The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (30 page)

He checked her eyes to confirm what her lips
had already told him.

She smiled sheepishly. "What can I tell you?
I'm a high performance woman. I can go from zero to lover in under
six seconds, especially like now, when I'm not wearing
panties."

An uneasy feeling grabbed Brad, but he
managed to find a smile. "A natural born free-buffer," he said.

"Only for you, Grasshopper. Only for
you."

Chalk one up for Tawny Cat intuition, Brad
thought as Sandy drove off. And his uneasy feeling lingered. He
knew how temperamental Sandy could be when she wasn't getting what
she wanted. She could also go from lover to Tooth Fairy in under
six seconds.

Love,
Trust and a Conniving Tooth Fairy

At the Vista Room bar, the hand continued to
grasp Betty-Jo's pussy, and a voice whispered, "Worried your
ovaries, didn't I?"

"You slug!" she yelled, but from behind the
hand, it sounded like a muffled, "oo ug."

"That's no way to speak to your lover. And if
your manners don't improve, I'm going to have you right here on the
floor. Sandy's put me in the mood."

"Asshole!" she hollered into the hand, and
then wished she hadn't, because Brad tipped her stool until she was
certain she'd fall.

After her "Sorry! Sorry!" he righted her
stool, put his arms around her waist, and nibbled at her ear.

"That was close," he said. "I was afraid you
were so sloshed you were going to tumble off your perch. Reminds me
of the time I saved you from that mean ol' coaster."

"And you remind me of a woodpecker!"

"Could be worse."

"Without the wood."

Brad escorted her to the table where he and
Sandy had been sitting. Beside the table, chilling in an ice
bucket, was a magnum of Dom Pérignon.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!"

"My meddling Tawny Cat, it serves you right.
Don't you understand that it's impolite to spy on your lover and
his girlfriend, and that if you do, there's a price to be
paid?"

"I'm your girlfriend!"

"You're my lover—forever. Subtle difference,
don't you think?"

He took the ice-cold magnum of champagne out
of the bucket, reached under the table, and shoved it between her
thighs. Then worse came her way. He handed her a menu, pulled her
blouse out of her skirt, flipped up one side of her bra, and guided
an ice-cube to More Fun's tip.

Mortified, she shifted the menu to hide what
was happening to her. "Stop!" she hissed.

"You're not going to make a scene, are you?
Don't you think you've caused enough trouble for one evening?" Her
polka dot had perked up with the ice-cube's arrival, and the
ice-cold bottle between her thighs was arousing her. "If I let you
remove the champagne, do you promise to behave?"

"I will. I promise." She reached down and
retrieved the bubbly. "How did you know I was here?"

"A combination of my X-ray vision and the
lavender perfume you're wearing. I always know when you're within a
mile of me."

* * *

The reality of how Brad knew Betty-Jo was at
the Vista Room bar was less esoteric than X-ray vision and lavender
perfume. He had shown the maitre d' a picture of Betty-Jo, and
asked him to report back if he saw her. Brad knew that his Tawny
Cat was a trusting cat, but he also knew that she was a jealous
cat. He had been unsure which of her virtues would win out that
evening.

Brad was rough with Betty-Jo when he pulled
her to him on the dance floor. She placed her head on his shoulder
and clung to him. "I'm sorry. I thought you were going to sleep
with that Tooth Fairy."

"Your presumption of my infidelity was
greatly exaggerated."

"I know that now."

"Do you remember asking me why I needed you,
when I had those satin sheets, and I told you that it was a lonely
bed without you?"

"Yes."

He moved her away, and apprehended her eyes.
Then he bit her neck to remind her that she belonged to him. "I'm
fond of Sandy, but to me she's like those sheets. Even if I had
Sandy, my life would be dismal without you. When I danced with her,
I thought of you, and longed to be with you. It would be easier for
me to stop breathing than to stop thinking about you, and to stop
feeling your touch in my memory."

"Really?" Betty-Jo said softly.

