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 Dee Saves the Program 1 by Peregrinf

   "It's going to be very dull around here without you."

   It was a soft whisper in my ear, a hot breath on my cheek, a tender
lick, all warming my heart, and other parts of me.  The reminder of
graduation, only days away, scared me a little, but the body embracing me
kept those fears at bay.  I was left with a pang, though, because I knew
this, one of the sweetest moments of my high-school career, was a one-time
thing, the only chance we had.

   "Oh, I'm sure you won't get bored," I answered, still catching my breath
from our first glorious orgasm.  It had been as wonderful as I'd hoped,
made more precious because of who I'd shared it with.  In the afterglow I
knew I had given as well as I'd gotten, and that had made it extra special.


   "I don't know about that.  Like now, you never cease to amaze me.  But
before you even crossed the threshold you took on -- what was it you called
them?  -- Tweedle something?  -- on the front steps."

   "Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber.  You mean Misters Cagney and Lacey.  I
didn't know you knew about that.  But of course you would.  Nothing escapes
you."

   "You were so confident, so sure of yourself."

   "I was scared to death.  Haven't you figured it out?  When something
scares me I get pissed and my philosophy is that the best defense is a good
offense," I confessed, hoping this reminiscence wouldn't lead to
"he-whose-name-still-will-not-pass-my-lips."

   This was a night for reminiscing, but that I didn't want to remember.

   "I might have known.  And before the month was out you'd cleaned them
both up, very nicely.

   "And then there was the homecoming dance.  My god!  you wore that
gorgeous dress like a queen.  You were so tall and slender, elegant, a
goddess among the overdressed rabble with their superficial glitter and
sequins.  Those rubies...."

   "Synthetic," I confessed.

   "Synthetic - schminthetic.  What did you have on under it, by the way?"

   "The dress?" I chuckled.  "Nothing, of course."

   "No one but you could have gotten away with it."

   "I was a skinny kid, but that's a wonderful thing to say.  Thank you." I
gave a squeeze.  Oh, I remembered that night well, and happily.  How we'd
danced, Greg and Kathy and me, how we had flirted and teased and aroused
each other, at the table and right there on the gym-become-dance floor. 
And afterwards -- at the home-to-be, where I now lived with my Moms -- we'd
made love, oh how we'd made love, first barely inside the door, then later
in that big bed, and the pool, and the shower....

   "I've always wondered.  Where did you find it?  I've never seen you wear
it since.  Do you still have it?"

   So, I still had some secrets.  "I wouldn't part with it for the world,
but it requires a very special occasion, and I've grown.  I'm hoping I can
let it out.  I'd like to wear it to the senior prom.  Whatever I wear has
to go with the jewelry."

   "Of course.  Even if it's just the jewelry -- now there's and idea!  --
wear JUST the jewelry!"

   "You'd like that."

   "I would.  So would you, don't deny it.  Anyway, worn at your first big
high school dance, and last.  That has a nice symmetry."

   Silence for a moment, for touches and tastes, sensuous delights.

   "You were the envy of everyone there.  All the girls were wishing they
looked half as elegant and sophisticated as you, while the guys wished you
were their date.  And there you were, with two of the most strikingly
beautiful escorts at the dance.  You shamed the snots who deserved to be
put to shame.  The rest of us could only admire and envy you."

   "Being bisexual does have its advantages," I responded with a sensuous
snuggle.

   "Indeed it does.  But where'd you find the dress?  You must have had
help.  Pardon me for saying so, but back then your fashion sense was -- uh
-- underdeveloped."

   "Rudimentary, you mean.  I wasn't even fourteen.  Still a tomboy."

   "Some tomboy!  So give!" The tweak to my nipple added emphasis.  "And
who did your hair?  What happened to the tousled look?"

   Ah, to tell or not to tell?  That was the question.  At the time I'd
been sworn to secrecy.  But Heather had been a senior four years ago and
had graduated with her class, of course, so she was long gone, the makeover
a lasting reminder of all she'd done for me.

   "I had a lot of help there," I admitted.  "A makeover at that beauty
shop that had just opened at the mall.  It was a grand opening special, you
might say, or maybe I was the Grand Opening Special."

   "You were the girl in the front window!  I remember the picture in the
paper, but I wasn't sure it was you.  I didn't recognize your -- ah --
vertical smile at the time." A finger insolently stroked the slit between
my thighs, made me shiver.

   Henri still did my hair -- he maintains his phony French accent with me,
but has dropped his put-on gay-ness, to my pleasure -- and that lovely,
dusky-skinned cosmetician with the talented fingers still waxed my pussy,
even when it didn't really need it.  Sometimes, not often enough, when
business was slow, I again got coifed and waxed in the front window.  I was
going to miss those occasions, too.

   "But about the dress...."

