CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was still out of sorts the next morning.

I tried to calm down, but it wasn’t working all that well.

Especially when I got to school, and there he was. At the entrance, ready to do the get naked thing. He flashed me a big smile. I forced one back, and we stripped.

Then I headed for my first class. In a hurry.

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized I was being silly.

Hey, if he wasn’t attracted to me, I can’t blame him, can I? Plus, we needed to get along. He was my catcher. And, I suppose, a person can’t have too many friends, right?

I had to relax about this. I just had to relax. We had to get along, I couldn’t hold a grudge just because he wasn’t what I thought he might be. It would take an intense amount of fortitude for a fellow ballplayer to be interested in me. I know that. So, I just needed to relax.

I actually surprised myself about that. I accepted relief in third period. A kid named Paul, knew him slightly, fingered me to a nice, glorious, very relaxing cum. OK, so I admit it—I needed that. And, judging by the looks he was giving me, which looked very interested—at least I seem to have an option or two. I’ve never really been a one-night-stand type of person, but I’m not opposed to it or anything.

Anyhow, I was relaxed, and more at ease about things—so when Mike waved me over to him in the lunchroom, I went.

There was another guy with him. "Hey, Pedro. Like you to meet my best friend. Ed Bauer. He’s also your future teammate."

"Nice to meet you," I shook his hand.

"Nice to meet you, too," he said. "Welcome to the team."

"Well, I haven’t officially made it yet."

"Formalities, formalities. Trust me. I was there yesterday. You’re on the team." He took a bite of his food. "Mike, here, was telling me about you yesterday morning. I was going ‘no way!’ He was going ‘way!’ I must admit, he was right, I was wrong."

"As usual, pal o’ mine, as usual," Mike butt in.

"Yeah, you’re always right. You were right about her from the first, yeah. Three words: Frankie Gutierrez mitt."

Mike cracked up laughing. "OK. You got me."

"You told him about that?" I laughed.

"I would’ve loved to have seen that," Ed said. "First he gets his hand blown away, then he had to bow and scrape. He does a very good bow and scrape. Though usually he has to do it to his mother."

"Oh, no, Marina far more often," Mike said. "Mom’s a pussycat. Marina’s the one that always catches me doing something."

"Well, he must have had practice," I said, "because he does bow and scrape very well. He was very contrite." Fuck it. Yeah, I was tempting fate. "He was even cute as hell doing it." He did blush. But he also grinned. That was a definite grin.

I didn’t know what was up or down. Jesus.

Anyhow, I changed the subject. "So, Ed, what do you do?"

"Well, when you’re pitching from the stretch, right, and you’re facing out to your right—there I’ll be. The ol’ hot corner."

"Yeah, and he’s the best defensive third baseman in the state," Mike put in. "He can really throw the leather. If only he could hit."

"Hey, I can hit," Ed proclaimed. "Well, some of the time."

"Ed, y’see, is an all-or-nothing kind of guy. The ball either goes a long, long way—or it’s strike three, grab some bench."

"It’s going to be better," Ed proclaimed. "I’ve worked on it in the cage all winter, trying to shorten my swing but not lose any power. Hey, I led the team in homers last year, and I can play third like the dickens—but I almost lost my starting job because I only hit .238. Not this year."

"Well, it is nice to have some teammates who can score some runs for me. But, hell, if you’re that good, I’ll take the defense," I told him. "I tend to pitch inside to righthanded batters. And I tend to make them get way ahead of my changeup. You know what that means."

He did. "Ground ball to the third baseman," he grinned. "Line shot to the third baseman. Popup to the third baseman."

"You got it," I grinned back.

"Except, this year, if you’re gonna be on the hill, I think I’m switching to catcher. Third basemen only get to see you from the back. Mike gets to watch you from the front. Far better deal."

I had to laugh. "Don’t mind him, he’s a lech," Mike said.

"Hey, last time a good friend was in The Program, she let me fuck her in the shower in the gym locker room," Ed said. "Now, I’ve got my best friend in The Program, and he’s escorting around this gorgeous babe with great tits who also happens to be the savior of our pitching staff. I must say, I like this program thing."

I laughed. Ed was kidding. I could tell. I didn’t mind. Ed said that whole spiel without once looking at my tits. He was just joking. Mike, on the other hand, was looking at my tits. And wasn’t making a single hint of an effort to hide it.

