Girls Who Score

by Ily Goyanes

  I had visited Dad hundreds of times since graduating from Mary Jackson in 1987, but I had never, ever, felt the urge to visit my old school. Despite how much I’d loved playing for the Redwings, by senior year I was desperate to get away from the repressed and repressive atmosphere of MJ, where being queer was an invitation for nothing but pain and misery. Why revisit the site of so many humiliations and so much heartache? I had no need to take a nostalgic tour of the stately student health building, for example, no matter how architecturally pleasing, as that was where a counselor once told me she was sure I would feel less depressed if I just gave men a chance and stopped making my classmates uncomfortable with my unfeminine style and behavior. I also didn’t need to remember all the girls who were “gay after dark” or “gay when drunk” or “gay until graduation” or, the worst of all, “gay with you one time and one time only.” I wanted to be gay all of the time, and that’s why I moved to DC as soon as I could.

  No, I didn’t need to relive those salad days, and most of all, I didn’t need to remember my deep and painful problem with straight girls. I’d had it really bad. All through high school and on into college, I fell in love with my straight soccer teammates, the flick of their ponytails, the twinkle in their eyes, their vivacious breasts and breathy laughter. They, in turn, about killed me, flirting with me like crazy, teasing me into a frenzy. I never stopped hoping that if I just held out long enough; was nice enough, enough of a good sport, a good friend, I would finally get a real kiss, and they would finally let me make love to them. What I got instead was the assignment of designated driver, while they got wasted and gave their boyfriends blow jobs in the backseat. And wasn’t it me, good ol’ Selena, who was always there, holding their hands, when the boyfriends dumped them? Of course it was. If I wasn’t desired, at least I could be useful. At a certain point in my life, I assumed that was all I would ever get. Who wants to be reminded of that shit?

  So when I found myself driving around the side of Tauton Hall, where we used to sneak onto the fire escape and drink, I was feeling very tense. The Booster Club kids were friendly and full of energy, though, nice guys. They told me the Lady Redwings were about to practice, and after we were done unloading, I surprised myself by jogging over to the sports field.

  The smell of the pitch, the freshly painted white lines—things hadn’t changed much. I’d taken a break from my over-40 soccer league back in DC when the twins were born, and jogging around the perimeter of the soccer field made me realize how much I missed it. I fucking love soccer. Always have. I’d slowed down a bit, but in college I was on fire.

  Back in my Redwing days, I was known for being a solid utility player, someone who could run all day with good pace, someone you could count on. Goal assists and creating plays were my fortes, along with laser-like concentration, a slightly insane disregard for my own personal safety, and an ability to assess the whole field quickly. And team loyalty. I loved my teammates. All those sexy straight girls.

  As I lingered on the sidelines, the current Redwings (“Lady” be damned!) ran out onto the field, warmed up, and began to scrimmage, their strong bodies beautiful in the bright afternoon light. A freckled redhead with a long, curly ponytail, glanced my way, then made a beautiful chest trap, redirecting play so that her team scored a goal. It gave me goose bumps, and I shouted, “Yes!” The redhead looked my way again, and I could have sworn she winked.

  Mary Jackson, 1984: I’m running around the track, cooling down after a tough game against the Yellow Jackets, our rivals. They defeated us the year before, but this year we won 2-1. I feel great, alive and horny, the way I always do after a game. Everyone is pumped, hashing over the goals, laughing, whooping. I’m trying to join in, but I can’t concentrate because, as usual, Mindy Harper, right wing, number seven, is running behind me, keeping up a steady stream of nasty talk. I have no idea why she does this, but it’s become a routine, one I both love and hate. Love because the girl is hot and I have a huge crush on her. Hate because she’s drawing attention to me in a way that makes me want to die. Amber Mason, right wing, number eleven, is keeping pace with her, giggling and slapping her arm when she’s particularly nasty. I have a huge crush on Amber, too. I run faster, pretending I can’t hear them, but my butt feels ten times bigger than normal, an easy target for Mindy’s extremely active imagination.

