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 Dee STP 9 ver 2 by peregrinf

   As I pedaled home from my time coaching Judy for some reason I found
myself thinking of how depressed I'd been after my accident.  Maybe
coaching Judy today reminded how unwillingly I had passed the torch.  God
how I'd loved diving.

   Depressed?  Me?  You bet, and I never do things by halves.  Face it, a
broken neck had been a hell of a way to start to my Junior year.  I'd
cried. I'd cried buckets.  I cried enough tears to fill our home swimming
pool, a pool that I couldn't even use with my neck in that cervical collar.
It was doctor's orders.  I think he was afraid my head would fall off.

   I'd imagined standing on the top step of the podium, at least one new
gold medal for my collection, maybe as many as four, first junior to ever
do that.  I'd imagined Greg and me, side by side in our sexy swim suits,
holding the team trophies high while the cameras flashed, dashing to the
locker room to celebrate as only we could celebrate.

   All of that was gone, along with the hopes and dreams of Coach and the
team and the school, everyone, right down the drain.

   After the accident the last thing in the world I wanted was to face all
the people I'd let down.  I wanted to run away, but I'd checked with Maria
and joining a convent was not a viable option.  She'd laughed for a week,
and even I had to admit I'd have a problem with that whole celibacy thing.
Even a vibrator was a venial sin, she said.  I wondered if nuns kept their
hair short to remove the temptation of the hairbrush handle.

   But once my neck was stabilized, as the doctor put it, I had to go back
to school, a week behind, and as I walked the halls wearing a cervical
collar that made me feel like an arthritic giraffe I could sense everyone
staring and whispering and pointing.  I was untouchable.  I wished I were
invisible.  It was worse than in middle school because I'd known I'd done
it to myself.

   And where, you ask, was my alter ego, The Stick, when I needed her most,
she who'd hauled me out of my middle school funk by teaching me to bear
insults with pride?

   She was AWOL, the bitch.  Even she was mad at me.

   As I pedaled towards home I remembered how, after too many days of
sulking in my room, my friends intervened.

   God bless my friends.  That was a good memory.

   I'd been pretending to study German, reading the same passage from
Thomas Mann for the third or fourth time, trying to make sense of it, when
Mom knocked on my door, not once but three times, until I had to answer.

   * * *

   "I'm busy!"

   "There are some people here to see you," Mom announced through the door.


   I sighed a sigh from the depths of my soul.  "Tell them to go away!"

   Whispers and mumbles.  What the hell was this?  It was Saturday.  No
school!  Yippee!  I could lock myself away for the whole day, and fully
intended to.  I'd even laid in supplies of snacks and boxed juices so I
could withstand a long siege, maybe even two days.

   "I really think you should see them."

   After enduring Mom fussing over me it had reached the point where I'd
snapped at her, which made her feel bad and me feel worse.  Elaine just
avoided me, which didn't help.  I knew I was being a total shit but
couldn't seem to shake it.  I was lower than dirt.  I was pond scum, the
guck that clogged the shower drain.  I was....

   Mom knocked again.  "Please, Dee."

   I wanted to tell whoever was with her to fuck off, but they didn't
deserve that any more than Mom did.

   So, summoning the ghosts of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, I managed
to answer super-politely.  "Please tender them my regrets and inform them
that I am not receiving today." I vented my displeasure in a way they
couldn't see, with a backhanded finger in the direction of the door.

   The doorknob rattled and I looked at my hand, amazed that my digit had
such power.  Then I remembered I'd locked the door and someone must have
had tested it.  Good.  Maybe now they'd leave me alone.

   "Dee?"

   Shit!  Was that Missy, my childhood friend?  My very, very, very first
love?  That wasn't fair!  That was hitting below the belt.  What was she
doing invading my private pity-party?

   "Missy?" I asked fearfully.

   "It's me."

   Oh, her voice, sweet and soft and caring.

   I took a deep breath.  Maybe if I just held my breath she'd go away.

   Just about the time I was beginning to turn blue I heard her ask, "How
do you eat an elephant?"

   Old memories erupted -- a scene from long, long ago, only that time it
had been me on the outside of her locked door, her crying in her bedroom.
Whoosh!  I gasped for air.

   "How do you eat an elephant?" she repeated softly and patiently.

   Damn!  I was overwhelmed by a rush of feelings -- love and caring and I
don't know what all.

   "One bite at a time," I replied softly, sniffling.