   Should I tell about the dress?  I'd promised, but the reason no longer
applied.  Heather's coterie had fallen apart by spring of my freshman year
in an amazing display of claws and back-biting.  Somehow she'd emerged from
the catfight virtually unscathed, and as a result found much wider
acceptance with the student body, though her romantic life was always
cramped by her experience.  Mongo had been her date for the senior prom,
maintaining their mutual fiction.  I could only hope that he'd be more
comfortable with his sexuality at Harvard.  I'd heard she'd met a nice guy
in college.

   What harm could it do now to tell?

   "I had help," I admitted, deliberately teasing.  "We found it at that
SPCA thrift shop."

   "Way out there?  They've got nice stuff.  But who helped?  Who's 'we?'
Come on, give."

   "Promise never to tell?"

   "Of course!"

   I relished the surprise.  "Heather MacKenzie."

   "You're kidding!  You were sworn enemies back then...."

   "As the old saying goes, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.' You know
what -- or who -- we had in common, and for some reason she insisted she
owed me."

   That was about as close as I wanted to come to mentioning him.

   This silence was tense, both of us remembering what we'd rather forget,
but never could.

   "We actually became close.  Very close, for a time, but hid it, rather
than be shunned by our own groups.  You know cliques."

   "Too well.  Watching your Lunch Bunch and the Bee Hive in the cafeteria
was like watching the Hatfields and the McCoys without the gunfire.

   "But thanks to her, what an impression you made at the dance!  And then
there was the Homecoming Pep rally.  You were the first freshman ever named
Miss School Spirit."

   "And almost certainly the last." I was relieved at the change of
subject, sort of.  That had not been my finest hour.  What is that Chinese
curse?  May you live in interesting times?  It certainly had been
interesting.  "That was Heather's doing, again.  I think she meant well."

   "Somehow you held it all together."

   "Somehow is right!  Maybe if I'd been warned I could have done an even
better job," I grumbled.

   "Quit fishing for compliments.  You pulled off a miracle and you know
it." Distracting fingers traced a warm line, from the base of my neck all
the way down my spine to the crack of my naked ass, soothing away the sting
of that gentle rebuke.  Delicious goose bumps trailed the touch every inch
of the way down, and that was a lot of inches.  During my sophomore year
I'd finally stopped growing, topping out at six-foot-one with, as Coach put
it, the wingspan of an albatross.  I resisted the urge to raise my bottom
in invitation, contenting myself with a squirm and a snuggle against warm
skin.  It had taken me four years to arrange this rendezvous, and I was
determined to make it last and savor every delicious minute of it.

   "It was a miracle I survived."

   "But you did."

   "I had -- a lot of help -- from my friends," I admitted, my breath
catching at the way the fingers insolently probed the valley of my butt
even without my encouragement, an intimacy I'd hardly dared to dream of
four years ago.  I returned the favor with nips here, and touches there,
even as I remembered how the great MSS adventure had all come about.

   Once again, I'd owed Heather for the opportunity, and the work she'd
done with the cheerleaders.  All things considered, it had come off better
than we deserved, and in the end I was still standing, though my feet were
bruised and spattered with pumpkin guts.

   * * *

   The moment I heard my name over the PA I knew who to blame.

   I was a freshman, a nobody, and certainly not a cheerleader.  Only once
before had someone other than a senior cheerleader been named Miss School
Spirit.  That time the football team's star running back (a senior, I
think) had used his clout vindictively trying to embarrass my brother's
girlfriend, junior class geek and future valedictorian Beth Finch.  It had
been a clumsy attempt to humiliate her which completely backfired.

   In the years since then the old tradition had been upheld so I'd thought
I was safe.  I should have listened to my best friend and former lover
Missy when she'd warned me I might be chosen.  Now it had happened.  Not
that I could have done anything to avoid it.

   Shit!  I knew only two people who had the influence to pull off such a
coup, but I couldn't help wonder why they'd done it.  As Head Cheerleader
Heather had to have instigated it.  What had I done to her to deserve it? I
thought it was all fine between us.

   Since the football team made the actual selection she must have enlisted
Matthew "Mongo" Mozilla, football team co-captain and star wide receiver,
in the plot.  Somehow she'd convinced him to lobby the team on my behalf.
But why would he do such a thing to me?

   Maybe they thought it was an honor.  Maybe I should have told them what
I thought of the whole stupid Miss School Spirit thing, but the subject had
just never come up.

   An honor?  In whose world?  Certainly not mine!  The position of Miss
School Spirit was nothing more than the product of testosterone-fueled
sexism.  And by "position" I do NOT mean on her back, legs spread, a burly
linebacker between her thighs, as previous nominees had been rumored to pay
for the "honor." Some even offered themselves before the fact in hopes of
improving their chances of being chosen.

