Chapter 11

I sent flowers to Patti's apartment that afternoon, before warm-ups. I knew she'd stop by there, whether or not she came to the game, and whether or not she came to my house later that evening.

I sent miniature roses -- three dozen of the little suckers. The card said, "Like you, they're beautiful -- and size doesn't matter."

True to her word, Patti skipped the Tampa Bay game. She'd missed three home games in a row, and the box where Geneva's friends usually sat had remained completely empty all three nights.

Some of the guys on the team noticed, and started teasing me about it. "The thu--rill is gone," Sam Bailey sang -- in a surprisingly good jazzy baritone.

"The thu--rill is gone... Love was grand, when love was new: Now love's gone, and so are you. Now, you've left me, feelin' blue: The thu--rill -- is goh-ha-honnnnnn!"

"This is the end!" I joined in, singing along, loudly, and badly, with Sam during his dramatic wind-up. "... So why pretend? And-I-forgot-the-rest-of-the-words," I sang. "--And so, the Thu--rill is Gone!"

"That was really awful," Bailey said. "OK -- so where is The Girl?"

"She's at my house," I said, "cooking dinner."

I really hoped that wasn't a lie.

We racked up the Devil Rays -- again -- and were three games ahead of the Yankees, now, in first place, on the last day of July. My baseball life was feelin' groovy. Now, if only I could get my personal life lined up just half as well.

Since meeting Patti, I'd been focused entirely on her. She had been my only sex life -- or, more accurately, I currently had no sex life, unless and until Patti decided to let her defenses down.

I mean, a first-rate blowjob is a wonderful thing, but it can only take a relationship so far!

Well, as it turned out, I hadn't been lying to Sam Bailey. Patti was in the kitchen when I got home, with baked potatoes in the microwave and Angus beef steaks on the George Foreman Grill.

When I saw her, I knew that some kind of breakthrough had been made. She was wearing an apron -- a long one that covered her down to her knees.

But that's all she was wearing.

It startled me to realize that, in all the weeks we'd been together, I'd never seen this much of Patti's lovely body. I mean, I'd seen her in shorts at the ballpark -- at her ballpark as well as mine. But never -- say -- at the beach in a bikini, or after hours at home, in the altogether.

Those times that she'd stripped to the waist for our adolescent groping sessions on my couch, I'd seen her lovely little breasts, and I had been permitted to fondle and kiss them almost to my heart's content.

But now, I was seeing, for the very first time, Patti's shapely, sweet, trim little butt, protruding delightfully from beneath the ribbon of cloth around her waist -- the little starched-cloth belt that was holding that ridiculous apron in place. She sure as hell didn't look like a boy down there -- at least not from the back!

Her nipples were poking out from both sides of the apron's top, so there was only one remaining matter of mystery not fully visible at that moment: The Legendary Bermuda Triangle itself.

Patti's center -- her core self -- remained hidden from my view.

But the message of her brief costume was clear: What remained hidden was protected now only by the most nominal of defenses. There would be no more belts for me to fight her to unfasten; no jeans to be tugged-upon without success; no zippers to try vainly to unzip.

Patti was prepared, this night, to reveal all. It would only require a gentle lifting-aside of that little semi-transparent scrap of gossamer. Nothing more.

I steeled myself against the remote possibility that I might react negatively to The Clit. I had been forewarned, certainly, that this was an ugly deformity of the first magnitude -- an oversized, angry, inappropriate thing there, mounted obscenely on her otherwise-pristine person. It was a thing that would surely disgust me; turn me away from all her other treasures; and bring an abrupt end to our relationship.

I didn't believe any of that for a minute!

But Patti did! Clearly, she still feared my reaction. When she capitulated -- moments from now -- even the slightest indication from me of revulsion... Hell! Forget revulsion;

even the slightest indication from me of hesitation -- and most of our progress of recent days would be lost.

"Are you going to wear that outfit for dinner?" I asked, gesturing at her apron.

"I thought I would," she said. "Do I look all right?"

"You look good enough to eat," I said, sacrificing originality for accuracy. "In fact, I think you should unplug George Foreman, there, and we'll have the steaks later -- for our dessert!"

I saw a streak of fear in Patti's eyes, but, on balance, I figured she had to be as eager as I was to get The Unveiling over with. I pulled the plug on George, took Patti's hand and led her to my bedroom. It was a room she'd never been in before. At least, not while I had been home.

"Patti," I said. "I love you, girl!"

Still in her apron, she kissed me while standing at the foot of my big bed. There were fresh linens on the bed. I had done what I could to prepare for this night.

I let her keep the apron on as I stripped down to my birthday suit. My erection was straining in Patti's general direction as I gently grasped her shoulders and lowered her body to the bed.

"Scoot over," I said, urging her toward the middle of the king-sized mattress. "Scoot over" may not be the height of romanticism, but functional language is important, when one wants his love to lie down in the middle of the bed.

The apron still hadn't revealed its hidden wonders and Patti seemed to be taking care -- during her "scooting" -- to make certain that premature exposure would not occur.

If I was going to see The Clit from Hell, I'd have to initiate the unveiling my own self.

And so I did. The bottom of the apron moved northward and I folded it neatly across her waist where it would be as out of the way as possible, without our stopping to loosen the bow behind her.

Hey, wow! --She was really hairy. Patti's pussy was neatly trimmed on all sides, but the bountiful black hair at the center was thick and dense and curly. It was unusual, in these times of bikini trims and full-fledged vaginal shaving, to find a fully-coifed cunt. Patti wore hers this way, no doubt, as a partial defense against clit-watching females in the University's shower rooms.

The thick coat of hair did, in fact, disguise Patti's clitoris, although not entirely. It was, as advertised, very large indeed. I am a healthy male of 27 years, and I am pleased to say that I've seen an impressive array of female genitalia during the lovely, most-recent-past decade of my life.

This was -- by quite a margin -- the biggest clitoris I had ever seen.

I realized, suddenly, that Patti's eyes had been on my face for the entire time that I'd been gazing at her pussy. I wondered if that had been for a minute, or an hour.