   "That's right Dee.  Open the door, please."

   The cervical collar made it awkward for me to roll over and sit up. 
Should I unlock it?  Could I bear to face her?

   Could I bear not to?  That time before there'd been an elephant in the
room, a misunderstanding between us, a momentary lapse.

   "Do you remember how to carve an elephant?" she asked when I didn't
respond.

   This time the elephant wasn't in the room, it was in me and its name was
Guilt.  I remembered, from before, thinking that some elephants could be
intractable, and how suitable I'd found that word, calling up as it did an
image of a tractor butting heads with a pachyderm.

   Already I could feel my mood yielding.

   Snuffling up my tears I got up off my bed and dragged myself over to the
door, feeling like my head was precariously balanced on my shoulders as I
did.

   "You get a big, big, big block of marble," I answered as I unlocked the
door, "and chip away all the pieces that don't look like an elephant."

   I practically fell into her arms, engulfing myself in her familiar,
warm, comforting scent, tumbling into a maelstrom of memories, nights
together under the covers giggling and tickling, long bike rides, sharing a
swing set in the park, whispered secrets, and touches in the dark.

   "What're you doing here?" I asked into her soft, sweet hair as she
squeezed me and I squeezed myself against her caring softness, my tears
soaking her head, swamped in my love for her.  The feel of her against me
fanned to life embers I'd thought long dead.  I let the flames of lust warm
me, but only briefly, knowing full well that had been over for a long time.


   "There's a swimming meet today," she announced, releasing me, though I
still clutched her like a lifeline.

   Finally I managed to let go.  "I know.  I'm not going."

   It was the first meet of the season and the main reason I'd been hiding
out here.  The thought of being there, unable to swim, watching the
teammates that I'd let down made my stomach knot up.

   "You're needed," Missy answered.

   "Says who?  What for?  I can't swim with this choker on!" I clutched at
the collar, wishing I could rip it off, not daring to, given the doctors'
warnings.

   "We do need you," a different voice announced.  It was Gail Devers,
lead-off backstroker on my -- our --medley relay team and daughter of Vice
Principal Devers, my staunchest faculty supporter.  She -- Gail that is --
was wearing her scarlet and gold warmup sweats, presumably over the racing
suit that gave her the sleek contours of a barracuda.  She supplied the
power that ate up the opposition.

   "The school needs you." That came from Fran, also coming into the room.
She's the brass section of my lunch bunch, the girl with the biggest laugh
and the biggest heart in school -- if not the universe -- and suddenly my
room felt a lot smaller and warmer and friendlier and all three of them
were smothering me.

   "What is this?" I asked, muffled in their embrace, the last shreds of my
gloom melting from their love.

   "It's an Intervention," Fran announced in her best no-nonsense tone. 
"You're coming with us."

   The love in her eye and dimples in her round, pink cheeks did nothing to
soften her determination.  When she was on a roll -- and believe me,
there's a lot of her to roll -- there was no stopping her.

   "But...."

   "No buts," Fran insisted, moving me toward the door.

   "I'm not dressed!" I pointed out.  I hadn't bothered to put anything on
that morning -- not that I usually did, of course.

   "When has that ever stopped you?" Missy asked with a giggle as they
pulled me out of my funk, my feet dragging as they physically hauled me out
the door.

   "Where's Greg?  I'm surprised you didn't bring him, too.  Or is he so
mad at me he wouldn't come?"

   "This is a girl thing," Fran answered.  "What happens between you and
him is your business and his, not ours.  Besides, he's off at the boys'
meet.  Today it's just us girls.  Now come on."

   The boys and girls teams rarely have meets at the same time in the same
pool.  It's too much.  Usually one team swam at home, the other away
against the same school at the same time.

   "Whose idea is this?" I asked as I was escorted down to the foyer
wearing nothing more than that stupid collar.  I hadn't done anything with
my hair in I didn't know how long, so I didn't need a mirror to know I must
look like a truffula tree with a goiter.

   "Our own," Fran answered.  "Now come on."

   "Make sure she eats, and you guys eat, too.  There's pain meds in there
if she needs them." The smug look on Mom's face as she handed Gail our
small picnic cooler made it obvious she was a co-conspirator.  This also
bore hints of the work of Ms.  Andrews, my middle school counselor. 
Intervention was her favorite word.

   "Have fun, dear." Mom gave me a hug and a peck on the cheek.

   "Get her out of here, and don't bring her back until she's sane again,"
Elaine ordered, standing at Mom's shoulder.