   It sometimes worked, I'm told.

   Since she had been in The Program, Beth had performed her MSS duties
wearing nothing more than body paint and a smile.

   Strange.  Every MSS since had been a program participant.  What a
coincidence!

   NOT!

   I wasn't in The Program, but I was no fool.  If I didn't do it in the
nude it would be a scandalous disappointment.

   What the heck.  I'd already I'd spent more time naked in school than I
did dressed, so it wasn't any big deal.  The major problem was that I had
only two days to somehow produce a pep rally worthy of kicking off the big
homecoming football weekend.  On game day my main assignment was simply to
motivate the players to efforts greater than even naked cheerleaders could
inspire.

   Good luck with that, I thought, given my lack of pulchritude.

   "You're tall, you're beautiful, you are Sexy," my ever present mental
companion and professional nag The Stick whispered in my ear.  I'd long ago
learned not to argue with her.

   Tradition was that my term in office concluded with a post-game
appearance in the team's locker room, along with those members of the
cheerleading squad willing to put their bodies on the line, either to
celebrate the victory or console the losers.  Should I choose to partake in
that I'd experience first hand what it was rumored that Beth Finch had
enjoyed, or endured, if that's the word I want.

   But getting back to the nitty-gritty, how was I going to produce a pep
rally that stirred the team and the crowd to a patriotic frenzy, given my
total lack of show business experience, scrawny physique (Stop that!  The
Stick ordered) and meager talents?  Granted, I would be bolstered by
martial music from the band and frolicking by pulchritudinous cheerleaders,
but I needed a dramatic entrance and a stimulating routine to rouse the
crowd.

   Beth had arrived on the back of her buddy Stephanie's gelding
Bucephalus, brandishing a blazing emergency flare to light the bonfire. 
Then, after leading us (yeah, I was in the audience) in a pulse pounding
cheer the rally was capped off by a professional pyrotechnic display,
courtesy of her daddy's connections.

   How could I top that?

   Shit!  I needed help.  Beth had combined her own brilliant creativity
with a willing and energetic stay-at-home Mom, a well-connected Daddy, a
boyfriend in the band as well as a lesbian horse lover to supply the
steed....

   No, the horse wasn't lesbian, Steph was -- oh never mind.

   I wasn't anywhere near as creative as Beth.  I wasn't as curvaceously
blessed as Beth was, no matter what The Stick kept telling me.  I was a
too-tall freshman jock with limited connections and even more limited
funds. While I had friends, the demands far exceeded the talents of my
Lunch Bunch.  No way could I drop any of this in my working mom's lap, she
had enough to deal with.

   Who could I put the touch on?  I needed someone with theatrical
experience.

   Ah HAH!  I knew just the person!  Who could be better suited than the
current president, former vice-president, and frequent producer of and star
in the drama club's presentations?  This particular someone, also Head
Cheerleader, by some happy coincidence just happened to be the person who
had gotten me into this MSS mess in the first place.

   It was table-turning time.

   "Hi, Heather!" I greeted her brightly in a carefully orchestrated
"accidental" hallway encounter.

   "Congratulations!" she responded politely, butter not melting in her
mouth.  As Head Cheerleader she'd been short-listed as a MSS candidate, but
I knew it was the last thing in the world she'd wanted, which was probably
one of the reasons she'd set me up as the fall-guy.

   And before you get the wrong impression, in public we maintained a cool
facade while privately exploring a tentative friendship if not lover-ship,
if that's a word.  I liked her, the REAL her, not the persona she donned as
Queen Bee of The Hive at lunch.

   Putting on my best hungry-puppy look I quickly went into my song and
dance, figuratively speaking of course, that here I was, faced with a
monumental challenge for which I was totally unqualified.

   "And you wouldn't want to see shame brought upon the noble office of
Miss School Spirit by my clumsy efforts," I concluded as she did her best
to bite back a knowing smile.

   "You want me to produce and direct the Pep rally for you," she concluded
wryly, batting her big baby-blues at me naively.  I knew better.  She was
anything but the dumb blonde she made it a point to appear.

   "Would you at least, maybe, provide me with a concept, some kind of
dramatic entrance?  And maybe, since you're Head Cheerleader, you could
coordinate things with them?  And the football team will be there, of
course, but maybe you could talk to Mongo -- I mean Matt -- so that they
could be part of it, instead of just standing around looking macho?  And
then, there's the band, and lighting the field, and lighting the fire,
and...."

   "And how about the Junior ROTC corps for a color guard while we're at
it?" she suggested facetiously.

   "What a good idea!" I agreed enthusiastically.  "But we'll save that for
the game.  And maybe the Chemistry Club could come up with some suitably
theatrical pyrotechnics!"