What was this?

"Hey, you guys are making me feel like a piece of meat."

" Us?" Ed asked. "Hey, Lily, did you notice that when you took the hill yesterday, there was a flurry of people getting out of the third base bleachers and moving to the first base bleachers? That’s because we got a better beaver shot from the first base side when you went into your leg kick." I couldn’t help it. I howled.

"That’s the worst part of pitching in the nude. Well, except for the boobs, which Talented Hands Mike took care of for me." Mike almost choked on his soda with that one. "No, now the worst thing is that every time I go into my leg kick, my pussy rubs together. That can be a little distracting."

Ed howled. I liked Ed. As a friend, but I liked him. I appreciated people who were free and easy about stuff. "Hey, we’ll just schedule it," Ed said. "We have the seventh-inning stretch, right? Well, we’ll just pencil in the fourth-inning screaming cum. On the mound."

"The fourth inning," I said through my giggles. "And the fifth, and the sixth, and the seventh……"

"Gives a whole meaning to the term ‘call for relief’, doesn’t it?" Ed laughed. We were rolling right then. Except for Mike. He was laughing, sure, but he was blushing. And there was a strange look in his eye.

So, I went for the jugular. "Hey, if I’m going to be standing on the mound cumming every inning, I’m gonna need some help." I looked at Ed when I said it, but said, "So, do you think that’s in a catcher’s job description?"

Ed howled louder. "Well, a catcher must help his pitcher out any way he can, right?"

Mike was laughing, he was. But he was also blushing purple. And looking at my tits again. When he looked up, there was something in his eyes. I wasn’t sure what it was. But there was something.

Goddammit. I was going to be nice. I was going to be friends. I was not going to get my hopes up. Wasn’t I?

Well, so much for well-laid plans. Of course, I didn’t really want any well-laid plans—what I wanted was a well-laid pitcher. And, despite the banter, I didn’t think I was going to get that—not, at least, from Mike. It was just banter. Ed was bantering, too—but he was just being funny, I didn’t see any real interest there. I knew that. That was fine. I liked Ed, instantly, but not that way. So why would I manufacture Mike’s banter as something more in my mind? It wasn’t going to happen.

Then again, there was that strange look in Mike’s eye.

Fuck it. I could not do this to myself. I had more tryouts this afternoon.

Pitching, Lily, pitching. Remember?

Oh, my fucking head.

After that performance, I needed relief. Bad. I requested it—and got it, a superb blowjob from my friend Maggie Benson—two periods after lunch. And it wasn’t enough. And it should’ve been, because Maggie’s the blowjob queen of the junior class.

No, wasn’t Maggie’s fault. It wasn’t enough because I couldn’t get that picture out of my head. Lily standing on the mound—and me out there, helping her cum.

Jesus Christ. Was this real?

I knew I was going to try to find out what was what, after tryouts. I knew that. But she had me on a knife’s edge all afternoon. I didn’t know if it was banter, or if it was serious—or even, horrors, if she had given up on me, the ninny, and was going after Ed. I didn’t think so. I knew Ed wasn’t serious—Lily isn’t his type—he’s just like that all the time. But she had just met Ed, and I didn’t know if she knew that.

I managed to get through the day. Don’t ask me how.

Went over to the field. She beat me there. She was also all taped up already. Well, that didn’t surprise me. She probably still figured I was in ninny mode.

Anyhow, I put on my stuff and headed on out there. Skipper asked me to catch a while, so I did. A kid named Paul Sinclair was on the mound. Up from junior varsity. He was a junior in school, also, but I didn’t know him well.

He pitched to a couple of guys—and then in stepped Lily. Paul chuckled, wound up, and threw his first pitch. It was a brushback. Missed her boobs by three inches. "Hey, watch that shit!" I yelled. Lily bounced backwards, but didn’t go down.

She turned to me. She was furious. Not at me, but at him. She hissed to me, "That little shit better knock me right out with the next one if he knows what’s good for him."

Shit. Like I said to my mother, what’s not to be attracted to?

Sinclair didn’t knock her out. He gave her a pitch to hit. And hit it she did. And again. And again. And still again.

It was great. She was spraying base hits all over the place.

