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Wimp?

By: rpsuch



After doing countless (I lost count) edits of my upcoming novel, I decided to apply what I learned to make my old stories easier to read. This is the first.

*

Am I a wimp?

At the time, each decision seemed to be based on the situation at hand. I wasn't aware of any pattern. But when I look back now, it could easily be argued that I regularly wimped out.

Even the most compatible couples have countless decisions and disagreements in nearly twenty-five years of marriage. You need to evaluate every time whether it is important enough to insist on your position, whether hers is acceptable or whether a compromise can be struck. She has to assess them as well.

All right, maybe it sounds too academic or too confusing in the abstract.

The first crucial decision I remember, although others must have preceded it, was over where to go on our honeymoon. She wanted to go to a beach. I wanted to go anyplace else.

I suggested San Francisco with its ethnic communities, eclectic architecture, cultural and sporting events and quality restaurants.

I suggested New Orleans, with the Vieux Carré, the Garden District, countless world famous restaurants including two Emerils, shops, cafes and Cajun cooking classes.

I suggested Seattle, surrounded by breathtaking mountains, lakes for swimming and fishing, boating, hiking, the Pacific Ocean, fine dining and close proximity to Victoria for a change of pace.

We compromised on Aruba.

Okay, I caved in.

I'll concede the beach was beautiful to look at. But that was just sixty seconds of our week. There were wonderful places to eat and I really did enjoy Tango Parilla Argentina, where the Argentine beef was exquisite and two tango exhibitions we saw were sexy and exciting.

But during the day she lay on the beach. She tanned. She sweated. She was hot and uncomfortable. She came back to the room smelly. I don't understand the allure. I stayed in the air-conditioning and read.

Of course I enjoyed it. Reading has always been very special to me.

But I had this silly notion that during the week away from everyone we knew, devoid of responsibilities and schedules and deadlines, we would crave an excess of togetherness.

I imagined we would be constantly touching and kissing to the giggling of little children and the envy and disgust of their parents; that it would instantly be obvious from our gluttony for each other that we were newlyweds.

I had not imagined the daily pleasure of reading in our room followed by her shower to remove the stench from her rapidly darkening body before we could steep ourselves in newly-married indulgence.

Do I regret giving in? Hell no.

I much prefer the mountains. I love to fish. I like to hike in the shade of towering oaks.

But no matter where we went I was going to spend more time making love than eating. Given that, and that I desperately loved her, going where she wanted was nowhere near a deal breaker. It just wasn't important enough for me to insist on a compromise, let alone my position.

I was insistent the next summer. She wanted the Outer Banks. I wanted the mountains. This time I stood my ground and we vacationed in the Poconos.

It didn't quite turn out the way I expected.

She didn't care for fishing or hiking. She spent most days lying by the pool getting tanned, sweaty, hot, uncomfortable and smelly.

But I got to do some of the things I enjoyed. We even got to eat some bass I caught for dinner one night in our villa.

And there were two activities for which she happily joined me. We spent a day at the flea market shopping merrily. We also spent part of another day at the Outlets, although I'm pretty sure it wasn't my idea.

Mostly, though, I gave in on small things too unimportant to remember.

I recall discussions about clothing and about my hair because they had a similar theme and a familiar pattern.

"You need a haircut." She said it as if it explained, and resolved, everything.

"It's not bad. I can go for a few more weeks."

"We have a party this weekend."

"And?"

"You need to look good. Don't you get this yet? How you look reflects on me. If I let you go out looking unkempt it says something about how I manage my relationship, about who I chose to marry, about who I am."

And I'm at a decision point. I'm going to get my hair cut eventually. We're arguing over when. If I insist on waiting, am I just being petulant? Is this the proper time to discuss why she thinks of it as her relationship and not ours?

She could have said she's proud of how I have maintained my fitness and it makes her happy to share her good fortune with our friends. Do I want to argue about how she phrased it?

Should when I get a haircut be the launching pad for a discussion, well, it might start that way but it would end as an argument, of the whole nature of our relationship?

"Yes dear." Flat. Emotionless. Practiced. Hostile. She knew what it meant. She also chose not to turn this into an argument. There would be another opportunity for that on Saturday evening.

"I've laid out what I want you to wear."

Yes, Mom. "That jacket is wool. I'll be itching all night."

"But it looks good on you."

"Yeah, but it feels awful."

"You can scratch when you get home. It's just one night and you'll look terrific."

What I thought were compelling, logical arguments had been rebuffed. We had to leave in ten minutes. It would be uncomfortable, but not painful. Was this the time and the reason to draw a line in the sand?

"Yes dear." Bitch.

That wasn't always the way it went. There is another archetypal variation.

"All right, wear whatever you want." Flat. Emotionless. Practiced. Hostile.

For those of you who are newly married I will translate this into English. "If you don't wear what I've told you, I'll spend at least the next few days being sullen, unresponsive and generally unpleasant. I'll find countless ways to make you regret you didn't use that pathetic, 'Yes dear.'"

There were other equally weighty matters over which we differed. It wasn't just what I would wear, but what I had available to wear.

"You need some new casual shirts."

"I'm happy with the ones I have."

"I'm not."