   "You're forgetting the Astronautics Society," she added dryly.  "They're
always looking for an opportunity fire off some rockets.  I hear both the
Federal Aviation Administration and the SPCA have them on their watch lists
after their latest flight."

   "What's the problem?  They missed that little plane, and the mouse
survived, didn't it?"

   "Yeah, but the pilot almost had a heart attack.  He filed a complaint.
And that poor mouse never ran in his exercise wheel again.  Whoever heard
of a mouse with PTSD?  They should have just used an egg or something.  -
Maybe you'd like me to get the Blue Angels for a flyover."

   "Could you?"

   She shook her head.  "You are something else again."

   For a moment I was afraid she was going to turn me down, or worse, pull
out her patented and guilt-inducing "I'll do it, but only because I owe
you" rationalization.

   "Okay, you know I love a theatrical challenge.  This'll be more fun than
the Great Homecoming Dance Dress Hunt and Makeover Campaign.  We'll need to
set up a brainstorming meeting, and that's got to be this afternoon, right
after classes, 'cause pulling this together is gonna take some fast
footwork by all concerned."

   "I've got to model for Kathy Powers this afternoon, with Greg," I mused
-- which thought, as always, triggered that good feeling in my pussy, even
as it made me think of a request for Kathy, which I quickly tucked away for
future action.  "Can you get the people?  And could we have the meeting in
the art studio?  If I don't move too much while I'm posing I can
contribute, or at least listen to what you're planning."

   "Yeah, I'll round up the usual suspects -- and some unusual ones, too,
come to think of it.  Getting those geeks in Chem Club and Astronautics all
moving in the same direction will be like herding cats.  But if you're
posing the way I think you will be they'll all want to be there. 
Multi-tasking, are we?"

   "It's the only way!  Hey, thanks a million.  I've got to get to German.
See you this afternoon."

   I scampered off before she could come up with some excuse she couldn't
do it, confident that somehow she'd manage to get everyone there.  She can
be very persuasive!

   Which is how I wound up that afternoon in the art studio naked (as
usual), down on my knees (not unusual), with Greg's cock up my ass (unusual
but enjoyable) while Kathy Powers, all luscious five feet ten of her, also
naked (as usual), was behind us, shaping clay.  She'd been glad to agree to
the idea I'd proposed to her, but more about that later.

   With Greg to my south, backing me up, so to speak, my north end was
facing, in no particular order, both co-captains of the football team (one
of whom was Matt Mozilla), the band's drum major (the band director unable
to attend, much to his regret, I'm sure), the Junior ROTC Cadet Commander
(in full uniform -- yum!), plus, as Heather had anticipated, the full
memberships of the Chemistry Club and the Astronautics Society.  It was a
critical mass of nerd power.  Who knew what might happen?

   Also there was the Head Custodian, responsible for assembling materials
for the bonfire as well as managing the field lights at the rally.  The
head of security was there to insure our safety, and a representative from
the fire department to limit our pyromania.  Heather had thought of
everything!

   She was doing dual duty, or should that be triple?  In addition to
chairing the meeting she was Head Cheerleader, coordinating them, and would
be charged with the overall choreography and staging, such as it was given
the lack of rehearsal time.

   It made for a crowded room, and a hell of an audience to Greg's and my
artistically posed buggery.  Every once in a while Greg would start to
soften, so he'd take a stroke.  That usually resulted in a grunt or sigh
from me while my eyes crossed.  I also had a tendency to drool and lose
focus and have to ask someone to repeat something, but then some of the
attendees had similar attention deficit episodes, which I attributed to
Greg's and my display.

   I maintained my carnal edge by sneaking diddles at my clitty or probing
my pinched cunt with a finger.  Periodically Kathy would get a little
hands-on with us to capture a tactile impression of our -- ah --
connection, which contact also stirred my lust as she fingered my dilated
bung and Greg's dork or teased my pussy.

   Before the meeting had opened, even as the ad hoc committee had begun
assembling, we'd discussed going for vaginal penetration, but Kathy argued
that it was not the same as anal -- well doh!  -- and would not provide the
same verisimilitude, if that's the word I want.  She'd already finished her
sculpture of Greg doing me doggy style and wanted this one to be more --
uhm -- earthy, you might say.  Just so there'd be no doubt as to which
orifice he was using, Greg's cock was only about halfway in, leaving a
visible gap and the two of us hanging, so to speak.

   It also threatened to be a long meeting.  I just hoped I wouldn't wind
up with serious fecal retention issues by the time it ended.  After all,
the valve back there was designed to keep stuff in, with only brief periods
of relaxation to allow the stuff to be expelled.  Even though Greg's
appendage is of relatively modest diameter I was dilated by it for the
duration.

   Oh, I do suffer so for Kathy's art!