"You can hit, too?" I asked her in between pitches.

"Damn right I can hit. I have no power, but I can put the ball in play and get on base."

She just kept hitting, and hitting, a little grin on her face with every whack. "OK, one more, Woodard," the coach yelled up. And Sinclair wound up—and hit her right in the helmet. Smack in the side of her noggin.

"GODDAMMIT!" I yelled. The coach ran out screaming at him. And I saw Lily pick herself up off the ground, wipe the dirt off her naked body, and calmly walk back into the dugout.

They changed pitchers, and batters, and I asked Brady to catch a few.

I went into the dugout, found Lily. "You all right?"

"Yeah." Her tone was one of unrestrained fury.

"The bastard didn’t like you hitting him all over the park."

"Too fucking bad. He has to hit, right? I want to pitch to him," she said.

"Coach won’t like a beanball war."

"There won’t be any beanball wars," she said firmly. "Trust me."

I went and fetched the coach. He was skeptical, too. "There will not be a beanball war," Lily maintained. "I absolutely promise. I will not throw at him. But I want to pitch to him."

The coach agreed.

A couple batters later, Lily came out and took the hill. "OK, Sinclair, time to hit," the coach said. He strode up there, all cocky. I went out and took over for Brady.

"What, are you going to try to hit me with that little girl’s arm?" Sinclair taunted.

"No," Lily said, and reared back and threw the heater. He never saw it. Strike one.

"I’m not going to hit you," Lily said. Slider, this time. I think his knees did buckle. Strike two.

"I don’t get into beanball wars," Lily said, and wound up. Changeup. He swung an hour before the ball got to the plate. Strike three.

"The question is, are you going to hit me?" Lily said, and wound up again. Back to the heater. Strike four.

She stopped talking and just kept throwing. About ten more, all her different pitches. The poor bastard didn’t even make contact. After making him look completely inept on a hellacious curveball, she stood on the mound and announced, "You know what my Daddy once told me about beanballs and brushback pitches? Don’t get mad. Don’t get even. Just get ‘em out. Next?"

Sinclair slinked off, and Lily stood there on the mound grinning. Then I got a glimmer. "Next, huh?" I said. "Brady, come catch, would you?"

"What, you want to hit against me?" she asked, surprised.

"Damn right." I took off the ol’ Tools of Ignorance, and grabbed a stick. "OK, Woodard, let’s see what you got."

First pitch. Fastball. Never saw it. Strike one.

Second pitch. She threw me the slider, which didn’t surprise me, and I got my bat on it—but not enough. Fouled it off. Strike two.

I expected the change next. She must have known that that’s what I’d expect—because that’s not what I got. I got the curveball instead. I waved at it feebly. Strike three.

"I told you I could strike you out on three straight pitches!" she yelled—but there was no triumph in it. She should’ve been gloating. She wasn’t. I know why—because she thought it made me not want her. Little did she know that I was restraining myself from tackling her right there. Anyhow, I just waved at her to give me another one.

It was the cross-seamer. BLAM! Double to the gap in right.

"And I told you I’d hit a double in the gap off you." That time she did grin. Genuinely. And wound up again.

We went at it for a while. I won a few, she won a few. She won a few more, but I held my own. And, every time she got me, I grinned at her. Just to let her know there was no hard feelings.

Hard feelings? I felt like it was foreplay. She really was at her most beautiful and enticing when she was bearing down on me with a fastball.

Afterwards, I went to sit down, and she followed. "Thanks," I told her. "You are now not only the best pitcher I’ve ever caught; you’re the best pitcher I’ve ever hit against."

"Thanks," she beamed. "And you are what my old manager used to call one MTO."

"MTO?" I asked.

"Motherfucking Tough Out." I laughed. "It was his highest praise for a batter. ‘Look out for this guy, Woodard, he’s one motherfucking tough out.’ It took him six weeks before he could say that to me, his girl pitcher, without blushing."

"I can imagine," I laughed.

Tryouts ended, and they announced the team. Of course she made it. Was there ever any doubt?

So, I was her catcher. What else was there? It was time to find out.

I made it! I made it, I made it, I made it!

Yeah, for all my tough talk and bluster, I thought they’d find a way to deny me a place on the team. But I MADE IT!!!