  “Just look at that ass!” she says. “Big and juicy and jiggly. Mm-hmm, just look at those buttcheeks bounce. Damn, Selena, you have the most grabbable ass I ever did see!” She goes on like this for a few more yards until I put on a burst of speed, even though I’m supposed to be cooling down. I flop onto the grass next to Coach Cal, who’s about to start us on our stretching routine, and Mindy shuts up. On the way off the field, though, she starts up again, and by the time we get to the locker room, she’s picked up a few more teammates, all talking about my ass. As I scuttle over to my locker, I’m blushing so hard my eyes water, unable to escape the pack of giggling, snorting straight girls who crowd up behind me. I can feel the heat of their bodies as they brush against me, feel their breasts make brief contact with my back. I am utterly, painfully familiar with their breasts from having seen them naked more times than a baby dyke can be expected to come through and survive. Mindy has small ones, teacups, she calls them, and half the time she doesn’t wear a bra, even in practice, which makes Coach Cal furious. Amber has double-D’s, ripe and heavy, and even tamed by her sports bra, they spring from her chest invitingly. I try not to think about their breasts; try to smile, show them what a good friend I am, what a good teammate, how I can take their teasing good-naturedly. Oh, look, now they’re taking turns trying to rattail me on the way to the shower. Love it. Hate it.

  When I get back from the world’s quickest shower, Amber calls me over. She’s having trouble with her bra and wants me to tighten it for her, first while it’s still on her body, and then, when my fingers aren’t exactly steady, she whips it off and throws it at me.

  “Come on, girl!” she orders, hands on hips, her liberated breasts lusciously swelling in the warm, funky air of the locker room. “Just tighten the left strap for me so I won’t be all lopsided.”

  The reason she needs one strap tighter than the other is because her left breast is slightly smaller than her right. I’m always the recipient of this kind of private girl information, titillating and unbearable. In the locker room, my teammates talk openly and loudly about pubic hair, joking about patches and pelts, discussing which shape is most aesthetically pleasing to men (the upside down ice-cream cone is favored by most Redwings, although Amber herself enjoys a more natural look). They make detailed comparisons of tampons—crammers, Mindy calls them, just to see me blush, as I always do when the talk turns to girl parts. My teammates go on about leg shaving, pit shaving, crotch shaving. Share information about their boyfriends, if they’re good in the sack or not, how stupid they are, what kinds of kissers they are, if they’re romantic or not and what their dicks look like. I never knew dicks could curve before I was number two for the Mary Jackson Redwings.

  Today is no exception, and the raunchiness quotient in the locker room just keeps mounting. Our victory talk is put on hold when Dora, the keeper, comes bounding out of the shower, screaming, “Look, I shaved my china! What do you think?” Everyone crowds around her, asking about razor bumps and what her boyfriend thinks. It’s really starting to get rowdy.

  I have a feeling of dread and anticipation in the pit of my stomach. It was an amazing game, and Mindy and Amber made some unbelievable plays together, including the first goal only three minutes in—a smoking through ball that cut the defense in half. They’re our secret weapon. They look completely unassuming—Mindy, in particular, has a very nonchalant style—but they’re a crazy machine on the field, working together like they have ESP. The skill of their give and go has to be seen to be believed. I love watching them, how Mindy’s ponytail brushes her neck and shoulders as she casually surveys the available plays and then: Nutmeg! Shake and bak
e! Goal! And the killer look on Amber’s face when she’s taking the ball away from some lesser player is a true thing of beauty.

  Everyone is going to have to blow off some steam after this game. We’ll be meeting at Brenner’s after dinner, of course, but there’s usually a lot of what Coach Cal calls hijinks in the locker room first, and that’s what I’m dreading. Anticipating. Really, it’s sexual torture for me, but I don’t yet have the words to explain it. All I know is that my stomach hurts and I’m so horny I’ll come if I cross my legs or if one of my teammates playfully sits on my lap like they tend to do. Come hard and all over the place.

  Packing up my bag in a fog of sexual anguish, I can’t help noticing that most of the team is still only partly dressed. Girls lean against lockers in their panties and bras, talking excitedly, some are still in the showers, and Mindy, wearing just see-through bikinis, is bent over, examining one of her teacups and expounding on her nipple and body hair theory.

