again, "You sure you’re OK?"

"Oh, Lord, I am most definitely OK," I said. "Way better than OK." I glanced back down. "You, however, look like you’re headed for another cold shower."

He suddenly got serious. "No, Princess, I’m perfectly fine. No worries. You got to get up, though, because I need to hit the bathroom." I got up--I’d been leaning on him--and he got up off the couch. "Be right back," he said with a smile.

After he left, it dawned on me--he wasn’t going to pee, he was going to, er, do himself. I didn’t understand. I was going to offer to help him. True, I didn’t have any idea exactly what I was going to do to help him but I was going to offer, and figure he’d tell me. He took off before I could. Why?

Because he was trying not to overload you, the reasonable voice in my head supplied. He knew that was your first, and figured you didn’t need more piled on.

I didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed. For his sake I was grateful. He meant well. And I was probably more grateful than anything. It kind of was overwhelming. But I couldn’t help but be curious.

Hey, he likes me, I reminded myself. If I want to go further, there will be opportunities.

Anyhow, he came back in the room after a few minutes. And my first instinct was to play dumb. But I couldn’t resist. He came back and sat next to me on the couch. I couldn’t help it--I looked up at him and said, "How’s your elbow?" He blinked, and then cracked up.

"Princess, you keep surprising me," he said with a chuckle.

Just then the game began.

Honestly, I was distracted. He was sitting next to me and had his arm around me. That was it, but I was still almost naked and he still had his shirt off. And I didn’t have much hope for this game. Yes, El Duque, the Yankees’ pitcher, had sat out the Minnesota series because of a tired arm, but he’d been near unhittable down the stretch. And our guy, Derek Lowe, had sat out the Anaheim series because he sucked down the stretch, and was only pitching today because Schilling was hurt. I wasn’t optimistic.

Lowe got them out in the first, though. We had guys on first and second in the first and got nothing.

Then Lowe showed me something. He started the second by giving up a double to Hideki Freakin’ Matsui, who seemingly hit an extra base hit every frickin’ time he came up. But Lowe got out of it. Two groundouts--with Cabrera throwing Matsui out at the plate on the second--and a strikeout.

It lasted until the third. Jeter singled, A-Rod hit a damn homer, and the Yankees were up two-nothing. "Here comes the assault," I sighed to Vinnie.

"He’s actually pitched pretty well, except for that pitch to A-Rod," Vinnie said.

Vinnie was right. And he kept it up. I figured he’d get pounded but he didn’t. Nothing for the Yankees in the fourth, or in the fifth.

And in the bottom of the fifth, the Sox finally got to El Duque. Walk, fielder’s choice, walk, fielder’s choice left guys on first and third with two outs. Then Orlando Cabrera, who’d been one guy who was terrific all series, hit a single to score a run. El Duque then walked Manny to load the bases. And David Ortiz, bless him, hit a two-run single. Three to two, Red Sox. I was jumping up and down. Vinnie was laughing at me.

Then Terry Francona, the Sox manager, gave it away.

Lowe started the sixth by getting Sheffield. Then Matsui hit a triple. Of course he did--if the Sox had brought Cy Young, Bob Gibson, and Whitey Ford into pitch, Matsui was going to hit a triple. It didn’t matter. Sometimes you’re just in a groove. Give Matsui his due and get the next two guys out.

SO WHY DID FRANCONA TAKE LOWE OUT??????????

Oh, I wanted to scream. He took out Lowe, and brought in Timlin--he of the 13.50 ERA in the playoffs. Vinnie couldn’t believe it. "Oh, goody, Timlin!" Jesus. These Red Sox managers can’t get their years right. Timlin was good last year, when he should’ve relieved Pedro in Game 7. This year, he sucks.

Before the carnage was over, the Yankees had regained the lead, 4-3. No, they didn’t hit anything hard, three infield singles. But Timlin didn’t help witih a wild pitch and a walk--and he’s just snakebit. If Hideki Matsui can’t do anything wrong this series--Mike Timlin can’t do anything right.

Then, I thought, the Yankees gave us a gift in the bottom of the sixth. They brought in Tanyon Sturtze, who’d been completely hittable. Unfortunately, he threw two innings of nothing. Nothing for us, I mean. And Francona, having brought Timlin in way too early, actually went for Keith Foulke, the closer, with one out in the seventh. Now that’s desparation. At least Foulke started his stint by proving that, yes, there was actually somebody on the Red Sox pitching staff that could actually get Matsui out.