I needed to let it out. I sat there on the dugout bench, as everyone else left, just drinking it all in. It was getting dark. I wanted to be alone.

But I didn’t think I’d get that chance, because Mike wasn’t going anywhere. Ah, well, you know—that was all right. I thought he’d understand.

When we were the only two left in the whole place, I ran out of the dugout and started running across the field yelling, "I MADE IT! I MADE IT!" And, I was right, Mike didn’t mind. He was standing at second base watching me—and laughing—as I romped around the outfield.

When I finally stopped, he walked up to me and said, "You doubted you would?"

"You never know. They didn’t want a girl on the team, you know that—so, you never know."

" I knew," he told me.

"You’re so sweet. And, hey, there is no way I would’ve made it without you. Not only are you a great catcher, you let me work out with you on Monday, and you even came up with this contraption." I pointed at the bandage. "Thank you so much."

"You’re welcome."

"And I think I need to take this contraption off." I started to turn away from him, and grab at the ace bandage.

"Do you need some help?"

"No, thank you." That’s what I said. What I thought was, hell no! Have you "help" me and work me all up again and then leave? No fucking way.

But then he came around and was in front of me again. And he said, "Please. Lily, let me help."

Oh, man, if only he knew what he was asking.

Oh, shit. What if he did know? What if he knew? What if he figured it out? Did I have the guts to take a chance? I looked at his face, and in his eyes I saw—that something again.

So, I said, "OK."

He took a step towards me, and unraveled the ace bandage. Then he went for the bra scraps taped to my nipples. I didn’t hold a thing in. I let it happen. I closed my eyes, and gave in to the need to breathe heavy. Then, they were off. They fluttered to the ground in the outfield where we were standing. I held my breath for a half-second. And then I felt his hands, right back on me.

Thank goodness.

His hands were all over me. And even when not being clinical, they were gentle and tender. I moaned a little. Then I felt one of his hands leaving my boob—and wandering down, right towards my pussy. Oh God. Please please please, I was so wet. And then I felt him gently run his fingers up and down my pussy.

I couldn’t stand anymore. I sunk down, kneeling on the outfield grass, pulling him down with me. We kneeled in front of each other there, as he had one hand on my boob and the other one on my pussy. I spread my legs a bit and his finger slipped right in. Heaven. It was heaven.

I opened my eyes, and looked into his. Then I kissed him. I devoured his mouth, every single inch of it, and danced my tongue with his. With my tongue in his mouth and his hand in my pussy, I came. Nice and hard.

I broke the kiss—I was afraid I’d bite his tongue off—and, afterwards, I opened my eyes. He was grinning at me. I gave him one hell of a smile back.

"This stops whenever you say it does," he whispered. I just giggled. "Lily, what do you want?" he asked.

"I want this," I said, grabbing his dick and pulling it towards me, "and I want it in here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Absolutely. As sure as sure gets."

"Are you protected?"

"Yes," I told him.

"Then lie back." I did so, and then there he was, hovering over me. "God, you’re so beautiful," he said.

Beautiful. I was filthy! Jesus, I realized I still had eyeblack on!

And he wanted me.

Miracle of miracles.

Then, there he was, at my entrance. He slid right in. I was really wet.

He built up a rhythm. It was fantastic. He slid in and out of me, and I just gazed up at him, enjoying what my body was doing. Then, I got a little flash. I giggled.

"Did I tickle something?" he asked, bemused.

"No," I said, with a half gasp. "Just dawned on me. All my years of baseball, I’ve never made love in the outfield before."

"Me neither," he laughed.

He was going nice and slow, making sure he got me all worked up. Well, I was worked up. So I told him. "Mikey, harder, OK?" He obliged. Oh GOD.

That’s when I started howling. I’m not always loud. I have to be well-fucked to let loose. Well, I found myself getting really loud. Oh, man, this was the fuck of my life. At one point, I opened my eyes, and found his were open. And I found myself drowning in his. You know, those liquid pools of iridescent sapphire.

That’s when I came. With an earth-shattering scream. He went right with me.

Afterwards, he rolled off me—but pulled me towards him, cuddling me, as we collapsed in a pool of sweat and cum.

This was better than making the team. I couldn’t believe that thought went through my head, but it was.

Then I heard him chuckle. "You know," he said, "It’s a good thing I don’t play right field. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I’d be having flashbacks.’