"What's wrong with them? They're comfortable. I like the colors. They're fine."

"They're old; out of style. People have seen you in them a million times. You need new ones."

"I'm not going shopping for new shirts."

"Fine. I'll buy them for you."

"Don't. I'm happy with these."

Of course, she would buy them. Then the issue could become what I was wearing because these new shirts were now available and the old ones were anathema to her.

How had it come to this?

I remember standing up earlier in our marriage. I remember being willing to argue over stupid little things. I remember losing. Had I taught her that all she needed was to be sufficiently persistent and I would turn into a spineless wimp? I would later learn that, apparently, I had.

At one of those Saturday night parties I could happily have done without, I noticed her flirting with Howard Dodge. It was more than flirting. She was playing up to him like a sycophant, touching him, flipping her hair.

I could understand the choice if not the behavior. He was about five years younger than we and had lost little of his good looks to age. Sally was five foot ten in her three-inch heels so he must have been around six feet tall. Unlike mine, his hair had no gray. He was not heavy and looked classic in his blue suit. Other women flirted with him at these parties, but Sally had taken it to a new level.

I stared, my displeasure obvious. He noticed, but it didn't seem to bother him. I would have expected different. I have a few inches on him and a good thirty to forty pounds. Maybe he couldn't tell it was muscle. Sally picked out clothing that wouldn't make me look like a gym rat.

I must have made them uncomfortable. They headed into another room. Damn shame. I followed, angling my way through groups distributed in no particular pattern.

I followed through the kitchen and noticed movement with my peripheral vision. They were in a small pantry, their arms loosely around each others' waists, kissing lightly.

"What the hell are you doing?" I asked.

"You don't have to take that tone of voice. We're just fooling around," Sally said.

"I can see that. What makes you think this is all right?"

"Hey man, chill. We're just having a little fun," Howard said.

"I'm not talking to you; I'm talking to my wife. But if you want to toss in your two cents, tell me why on earth you think this is okay. Is your wife going to think this is just having a little fun?"

"You leave her out of this."

"Fine. You leave my wife out of this."

"Bruce, you're making a scene," she said.

"Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?" asked Howard.

I didn't have a plan. I could easily disassemble him, but that would land me in jail.

I could physically separate them, but that wouldn't stop them from doing it later, and would do nothing to address my problem with Sally.

I swiftly headed back to the living room. I could hear them laughing as I departed.

I scanned the room and found her. "Alice, I need to talk to you in the kitchen."

"What is it Bruce?"

"Let's go in there and we can talk."

Was it cowardly or prudent? I quickly guided her to the pantry before she could speak. She had none of my ambivalence when she saw them break their kiss.

"Howard! Get your fucking hands off that slut."

"Alice honey, we were just fooling around."

"I saw. We're going home. Now!" Her voice could have cooled a hot summer day.

He followed meekly. Not so tough, are you, when confronted by a real ... woman.

"Bruce, how could you? You humiliated me. You owe me a huge apology."

"I owe you? It'll be a cold day in hell."

"You're going to get to know first hand what a cold day in hell is like." She stormed off.

She needn't have left. I couldn't have said anything. I was too stunned.

How had this happened? There was outright disrespect, disdain in her voice. She acted as if she was entitled to whatever she wanted.

Had our relationship been slowly cooked like the frog that starts out in cold water and doesn't notice it heating up incrementally until he is dinner?

I would have done something if I had noticed. Having reached this sad state of affairs, was it over? Was there any hope of salvaging our relationship?

Sally hadn't lied about being cold. She outdid herself. She barely acknowledged my existence and didn't speak a single word; not so much as, "Pass the salt." I didn't speak either. I was afraid that if I spoke first she would take it as a sign of weakness; that she would forever label me the wimp, and perhaps she would have been right.

Thankfully, the kids were grown and out of the house. I can't imagine what they would have made of their parents not uttering a single word to each other for more than three days.

Finally, on Wednesday, I decided I had to confront her. She could interpret it as a sign of weakness, but I would not back down no matter how much vituperation and ugliness it would cause. I took off most of the afternoon and got home at around two.

Howard's car was parked out front. She didn't even care if the neighbors knew he was here.

This time I would pull them apart. That kissing and touching had to stop. Without an audience I could be as assertive as I needed to be with Howard. Maybe that would even make it easier to stand firm with Sally.

I strode confidently into the living room, expecting to find them in each others' arms but they were not there. They weren't in the kitchen. Neither were they in the den. I opened the door to the basement but the light was off and no sounds were coming from there.

She wouldn't. Or had she already?

I took the stairs two at a time, quickly arriving at the door to our bedroom. They didn't hear me. She was emitting a long wail and he was loudly announcing to all that, "I'm cumming."

I had been pretty sure this was what I would find when I started up the stairs, but I still couldn't believe it even as I saw his naked body lift from hers. That was when they saw me.

"Oh, you," she said with less emotion than she would have used to prefer Kleenex to Puffs. "You were ignoring me so I found someone to fill my needs. Why don't you run along now?"

"Yeah, wimp. Take off. Or do you want to stay and watch a real man while you drop your pants and jerk off?"