   Sane?  I bash my brains out on a diving board and she expects me to be
sane?

   The next thing I know I'm squeezed between Fran and Missy in the back
seat of a small car, my head brushing the roof, while Gail is behind the
wheel.  It's her mom's car, so Mrs.  Devers was in on it, too, which meant
I was seriously outnumbered.

   "What can I do?  I'm not supposed to swim, remember?"

   "We don't need your swimming," Gail retorted over her shoulder.  "Well,
that's not true, we do, but we'll just have to paddle on without it.  What
we need right now is your mojo."

   "My mojo?  What makes you think I have any mojo?"

   "Whether you realize it or not," Fran put in, "you are a mountain of
mojo."

   It was too much to hope that they'd sneak me in a back door, of course.
I was marched in the front door and through the school, greeted by more of
my friends lining the hall applauding me.  The Dirty Dozen were there,
having risen to high school by now, of course, both guys and girls.  Judy
Greene was there, and Judy Liu, who'd witnessed my catastrophe, Maria
Sanchez in her soccer uniform, even Terrell Ford had left his keyboard, and
A.  J.  Mansfield his computers.  Liu gave me a nod, and the rest of my
Lunch Bunch -- Cindy with her blonde curls, Inez and Peggy Hughes!

   I remembered my own intervention with Peggy (she'd been raped) and I
felt totally ashamed of falling into such a funk over what had happened to
me.  I tried to turn and flee, forgetting that I'd taught the lunch bunch
stuff I'd learned from Maria about perp walks.  With Missy and Gail
flanking me, gripping my arms, and Fran bringing up the rear I didn't have
a prayer.

   Then corridor to the pool was lined by at least half the cheerleaders,
including Mickey Kelly of the Marvelous Mammaries!  Oh, and making me feel
even more exposed than usual, they were in their cheerleader outfits, worn
only on very special occasions and by special dispensation -- saddle shoes,
short pleated skirts, tight sweaters, ribbons in their hair, all scarlet
and gold, instead of being naked.

   Even as former SACNISP chair how could I call 'em on a Program Violation
when they were doing it all for me?

   "Dee!  Dee!  She's our gal!  If she can't do it nobody shall!" they
burst out, waving their pom-poms.  What they lacked in creativity they more
than made up for in volume and enthusiasm, making the hallway ring.  As I
passed each pair they closed in behind, replacing the "Dee, Dee, she's our
gal" chant with a low pitched "mojo, mojo, mojo, mojo" in time with our
steps, rustling their pompoms.  That became a rhythm picked up by everyone.
Shit!  Had they practiced for this?  I didn't deserve it.  We were trailed
by the people who had greeted me at the front door.  The only thing missing
was the school band.

   Quit feeling sorry for yourself!  The Stick ordered sternly as I tried
passive resistance.

   Now you show up!  I thought.  A bit late, don'tcha think?

   What, and miss all the fun?  my alter ego retorted.  Mope and you mope
alone.  Now stand tall.  I thought I'd taught you better years ago.

   So I held my head high -- not that the collar gave me any choice --
while inside I was a mess of mush.  This was really uncalled for, but I
kinda liked it.  Step by marching step, I was being dragged out of the pit
of despair I'd dug myself.

   Like attendants at some fancy hotel the team manager and the team
captain, a senior freestyler who could give me a run for my money, were
waiting for us and swung wide the double doors to the pool.

   The lush atmosphere, all chlorine and humidity, washed away the last of
my reservations.  I was home, and the whole team was there, applauding me.

   Well shit!  How do I handle this?

   No problem.  They closed around me, reaching for me, touching me,
greeting me, wishing me well, and it was hard for me to acknowledge them
all.  I was vaguely aware of the chattering girls from South High streaming
out of the boys' locker room, temporarily taken over by them, to head for
their benches.

   Of course.  It had to be South High, our main rival in all things
athletic.  The season had to start against them, and they were strong this
year!

   While my friends -- a bigger audience than the meets usually drew --
headed for the stands, my team formed a circle around me.  Gail had already
shed her sweats, now she stripped off her suit.  She was slender and fit,
with nice B cup boobs and a lightly furred pussy -- a lot like her mom.

   They were all waiting expectantly.