I laughed at that, and looked at him. "So," I said with a sly little smile, "you finally figured out I was a girl, huh?"

He laughed. "I knew that all along. I just didn’t know what to do about it." He told me about the conversation with his mother last night. "I wanted you in the worst way," he said afterwards. "I just wasn’t getting the signals from you. Yeah, you were sending them, but I wasn’t getting them. And I still had to be your catcher."

"Your mother’s right. You are a ninny." He gave me a grimace. "Sometimes. Yesterday. Today, you were most definitely not a ninny." I sighed. "How do you think I feel? Mike, you know what I told you. Ballplayers don’t go for me. And you! I struck you out! After I did that, I figured it was all over."

"The minute I waved at that curveball like a damn fool, I wanted to tackle you behind the pitcher’s mound right then and there."

"You’re kidding," I gasped.

"I couldn’t stop looking at you. I still can’t."

"Yeah, I’m filthy and I still have eyeblack on."

"And you have grass stains on your butt."

"Oh, shit, do I?" I laughed. "That’s what I get for getting nailed in right field, huh? Anyhow, I’m filthy with eyeblack and sweat and grass stains. And you can’t stop looking at me."

"You’re beautiful," he said.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. This was my fucking dream guy.

I needed to say something. I needed to find out exactly what went on here. I didn’t know how to say it. I sat up, and grabbed my knees, thinking.

"Anything wrong, Lily?" he asked.

"No," I sighed. "Just a little—I don’t know. Look, I’m not philosophically opposed to one-night stands, but I don’t make a habit of them."

"Is that what this was?" he asked tentatively.

"I don’t know. Was it?"

"Is that what you want it to be?"

I smiled at him, and admitted it. "No."

"Good," he said immediately, with a giggle. "Hallelujah. Then it wasn’t." He beamed at me, and then said it. "Will you go out with me?"

"Yes!"

"Good!"

I looked at him and said, "Boy, I really like you."

"The feeling’s mutual, Pedro," he said. And kissed me on the nose.

"I must admit, though, it will be a very new experience going out with my catcher!"

Ok, I’ve played baseball a long time. I’ve taken showers with teammates before.

I’ve never taken a shower with a teammate who was asking me to help wash her boobs. And assorted other naughty bits. But that’s exactly what we did. The team was gone, we were alone, so it was fine. Of course, we had been taking showers in the opposite-sex locker room because of The Program, anyway. But there wasn’t much mutual washing going on in there.

After that unbelievable, incredible experience out in right field, we both decided we were ravenous. I suggested the Burger Hut, and she said, "Grease! That’s perfect!" But we needed to clean up. Even if we decided to get dressed, all Lily had with her was what she had worn—and discarded—before school. A pair of short shorts that would’ve clearly showed the grass stains on her upper thighs. I suggested that might be kind of cool. She hit me. Well, she giggled while doing it.

Anyhow, we cleaned up, did decide to throw some clothes on—there was a bit of a cool breeze and we had been quite naked all day—and got in her car to go to the Burger Hut. When we got out of the car, she came over to me and grabbed my hand.

You know what? Having her grab my hand felt just fine.

Well, we walked in, and were confronted by half the baseball team—and every eye was on us. And she didn’t drop my hand. We walked up to the counter, ordered our, as she called it, "high-quality grease," grabbed our order, and looked around.

There, from a table in the corner, we were being waved to. It was Eddie, plus Frankie Gutierrez, and our big first baseman, Ty Christopher. I looked at Lily, she smiled and nodded.

"Hey," Eddie said. We introduced Lily to Frankie and Ty. "Welcome to the team," Ty said. "You were great."

"Where have you guys been, anyhow?" Eddie asked.

I tried to come up with an answer to that one, when Lily said, impishly, "Christening right field, mostly."

Eddie looked at us blankly. Then it dawned on him. "Waitaminnit," he said. "You…and her?"

"Me and her," I confirmed. "In right field."

"Which I think they’re now going to have to squeegee," Lily joked. "We should’ve laid down the tarp."

"Then you would’ve had tarp burns instead of grass stains on your ass," I told her.

"Hmm. There is that."

"OK, let me get this straight," Frankie butt in. "You two did the nasty in right field, huh? Well, that’s an interesting way to celebrate making the team." We all howled at that. "I should try that."