I was in shock. I just looked at them. I couldn't say or do anything. They mistook my inaction as confirmation that I would passively accept the role of cuckold.

"Yes dear." She used my own phrase and intonation. "That's the only sex you'll be getting so you better get used to it."

"Tiny dick can't take care of a woman. Maybe you can take care of your hand with it."

The shock had worn off. I started into the room.

Howard continued to taunt. "Tiny dick gonna confront a real man? Don't you need to get my wife first to protect you?"

Incomprehensibly, he seemed to have no fear. Had Sally convinced him I wouldn't or couldn't do anything?

He was inviting me to attack him. I accepted.

I charged like a linebacker seeking quarterback fricassee. I know that's how I charged because I was a linebacker in college and that's exactly how I charged quarterbacks.

I made contact and drove him toward the wall. He just laughed at me. I changed our direction slightly to the right, grabbed him at the bottom of his ribs and lifted him as I continued forward.

It's funny the things you think of in the passion of instinctive action.

I remembered a college history class where I learned about a method the Czechoslovakian communists used to overcome their political rivals after World War II -- defenestration. That's what I was about to do.

I didn't just throw him out the window, I launched him through it. Glass exploded, wood splintered and debris rained down to where he hit the lawn with a thud. He cried out in pain. He had been too surprised to utter a sound until he hit the ground.

Howard was lucky. Sally had insisted on a lawn service. Our lawn was plush or he might have been killed. I guess I was lucky as well. I would have to remember to thank her.

I turned to Sally. She was getting off the bed and moving toward the door. I rushed her like she was just another quarterback. She screamed and tried to run but I easily overtook her. I picked her up in my arms and started to carry her down the stairs. She started pounding my face with her fists.

"Let me go you worthless bastard." Was that any way to endear herself to me?

As we descended the steps she changed tactics. She started to scratch my face with her nails. I could feel blood running down my cheeks. I sped up and opened the front door. I put her down with a little shove, quickly stepped back into the house and closed and locked the door.

At least she wouldn't be able to complain that the neighbors had seen her wearing the wrong clothing for the occasion.

I heard sirens approaching. Someone must have heard or seen Howard leave the house.

I can't say I was feeling any satisfaction at that point. Everything I had done was by reflex. My wife of almost 25 years had escalated her contempt and cheated on me. I felt numb.

I became aware of her pounding on the door. "Let me in you worthless limp dick, I'm naked out here."

I didn't find that especially persuasive.

I ignored her persistent pounding. Then it changed. It sounded like something wooden was striking the door.

"Police. Open up in there."

The voice wasn't Howard's so I opened the door. Sally tried to push past me but the officer held her arm. "Just a minute ma'am. Sir, this lady says you attacked her and I can clearly see she's covered with a lot of blood. Did you attack her?"

"Shouldn't you give me my Miranda rights? Doesn't matter. It's my blood, not hers. You can see the scratches. You can probably see bruises too. She attacked me; that's why I put her outside, to protect myself."

"Ma'am?"

"He's lying. It's not true."

"Did you do that to him?"

"Yes, but ..." She didn't seem to have a good explanation.

"Sir, the naked man on the lawn, did you do that?"

"I think I did. I caught them together and he was taunting me. The next thing I knew he was on the lawn."

"I'm going to have to take you both in for questioning. You two need to get cleaned up a bit. My partner will go with her to make sure nothing bad happens. You know, domestic disputes are the most dangerous. I take it you two are married."

"Yes, she is my future ex-wife."

"Do you want to bring charges against her for the attack?"

There is a God. "That would be nice."

The other officer returned downstairs with Sally. How did she know the correct outfit to wear when being charged with domestic abuse?

I'm not sure how much of what I said was true. I'm pretty sure I intended to put her outside when I picked her up, but it became a necessity when she attacked me.

As for Howard, there was nothing in my mind initially except kill the quarterback. His defenestration may have been intentional. But I gave a statement favorable to myself in the heat of the moment and I thought I had a pretty good chance of not being convicted.

I gave a complete statement at the station including the events of the party. It was humiliating to describe the way she talked to me, treated me, and I knew the detective was disgusted with my wimpish behavior. He hid his contempt well.

I tried to explain the changes had been too gradual to notice, but he told me it wasn't important to the case. 

They didn't charge me immediately. I guess they weren't sure what charges to file and what they could make stick.

Sally was not so lucky. With the pictures they took of my head they felt confident and she was arraigned on domestic abuse. As a result of her being charged and the pictures, I had no problem getting an Order for Protection From Abuse. Her sister removed several suitcases full of her clothes that evening.

I was looking forward to my day in court. I would be publicly vindicated even though I knew I bore much of the responsibility. 

A few days later my doorbell rang. I looked out the window and saw Alice. What could Howard's wife want with me? Did she want to kick my ass or thank me? I let her in.

"Bruce, you're not going to be charged."

"I threw him through a window."

She giggled. "I know."

"I was looking forward to their public humiliation."

"I understand. But I'm not. I don't want my kids exposed to that. They didn't do anything wrong.

"After I found out everything Howard did, I persuaded him not to cooperate. That, and the circumstances, convinced them not to prosecute you."

"So it's okay to throw him through a second-story window?"

"Under those circumstances."