However, it didn’t seem to matter. Sturtze got through the seventh. And, even though Foulke was cruising, it didn’t seem to matter. Because, in the eighth, the Yankees brought in Mister Automatic, Mariano Rivera. He’d never blown a save in any ALCS, and, though the Sox had gotten to him in the regular season, he’d been lights-out against them in the playoffs.

Good ol’ Manny Ramirez led off the eighth with a single. But Rivera, true to form, stranded him there.

Foulke got through the ninth--and got Matsui out for a second time!--so the Sox had one last chance. Vinnie was already gloating, and I was already whining about the trials and tribulations of being a Red Sox fan.

That ended in a hurry.

Millar walked. Francona, doing something smart for once, sent in a pinch-runner--the very speedy Dave Roberts. And then something funny happened.

Roberts took a HUGE lead. I mean, he was way out there. Rivera threw over to first base a number of times--and his pickoff move is just average and he still almost nailed Roberts twice. I’ve never seen anyone take a lead like that.

Vinnie noticed it right away. He laughed and said, "Why doesn’t he just get on the loudspeaker and announce it? ‘Hello, I’m going to try to steal second now.’ Everybody in the ballpark knows he’s going to steal."

"No doubt," I agreed.

Rivera, after the four or five pickoff attempts, finally threw a pitch. Sure enough, Roberts stole. It wasn’t a straight pitchout, but the pitch was outside and a bit high, a perfect pitch for Posada to throw down to second base. This was all set up for Roberts to get thrown out at second.

He beat the throw. Just. "My God how did he beat that?" Vinnie hissed in disbelief.

"He was 38 out of 41 this year in steal attempts," I pointed out.

"Wow. That’s insane."

That drama played out, Rivera turned to concentrate on the hitter. Bill Mueller. Who’d hit a walkoff game-winning homer against Rivera back in July. I pointed this out to Vinnie. "Not gonna happen again," he said confidently.

He was right. It wasn’t a homer. It was, however, a single. Roberts scored easily from second and we had a tie game.

That’s when it got interesting. The Sox couldn’t get another run in the ninth, Foulke had gone way over his usual limit in pitching 2 1/3 innings, so we headed to extra innings and the Sox had a bullpen in shambles. Francona turned to Alan Embree, who’d gotten pounded the night before.

He shut ‘em down in the tenth.

The Sox did nothing against Tom Gordon. Embree was back in the eleventh. He ended up getting two outs but also left two guys on. Francona went for lefty specialist Mike Myers to pitch to Matsui, and he walked him. Bases loaded. So Francona went for Curtis Leskanic.

I buried my face in my hands. If Embree had gotten pounded Saturday night, Leskanic had gotten absolutely obliterated. And they were bringing him in to face the very clutch Bernie Williams with the bases loaded.

Fly ball, center field, Damon gets it. I almost fainted.

Unbelievable.

I pleaded, pleaded for the Sox to score in the eleventh, but no dice. Vinnie was laughing at me. He knew that the Sox couldn’t ride that bullpen for very long. The top of the twelfth saw Leskanic back out on the mound, tempting fate to an unbelievable degree.

My fears--and Vinnie’s glee--seemed fitting as Posada led the inning off with a single. But then Leskanic, somehow, someway, got the next three guys.

By this time it was after 1 AM. Both Vinnie and I had class in seven hours. We were both tired. Neither of us were going anywhere until this was done.

The Yankees went deeper into their bullpen to summon Paul Quantrill to face the meat of the Sox order. Manny led off, again, with a single.

Were they going to strand him there?

No, they were not. David Ortiz, home run, game over. His second walk-off homer of the playoffs. And I think I woke up the whole dorm with my scream!

We didn’t linger. It was late. I quickly teased him about the bra he was going to be wearing tomorrow as I threw my clothes back on. He laughed, and then kissed me goodnight. I ran into Mitch getting off the elevator, and we shared a little high five.

Back in my room, I couldn’t help but relive the night. We’d gotten so into the game, and it had lasted so long, we never really talked about what had happened. He had said he liked me, but that was it, and then I let him do something I’d never let anyone else even get close to doing.

Somehow, I wasn’t worried. Maybe I was fooling myself, but I wasn’t worried.

And I couldn’t wait for tomorrow. And not just to see what Pedro had up his sleeve for the Yankees!