   Ooookay.  It was obviously time for me to summon the mojo they seemed to
think I had, and to be effective the mojo bounce has to be done naked,
which I already was.  The whole team swiftly skinned off their suits and
dropped them at their feet.  The circle closed up so they could drape their
arms over each other's shoulders, leaving me alone in the middle, standing
tall as a totem pole, not about to risk my still healing neck with the
bouncing.

   I was in a circle of beautifully fit high school swimmers, surrounded by
youthful boobs and pussies and serious faces, all looking to me for mojo.

   Oh God!

   So give 'em what they want!  The Stick ordered.

   Well, if they wanted mojo I'd give 'em what I had, but I'd have to
improvise a bit.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked them, turning slowly around, eyeing each
of them in turn, very low key but feeling some kind of power building
inside me.

   No answer.

   Come on guys, a little help here, I thought.

   I began to bounce gently by just bending my knees a little, watching as
hesitantly at first, they began bouncing in sync with me.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked again, waving my hands to bring it out of
them, like I was directing a choir.

   "Win!" they all answered together, softly, their voices echoing over the
pool.  Even the other team, the South girls, were silent, even the
officials.  We'd gotten everyone's attention.  The only other sound was the
gentle slurp and slap of water in the pool gutters.

   This felt special!

   Bounce, bounce, bounce.

   "What're we gonna do?" I asked, louder.

   "Win!" the team responded, just a little louder, their naked titties
jiggling, sleek swimmers' legs flexing.  God, they looked good enough to
eat!

   Bounce, Bounce, Bounce -- higher, stronger.

   "What're we gonna do??" I asked, still louder, using my arms to tell
them to increase the bounce, feeling the mojo building.

   "WIN!!" they answered, louder yet!

   Bounce!  Bounce!  Bounce!

   My arms waved higher.

   BOUNCE.  BOUNCE.  BOUNCE.  They were rising on their toes now, almost
leaving the deck.

   "WHAT'RE WE GONNA DO???!!!" I called.

   "WIN!!!!!" they shouted, JUMPING!  JUMPING!  JUMPING!  on the slippery
deck, and even if one foot slipped, one person, they were a TEAM,
supporting each other, so no one would fall, and even here in the center I
was part of it, even though I wasn't about to jump myself.

   I threw my arms up, fists pumping along with the bounce.

   "WHAT'RE WE GONNA DO?"

   "WIN!!!!"

   My fingers spread I began the countdown by folding one with each bounce
-- five -- four -- three -- two -- one!

   "CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!  CHUFA!!" we
finished up with a "WOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOO!" that made my ears ring.

   I swear, damaged goods that I was, I could feel the mojo myself!  The
echoes had hardly had time to die away when -- Schlup!  -- the team was all
back in their suits and the starter blew the whistle to get the meet going.


   And as the circle unwound every one of the girls made it a point to
touch me as they went past to their places on the bench, as if they were
taking strength from me.

   Too stoked to just sit, I began to prowl like a tiger on a hunt while
things got organized.

   That came to a swift end.  There being the usual shortage of officials I
found myself drafted to time the swimmers in lane three.  I was more than a
little surprised when a hunky guy on crutches -- fully clothed in shorts
and a tee, darn it -- clumped over tp take up the station in lane four.

   He knew me -- by now everyone in the county knew me, as the NiS girl if
nothing else -- and I knew him, a junior, lead butterflyer of South's boys'
team, Lance something-or-other.  The reason for his crutches was obvious.
He had on one of those padded plastic boots they use these days for ankle
and foot injuries.

   "Skateboard," he answered, waggling the boot at me as he took a folding
chair like I had.

   "Diving board," I explained, indicating my neck adornment.

   "I heard.  How's your neck?"

   "Better." I was getting used to not having any secrets in this town. 
"Coach had told me to give up diving, that I was too tall.  I didn't
listen, so he's as pissed with me."

   He nodded.  "Coach told me not to skateboard during the season, so he's
kinda pissed at me, too.  I figured I'd make myself scarce and cheer on the
girls.  Scenery's better here."

   He grinned, his eyes boldly scanning my fully displayed assets in a way
that made me blush.  At least it was obviously a cervical collar and not a
sub's dog collar.  He had a thick shock of brown hair that was as unruly as
my blonde locks, and his deep brown eyes....oh wow.

   "My Coach isn't here.  He's with our guys at your place."

   "Good luck to them.  Your butts are gonna get kicked."

   "Oh please," I shot back.  "Even if you were there we'll eat your lunch.
Without you they're toast."