"Sweet."

"There's something else."

My silence signaled my willingness to listen.

"I want you to let Sally make a deal or be diverted to probation."

"Why would you want to do anything for her?" For that matter why would I?

"Because her trial brings my family into it."

"She's got it coming."

"She does. But me and the kids don't."

I hadn't considered the effect this situation would have on innocent people. I guess my kids would not emerge unscathed either. Still, I was reluctant to let it die.

"But they'll get off scot free for their misbehavior."

"Scot free? Sally would be humiliated being caught wearing white after Labor Day. The only white she was wearing was dripping down her legs.

"All your neighbors saw her standing naked pounding on your door with police sirens and cars all over the place. She'll be arrested if she tries to go in your house or even tries to approach you to talk.

"Howard was thrown naked through a second-story window in broad daylight. You call that scot free?


Wimp



When you start going out with a new boyfriend you never know what you're going to get. About the one thing that you can count on is that he'll chance his luck very early in the relationship. I even had one guy chance his arm on the first date, walking down the path to his car. They all do it, sooner or later. The idea is not to pick a boyfriend who doesn't think NO applies to him.

My current boyfriend is Paul. He's six foot, very nicely built, blond and handsome. He's articulate and intelligent, friendly and sociable. Generous to a fault. Everyone likes him. I couldn't believe my luck when he initially asked me out.

One of the nicest things I found about him was that he wasn't chancing his arm too early in the relationship. He was taking his time and letting us really get to know each other. I'm sure that when we're ready we'll move on to the next stage of our relationship. I can hardly wait.

That was my opinion six months ago. It was also probably my opinion three months ago. Now I'm not so sure. For the last three months I've been giving off those little signals that I'm ready to progress with our relationship, but Paul seems to keep missing the signals. It's not as though I can come out and just ask him to seduce me.

I was finally able to raise the subject of sex with Paul, in a round-about way. He assured me that I had no need to worry. He wouldn't try to seduce me. He'd promised his mother to stay celibate until he was married and he always kept his word. 

I discussed my little problem with a couple of friends, asking for suggestions. Was he gay, I asked? 

Sophia swears he's not. She knows a couple of guys who are gay and apparently because Paul doesn't talk about girls he'd seduced they thought he might be. They'd both pitched passes at Paul, only to see them go sailing past him, Paul obviously having no idea what they were on about. 

"He's probably just got a low libido," Sophia told me. "You're going to the beach with him on the weekend. Wear an incredibly sexy bikini and see if that gets through to him."

So that weekend I wore a very small bikini. I made sure that we set up our stuff in a relatively secluded area where we could have a bit of privacy. We mixed with the others for a while, me wearing shorts while we did so. I wasn't game to prance around in public in that bikini.

After lunch we were relaxing on our towels and my shorts had gone by the wayside. Paul was properly appreciative of the way I looked and paid me some lovely complements. We smooched a bit and my breasts were hard up against his chest and he still didn't even go the grope. 

I mean, really! What's a girl got to do?

I was lying back getting a tan and feeling a little disgruntled when George came wandering up. George, like Paul, is a natural extrovert and they were good friends. George is reasonably nice, I guess, but he doesn't have Paul's flamboyant good looks and sense of humour. I've also heard that if you date him, wear chain mail armour and a chastity belt. Sophia said she went out with him once and had to use a chastity belt. In her case it was her right fist on his nose. The bleeding cooled his ardour somewhat. 

"How's it going, Paul, Angie," he said. "Enjoying yourselves?"

I just nodded to him but Paul started yakking away. They discussed sport and cars and such and then Paul asked who George's current girlfriend was.

"Between girls right now," George said. "How are you and Angie coping? It's a wonder you can keep your hands off her, even here."

Insulting sod. I ignored him. Unfortunately, Paul didn't.

"Now, George, you know I don't go around grabbing the girls," he said. "I respect Angie far too much to try to lay my hands on her."

"Oh, that's right," said George, nodding. "You made that silly promise to your mother. Do you mean you're keeping that promise with a hot little number like Angie just lying there like a ripe bud ready to be plucked? You're not even slipping it to her in secret?"

Crude bastard. I glared at him. Paul just seemed slightly shocked.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "A promise is a promise."

"Well, that all very well for you and your mother, but what about Angie. She's all hot to trot and can't get a rider. It's shameful."

My face was burning. It was even worse because George was right and we both knew it. I just rolled onto my tummy so I wouldn't have to look at him.

"I'm sure you're wrong, George," Paul said politely. "Angie is just not that sort of girl. I wouldn't insult her by hinting that she was."

Bloody hell, Paul. I am. If you think I'm a virgin, you're crazy.

"Oh, come on, Paul. You don't really think that a hot little piece like this is a virgin at her age? She's doing everything but send you a written invitation asking you to nail her."

"I think you'd better drop the subject, Paul. Angie is probably finding the whole thing offensive."

"On the other hand, she's probably thinking that where women are concerned, you're a wimp who won't take what's on offer. Never had that problem myself."

George had the whole thing in a nutshell. Paul was a wimp where women were concerned, hiding behind his promise to his mother. If I wanted to have sex with Paul I'd probably have to rape him, and I wasn't going to stoop that low. And I'd lay odds that George never had that problem. Not since he realised girl germs weren't harmful to a boy.

