by Bob Purssell
Of course, all of this hockey knowledge and experience was going straight into my personal game. Now taught to think ahead, having practiced against better players, using a backhand wrist shot that Coach Koniev had taught me, my goal scoring improved dramatically. His training methods also bettered my skating and my conditioning so I often double-shifted. By season’s end, I led the girls’ team in minutes played, goals, and assists.
For some reason, the coach of the girls’ team and Coach Koniev never hit it off. Consequently, I became a conduit for passing his knowledge to the girls’ coach who in turn incorporated it into our game. In a way, I was the assistant coach on one squad and a player coach on the other.
How did we do? Our high school was small and we did not have the talent of the larger schools, but both squads, better trained and highly motivated, over-achieved, reaching the state finals, a school first.
* * *
Billy, my supposed boyfriend, for all his lack of outward masculinity, was neither homosexual nor asexual. In fact, he found me attractive and most desperately wanted to expand the physical aspect of our relationship. However, he could do little without my cooperation. I fended off his pleas for sex with reasoned objections. As for physically imposing himself upon my larger, more muscular body, the thought was ludicrous.
Or so I thought.
One afternoon in mid-February of my senior year, we were alone in his house. Our parents, like our classmates, had no worries that we would explore forbidden areas of sexuality. However, one should never underestimate the sexual urges of the young. Driven by his desires, frustrated by my usual bull, he attempted, gently at first, to wrestle me into sexual submission. Although I doubt he was aware of its impact, Billy’s clumsy struggling had excited my long-suppressed fantasies. In an instant, physical sex had become an achievable reality.
He tried harder. Of course, I didn’t know the rules of the game, which were to either demand he stop immediately or struggle only hard enough to arouse mutual excitement. Far the stronger, I easily overpowered Billy and pinned him to the floor. When I let him up, to my consternation and surprise, his humiliation exploded into rage. Screaming, he yelled, “I’m never going to talk to you again. You-you can go to hell for all I care.” Then, his face contorted in rage, he added, “Go away. Leave me you-you androgynous[24] bitch.”
Something inside me panicked; what had I done? Terrified that he might make good on his threat and abandon me, I grabbed hold of both his hands. He struggled somewhat, but soon gave up trying to break my grasp. Exhausted by his emotions and my strength, realizing his own impotence, Billy’s rage turned to tears.
Maybe compassionate, maybe upset at what I had done to Billy, I stepped forward, pressed my chest against his and gave him a hug. I think I meant this as reassurance and comfort much like a mother does with a child.
Responding, Billy put his arms around me and held me tightly. I started to position my hands so I might push him away, but halted before exerting any force. His desire had ignited the passions within me.
Billy clumsily caressed my back and butt. Excited, I reciprocated. We pressed hard together, genitals against genitals, and I felt his growing stimulation.
I made no attempt to stop what was happening. Far from it, I wanted SEX and I wanted it NOW!
Into his right ear I suggested, “Let’s do it.”
“Where?”
“Your bedroom.”
“Are you sure?”
Too inexperienced and young to realize that all that was needed was the gentlest of feminine encouragement, I argued, “I thought you wanted me.”
“I do, but—”
“But, what?”
Like a worn-out phonograph, Billy replied, “I-I-I—”
“Let’s do it,” I demanded.
Expectant and fearful, Billy looked at me. This time I got it right. I nodded my head and took his hand in mine.
As I led him up the stairs to his bedroom, Billy informed me, “Usually my room’s a mess; Mom made me clean it up last night.”
Yeah, Mom! I thought.
* * *
Inside Billy’s bedroom, we face a crisis in leadership. Taking the lead, he awkwardly kisses me, his hands clumsily touching my body. At this point, many, if not most, young girls, realizing Billy’s ineptitude, would have given up trying to have sex with him.
However, I’m not most girls. As the team manager of the boys’ hockey squad, effectively its coach, I have no compunction about telling guys what to do, so I naturally take over. Thinking of the long-past frat house party, I guide Billy to his bed and tell him, “Take off my top.” Billy has trouble with my bra so I undo the clasp. With me bare-chested, tentatively, he tries to fondle my breasts. I show him how and for the first time I find our sex pleasurable.
Content, enjoying the moment, I do and say nothing.
An experienced lover would have easily guided me to the next plateau. But Billy, tiring of caressing my breasts, can do no more than express his need. “I want to do more.”
Yanked out of my reverie, I try to refocus. In the awkwardness of the moment, I endeavor to think of what to do.
Frustrated, Billy whines, “Don’t tease me.”
I realize my partner, bewildered and confused, will be of no help. Not knowing what to say or do, I open my mouth to deny his accusation, but before I can, he repeats, “You’re just a tease.”
I declare, “I am not.”
He says nothing, pouting.
Determined to succeed or at least have some sort of sexual experience, I gently, but firmly, push Billy down so he is lying on his bed. My hands then move across Billy’s pants and undo his belt buckle. Not stopping, I unzip his fly and slide down his trousers. Billy’s white underwear bulges. For a moment, I hesitate. Had he said anything, I would have pulled my hands back.
