Curse Of The Bambino - Cover

Curse Of The Bambino

Copyright© 2003 by Don Lockwood

Chapter 6

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6 - Ah, yes, the Red Sox and the Yankees are in the ALCS, playing for the pennant. Meanwhile, on the campus of Syracuse University, Mitch - a lifelong Sox fan - and his best friend Callie - who loves the Yankees - are getting ready for the games. Co-winner of the October 2003 Silver Ciltorides

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Safe Sex   School  

Tuesday, October Fourteenth

Game Five

I actually went to Callie's room at 3 pm. I only had two classes on Tuesdays-and it was a good thing, as I wasn't all that alert in them. I kept thinking of what had happened the night before. And, no, not about the Sox' fantastic performance, as gratifying as that was.

Anyhow, I got to her room-and got a backslide. Not that I was shocked by that, mind you. A lot had happened the day before. She was reevaluating. When I got there, and sat on her couch-she didn't just sit at the opposite end of the couch. No, she didn't even sit on the couch at all-she went right for the desk chair, which was practically across the room.

I suppose I should've been irritated. And I guess I was, a little. Hell, she had taken a huge couple of steps the day before-but she was also judging me based on those other asshole guys. That didn't thrill me. But, yeah, I did understand, a little. I especially understood the significance of the number. She'd had her heart broken by three guys. We were both baseball nuts, remember? Three strikes and you're out.

And I got that. What I needed to convince her to get was that-even when you strike out, you get back to the plate for your next at-bat. Because that next at-bat could be the game-winning homer.

So, there I was, in her room, with her clear on the other side of it. Looking at me warily. I shrugged that off and we talked about everything except 'us.' Mostly about baseball.

Yankees fans just do not get it, and she was no exception. What I told her to get the point across was this: "You're what, nineteen? You've seen the Yankees win four World Series in your lifetime. I have a grandfather who is seventy-two and has never seen the Sox win it all. Yankees fans just do not realize how important this is to us."

"Nobody told you to be a Red Sox fan," she grinned.

"You think anyone chooses to be a Red Sox fan?" I snorted. "You don't choose it, you're born into it. It's hereditary. It's part and parcel of being from Boston. If you're Boston born and bred, you're either a Red Sox fan, or you don't like baseball-or you're a damn traitor. If you're from Boston and you root for any other baseball team other than the Red Sox; well, it's like being an American watching the Olympics and rooting for Russia. In fact, it's worse than that."

I took a breath. "In 1986, I was two years old. My Dad got me out of bed because he wanted me to remember-even if I really couldn't-that I was watching when the Red Sox finally won it all. And then the ball went through Buckner's legs. My mother tells me that when he put me back to bed, he was crying. And a Yankee fan will never get that-because you all feel entitled to winning."

"This means more to you than it does to me, doesn't it? Even without the bet."

"Yes," I agreed. "Plus, this is a pretty special Red Sox team."

She didn't say anything else, but, as the game started, she got up out of the desk chair and sat down on the couch. Right next to me. I put my arm around her and she sighed.

I was glad she was there-even if she was a damn Yankees fan-because the game unraveled quickly. Derek Lowe had one bad inning-but one bad inning was all it took. The Yankees got 3 off of him in the second, and that's all they needed, because the Red Sox were just not hitting. Guys like Mueller and Millar and Ortiz-guys that had carried them all year-had gone straight into the deep freeze. And the less said about Nomar Garciaparra, the better. I don't think he'd swung the bat this feebly since Little League.

God, it was depressing-because I saw the whole series flash before my eyes. We now needed to win the last two-and that's with John Burkett, who sucks generally but really sucks against the Yankees; and Pedro, who pitched game three like a guy with a bum shoulder. And with the bats gone hibernating

In other words-it was over. We needed this one. We didn't get it. It just sucked.

Remarkably, Callie was rather subdued in her post-game celebration. She only whooped and hollered a little bit. Grinning, she said to me, "I'm a lifelong Yankees fan and I always will be. But, after what you told me earlier, I promise not to gloat. Celebrate, yes-gloat, no."

"Thank you so much," I said, deadpan. She giggled. Then I joked, "Well I guess I'm one game away from administering a blowjob."

You've heard the expression, "her face fell"? Well, Callie's face dropped a hundred feet when I made that blow job crack. "Oh, God, I forgot," she hissed. "After yesterday, I forgot."

"Huh?"

"Look, Mitch. Why do you think I picked that particular payoff for your end of the bet?"

"Well, I figured it was either that you were trying to come up with something horrific so I'd back off; or, that seeing a guy give another guy head turned you on," I laughed.

"Well, there was some of the first-but none of the second. In fact, the exact opposite of the second." She took a breath. "Look, this isn't a value judgment. I love Tim, I think he's great, and what he does in his own bedroom is his business. But I can't think of anything more of a turn off for me than two guys together. It makes me sick just thinking about it."

"But part of your bet was that you had to watch," I said.

"Exactly," she hissed. "Because I wanted to be turned off. I guess I was hoping that if I saw you sucking Tim off, it'd cure me." I just looked at her until she continued. "It would cure me of the overpowering attraction I have for you. Well, after the past couple of days, I don't think it matters much. It was probably going to be futile, anyhow. But it was nasty and cruel and underhanded, and I'm so sorry I even thought of it."

I thought about that for a minute. Talk about drastic measures! Then, it hit me.

"How long?" I asked.

"What?"

"How long have you been in love with me?"

She looked at me, startled-then admitted it. "Since midway through first semester last year. I figured it out before you did."

"And you've been fighting it ever since."

"Yeah."

"What's changed? It can't just be the bet."

"Partially," she said. "But you going to bed with Melanie-well, that was a wake-up call. I still don't know if Mel thought of it that way or was trying something devious-but it worked. It was a slap in the face. And you turning her down the next day was, as I said, a real eye-opener."

I digested that for a bit. Then I said, "So, what do we do now? After we call off the bet, of course."

"We're not calling off the bet," she said.

"We're not?"

"No. I'm conceding."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm conceding. I forfeit. You win."

"Callie, the Sox have no chance."

"That doesn't matter. I'm forfeiting." She took a deep breath, then shot me a shaky smile. "That means you win the terms of the bet."

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