Chapter 1: Debbie
It was as cold as a witch's tit out there. I was wearing my big fluffy green sweater with the big white P on the front. Matching green gloves with white trim covered my hands and my head was protected by a similarly colored wool cap with white Mickey Mouse type fluffy ears. My eyes were tearing from the bitter wind sweeping across the open field. What hurt most, from the cold, were my legs, bare under the short white skirt covering those green silk panties which gave me modesty but little warmth for my bald snatch. The lucky males get to wear slacks in cold weather.
The wide swath of grass was neatly trimmed, as befits the football field of a private school. The stripes marking the yards were geometrically true. The end zones were marked with diagonal stripes. Someone 'up there' had decided that it would be a waste of money to have our logo painted in there, the way the colleges and pros do. The goal posts held mostly steady despite the bitter wind.
The zebras were just coming out of their dressing room. The referee wore his white cap, the others their usual black. My guess was that they were early in order to acclimate themselves to the bitching cold. They had on gloves and earmuffs, to be sure, and I don't know what they wore under their clean white shirts with the black stripes. Or is it a black shirt with white stripes? Ah, who gives a fuck? The crowd booed them, just on general principles, hardly anyone forgetting that stupid call one of their predecessors had made a year earlier that had cost us the game and thus the entire season.
The weather had been pleasant, as befits a late summer afternoon, when I had shown up to try-out for the St. Peter's Cheerleading Squad. St. Pete's is an upscale private high school. There is no Saint anyone in the school's history. The name derives from the section of town where it's located, and has no religious background at all. It caters to bright students from all over town as well as the close-in suburbs. It has great snob appeal because our graduates test well and are welcome at all the Ivy League schools.
Because of a comparatively small enrollment, they – whoever the fuck 'they' might be – decided that Pete's couldn't support both football and basketball at the same time. The decision was made to go with football, because it brings in more revenue than basketball. Hence the cheerleader try-outs; if we're going to compete with the big public schools in town, we might as well go all out.
You may have noticed from your high school days, and certainly from the pro teams if you watch them, that cheerleading is almost always reserved for the good looking guys and girls. Handsome or pretty, as the case might be, well built, round and firm as appropriate, sexually desirable. I've been told that I fit into that category, and yes, I believe it. Despite all the yelling of 'go team go' and all that other bullshit, Ms. Elliot, our cheerleading coach, she of that classic dyke look, has made it clear that our main function is to give the male fans hard-ons, and for the handsome guys to get the female fans wet.
As you can imagine, with only one coach for both genders, this created some very loose situations during practice. But I digress.
Our main rival is Concord High, also named for its own part of town. I like that a lot better than having schools named after dead or retired school principals, those whose claim to fame was pure longevity. The game is always the last one of the regular season. Like the Army-Navy game, or Michigan-Michigan State, Ohio-Ohio State, USC-Notre Dame, etc, etc, it is THE game. In other words, whichever team wins considers that it has had a successful season, even if it has lost every other game by a lopsided score.
As you may have intuited, the weather here is not like St. Petersburg in Florida. Rather, it is more like St. Petersburg in Russia. And Coach had us out on the field a full half hour before kickoff. The ground crew had done a reasonably good job of clearing the snow, but I feared a number of injuries on both sides from the rock hard frozen earth. And to hell with the players; I was worried about the cheerleaders.
The stands were filling up slowly. At that early point, the crowd was mostly adults, parents who showed up to cheer on their children. They sat bundled under heavy blankets, passing a flask of the hard stuff back and forth to help fight the cold – or to make them forget it. The students for the most part were still in their cars, motors running, windows cracked just enough to avoid dying from carbon-mo. A lot of them were no doubt getting it on, the younger ones feeling each other up and the older ones fucking or eating each other. Shit, I envied their few hours of a head start.