"You know what you should be doing, Paul?" George was saying. "Watch and learn."

What the hell did George mean by that I wondered, and then my bikini bottom, what there was of it, was just peeled down. I squealed and started to scramble to my feet, which was just what George wanted. As soon as I scrambled onto my knees George clamped onto my hips and held me in that position.

One hand switched to the small of my back to hold me in place and the other clamped onto my pussy. Only for a moment though. Just long enough to spread my pussy lips and start in on me. I gave a horrified squeak and George's cock was pushing firmly into me. 

"What are you doing?" I squealed.

"Yes. Just what do you think you're doing, George?" parroted Paul.

"Geez, what the hell do you think I'm doing?" muttered George.

He didn't need to tell me. He was already deep inside me and starting with the action. And I was so het up and needy I didn't give a damn. I was already moving with him, pushing back to meet his strokes.

"I'm doing what you should be doing, Paul," George said. "I'm attending to the poor girl's needs. Women need sex as much as men you know, excluding yourself, of course."

George was putting some real effort into it now, banging me in fine style. I had finally remembered that this was actually rape and I was making the requisite formal protests, confident that George would ignore them. It did occur to me that Paul might take offence at George coming up and banging his girlfriend like this but he seemed bemused by the whole thing. Wimp!

"Ah, George, Angie is telling you to stop. Don't you think you should?"

Say no, George, blast it. Say no.

"Nah. A lot of women like to make a formal protest, but they'd be real upset if you stopped too soon. Don't worry. She'll be right."

George was taking me harder and faster. It was belatedly occurring to me that we were at the beach, only semi-private, and someone could come along at any moment. That's probably why George was driving hard to finish me off. Just too embarrassing all around if someone else did turn up.

I was tossing my head about now, whimpering slightly, while my bottom was bouncing up and down frantically, taking everything that George could throw at me. He was coming harder than ever, building up to a finale, and I was busy stuffing my towel into my mouth. I'm a screamer, and I didn't think that would be appreciated on the beach.

Then George drove home for a final time, pumping his fluids into me while I was screaming a muffled scream, only little squeaks escaping from around the towel.

I collapsed down onto the towel, breathing hard, my mind spinning. I could hear George giving Paul advice, telling him that what he, George, had done was just a start. Paul should do the same daily to keep me happy.

Screw the bikini. Once I had myself together I pulled on my shorts. I wasn't wearing that bikini ever again.

I looked over at Paul. He was reassuring. He wouldn't hold what happened against me. It was George's fault and Paul knew it. And I needn't worry about Paul following George's example. His promise to his mother help firm.

I made the rotten wimp take me home.

The next day was a Sunday and I wanted to sleep in. Until Monday, if possible. I was still feeling a little disgruntled about the previous day's debacle. I really wasn't happy when my doorbell rang at eight am.

If it was salesmen, I'd kill them. If it was Jehovah's Witnesses I'd really give them something to witness. I made sure the chain was on the door and opened it slightly. Bloody George was standing there, smiling.

I just glared daggers at him.

"If you've come to apologise, don't bother. Just go away."

"Hey, cool down. I'm not here to apologise."

"Then why are you here?" I asked, ever so sweetly.

"Well, I couldn't help thinking about you most of last night and you were the first thing I thought of this morning, so I thought I'd come around and take you to bed and we could do the whole exercise again, but taking our time about it. Now take the chain of the door and let me in."

My mind went sort of blank. Take the chain of and let him in so he could ravish me with more time in which to do it? Was he crazy?

Probably not. I was. I was already taking the chain off, even though I knew it was a bad idea. Why do girls like bad boys?



Wimp Loses to Young Black Boss



A True Story.

At the age of 49, Myron felt that he had reached a certain degree of success in both his professional and personal life. 

He had worked diligently throughout his academic and business careers to be in the position he now was. He had put the failures of his past love life far behind him, and he was now going on his 14th year with this corporation. 

Myron had provided his beautiful wife of 14 years with a beautiful 5-bedroom home in the burbs and all the luxuries that his six-figure salary could afford. He also had a relatively-large nest egg saved from the first 12 and half years of his career following college. He had invested wisely. 

For Myron, things were seemingly perfect. His 38-year-old wife, Mona, was a strikingly-beautiful blonde of 5' 6" and 122 lbs. with an impressive 34DD-23-35 figure. She looked 10 years younger than her age, and still turned many heads. 

The only thing missing in his life was a child, which Myron was unable to provide. But, he optimistic that this could still happen someday, and everything else was going well. 

Things hadn't always gone so smoothly for the tall, timid and noticeably "geeky" Myron. Throughout high school he was never successful with the girls, dating no more than once or twice. His lanky 6' 7" tall and 215 lb. frame was unathletic and somewhat undernourished for his height. And, his shy and passive demeanor prevented him from even attempting to ask many girls out. When he did, he was usually rejected.