   And yes, the spectators who had the good fortune to arrive in a timely
fashion were MOST interested in our discussion and in the mechanics of the
act, everything from the amount of lubricant being applied by Kathy to my
back door (a lot!) and Greg's cock (ditto), followed by his gentle but
relentless insertion into my -- Oh My!

   Mercifully, Heather was an effective chair, moving the meeting right
along, even managing to rein in a scrum among the geek squads and the Fire
Marshall over payloads and propellants or some such.  The Fire Marshall
even came up with a way for me to make a suitably dramatic entrance,
courtesy of their ladder truck and some specialized rigging.

   As the meeting concluded and Kathy finished her sculpting, Greg and I at
last began to seriously address the matter at hand, or rather to my rear,
regarding orgasmic release.  The concluding action was briefly delayed by
multiple geeks offering to participate.  That was stifled by a request from
Matt on behalf of his teammate -- the equation being that two jocks
overrule any number of nerds.

   It seems Matt had offered any of my -- uh -- available openings as
encouragement -- I won't use the word bribe -- to gain his co-captain's
support of my candidacy

   He did, however, stipulate that it would depend on my willingness to
indulge him.  Matt is a gentleman, after all.

   Well, I thought, after all, a deal is a deal.  Isn't that how politics
works?  As the saying goes, it isn't who you know it's who you blow. 
Raising my head, I offered my mouth and accepted the plummy head of the
middle linebacker's impressive erection, grateful my rear was already
engaged with a more modest prod.  With both ends of my alimentary canal
engaged while everyone looked on I felt a bit like I was on display at the
fire department's annual fundraising pig roast.

   And lest they felt discriminated against, I issued the geek groups a
rain-check in the form of a promise to appear at their next meetings.

   Oh MY!  Oh jeez!  Oh SHIT!  I was really getting the shaft(s)!

   Not that I minded, you understand.

   Having been so occupied with me for some time, Greg fired the first
salvo, but the linebacker wasn't far behind.  Apparently he'd been more
than somewhat aroused from simply watching, so while my ass was receiving
an exquisite enema from Greg's dick I got a load of creamy mouthwash from
the cock in my mouth.  Hot jizz flowed thickly and copiously, until it
spilled down my chin and ass to drip on the sheet covering the stage where
we posed.

   Was I coming?  Oh God, was I ever!  I admit, posing for Kathy is a tough
job, but someone has to do it and I figured it might as well be me. 
Un-spitted by the guys, my arms and legs giving out, I sprawled on my face,
licking my chops as my anus contracted to stem the flow of Greg's emissions
from my butt.  It was a relief to know my sphincter still sphincted.

   The only thing lacking was a round of applause, which I really felt we
deserved.

   After that I was afraid the actual pep rally proceedings might be
somewhat of an anti-climax, pun intended, but I was wrong.  Come Friday
evening, the sun nothing more than a glow on the western horizon, two
firemen and I and some interesting hardware were sharing the absolute
tip-top of the fully extended ladder of the fire department's tallest
ladder truck.

   The truck was parked out beyond the center field fence, its fully spread
stabilizers digging into the access road to provide a stable launch
platform.  Being behind the field lights we were in near darkness, which
suited our purpose nicely.  In the distance there was a big pile of scrap
lumber, pallets and retired furniture at ground zero, the pitcher's mound.
It was crowned with an old office chair in which sat, all stuffed with hay,
a pair of old jeans and the jersey of tomorrow's opponent.  The straw-man's
head was a grinning pumpkin, of all things.

   As I'd climbed the ladder one fireman led the way while the winner of a
best two out of three rock/paper/scissors contest followed my behind.  The
only thing between my skin and the air was a harness like a skydiver might
wear, only I had no parachute, and Kathy's artistically applied swoops and
swirls of the school's scarlet and gold colors.

   Well, what else would a well-dressed MSS wear to a pep rally?  If it was
good enough for Beth it was good enough for me!

   However, unlike her, I had refused to mess up my hair with mousse or
dye. I was a natural blonde and my nice, new, well-behaved coif, courtesy
of Henri, would be just have to do.

   The very nice firemen were giving me hands-on assistance as they
carefully, very carefully, checked the harness.  I appreciated their
thoroughness, and not just because my life depended on it.

   That done, using a carabineer one fireman attached me to the wheeled
gadget called a trolley that hooked over the zip-line.  Checking his watch,
the second helped me shift around so I was dangling below the cable
reaching from the top of the ladder, out and out and out and down and down
and down, to an anchor point attached to the backstop directly behind home
plate.  Dangling in the air many feet up gave me a deliciously scary
feeling in my crotch, which the harness straps digging most enjoyably into
my pussy only added to.

   The firemen again reminded me to lead with my feet so I'd only be
risking two broken legs, as opposed to a busted neck or a full-frontal
smash if something failed.  How thoughtful of them.