"For that, Gutierrez, you need a chick," Ty told him. "Which leaves you right out."

"Hmm," Frankie thought, then looked at us. "Tell me, was this a quick bang for the hell of it, or are you two together?"

"We’re together," Lily confirmed before I had a chance to. I just nodded in agreement.

"That’s awesome!" Eddie enthused.

"Yeah, it is," Frankie agreed. "However, that leaves the rest of us right out of luck for the celebratory boink. What this baseball team needs is a community-property chick."

"You have some," Lily said in between bites of her greaseburger. "They’re called cheerleaders." The four of us just stared at her, then we howled. "Hey, if this school is anything like my old one, all the cheerleaders put out. The guys in my locker room used to keep a tally."

"Amanda Frazier doesn’t," Frankie said.

"Amanda Frazier did at one point, for about a week," Eddie countered, "and she still does, but only rarely, and only with a very small list of people. And only with Jared’s permission."

"This sounds like a story," Lily said.

It was, and Eddie and I told it to her.

"That’s pretty incredible. And they’re still in love with each other?" Lily asked.

"Totally. Head over the moon," Eddie said. "They’ve calmed down a lot since that first week—Amanda hasn’t done anything like that gangbang since that one time. Here and there, now, that’s it. Amanda took me to bed three weeks ago—I was horny as hell, it had been a while, and she knew it. Jared was at his house doing Maggie at the time. But there’s a lot less of that. They plan to be together when they’re old and grey—and, this way, there’s no what ifs, no wild oats left unsowed."

"That’s cool, that they can make it work. Don’t think I could do it," Lily said.

Much to my relief. "I couldn’t either," I said. She flashed me a thank-goodness smile.

"Then again," she said, "it’s easier for me to say that than it would’ve been for Amanda at the time. I sowed all my wild oats in Boston."

"I laid down a few acres myself freshman and sophomore years," I told her.

"Good. Hey, I’ve never been gangbanged—and, honestly, I don’t think it’s something I’m missing out on personally. But I’ve done enough. I have evolved into a one-guy girl."

"Sounds good to me," I grinned.

"So, I got to know this," Frankie asked. "How’s a girl get so interested in baseball? Not that I mind, mind you. I think it’s great."

"You think it’s great that a girl throws 20 miles an hour harder than you do?" Ty teased.

"Yeah, but can she make the ball whistle ‘Singing In The Rain’ on the way to the plate?" Frankie retorted.

"Frankie, I might be able to teach you some tricks to help you increase your velocity." Lily said. "I don’t think you’ll pitch 90—you can either do that, or you can’t—but I can check out your mechanics. I know a few tricks."

"I don’t think I have your arm," Frankie admitted.

"It’s less arm than you think it is," she told him. "Look, I have a major disadvantage—I’m female." She explained to them what she had explained to me the other day about trying to pitch with a female body. "So I do more with mechanics than you realize. Frankie, I think I could throw a few things at you."

"That’d be great," he said.

"But, in return," she grinned, "you have to teach me the knuckleball."

"Oh, wouldn’t that be something!" Frankie said. "Can you imagine her coming with that heater, and then following it up with a knuckler?"

"Can you imagine her catcher having a friggin’ coronary?" I butt in.

"Ah, you’d adjust," Lily tweaked. "Anyhow, to answer Frankie’s earlier question, my Dad is a huge baseball fan. Both my parents, actually. When you’re a baseball fan in Boston, you’re a Red Sox fan—and when you’re a Red Sox fan, you’re serious about it. We live and die with the Sox. Die, mostly." We all laughed at that. "Anyway, I just grew up with it, and I remembering asking Dad, real young, if he’d teach me to throw. He did, I loved it, started Little League young, and kept on going. And here I am. Still love it."

"Oh, you weren’t pushed by your father or anything," Ty said.

"No, not at all. He—both my parents—have been incredibly supporting, but neither of them push."

"How do they deal with a girl pitcher?" I asked her.

"Great. They’ve accepted it all along. Although, Dad once said that if he had known that he was getting a baby girl that was going to grow up to be a flamethrowing pitcher, he would’ve named her something a little less blatantly girly than Lily April Woodard!"

I howled at that. "I see his point."