However, Billy remains silent, full of obvious anticipation.
Wondering what will happen, my hand slides inside Billy’s underwear and feels for his penis. Automatically, I take hold of the organ.
Again I hesitate; again I would have instantly withdrawn my hand had Billy spoken or moved.
But once again, Billy remains silent and motionless.
I look at Billy’s face. Expectantly he looks back. Slowly, I remove Billy’s enlarged cock from underneath his shorts. Now confronted with the object of my desire, I stop. For the first time in my life, I truly observe a penis in detail. Taken aback by the swollen organ’s appearance, I all but cry out, “You can’t put that thing inside me!”
An experienced lover would have comforted my fears; reassured I would have allowed him to proceed. In all likelihood, I would have experienced sex and continued with my sexual development. However, Billy is ignorant about lovemaking. Clueless and inexperienced, he is no help.
Caught between my raging passions and my fear of the swollen organ in front of me, I freeze.
Billy pleads, “Don’t be a tease.”
No longer in a sexual fantasy, but rather, most alert, I pragmatically realize all depends upon me. Perhaps calling on skills developed during years of racing karts and playing ice hockey, I react to my situation and begin searching for a way out.
Initially, I stroke Billy’s cock, mostly to stop him from calling me a tease. Billy gasps with delight and then says, “Oh,” as his body tenses.
In that instant, I know what to do. I distinctly remember smiling at my realization.
In total control, I begin to pleasure Billy. Eyes closed, Billy’s face is now a picture of ecstasy and contentment.
As the wiseacre in me thinks, Mind if I join you, I slide my left hand into my jeans and start to fondle myself. Filled with pleasurable sensation, I too gasp with delight. On we go together, getting closer and closer to our goals. Billy’s body stiffens and this drives me on. Mesmerized, I watch his sperm shoot onto his belly and shirt. With a
n orgasmic rush, I too climax.
As he recovers, being a nice guy, not realizing that I have just had my own orgasm, Billy offers, “Let me do something nice for you.”
I beg off. “It’s too risky; your mom will be home any moment. You have to clean up.”
He protests, “She won’t be home for at least an hour.”
“No,” I reply. “Take a shower. Wash your things.”
He begins to argue against my idea.
Not listening, feeling an incredible sense of agitation, I stand and fix my bra and top. Billy protests again, and I say, “We can’t risk it. Not a word to anyone.”
Panicking, I fly out of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the back door and into the street. After sprinting the first hundred yards or so, I regain some of my composure. Jogging down the road—I often do this—I now feel tremendous angst and self-disgust.
Again and again, as I run along, I admonish myself. I have done something bad, really bad, and I must never do it again.
This self-flagellation provides no relief. With every stride, I feel worse. Now, I decide to think of something else, but my thoughts keep coming back to Billy and the powerful, enjoyable sensations I have experienced.
By the time I reach home—which is about two miles from Billy’s house—to my mortification, I realize that today I have become one of the school’s “fucking sluts.”
* * *
All my angst needed an outlet, and that outlet turned out to be Billy.
Normally, when I made a decision, I first thought about what I was going to do, pondering alternatives. So upset was I with our dual masturbation that any thought about what had happened was too embarrassing to consider. Instead, I decided to shut the whole experience out of my conscious thoughts.
Two days later, at school, Billy approached me. Unable to look him in the face, when he greeted me, I stared at the floor saying nothing.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You know,” I replied, and then in near panic, I added, “I can’t see you anymore.”
“Why?”
“I just can’t.”
“Barb, be reasonable. If I did something wrong, I—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied. “I’m ashamed of what I did, and it will never happen again.”
“Lots of guys and girls have-have sex. It’s not wrong,” countered Billy.
“It is to me. What I did was wrong and it won’t happen again.”
Wanting to deny what has happened, I turned and walked away. From then on, I avoided Billy.
* * *
In March, after the boys lost in the state championship finals, the long bus trip home was not a happy affair. At first, some of the players expressed anger and frustration; others sat dumbly trying to reconcile what had happened to their dreams. Eventually, except for a few quiet conversations, most of the exhausted players drifted off to sleep.
This was the third time in two years that a team in which I had a key role had failed to win the state championship.
I had captained the girls’ team this year and last. The year before we had gotten to the semifinals mostly because of lucky breaks. This year, we were in the toughest bracket and had upset the tournament favorite. In the finals, we had clawed our way back from a two-goal deficit and forced the game into overtime. We lost when our opponents scored while we were trying to kill a penalty.
After that loss, I received the game’s outstanding player trophy for participating in each of my team’s goals. The winning coach took the opportunity to congratulate me saying, “We were lucky to win; you nearly beat us.”
Be that as it may, as Douglas MacArthur observed, “There is no substitute for victory.”[25] Once again, I had to deal with “almost.” In fact, these rather dismal trips home were becoming something of a regular fixture in my life.
Coach Koniev sat down in the seat next to mine. His toothy grin showing his gold tooth, the coach said, “You are good hockey player; you are good assistant coach. I shall miss you, Varvara.”