"In the twilight, I need you to hold me and
dream with me. With the dawn, I need you to stretch for me and make
love with me. But you already know that! How have I failed to
indelibly imprint on your heart that I have loved only you, that I
love only you, and that I will always need and love only you?"

* * *

How could I have believed that Brad's love
and need for me would be any less than my love and need for him?
Betty-Jo thought. Her anger was replaced by a softness in her
eyes—and remorse. What is the matter with me? I know that love and
trust must go hand in hand. Like turtledoves, if one dies, both
die. Then she thought about what had happened to Psyche when Psyche
had failed to trust Cupid. She made a vow to herself that she would
never again allow mistrust to come between her and Brad.

"I'm so sorry. I was terrified. I hurt so
much when I thought I'd lost you."

"Who do I belong to?" Brad said.

"You belong to me."

"That's right. And who do you belong to?" His
eyes held hers.

"I belong to you, only to you. From now on,
down whatever darkened alleys my love for you might travel, I
promise that my trust in you will be its constant companion." Her
lips sought his, and firmly sealed her promise.

He grinned, and his voice caressed her.
"What's your bear's name?"

"I Love Only You, So Much."

"Close enough," he said, as he pulled her
tightly against him.

* * *

Brad found it difficult to believe that Greg
and Belinda were getting married, but he understood how it could
happen. He recalled the last time he'd been with them. From a limo
and petting, to a church and a wedding, he thought.

He was unable to avoid Sandy, because he was
the best man, and she was the maid of honor—an on-the-prowl maid of
honor.

"I think marriage will agree with me," she
told him at the reception. "'It combines the maximum of temptation
with the maximum of opportunity.'"

"I'm sure you don't have to get married to
have all the opportunity you can handle."

"Perhaps, but since it's you that's causing
the temptation. Perhaps you could also do something to provide the
opportunity as well."

He frowned. "Behave yourself, Sandra. You're
almost a married woman."

"I can't." She placed his hand between her
breasts so he'd know that she was wearing the varsity ring he'd
given her. "I suspect that marriage would also suit you,
Grasshopper. 'Men are slow to realize that matrimony is the most
delicious state of life a man can enjoy. When all other amusements
grow dull and insipid, a married man can always find an
inexhaustible fund of entertainment in tormenting his wife.'"

I can appreciate that marriage might be the
most delicious state of life a man can enjoy, he thought, even if
the ability to torment one's wife isn't the reason. However, if
tormenting one's wife is valid entertainment, then there's nobody
I'd enjoy tormenting more than my Tawny Cat.

* * *

Later, Sandy held Brad's ring, and studied
the ECC initials. Then she pressed them to her lips. It isn't fair,
she thought. How can I compete with someone who looks like
Betty-Jo, Dime-Store Floozy? I have pots of money from gram's
estate, but what good does it do me if I can't have Brad? She
slammed her hand on the couch. Stupid of me, I should have gone to
Coastal Carolina with Brad, and let my mother disown me. If I could
get rid of the floozy, I know Brad would come back to me. Nobody
forgets his or her first love. When you need them, where are those
Bulgarians with the knockout drops in their umbrella tips? If I
could hire one of those guys, I could shanghai Betty-Jo, and sell
her to some sultan, in the white-slave market. Might even make a
profit on the wench. I can see it now—Betty-Jo Floozy in some
sultan's harem, riding around the desert on a camel, and me with
Brad all to myself. Then, when the wench is too old to be a harem
floozy, they'd make her look after the goats.

Again, she kissed the ring Brad had given
her, and felt close to him, as she contemplated other ways in which
she might dispose of her nemesis.

Dressing for Show

Betty-Jo easily won her first three Canadian
Open matches, and on Wednesday, she was into the round of sixteen.
Her evening match—against Maria Manendez on stadium court at the
National Tennis Centre—was being televised nationally in Canada on
TSN, and she was dressing for the occasion. She had decided to take
her best shot at tennis superstardom, and if that meant becoming
the Madonna of tennis, hey, she liked Madonna. But she was
terrified. She knew, full well, that what she was planning was an
on-court striptease for millions of men.