   Thursday afternoon we'd tested the rigging every way we could think of
and it had all worked just fine.  A hundred and fifty pounds of potatoes --
no I do NOT weigh that much!  -- had made the run three times and we got
French fries at today's lunch instead of mashed.

   I won't go into the details of the negotiations with Mom that finally
convinced her to sign on the dotted line that indicated this was my wacko
idea and no one else would be held liable should something go wrong.  In
spite of that, both the school and the fire department bought insurance
policy riders that would pay my medical bills up to one million dollars. 
How comforting.

   However, I found out those weren't very expensive, so I figured it was a
safe bet.  After all, what could go wrong, other than the trolley jamming,
leaving me dangling ignominiously half way to my goal, for example, or my
harness or rigging breaking, dropping me with a splat at second base, or
being incinerated should the bonfire prematurely erupt in flames -- you do
know, of course, that the pitcher's mound was between center field and home
plate, directly under my flight path -- or me plunging face first into the
pile of padding against the backstop, or missing that completely and
getting diced by the fencing, or -- well, you get the idea.

   I'd run all these scenarios through my mind, over and over since we got
this idea.  The fire department insisted that the system had been tested
and used as a thrill ride at fire department field days many times, though
never for more than about two hundred relatively level yards.  My mental
math told me I was starting more than twice as far from the finish line,
more like a quarter of a mile from my destination, on a definite
down-slope.

   Oh well.

   Scared?  Me?  You bet your ass I was scared!  But I wouldn't have missed
this chance for all the candy bars in Hershey, Pennsylvania!

   What had me even more concerned than facing death or dismemberment was
that we'd had no full rehearsal for all the rest that was supposed to
happen.  None!  The various factions had supposedly studied their parts,
but it was up to me to somehow pull everything together on the spot after I
came in for a landing.

   In the distance I heard the soft bass drum rumble that the band used to
lead into the bold brass opening of Also Sprach Zarathustra.

   The geek squad had greeted that choice of music with raucous joy,
knowing it as the opening theme of 2001: A Space Odyssey.  I didn't know
the movie, but God knows I knew the music.  Brother Carl had practiced his
part on his trombone often enough.

   "Twenty seconds," the fireman steadying me warned, the gentle breeze
drying my nervous sweat as I hung there, gripping my harness with both
hands, bobbing gently in the breeze.

   I'd mentally counted down, and right on "five" there were muffled
"pops-fizzes" as two emergency flares were lit behind me.  I had to pry my
fingers loose from the harness so they could hand them to me.

   Shit!  I suddenly needed to pee!  Maybe no one would notice if I watered
the outfield on my way in.

   The firemen gave me a shove and I was off, about two minutes flight time
from ground zero.

   "baaahhh, Baaaahhh, BAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!  Baaahh baaaahh," the brass blared.


   "BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM -BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM -
BOOM -BOOM - BOOM!!" went the drums.

   "baaaaah, Baaaaaaaahhhh, BAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!  baaaaah beeeee!" went the
brass.

   "BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM -BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM - BOOM -
BOOM -BOOM - BOOM!!"

   I spread my long arms wide, Wide, WIDE, thinking dragon wings with fiery
feathers as I went down and down and down the zip-line, faster and faster
and faster, flames, smoke and sparks streaming back from the flares, the
cable whining through the wheels of the trolley, a note rising to rival the
music, the wind whistling in my ears, tugging at my hair, lashing my skin
as the band played on, a mighty, soaring brass crescendo.

   "WAAAAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

   That was unscripted, but I couldn't resist it.  My voice echoed over the
field as the band soared toward its triumphant peak.  I WAS FLYING!

   I came blazing out of the night like the scarlet dragon that was the
school's mascot.  I'd wanted to make my entrance breathing fire, but we
couldn't figure out a way to do it without burning my face off, darn it. 
Even so, as far as I was concerned this sure as hell beat out clinging to
the back of a stampeding Percheron or whatever it was Beth rode.

   Shit!  Was I going fast!

   Man!  If I hit the chain-link backstop I'd be sprayed all over the
people in the expensive seats!  They'd have to bury me in a bucket!

   But I didn't have time to worry about it.  Timing was critical.  I was
approaching ground zero at what felt like the speed of sound, coming in
like a bomber on the final run.  I had to lead my target.  Some geek in the
Astronautics Club had done some calculations and paced it off, so at a
chalk stripe about halfway between second base and ground zero I dropped
the flares.

   Whoops!  We hadn't allowed for the straw man!  Grabbing my harness I
lifted myself and led with my feet...

   God bless calculus!  It was a perfect shot.  I was directly above the
flares when they hit the base of the bonfire to be.  An explosion of sparks
became fast spreading flames thanks to the "accelerant," as the Fire
Marshall so delicately described it.