Myron had an intense attraction for the cheerleader type. To him, they were everything he ever wanted - beautiful, athletic and feminine. But, Myron was far from the athletic type that these girls appeared to attach themselves to. To him, it seemed as if every beautiful white cheerleader he had his eye on was dating one of the black players from the track, football or basketball teams. Myron didn't quite understand why back then. In his mind, he was a straight-A student on the young execs committee and had a future. More often than not, Myron found himself cowardly slithering away like a big coward when he was around these cheerleaders. But, as graduation approached he remained eager to move onto college. 

Myron was given a partial academic scholarship to a small, midwestern college in Michigan. He had several other offers, but he wanted to stay within driving distance of his family. His family was the typical middle-class, midwestern family barely making ends' meet, and Myron was very close to his mother. 

In the past, others had described Myron as a big "momma's boy" but that did not affect his decision to sign with U Tech. He would be only 200 miles from home and felt as if this was the farthest he wanted to be from his mom. He would have half his tuition paid for as long as he maintained a B average, and that was good enough. 

About three weeks before the start of the school year, Myron drove up to U Tech to get situated into his dorm room. As he passed by the recreation center and gym he noticed the U Tech Cheer Squad practicing on the infield of the track and field area. He thought to himself how nice it would be to get to know one of these girls as he stepped inside William's Hall. 

While inside, he browsed around and even watched a racquetball game for awhile before deciding to head back to his dorm room to call his mom. That is when he ran into Coach Lester, the school's basketball coach.

U Tech had never participated in a basketball program until two years before. Coach Lester was in his 50's, and was a Phys Ed coach from a nearby high school. He was asked to start up a basketball program two years ago. The small midwestern town was within 30 miles of some of the larger cities in Michigan, but had only particpated in volleyball, track and field, Golf and Tennis. None of the major college sports.

The small college town was 100% white and the college student-base reflected that. But, Coach Lester had aspirations of getting a better basketball team together before the school year began. He was getting desparate as the season approached, and needed a couple of more players. 

When he saw Myron's 6' 7" frame slowly walking away from William's Hall, he approached the young freshman. Coach Lester tried to persuade Myron to come out for the team. Initially, Myron was not even remotely interested. But, as he glanced over Coach Lester's broad shoulders and spotted those cheerleaders jumping around in their frilly little skirts, he thought to himself that this could be an opportunity of a lifetime. 

The unathletic Myron grew even more interested as the coach described how he would receiving a full scholarship for both his tuition and boarding, if he signed up for 4 years. Myron was convinced. What better way to take care of all his expenses, he thought. Gleefully, he ran back to his dorm room and called his mom. He told her the good news. His mother was a bit startled by the news, knowing that her son had never before played any sport. But, she shared shared in her son's enthusiam and congratulated him. Myron gleemed as his mother told him how proud she was. "Thank you, momma." Myron replied. 

The coach had called for practices for the all-white basketball team to begin at the end of the week. When Myron arrived at the gym he was greeted his teammates. It had seemed that Coach Lester had put together a makeshift group of all taller than average white players to field his freshman team. The sophomore and varsity teams had not been established and this team would go on to be the school's first varsity group after the next two seasons. 

It soon became obvious to the new coach that his team was below average. He had already set an aggressive 32-game schedule for the regular season but felt preseason games, or practice games would be a better way to get ready for the season. Coach Lester set up 4 games with Baker College, an inner city team. Baker was one of only 5 other small colleges on the schedule. The schedule had already seen U Tech playing Baker College 8 times during the upcoming regular season, and U Tech would play the other four teams a total of 6 times each. The coach could only manage the 4 practice games against Baker, tho, and was optimistic about improving his team's chances. The practice games were to be played over the next two weeks, two games scheduled for each of those weeks. 

At practice the next day, Myron noticed the Freshman Cheer Squad pacticing inside. It had been raining that day. As the girls practiced their routines on the court next to theirs, Myron grew distracted. The coach barked out orders for the team to be more aggressive, but Myron's attention was somewhere else. 

He had noticed Becky Collins, a beautiful fair-skinned, redheaded irish girl from Iowa. She was a vision. Becky made eye-contact with him and Myron timidly returned a smile. After practice, the shy Myron could not find the courage to speak to her ... but as they walked towards the locker rooms their paths crossed. A simple "hi" from Becky was all it took to put Myron into a state of bliss. "H-Hi" he returned, nervously, and they began to talk. And, Becky was truly beautiful. 

Becky Collins was the epitome of the midwestern girl-next-door, with her 5' 4" 112 lb. frame and 34D-22-34 figure. Her bright blue eyes and long, lustrous auburn hair sent chills all down Myron's spine. She looked like a sweet, angelic type, with a body to die for. Becky was a former gymnast and a cheerleader during high school, and had received a cheerleader scholarship. Myron instantly ffell in love. 

He would end up talking to young Becky everyday after practice for the next several days. Shy and timid, he didn't ask her out at all during those first few days. But, they did go for a dinner and a movie after Becky suggested it. 

Myron was the perfect gentleman during their so-called "date" as he nervously walked young Becky back to her dorm. He swallowed the lump in his throat and then asked Becky if they can do this again, after tomorow's practice game. "Sure". Becky replied. 

