Chapter 8: Drawing the Line

I couldn’t sleep on Thursday night. Every time I drifted off into a dream, Becky Finklestein would show up and make it a nightmare. Sometimes she was Wonder Woman. Sometimes she was Supergirl. Once she was the Hulk, but bigger. And meaner.

I struggled through school, but as the day went on, and I got more winks from Courtney, the better I felt. Courtney’s black eye was almost gone. Now all I needed was to get laid, and everything would be okay. It was an agonizing wait until Courtney’s parents went out of town. But once I saw their LeBaron drive past my house and get onto the interstate, I was over there in a flash. Courtney was waiting. She let me in and kissed me, but like a little peck. She didn’t seem to want me that bad, but I couldn’t wait to get her out of that sweatshirt and jeans. I missed her body, and it looked like it had only gotten better during her semester of college prep. Courtney had just given me one of her dad’s beers when a knock came at the door.

“Whoever that is, they need to go the hell away,” I said.

“It’s open,” Courtney called, and I felt a flash of anger.

And then I felt a flash of panic. The door opened, a tiny, pink-nailed hand holding the knob. Becky Finklestein walked into the living room in a gray sweatsuit, her hair up in pigtails, her glasses sliding down her nose, and Gloria Valderrama in tow.

“What the hell is she doing here?” I demanded.

“Yeah!” Courtney said. “What the hell is she doing here?”

“Gloria wanted to come along too,” Becky chirped. “This way we can all be friends.”

At ten years old, there was a lot Becky didn’t know about women. Courtney and Gloria scowled at each other as they sized each other up. Courtney had grown into her blonde curls, and filled out her hourglass figure. Her all-American beauty stood in sharp contrast to Gloria’s slinky, smoldering Latin sexuality. Courtney was younger, in the bloom of her nubile beauty, but Gloria’s jiggling breasts were as big as cantaloupes, and were impossible to ignore as she took her coat off to reveal a spandex aerobics outfit. My jaw dropped as she sashayed into the kitchen and took the beer from my hands and poured it into the sink. “You are too young to drink,” she said without looking at me.

“Becky, it was supposed to be just you and me,” Courtney said.

“No, you never said that,” Becky protested. “Besides, this way we can all be friends.”

Courtney was glowing red with jealousy as Miss Valderrama adjusted her incredible bust. “I am ready to work out,” she announced. “Are you ready, Becky?”

“Of course,” Becky squeaked. “I need to get a sewious pump on every day if I want to get bigger and stwonger.” I chuckled at that, despite myself. Becky Finklestein wanted to get bigger and stronger. Was that even possible? “Come on Courtney,” Becky squealed with delight, “we can lift, then we can eat, and then we can watch TV and tell secwets.”

Courtney smiled back at Becky, and led the other two females toward the basement, where Vic’s weights and machines were. I got up to follow. I hated Becky, and I was sick of seeing her muscles, but it had been months since I had gotten to see Courtney’s perfect, creamy white skin. And the idea of seeing Gloria Valderrama’s cartoonishly bountiful curves bounce around in that leotard was too much to resist. But Courtney turned around at the top of the stairs, and put her finger on my lips. “Girls only,” she said.

“But...”

“I know, baby,” she purred. “It won’t be much longer. They’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

Courtney shut the door behind them, and I went to get another beer. Vic wouldn’t care. He let me drink beer. He was my idol, and a better dad than my dad ever was. I looked at the framed picture of him and Courtney on their kayaking trip, which hung on the kitchen wall. What would Vic O’Neal do in a situation like this? I shook my head. Vic O’Neal would never be in a situation like this. Nobody pushed him around. My train of thought was broken by the sound of women giggling. I pressed my ear to the door.

“Okay, check this out,” Becky said.

A second later, I heard gasping. Gloria moaned something in Spanish. Courtney laughed with wild excitement. “Oh. My. God,” she said. “Just ... wow!”

“Becky, may I please feel your muscles,” Gloria asked.