"My little sister plays soccer. She’s 11, her name’s Amber. That’s almost as bad. Though her teammates call her Woody."

"That’s cause they’re 11. Once puberty hits, and they figure it out, they won’t be calling any little girl Woody, no matter what her last name is!" Eddie said, to general merriment.

It went on like that for a while—and I was amazed. She was one of the guys. Perfectly, as natural as you can be, one of the guys. She laughed at the blue humor, got into the insult games, talked sports. If Eddie, the pig, had suggesting a piss-for-distance contest, she probably would’ve been game. I kept expecting her to belch. Especially when Ty did, and she broke up laughing.

But, at the same time, she was with me—she was my girlfriend—and she acted like it. She had her arm around me, snuggled up onto my shoulder, her hair smelled like honeysuckle from her shampoo. She even kissed me on the cheek once.

It’s my experience that when you get one couple around a bunch of guys, one of two things happen—either she gets offended or he gets embarrassed, or the guys are uncomfortable and just want her to leave. With Lily, there was none of that. And then Jared and Amanda showed up and joined us, and after we introduced them, Lily and Amanda started in with the typical girl small-talk. But Lily kept up with the guy talk, too. Even Amanda—who has far more male friends than most girls, and spends more time with guys because of it—wasn’t that adept. Lily switched like it was nothing. Natural.

She was all girl. She felt damn good with my arm around her, snuggled up to me. But she was one of the guys.

Jesus Christ, and my mother had to ask if I was attracted to her? Fuck attracted. I was halfway gone already.

And, remember, this was after sex. I wasn’t horny. I was quite satisfied, thank you very much, so I was not thinking with my dick. Yes, I had in my mind the memory of the greatest sex of my (admittedly young) life—but sex, even great sex, doesn’t hold my interest in anything other than more sex.

My interest was held with her. And how.

Anyhow, we finished up, and headed home. She dropped me off—leaving me with a hellacious kiss that almost woke it up again—and then was gone.

I went in and found my Mom. "Hey, Mikey. Lily make the team?"

"Sure did."

"And how’s my ninny?" she giggled.

"We’ve banished the ninny. He’s gone. Ninnys don’t get laid in right field and get a girlfriend in the bargain." Mom screamed in delight. I knew she liked Lily. That was fine with me.

I dragged my ass upstairs and did some homework. I couldn’t concentrate all that well, though.

Yeah, big surprise, huh?

After I dropped Mikey off, I drove home. Humming. I admit it. I was actually humming. Little singsongy things, I didn’t even know what they were.

I think I was insane. Deliriously, gloriously insane.

What a day. Made the team. Had fantastic sex. Then got asked out. Went to dinner with him, crowded around the table with a group of friends, and had a great time.

Now that was weird, actually. Look, when you’re a ballplayer, you tend to have a lot of guy friends. I’d never dated anyone who I could bring around my ballplaying friends. And it wasn’t because of baseball talk—I dated baseball fans—and it wasn’t because of my friends—some of my boyfriends were friends with the guys on the team. It was the mixture. It was combustible. Because when I’m with the guys, I’m one of the guys. Boyfriends are threatened by that. They get possessive. I can’t imagine any of my previous boyfriends not reacting in horror to some of my banter with Ed and Frankie and Ty. Shit, most of them would’ve turned purple in embarrassment with just the cheerleaders crack.

But not Mike. I actually had a boyfriend who treated me like one of the guys. Well, sort of. Not completely. That was the best news yet. Because you don’t generally sit all snuggled and cozy with one of the guys, now do you? Well, he did say all along he knew I was a girl, right? So he treated me like a girl, his girlfriend. But treated me like one of the guys, too. And didn’t seem to mind at all when the other guys treated me, one hundred percent, as one of the guys.

Shit. I wanted to pinch him. To make sure he was real.

Look, I’ve always known I was different. There are some days I think I should’ve been born a boy. But not really—look, I wasn’t lying when I told Mike’s mom that I could pretty up just fine. And I like doing that. I like the whole makeup and hairdo and frilly underclothes and slinky dress and make-all-the-men-drool bit. I do. Hell, I even own pantyhose. And high heels. And a couple of push-up bras. Sometimes I even wear them—when I’m allowed to go to school in clothes, that is.