Myron walked across the campus to his dorm room on cloud nine. He felt as if Becky was now his girl and he was proud of the decision he made to join the team. For Myron, this offered him the opportunity to meet Becky and he rushed home to write her a sappy love letter, describing her as "the girl of his dreams," which he had planned on giving her after that first practice game. To Myron, everything was going along so well. He even called his mom, again, to tell her he had met a girl whom he now referred to as "his girlfriend". 

Myron's mom seemed proud of him. She was pleased that everything was going in the right direction for her son. 

When game time came for this first practice game the next day, Myron was anxious to show off a little for his "new girlfriend." With the rest of the team on the court, he watched as the all-black inner-city freshmen team from Baker College trotted onto the court. Myron's assignment soon came into focus. He was to play the forward position and guard against a boy named Tyrok.

Tyrok looked very athletic but he was only about 5' 10" tall. A darker-skinned boy from Detroit who had a solid physique. Myron reasoned to himself that since he had a 9" height advantage over Tyrok and should do fairly well. But, this would not be the case. 

The black boys from Baker humiliated the white boys from U Tech by a final score of 118-31. The game was even more lopsided than the score indicated because more than half of U Tech's points came from the foul line. The U Tech boys got "hammered" by the boys from Baker, and Myron managed only 1 point from the free-throw line while Tyrok scored 42 and completely dominated the matchup. 

It was embarrassing for Myron to lose so badly, but even more embarrassing was the manner in which Tyrok and the rest of the black boys from Baker College "rubbed it in". During the extremely one-sided game Tyrok and the other black boys flirted with the 15-girl U Tech Cheer Squad. They showed off for them by running up the score, and even calling Myron and his team names, like "a bunch of wussy boys" and "big pussies". Coach Lester pleaded for the team to ignore these comments, explaining that they were just part of the game. But, they were hard to ignore. After the game, young Tyrok even even laghingly made the comment, "We'll be back in a few days to kick dat' ass again". He said, as he walked off the court. Myron just couldn't believe how "mean" this black boy was being. 

Myron felt degraded by these events. He was feeling more than a bit dejected, yet still wanted to talk to Becky. He wanted to take her to dinner and a movie, and perhaps a walk afterwards. At least this is what he had planned.

Myron approached Becky after the humiliating defeat. "Do you still wanna go to that movie, Becky?" He asked her. Becky was also humiliated by the team's performance. Some of the other girls had called them wimps, and she didn't quite feel up to going out anymore. "No. Not really." she said. "I just don't feel like it now". She finished. Myron was further dejected. 

"Well, ok. Maybe tomorrow then?" he asked, hopefully. "Yeah, maybe?..." Becky replied. The defeated Myron didn't know what else to say. He pulled out the love letter her had written her from his gym bag. He handed it to his girl.

"I wrote this for you, Becky ..." He nervously stammered. Becky took the enveloped letter from Myron's hands and told him she would read it later. 

"Well. okay ... maybe I can call you later, Becky?... would that be okay, Becky?" Myron asked meekly. The young beauty just grabbed her pom-poms and headed towards the door. "Yeah, sure... maybe." she returned as she walked away. 

But, Myron only got Becky's answering machine in the 3 attempts he made to call her that night. He felt awkward trying so hard to talk to her. He only managed to talk to her for a few minutes here and there during the next few days, leading up to that next practice game. 

Myron felt that if he did better in the next game he could impress the girl he was so infatuated with. However, what was once a ray of hope for the lanky Myron turned to despair during that next game. 

The black boys from Baker pulverized the white boys from U Tech even worse. The final score was 129-19 and it was even worse for Myron, who did not score a single point. His opponent, on the other hand, the young Tyrok scored 44 points, slam-dunking in the much taller Myron's face no less than 6 times. Tyrok pushed him around the court the entire game. 

It was an embarrassing defeat for the white boys from U Tech and Myron was humiliated by Tyrok's trash-talking during the game. To make matters even worse, he saw Tyrok standing there and talking to Becky after the game. Coach Lester had just finished a post-game talk and there he was, talking to "his girl" and touching her cheek. Becky was just accepting this without protest.

Myron started to walk over there but then cowardly stopped. He was already well-beaten up from the game and didn't want to hear any more of that trash-talking from the young black boy. Timidly, he waited for Tyrok to finish talking to his girlfriend before he approached her. 

"Hi, Becky ... can we go out tonight and talk?" Myron asked. Becky seemed a little shy and as her eyes looked down at the floor. She spoke softly. 

"Wow, You guys really got beat bad". she said. Myron blushed. "W-Well, uh-yeah I guess so ... but ... well ... it's just a practice game and we hope to do better next time". He said. 

"Oh, okay ... well tonight's not really good for me, tho' ... I mean, me and some of the girls were invited to a party tonight and ... well ... we think we're gonna go." Becky said. 

Myron didn't know what to say. "Oh." he replied. "Well, uh- will you call me when you get in then?" he asked of Becky. 

She simply looked up to the tall, nerdy Myron with her shy, sheepish blue eyes, almost as if she was lost in the thought of something else. "yeah, sure ...I'll try to". she answered. But, that phone call never came. 

Myron had waited up til' past midnight hoping for that call. Many, if not all, of the white boys from U Tech were without dates that Saturday night. Myron had overheard some of the other guys saying something about the girls having some big party, so Myron reasoned that it had to be some sort of a "girl's thing". Maybe a pajama party? 