   The geek had just earned himself a blow job.

   But no time for that now!  My feet decapitated our nemesis in effigy
with a hollow WHOCK!  pumpkin pieces splattering in all directions, the
soles of my feet stinging from the impact.  I was glad he'd been pretty
much cleaned out and carved, and if I'd hit the old office chair that would
have really hurt!

   A wave of heat licked my naked ass.  The fire had spread almost too
fast.

   What else might go wrong?  Lots!  I was fifteen feet in the air, coming
in right over the center of home plate, a sinking fast-ball well above the
strike zone.

   Well, maybe I was more of a knuckle-ball.

   Or perhaps a screwball?

   Man that backstop was approaching fast!

   Bracing myself, I was just about to kiss my ass goodbye when the hook on
the trolley caught the braking cables with a mighty TWANG!  With a creak
and groan, springs and shock absorbers soaked up my momentum, making me
swing and bounce wildly.  Two trained volunteer firemen, senior football
players, bless their muscular hearts, caught me on the rebound, deftly
released me from the trolley and set me tottering on my feet.

   As they helped me strip off the harness I thought Shit!  It was over!  I
wanted to do it again!

   But I was quickly brought to my senses when Gail, Meredith, and Cynthia,
fellow members of our county championship girl's medley relay swim team
came running over.  I'd drafted them because they knew my patented and
trademarked Mojo Bounce routine.  They were naked of course as they joined
me at home plate.

   This I could do on autopilot, though I was still catching my breath. 
The band had fallen silent except for a soft, steady, deep rumble from the
drums, the crowd hushed, wondering what we were doing.  The only other
sound was the bonfire's crackling.  We huddled up, arms around each other's
shoulders, just like old times, warm skin to warm skin, looking at each
other, grinning like idiots.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked, just loud enough for the front rows to
hear, bending my knees, beginning the gentle bobbing motion of our Mojo
Bounce, getting us in sync with the drums.

   "Win!" they answered together, again softly.  It was music to my ears.

   Bounce, bounce, bounce.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked, louder, bouncing a little higher, just a
little bit, we had a long way to go in building this.

   "WIN!"

   Bounce, Bounce, Bounce -- higher, stronger.  Letting go of my group, we
reached out, our huddle growing as, right on cue, the senior cheerleaders
joined us, again wrapping arms around each other's shoulders.  Heather
suddenly was to my right, bless her, grinning at me, the flickering light
of the bonfire dancing in her eyes.  She was loving this!

   "What're we gonna do!!" I asked louder.

   "WIN!" they all responded, still louder, bouncing harder.

   Bounce!  Bounce!  Bounce!  Bounce!

   "What're we gonna do??" I asked again, still louder, bouncing harder
even as we broke the huddle to draw in the rest of the cheerleaders.

   Bounce!  Bounce!  Bounce!  As the circle grew it took longer to get
synched up.

   "WIN!!" they answered, louder yet!

   I could feel the audience beginning to throb with us, the rhythm section
of the band growing stronger, the conga drums joining the bass drums,
thumpa, thumpa, thumpa.

   Bit by bit, bounce by bounce, it grew and grew.

   BOUNCE.  BOUNCE.  BOUNCE.  Rising on our toes now, opening our ring,
they held on to me as I led the line to encircled the football team, just
as naked as we were, milling like a bunch of confused buffalo, not knowing
where to look or what to do.  Man did they look vulnerable lacking their
padding and helmets, but wowie!  What a sight, all those bobbing dicks!

   "What're we gonna do???!!!" I yelled, the girls joining me as the team
hesitantly joined our bouncing.

   "WIINNN!!!!!" the men shouted when we girls all pointed at them.

   Okay, so it wasn't Busby Berkeley and yeah, I do know who he was.  I'd
seen some of his old movies!

   JUMPING!  JUMPING!  JUMPING!  I let go and waved to the ring to descend
on the football team, reaching to grabbed Mongo's hand, each cheerleader
grabbing the hand of a player.

   With me at one end, Heather at the other end of what was now a line we
could drag them around to form a circle around the dying bonfire.  Hand in
hand we circled the bonfire, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.  Almost by magic
the girls shouted almost together, "WHAT'RE WE GOING TO DO?"

   The men answered "WINNNNNN!!"

   Over and over, it grew louder and louder and louder, the grandstands
groaning as the spectators joined the rhythm, stamping their feet.

   When we'd rotated me back to home plate I stopped us circling, but still
bouncing, as I let go to turn toward the crowd, my back to the fire. 
Facing the stands, I raised my hands high, pumping my arms, jumping high,
jumping, jumping, jumping adding "CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!"

   Heather and Mongo leading, the cheerleaders and players unwound to
spread along the baselines, all of them picking up the "CHUFA!  CHUFA! 
CHUFA!"