But I also own cleats. And baseball mitts. And a replica Pedro Martinez Red Sox uniform, and a couple of tins of eyeblack, and baseball caps galore. Plus, I can gossip with the girls, and bullshit with the guys. I can dance, and I can cook, and I can sew, and I throw ninety miles an hour. I have a perfectly fine set of tits, and I have muscular thighs. I’m in perpetual conflict. All of it, both sides, is part of me. I’ve come to live with it. The only thing about me that’s completely over to one side or the other is my sexuality, since I’m completely straight. But, that’s it. Everything else is nebulous.

So, as I said, I’ve learned to live with it. But I always had to hide at least part of my ‘guy’ side from anyone I was dating. Guys are so damn insecure about their heterosexuality, most of them, that when they’re with anyone who is at all "masculine", they think they must be half-gay or something. Last year, over the winter, I was dating this guy I had convinced myself I was in love with. During the winter, when I could play girly-girl to my heart’s content, it was fine. When baseball season hit, forget it. The minute he saw me with eyeblack, it was all over.

And Mike just made love to me—while I was wearing eyeblack.

Well, as all this was running through my mind, I made it home. Dad and Mom were waiting for me.

"Did you make it?" Dad asked.

"Of course. Blew ‘em away." I grinned. "All the guys that have seen me pitch and know I’m from Boston have started calling me Pedro."

"Well, doesn’t that just warm your heart," Mom said.

"You betcha."

"We haven’t seen you much this week. How’s The Program going? Outside of the problems with the nude pitching, that is," Mom asked.

"Fine. No worries. You know me, I don’t mind showing off a little skin. Well, a lot of skin, this time. But it’s been fine."

"Anything interesting happen?" Dad chuckled.

"Well, you know. A grope here, a grab there, a little finger here, an orgasm there. Normal program stuff." They laughed. They had read the brochure, and they were cool. They had known about me being sexually active since it had started, and were cool with it.

"Yeah, I was wondering about something out of the ordinary," Dad asked.

I laughed to myself. I couldn’t help it. "Hmm, out of the ordinary. I don’t know. Does getting nailed by your catcher in right field count?"

"Excuse me?!?" Dad asked.

"I had sex with my catcher in right field, after tryouts. I didn’t know if that’d be out of the ordinary or not. Then again, I suppose it would be, because most girls don’t have their very own catcher. So I doubt anyone else could make love with their catcher in right field after tryouts. Maybe a catcher. But it’d have to be Brady, because Mike’s the only other catcher and he told me that was his first time fucking in the outfield. So, yeah, I guess that was out of the ordinary. In fact, I’d be willing to wager that I’m the only program participant that ever fucked her catcher in right field." I was grinning like a nut by the time I was done.

Mom and Dad were laughing. "Dear, you’re babbling," Mom said.

"Yeah, I am, ain’t I?" I laughed.

"Yes," Mom replied. "So is this sexually satiated babbling, or lovesick babbling?"

"A little bit of both," I admitted. "Not that I’m not—what did you say—sexually satiated, because I am. But this may very well be my dream guy."

"Really?" Dad asked.

"Hey, I’ve never kept secrets from the two of you. You know what some of my previous relationships have been like. You know how much I’ve had to hide. Think about it. I’m dating a baseball player. He made love to me after tryouts. You know what I look like after I’ve thrown."

"Eyeblack and all?" Mom asked, incredulously.

"Eyeblack and all. And after I struck him out."

"You’re kidding," Dad said. "Did he hit you?"

"Oh, yeah, after the strikeout he ripped a double. He hit .390 last year. He’s one of Coach Morris’s legendary MTO’s." They cracked up, they both knew what that stood for. "We went at it for a while. We were pretty evenly matched. But I can get him out. He still wanted me."

"There’s two sides of that, you know," Dad said. "He hit you, you said. You still wanted him."

"It’s funny. I’ve never had any kind of relationship with a ballplayer, so I never knew how I’d react to that. Mike said it was foreplay. Strangely enough, I agree with him."

"Sounds like quite a guy," Mom said.

"Yeah, he is. It’s new, so we’ll see, but do you know how nice it is for once not to have to hide parts of myself?"

"Yeah, I can see that," Dad said. "Good for you, Lil, I’m really happy for you."

--End of part 3—