For her match, she would be wearing black
panties. In contrast, her short pleated skirt, socks, tennis-shoes,
Revlon lipstick, choker, and form-fitting aerobics top, were pink.
Her aerobics top hugged, separated and lifted her already high
breasts, while it outlined her polka dots beneath the
stretch-Lycra. The Tour would finally have a woman with two breasts
instead of the Presto Log chests that female tennis players—through
some quirk of nature—appeared to have been born with.

When she showed Brad her new tennis ensemble,
he took one look, and told her that he'd made a terrible mistake in
encouraging her to seek supernovadom.

"Tawny Cat, jump up and down." She did. "Take
a look in the mirror. You've really put your tits in a wringer this
time. You're hotter than boiling, and yummier than Bubble Yum. If
you go onto the court dressed like that, your life will become a
permanent spin-dry cycle. You can still change your mind."

"Too late. My mind's made up. Commitment to a
new dress code was difficult for me, because I'm sympathetic to the
struggle of equity feminists, and I find it difficult to believe
that titillating men on a tennis court is helpful."

"Titillating? Couldn't you say arousing?
'Titillating' implies your weapons of choice."

She tossed him a scampish smile. "All the
more reason to stay with titillating, wouldn't you say? But getting
back to the cause—I fail to see how the struggle for sexual
equality, and an attraction to the opposite sex's butt, are
significantly related."

He grinned. "In love with my butt, are
you?"

She nodded. "After falling so pathetically
for you, I increasingly appreciate the physical differences. I love
your bod: its lean, mean look, its feel on my tongue, and its
musky, woodsy smell. I love it. And I have company in my obsession.
All I have to do is go to a rock concert, and look at the women
there."

"Trust me, there'll be no shortage of men to
admire the form you're committed to revealing. You'll be the
Ferrari of the WTA Tour."

"Who'd of guessed? Little ol' me—a
Ferrari."

She had grown up believing what her daddy
told her, that 'a life without risk is no life at all.' She knew,
that her introduction of blatant sexuality to women's tennis, would
have the support and encouragement, of the two men in her life that
counted most.

"Onward and upward, and downward," she said,
as she bounced for Brad's enjoyment.

* * *

It was seven-thirty in Toronto, on an
overcast and humid August evening, when Betty-Jo strolled onto the
stadium court to warm up. When she removed her warm-up jacket, a
collective gasp escaped from the crowd. That was followed by
silence. Then the clapping, and the wolf whistles began.

She knew from Brad's earlier reaction, how
breathtakingly beautiful and provocative the men would find her, in
her pink and black fantasy outfit. Her tawny hair was brushed back
until it caught behind her head in a bow or cascaded downward until
it curled on, or just below, her shoulders. A full, pouting, and
sensuous mouth begged to be tasted, while penetrating emerald-green
eyes, appeared to be on a search and destroy mission for men's
souls. Broad shoulders, supported large jutting breasts, a slim
waist flared into ample hips, and long shapely legs led to what
even God might have been unable to imagine.

Having revealed her charms to the crowd, she
immersed herself in its adulation. Giving herself to Brad was
gratifying and thrilling, but dressing for the pleasure of many
men, produced a different sort of awakening in her. She felt an
adrenaline rush that soon gave way to the feeling that she had
taken some sort of aphrodisiac—she was on an immaculate sexual
high—and she loved it. She bounced a few times, and gave herself to
the crowd. Whatever it was, that was stirring within her, she knew
she would need to feel again.

Within a minute, she had bounced and bent her
way down to the focal point of Canadian manhood. What was happening
on the stadium court, was so extra-ordinary that word went from
household to household. Males phoned other males to tell them about
the surreal beauty that had appeared on the tube from out of
nowhere. Across the country, men scrambled to record for posterity
the enticing bounce of Fun and More Fun.

After she had won her match, in three tight
sets, Brad whisked her away. But soon, across America, highlights
of her match were being re-broadcast to the many lustful males who
had missed her live performance. The call in America, for live
coverage of her quarterfinal match, was unprecedented. Abc
responded.