But, that next day was Sunday and Coach Lester had called a special practice session for 9 o'clock that morning. Myron thought he would see Becky there, since the Cheer Squad always practiced the same time as the team did. 

But, Becky wasn't there at the start of practice. As a matter of fact, 9 of the 15 girls on the cheer squad weren't there. Rather, they stumbled in about an hour and a half late looking like something the cat dragged in, like they had been up all night, partying ... or whatever?!!

Now more desparated, Myron approached Becky after practice and told her that he had writen her another letter last night. He told her that he was thinking about her all night long. "Oh ... how sweet." Becky said as she took the 4-page letter from Myron's limp fingers. 

"I'll open it later ... but I'm tired and need to get some sleep before tonight!" Becky said in a whisper. 

"Oh, okay ... what's going on tonight?" Myron asked, confused. 

Becky was a bit apprehensive, "oh, not much ..." she started, "... just a friend might come by to look at some classes with me and stuff." she concluded. 

"Oh ... well, okay Becky ... I-I can try calling you tomorrow, if you like?... maybe I ... well, maybe I will get a chance to write you another letter, if that's okay with you?" Myron asked. 

"Sure ... if you like?.." Becky replied, quickly exiting the gym. The wimpy Myron just watched her walking away, gingerly, as if she has sprained an ankle. 

The next four days were pretty much the same. 

Becky barely spoke to Myron for more than 5 minutes at a time. She was never available to go out and seemed to have less and less time for him. Myron was determined, though, writing more love letters to Becky and slipping them into her mailbox at the dorm. It was always something that was keeping Becky busy. 

During Myron's frequent calls, he was greeted by comments like, "My friend's still here ... I can't talk now!" she'd say, or "I'm a little too tired to go out," or even "the girls and I already made some plans". 

Myron, beginning to feel a bit despondant, tried reasoning with himself. Afterall, this was all 'new' to her - this relationship they had started - and he decided to continue to take it slow and be that gentleman he knew he was. He would try to be patient and give her time to 'settle' into her new college life. 

School was to begin in another week or so, and Myron knew she had to get ready for that too, right? Besides, he still had two more practice games coming up in the next 3 days and wanted to study the playbook more.

What Myron didn't realize at the time was that the beautiful, fair-skinned object of his affection had gone to a party at Baker College several days before, after that second practice game. 

It was at this party that the young Tyrok had fucked Becky into total submission, pounding her with his 10-1/2" thick black cock for nearly 3 hours. Furthermore, he had been fucking her no less than 4 times a day since then, in his dorm room 20 mles away or her dorm room. And, he had been making her meet him right after his practices in the gym to suck him off. Becky was more than complaint to Tyrok's demands and was at his beckon call.   

Myron's hopes came crashing down during that next game with Baker College, the third game of four practice games scheduled. That is when he discovered what was happening.

U Tech had been dominated and embarrassed in the two previous games with the lopsided losses. Myron was dominated even worse. And, this 3rd game was no different. 

The all-black Baker team defeated the all-white U Tech team, 128-12! Once again, Myron didn't score a point while Tyrok, the boy he was matched up against, scored 51. Tyrok's trash-talking continued as he pushed the much taller Myron around the court like he was a ragdoll. The rougher black boy made such "mean" comments to Myron throughout the game as Coach Lester continued to tell his team not to pay any attention to it. 

But, there was one comment Tyrok made that started to make Myron uncomfortable. When the young, black boy from the inner city noticed Myron looking over towards the sidelines at Becky, Tyrok (in mid dribble), taunted Myron. 

"You like that, don't cha' boy?...." He started almost laughing, "... well, I've been popping that sweet white pussy all week long!" He said. "Wh-What?" Myron yelled exasperated. 

Tyrok drove in for another score. He just smiled, laughing almost evilly at Myron's reaction. 

For Myron, the game couldn't end quick enough. He wanted to talk to Becky and this time he was determined to take her out, if it's the last thing he did! But, that wouldn't happen. 

After the third straight humiliating loss, Myron approached Becky on the sidelines.

"Hi, Becky ... I-I can see you tonight ... I mean, I can take you to a nice dinner and all ... and we can talk some more and maybe go for a walk or something?" Myron said in desparation. 

Becky did not answer. She stood there as quiet as a mouse for a few moments, which felt like an eternity to Myron. That is when Myron noticed that young Tyrok had just approached. He was standing right there! 

"C'mon, bitch ... let's go!" He snapped towards Becky. "And, go get my gym bag from da' bench!" He ordered. Myron's jaw dropped. He couldn't believe his ears. He was speechless as Becky answered. "Yes, Tyrok ... right away, Tyrok!" she replied in an obedient whisper. 

Myron just stood there and watched as the beautiful red-headed irish girl of his dreams scurried across the court to the opponents bench to fetch the darker black boy's gym bag. Becky scurried back to Tyrok and placed the bag at his feet, unzipped it, and pulled out a small sweat towel, before handing it to him. Tyrok just wiped his brow and face with it before wiping off his broad chest. Becky zipped the bag shut and stood up.