   "If you meant that as a compliment, thank you, I think," he retorted
wryly.  "And without you swimming here you don't have a prayer."

   "We'll see," I answered vaguely, not unaware of my importance to the
team.  "Don't underestimate mojo."

   "Mojo?" He guffawed.  "Is that the reason for your silly dance?"

   "Works every time," I insisted.

   Then the meet began and I was too busy to be depressed at not swimming.
Right from the start it was close.  It seemed like the lead changed with
every race -- they'd win one, we'd win the next.  A lot depended on the
second and third places.

   When the 200 individual medley went off -- usually my race to waltz away
with -- I couldn't resist commenting on the South girl's butterfly.  She
should have been running away with her leg against my backup, Cassandra,
but was barely gaining.

   "Your girl needs to rotate her shoulders more," I commented over the
screaming.

   "What?"

   "Her shoulders should be more into it," I said shortly, sort of hunching
my shoulders to illustrate it.  Having seen him swim in past meets, I
added, "You do, too," without thinking.

   Greg used to smoke him on those opening laps.

   "What's wrong with my stroke?" he asked, offended.

   Oh shit!  Me and my big mouth!  Why did I have to go and say that?

   "They're coming back," I pointed out, getting ready to catch the splits,
deciding I'd better shut up, rather than risk pissing him off.  He was
pretty hunky, and seemed like a nice guy, after all, and the way he kept
looking at me he seemed to appreciate my attributes, even given the collar.


   Once we had timed the next race, the fifty freestyle -- which we won
handily, I might note -- there was the usual break for the diving.  Lance
followed me over to where my Intervention crew was in the stands and they
made room for him next to me, eyeing him curiously, so I introduced him.

   I was torn between watching the diving and not watching.  Judy was
filling in for me for the first time and she was stoked, attacking the
board instead of working with it.  I turned away, afraid for her.  Fran
peeled and handed me a banana, obviously following Mom's orders, and I
asked Lance if he'd like one, too.  Fran grumbled but handed it to him.

   "What's wrong with my stroke?" Lance persisted, peeling it himself.

   Darn.  I'd been hoping he'd forgotten that.  Well, I'd opened my mouth,
I decided I might as well complete the toenail tonsillectomy.

   "You don't rotate your shoulders enough," I explained after taking his
peel and passing it to Fran, trying not to hear the bounce of the board,
the splashes and the groans and cheers of the spectators.  I really missed
diving!

   And dammit!  If we could just tame Judy's approach and takeoff she'd be
unbeatable.

   "I'm fast!" he protested defensively between bites.  He had nice teeth,
and his lips....

   I gave myself a mental headslap over that observation

   "Not as fast as Greg," I pointed out.  Then couldn't resist adding, "or
as fast as me."

   I gestured to the list of school records hanging on the wall.

   "Well, no," he admitted reluctantly.  "But I'm only a junior."

   "So'm I.  So's Greg," I pointed out.

   "You're pretty full of yourself!"

   "I'm also pretty fast," I pointed out, wincing as Judy over-rotated a
front one-and-a-half, mentally kissing away any chance of winning the
diving, along with the last of this friendly conversation.  I am such a
dork sometimes!

   "So, what's wrong with my stroke?" he asked after the next dive,
surprising me with his friendly persistence in spite of my rudeness. 
Either he had a really thick skin or he really wanted to learn.

   Well, in for a penny, in for a pound I decided.  "I told you.  You need
to rotate your shoulders more.  You're working just your arms.  You get
your shoulders more into it you'll get more power and your whole body will
go with the flow."

   "Show me."

   "I'm not sure I can with this collar on, or out of the water, either,
but I'll try.  Let's go over where there's more room."

   He clumped along behind me and I tried to show him, while he balanced on
his good foot and imitated me.

   This resulted in a lot of arm windmilling, until the starter got our
attention.  "If you two are through with flying lessons would you care to
join us for the rest of the swimming?"

   I hadn't even noticed the diving was over and wondered how it had come
out.  I wondered, too, if Coach would let me work with her, and if she'd
take real coaching from me.

   "Sorry," I apologized to the starter.  "Maybe once I'm out of this thing
I'll be able to show you better," I offered Lance, getting ready with my
watch.

   The whistle blew, our watches clicked, and the swimmers hit the water

   Lance waggled his damaged foot at me as the swimmers churned away in the
hundred-meter butterfly -- another of my races to win.  Not having the
conditioning I'd had, Cassandra was floundering.  Maybe I could work with
her, too.  I'd have to ask Coach.