I looked up and smiled at our private joke. You see, everyone thought the coach was mispronouncing my name when he called me Varvara. They were wrong. In Russian, Varvara means strange or foreign, but in a positive way. It seemed to fit. Moreover, doesn’t every woman want an air of mystery surrounding her?
I loved this grizzled old man from the “Union of Soviet,” so I got emotional and a tear rolled down my cheek.
“Is good to cry with old comrades.”
Me, a seventeen-year-old, leaned up against the old man as he put his arm around me and repeated his words, “Is good to cry with old comrades.”
I think he too was emotional. We had worked closely together helping the boys achieve what had initially seemed impossible, a trip to the state championship finals. So, to prevent our tears from becoming a flood, he said, “I have words for Varvara.”
With a discreet hand gesture, Coach Koniev said in a whisper, “For them, this is top. From here is downhill.” Anticipating my rebuttal, he expanded. “Most work in factory or on farm, some may make money; most no. Maybe one, two become apparatchik, politician even.” He grunted and waved his hand, as if the last two occupations were contemptible by definition.
Then, pointing at me, he declared, “But you, Varvara; you have future.”
I considered protesting, but I decided to listen.
“You have future because of brain. Is important difference from people on bus.” When I started to voice opposition, the coach said, “I love team. I love players. But smart? No.”
He paused, and then added, “For them is past. For you is future. But is not easy. You must work hard.”
This sounded similar to what my parents and Mrs. W were always telling me. I wondered if adults went to a special school where they learned these thoughts.
“Now I tell you what I know. Victory, defeat, they are nothing. Forget them.” He stopped and waved his hand as if dismissing someone. Continuing, he added, “What is important? Use brain; work hard; do not give up. Everything else is nothing.”
* * *
The summer before I went off to college, I again worked for Mrs. W. She arranged for me to accompany her on a business trip to New York. Although most would think my going was more perk than business, I actually did earn my keep.
Mrs. W was part of the team putting together a leveraged buyout bid for a mid-size manufacturing firm. On the day the bids were to be submitted, Mrs. W asked me to wait for her in the lobby of our midtown hotel while she spoke to the concierge.
I took a seat in one of the overstuffed leather chairs watching people come and go. Behind me, a man sat down and started talking into his cell phone. Making no effort to keep his side of the conversation private, I heard every word he spoke.
“George, nothing yet. They’re still debating how much they’ll bid.”
That line caught my attention. Intrigued, I listened to, but did not look at, the man.
“I know. I’ll tell you as soon as I get their number. They’re talking between one point nine and two point four.”
If you added the word “billion,” these were the numbers that Mrs. W and her fellow executives were discussing. Instantly I realized that someone on the inside was giving away information about our bid. Trying to be unobtrusive, I struggled to hear and remember each word of the conversation.
“They have to submit their bid by 5:00 PM. Got it. I’ll call you as soon as I find out.”
The call ended and the caller got to his feet. I waited until I heard his footsteps then I too stood. Pretending to walk toward the front desk, I snuck a quick glance. All I saw was the back of a gray pinstriped suit and the man’s black hair. I thought of following, but the doors closed before I reached the elevator.
* * *
After I told Mrs. W what I had heard and seen, she
called Mr. Conover, another VP, on her cell. He came to the lobby and together the three of us went for a walk in Central Park. While I told him word for word what I had heard, he fed popcorn to a group of hungry pigeons.
“Can you recognize the person you overheard?”
“I only saw him from the back. He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit, and he has black hair.”
“How old do you think he is?” asked Mrs. W.
“Mid-thirties. He didn’t look that old.”
“Well, at least it’s not one of the partners,” responded Mr. Conover.
Mrs. W interjected. “So far he’s only told them the outer parameters of our bid. That’s not all that useful.”
“But when we make up our minds,” countered the VP, “he’ll screw us.”
Mrs. W responded, “Let’s turn a lemon into lemonade.”
“How?” asked Mr. Conover.
“I’ll call a three o’clock meeting of the staff and the lawyers. We’ll discuss the pros and cons of how we’ll bid. Around four, you and I will agree on offering one point nine billion dollars.”
Understanding what I did not, Mr. Conover grinned.
Continuing Mrs. W explained, “While the rat is telling the competition that we’re going low, I’ll substitute our real bid of two point one billion.”
“Why take a gamble?” asked Mr. Conover. “Why not go all the way and offer two point four?”
“Because I’m greedy. We can use the three hundred million for bonuses.”
The gruff VP smiled at that thought. Then he told me, “I want that SOB. If you can identify him, tell me.”
On the way back to the hotel, while Mrs. W and Mr. Conover talked about the better restaurants in Manhattan, my mind boggled at the thought of the partners dividing three hundred million in bonuses.
* * *
On our way to the 3:00 PM meeting in our law firm’s offices, I told Mrs. W, “I’ll look around for the rat.”
“No,” she replied. “I want him right where he is. It’s key that he tell our competitor that we’re bidding only one point nine billion.”