  “Blonde, brown-eyed girls like me usually have dark nipples,” she says in a scholarly tone. I don’t know if anyone else is paying attention to her lecture, but her words penetrate my brain like shrapnel. I can’t stop listening, can’t take my eyes off her lean, supple body. “Blonde, brown-eyed girls like me have very pretty dark nipples,” she says again, emphatically, “but the thing is that there is a tendency to have a few hairs, long and silky and blonde, growing around those pretty nipples. You just have to stay on top of that and pluck them out.” She lets go of the first teacup and begins to examine the other. “I’m doing okay right now, very smooth. So anyway, brunette girls with hazel eyes, like you, Selena, tend to have very pink nipples with no hair at all around them. What brunette girls have to watch out for is that they often have a little tuft between their boobies, which also has to be monitored and plucked out.”

  Sitting on a bench near Mindy, Amber is also just wearing panties, a tiny scrap of red cotton with a bow on the waistband. She’s testing the bra strap I’ve finally managed to tighten and return to her. She looks up.

  “You’re so full of shit, Mindy!”

  “No, it’s true! I’ve been studying this very carefully!” Mindy raises her voice. “You guys! Come over here and tell me if I’m right or not!” Girls begin drifting over and Mindy trots out her theory again.

  “Let’s test it!” says Julie, who’s usually pretty quiet, but who made the winning goal and is full of excited energy. She drops her towel, exposing her entire naked body, ice-cream cone, medium-sized breasts, pink nipples and all. The next thing I know, the entire team is standing around topless or completely naked, looking at each other’s tits. Even Andrea and Kelly are in on it (“gay when drunk” and “gay after midnight just when you least expect it” respectively). I’m backed up against the lockers hoping no one will notice that I alone am fully dressed, in my jean shorts, a sports bra, a muscle undershirt and my Debbie Harry T-shirt. Everyone’s so interested in each other’s tits that at first I think I’ll be able to get away with it, even get away completely, which is what I’m dying to do, almost as much as I’m dying to stay. Amber, who once told me she used to practice stripper moves when she was a little girl because she thought it would be a glamorous occupation, is showing Julie and Kelly how to shimmy. The three of them throw their shoulders back and shake. And shake. The bouncing, juddering extravaganza of titties, the impudent parade of panties and pussies: I’m rooted in place. Suddenly Mindy is in front of me, hands on my shoulders, her teacups pressed against my own firmly bound-down chest.

  “Ladies!” she shouts. “May I have your attention please? One of our team members is not in compliance with the bosom test!”

  Immediately, I’m surrounded by the group of naked and near-naked girls. They grab on to me, scold me, pluck at my clothing.

  “Take it off!” Andrea yells, and no matter how I fight, I can’t get away from them, can’t stop them from pulling off my T-shirt, rolling me out of my undershirt and finally, mortifyingly, unhooking me from my sports bra and exposing my modest rack.

  “Selena is a brunette with hazel eyes, and therefore…” Mindy assumes a Carol Merrill pose in front of me while the other girls hold me in place, keeping my clothes out of my reach, not allowing me to cross my arms in front of me.

  “Pink!” they holler, as Mindy nods in satisfaction.

  “Any tuft?” she inquires, and several girls get close enough for me to feel their breath, warm on my skin, as they examine my chest.

  “No tuft!” Kelly reports, running her calloused fingers between my tits. “She must have plucked!”

  “Did you pluck, Selena?” asks Mindy, motioning the girls who hold me to seat me on the bench. She leans over to see for herself.