As we went through our jumps and twirls, my eyes were on the players going through their pre-game warm-ups. Our green and white quarterback, Billy Lewis, was taking snaps from the center, stepping back a few paces and heaving long passes to Clyde Waters. Billy was six foot two, devilishly handsome and was already being courted by big time colleges. Clyde ("Hard-cock") was one of the school's token blacks, short, stocky but fast as hell and with dynamite hands that never dropped a pass.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself as the Linda meat in a Billy and Clyde sandwich. As I opened my eyes, I was glad the Ms. Elliot couldn't see the dampness staining my panties. In her mind, no doubt, a girl getting wet over the thought of a cock was a total waste. But more about that shortly.
Though it was still early on in my Junior year, I was already the Captain, the lead cheerleader of the squad. (See prior paragraph.) Part of my job, in conjunction with Ms. Elliot, was to pay attention to the other team's cheerleaders, to see if they had some innovative cheers that we could quickly steal. Though Concord was our last regularly scheduled game, we were already assured of moving up into the State playoffs, and we might benefit from stealing some good cheers.
My eyes were therefore constantly in motion, not only looking for cheers but also checking out the individual cheerleaders – and the opposing players – for anyone who might be interested in satisfying my carnal urges. Though their orange and black outfits gave me a headache, beneath them could be found curves and bulges to entertain the crudest and lewdest thoughts.
Fifteen minutes before kickoff, the Concord place-kicker looked relaxed as he boomed the ball through the uprights from college lengths. I wondered what that leg would look like if it was unfettered by pants and pads. Ten minutes before kickoff, their wide receiver loped easily around the track, the bulge in his crotch seemingly larger than that protected by the usual athletic cup. That gave the impression of being a tasty morsel.
Kickoff. Shiver. Cheer and yell. Debbie! Touchdown! Cartwheels. Fantasize. Crowd. Noise. Pass. Half-time. Coach Elliot. Black cock. Hard! Fucking cold. Quiet. Two minute warning. Oh shit! Locker room. Debbie!
Ah yes, Debbie, my BFF ever since middle school, the first person with whom I had ever rubbed body parts other than my own. I use the word 'rub' in the broadest sense, as in my make-believe dictionary.
'Rub - verb def. The touching of two or more things together with motion. Includes rubbing (as breasts), sucking (as cock), fondling (as genitalia of all sorts), humping (as pussy or cock against firm surface), kissing (as mouth or labia), fingering (as cunt or asshole). I left out tonguing, but you get the idea. What I also left out was the do-it-yourself kind of relief, male or female.
And for the record, my anus was cherry until after I married Miklos, but that's a different story. (See A Visit to the Doctor--And his Nurse, on this website.)
Debbie and I had done a number of sleepovers, probably once a week. She lived two houses down from me, or up from me, depending on who was doing the walking. It was called Maple Avenue, for obvious reasons, most beautiful at the four or five days of foliage time. Both of our houses were old monsters, five steps up to a wide front porch, complete with rockers, wood frame, needing paint jobs, two stories plus an attic, back stairs for the hired help, rickety old boilers for the hot water heat.
Each of our fathers was able to afford a better and more modern home, but Deb's mother and mine had grown up in those homes and had inherited them before our fathers had hit it big. Each family had decided to stay and spend the big bucks on private schools for us. Alas, when Deb was about ten, her mother took off with some professional athlete, leaving her dad, Keith Reid, to fill both roles. Debbie thought that it was hysterical, her father having to take her to buy bras and panties and fumbling his way through a lesson on menstruation and tampons.
Especially since she had such a fantastic body!
Her room was upstairs, in front of the house, as was mine. Hers was bright yellow with white carpeting. The only thing you in it that you wouldn't expect to find was a photo of her mother with the new boyfriend. Keith didn't like it, obviously, but he was too classy to make a fuss about it. Debbie once told me that she had the hots for mom's new fuck toy.
One night when we were each about twelve, I was sleeping at her place. That was the location for about two-thirds of our sleepovers. After lights out and all the usual giggling, I rolled over and closed my eyes. Before I fell asleep though, I heard the slightest creak of bedsprings and the slightest rustling of bed clothes. Then I heard Debbie's rapid breathing.
"Debbie, are you... ?" I was pretty sure but I didn't want to embarrass her, just in case I was wrong.
.... There is more of this story ...