   "CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!" the crowd joined, jumping and stamping their
feet harder.

   By now the bonfire was already well down, the scarecrow long gone, and
people were getting winded.  Thanks to Coach and his wind sprints, I was
still going strong.  I pumped my fists high, waved my arms, getting
everyone's attention, then spread my hands wide as I pumped.  I began
folding fingers, one by one, an obvious countdown -- five, four, three, two
one in time with CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!!!  cutting them off
with a wave.

   Silence.  Pause!  Like a conductor, my arms swooped and brought out a
ragged "WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!" even from the band instruments.

   As it echoed over the field I dropped my arms and the lights went out,
behind me the only light a mound of charcoal with dancing flames where the
bonfire had been.

   What timing!  A series of small rockets began launching along the
outfield fence, the first two going up from the foul poles -- WHISH!

   God bless those geeks!  The whole thing was computer controlled and
worked perfectly!

   Pair by pair marching in toward center field, trails of sparks shooting
up -- whish, whish, whish, whish, whish, whish -- rockets reaching for the
stars.  I lost count.  I didn't know they'd be able to get so many of them
ready.  They must have had 'em stockpiled and still worked their asses off!


   Okay, so they were toys, models, and they only went up maybe a hundred
feet, and they weren't loaded with the huge chrysanthemum blossoms Beth had
arranged, but the smaller "crack!  crack!  cracks!" of the payloads, the
alternating scarlet and gold bursts thanks to the chemistry club's magic,
were darned impressive, as little parachutes blossomed to return the
rockets themselves gently to the outfield grass where the geeks could
recover and re-use them for their experiments.

   The whole crowd was on their feet cheering.

   ZOWIE!  We'd done it!

   * * * God what a memory!

   "What about the football game?" I was asked as we caught our breath
after another wonderful ride up the orgasmic mountain together.

   "What about it?  We won, of course!"

   "After we'd gotten our butts kicked in the first half," I was reminded.
"What did you tell them in the halftime locker room?  In the huddle before
your Mojo Bounce to start the second half?  They came out of that breathing
fire, especially Mongo!"

   What did I tell them?  They'd gone into the locker room like wilted
celery, like limp dicks, their heads hanging, especially the damn
quarterback after the last interception he'd thrown.

   "I told them 'Pick up your damn heads, stand tall!  You're big, you're
strong, you're tough, you're better than that, better than they are.  Go
get 'em!  Pluck 'em like the chickens they are!'"

   Here in the dark, in this warm embrace I didn't add, that I'd told 'em
I'd be there in the locker room for them after they won.  I like to think
that maybe that had been the motivation they needed.

   Shrewdly, a soft question in the darkness.  "And what happened in the
locker room after the game?"

   I snuggled close.  "What happens in the locker room after the game stays
in the locker room," I answered softly.  "That's the rule."

   What I didn't say, couldn't say, was that I'd been joined in the locker
room by some of the cheerleaders, but not all of them, and not Heather,
definitely not Heather.  And while they helped, they were available, I was
obviously the team's trophy, the Grand Prize.  I'd been handed around like
a toy.  Apparently each of 'em wanted a piece of me, as if to prove
something to me, and they did, each got his piece, and I loved every moment
of it.

   All my openings -- but one -- got a hell of a workout from all of them
-- but one.

   My ass was Mongo's, and nobody else's.  After the Mojo Bounce at the end
of halftime, as the second half kickoff was in the air, Mongo on the
sideline waiting to see where they'd start from, I'd whispered in the
ear-hole of his helmet.  Deliberately putting my hot breath right in his
ear I'd promised him that if he won the game for us my skinny, boyish ass
was his and his alone.  I said it in just those words, 'cause I already
knew what kind of an ass man he was and I knew that given the chance he
would take advantage, even of a girl like me.

   Maybe he'd be fantasizing about a guy, but the ass he used would be
mine!

   When he ran out on the field he was so stoked with adrenalin and
testosterone he could have run through a brick wall.

   In the locker room after the game he burned off the last of his
glandular cocktail by plundering my butt with gay abandon, you might say.

   He'd earned it.  He had caught the game-winning touchdown pass.

   He was big, and strong, and hard, and hot, and he filled me and filled
me and filled me, his powerful hands bruising my waist as he held me down,
bent over the training table, pounding into me -- in oh the most
gentlemanly, considerate Ivy League fashion, I assure you -- until he
finally emptied his balls into my bowels and I sang my joy to the cheers of
the whole fucking crowd.

   But that was only for my treasure box of memories, not the consumption
of anyone else, certainly not my present companion.

   "Have I ever told you how much you mean to me?  How grateful I am for
all you've done for me?" I whispered, blinking back tears of gratitude.