  “Fuck you.” My voice comes out small and squeaky and I clear my throat. The girls force me down on the bench and Amber gives a little shriek and plops down on my lap, wiggling her ass and pressing her double-D’s against me. I’m going to come, I know it. I make a heroic effort and manage to wrest myself away from my captors and jump up. Amber screams as she falls and I put out my arms to keep her from slamming into the cement floor, and then we all go down. I’m pushed and jostled, Amber falls on top of me, Mindy gives a rebel yell and flings herself onto the pile. Everyone is laughing and screaming. I can feel lips and noses, tits and hands, bellies and thighs and pussies touching my skin. Someone’s finger is in my belly button, someone else’s face is pressed against my neck, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that someone has my hand and is running her tongue over my palm and between my fingers. The cement is cold on my back, the scent of girls fills my nose—perfume, baby powder, shampoo, deodorant, lip-gloss, musk—and Amber is still pressed against me, stretched all the way out on top of me, straddling my leg, her strong thigh snugged up against my crotch. Masked by the commotion made by the pile of our teammates, she grinds down, pushing her cunt into my thigh. I buck up to meet her, my hands automatically cradling her ass. That’s all it takes. I’m coming. Hard. All over the place.

  Trembling, I push Amber away and thrash my way out from under the pile, managing to get up and stumble off a few paces. I crash into a locker and stand there panting, explosions still going off in my pants, my breath coming hard. My face, I know, is red and sweaty and guilty.

  “Hey!” Mindy detaches herself and staggers to her feet, pointing at me. “She’s getting away!”

  Amber flashes me a look, curious, calculating. I see no love in her eyes. I turn and run.

  We got Dad moved into his new place and promised to visit often. He kept saying he would be fine.

  “You think he’s really going to be okay in there?” Bev asked me as we hugged good-bye.

  “Yeah, of course. He’s a tough old guy.” I sounded confident, but how could I know? Dad had already lost so much when Mom died, and now here went his home and privacy, his daughters off living their own lives.

  On the highway heading home, I cranked an old Blondie CD. Mary Jackson was forever sending me information, eager to enfold me in their “family of fabulous alums,” eager, also, for me to open my wallet. I wasn’t interested, and I certainly wasn’t going to give them any of me and Elsie’s money. I didn’t want to friend any of my old classmates on Facebook, either, although the idea of looking up Mindy and Amber crossed my mind every now and again. Really, though, I didn’t want to see them smiling out at me, flanked by their husbands and children and dogs.

  I let Deborah Harry’s voice soothe me, thinking about my own family. I imagined how Elsie’s face would light up when she saw me, how she would hand me whichever twin she happened to be holding, then grab up the other one so we could lean into each other for a family hug. After five years of marriage, it was something that happened automatically when I was sad or lonely or troubled—I would think about my wife.

  I would think about her solid, curvy body, the way she looked after a bath, all rosy and relaxed, her hair wisping around her face, her expression dreamy. “Bubble baths are a strict necessity,” she alwa
ys told me. “That is written in hot-pink calligraphy in the Femme Manual.”

  Elsie’s beautiful face, the sexy mole above her lip, the beginning of crow’s feet around her lovely eyes, her laugh lines, her gorgeous auburn hair, her adorable, slightly sticky-outy ears. I could picture her so easily and so well, picture how she would welcome me when I got home, smiling, holding me in her gaze, her heart, her world of love.

  PLAYING THE FIELD

  Delilah Devlin

  Sweat stung my eyes. I lifted the edge of my blue jersey and wiped my face, never losing sight of the black-and-white ball flying across the short, crisp grass.

  “One minute left!” Coach shouted from the sidelines.

  It’s just a damn game, I reminded myself, but still my stomach plummeted. We needed one point to enter the penalty phase—just one lousy point to tie this game up.

  The Sharks were playing like damn minnows, letting the Vipers kick our asses up and down the soccer field, our home field. And from their grim expressions, every one of my team members felt the same urgency. This would be the last game of the season if we didn’t win.

  For me, it was about more than just the game. The last game was also my last chance to work up my courage to do what I’d been fantasizing about since the team had first started training in early spring.

  A green jersey bumped past me, the Vipers’ player turning her head to give me a smirk before loping off on her coltish legs down the field, following the ball. Anger flared.

  One lousy point. I stretched my shorter legs, heart pumping so hard inside my chest the shouts from the sparse crowd in the bleachers faded away. My focus narrowed to the ball zigzagging from one Viper player to the next, my own blue-jerseyed teammates revealing the strain in their grim expressions as their movements lost fluidity and grace, and they clumsily tried to muscle close enough to steal away the ball.