“Sure,” Becky chirped, as something heavy hit the ground so hard that it shook the house. “Go ahead. Twy to move me. Just twy. I dare you.”

“Me too,” Courtney cried. “I want to ... Oh. My. God ... So big ... So hard...”

My curiosity got the better of me. I opened the door just a crack and looked downstairs. Becky Finklestein had her back to me. She was flexing her arms, and they were so big that her sweatsuit wrapped around them like spandex. Courtney clung to the right arm, and Gloria to the left.

I looked at Courtney. Her eyes were wide as she strained with both arms to move Becky’s right arm from its flexed position, pulling at Becky’s wrist. Her boobs pushed the word “Harvard” on the front of her sweatshirt into prominence as she arched her back and strained, laughing with glee. I really wanted to see those boobs, to hold them, and squeeze them. They bounced ever so slightly as she struggled against the ten year old colossus. Becky’s right arm didn’t move.

I looked at Gloria. She had planted her feet against Becky’s thigh, and wrapped her arms around Becky’s forearm. Becky’s hand was lost in the gulf of Gloria’s cleavage, which bounced and jiggled as she strained against the preteen superwoman. Becky’s left arm didn’t move.

I could see my girlfriend glaring at the older woman, a mix of anger and jealousy on Courtney’s face as Gloria rubbed her perfect brown breasts against Becky’s massive forearm. Miss Valderrama winked at Courtney, and Courtney reddened. “You two are weird,” Becky said, and relaxed her arms. Courtney and Gloria fell to the floor, and the three of them began chirping with laughter. Courtney and Gloria smiled at each other, but they never took their eyes off of Becky.

I pounded my beer and went for another, looking at the picture of Vic and Courtney. Becky was too young to understand what was happening, but it made sense to me. Vic had explained it to me one afternoon while we were watching the Cubs play the Mets on his portable TV. “Women are dumb animals,” he said, his voice booming like thunder. “And they are hardwired to respond to two things, muscle and dominance. You need muscles, and you need to dominate.”

Over the years, as I had gotten bigger and more dominant, I found that to be true. But it was never more obvious to me than it was now. My sixteen year old girlfriend was in the basement with a grown woman, fighting for the attention of the most muscular and dominant person I had ever seen or even heard of. And it didn’t matter that that person was a ten year old girl with glasses, braces and frizzy hair. They wanted her. I tried playing Atari and doing some push-ups, but I couldn’t take my mind off of the trio of females in the basement. Every so often I could hear Courtney or Gloria cry out in amazement, or I could hear Becky giggle.

I went to the bathroom to cry. I came out when I smelled pizza. Courtney, Gloria, and Becky were sitting around the table. Courtney and Gloria were sharing a small pepperoni pizza, and Becky had a large one with everything sitting in front of her. “Can I have some pizza?” I asked, sitting down. “We’ve been talking about you, Rubber Chicken,” Becky said, tittering.

Courtney giggled and stood up rail straight. She pointed to a chair in the corner of the kitchen. “Get to the corner, little man,” she growled.

I jumped a bit. Her voice sounded ... different, more serious. The girls laughed. Then Courtney pointed to the chair again. “Get to the corner, little man,” she ordered again.

I opened my mouth to tell her to shut up, but Becky raised her fist. Without thinking, I flinched, scooting to the edge of my seat and curling up. The girls laughed even louder. “Do what your mistress tells you, Rubber Chicken,” Becky smirked.

“Shut up, Becky,” I said. Becky’s smirk turned into a scowl. She set her pizza down and wiped her hands on a napkin. Then she hopped out of her chair and turned to me, fixing me with her green eyes.

“I’m sorry Becky,” I said. I didn’t want to say that, but I couldn’t stop myself. I was so afraid of Becky Finklestein that my fear took over every time she locked eyes with me.

“Get to the corner, little man,” Courtney said a third time, her voice melting into my brain. So I did. “Very good,” Courtney said imperiously, passing me the nearly empty pizza box. “You may have one piece of my pizza. If you take more than one you will be punished.”