   "Maybe when I get out of this boot I'll take you up on that."

   I tapped my collar.  "Maybe when I'm rid of this we can race." Again I
felt a little tingle, then thought about Greg and drew back.

   "Maybe," I added, feeling guilty.

   The rest of the meet I was a little more distant, confused.  Lance was
easy to talk with, but what was I doing getting all cozy with the enemy
when I had my own guy?  If, that is, I still had my own guy.  I hadn't seen
Greg since the accident -- well, I'd been avoiding him, and maybe he'd been
avoiding me -- but he'd been busy training anyway.  We'd so been looking
forward to motivating each other to prep for the states and now I was out
of it, unless there was some kind of miracle recovery.  Mojo can only do so
much to make up for conditioning.

   Then I thought maybe Greg'd want a different training partner, not that
anyone else around here would be as close -- speed-wise, I mean, not
emotionally and, okay, sexually.

   In the end the meet came down to the last race, the two hundred free
relay, another of my races, and I saw the relay team doing their own mojo
bounce without me and felt a twinge.  How could they do it without me? 
Would it work?  At least they did it naked.  But if it did work, what did
that say about me?  What if they didn't need me anymore?

   After the start, while the first swimmers were on their way and I was
trying to be an unbiased timer instead of cheering them on I distracted
myself by wondering maybe if Lance took some lessons from me we could train
together.  That idea created a whole new snarl of feelings.  It'd give me a
chance to work with him, and he had the potential to be a lot better.

   Though he'd never be able to hold a candle to Greg, of course.

   I wondered what Greg would think of the idea of me training with Lance
-- or what he thought of Lance at all, for that matter.  I wondered, too,
what Lance really thought of Greg.  For the first time ever I wondered if
Greg would be jealous.

   And why did the thought of the two of guys competing for me give me a
sudden tingle?  I'd seen girls who got their thrills watching two bulls
butting heads, but I'm not like that.  No way!

   Anyway, there couldn't be anything like that between me and Lance.  I
mean, he was the enemy!

   Well, if that's the case, The Stick asked me in her snide way, why are
you thinking of coaching him?

   I squirmed.  I just hate to see potential wasted, I responded.

   Yeah, right, The Stick came back dryly.  You just keep telling yourself
that, and what will you do when Greg gets jealous?

   Greg jealous?  That's ridiculous!  After all, we'd never sworn an oath
of fidelity or anything, and he knew I swung both ways.  I'd been pretty
monogamous for the last year, heterosexually at least, if that's the word I
want, but he knew I had taken more than a few trips on the gay side with
Maria.  I don't think he knew about Judy Liu, but what difference did that
make?

   Everyone knew Greg and I were "an item," always invited to parties and
outings together.  He spent some nights at my house, and that meant in my
bed, of course, which his parents tried not to think about, I suspect. 
They wouldn't let us share a bed at his house, mainly I guess 'cause of his
sister Drindy.  They didn't want us setting a bad example for her or
something, though she'd already seen us do it, of course, up close and very
personal, you might say, but I'm not sure they knew about that.

   We won the last race by a touch, which gave us the meet, and they'd done
it without me, though everyone was nice enough to credit my mojo.  I was
feeling a whole lot better anyway, and gave my friends hugs, owing them
more than I could ever say.  I was actually looking forward to school come
Monday.

   * * *

   When I fobbed the garage door open and pedaled Old Bessie into her
stall, the door closing behind me, I was still thinking of this, and how
much more complicated my life had gotten after that swimming meet.

   All that thinking had me all tensed up again.

   "Hi Moms, I'm home!" I called out as I entered the kitchen.

   "How was your day?" Mom called out from back by the pool.  I grabbed a
cold bottle of water and followed her voice.  She and Elaine were drifting
on their double raft in the pool and I was jealous.

   "Stressful," I answered, lowering myself into the pool, relieved to be
buoyed up again by the water's cool embrace.  "Judy says 'hi.' So does
Henry Carver."

   "What's got you stressed?" Elaine asked shrewdly.  Did gynecologists get
psych training?

   "Memories," I answered vaguely.

   Elaine smiled that wicked little smile of hers, scenting blood in the
water.  "Maybe you need a little relaxation session this evening in the
playroom," she suggested, in a tone that gave me goosebumps.

   "Maybe I do," I admitted, suppressing a shiver.

   Mom's own sexual shudder and stretch at the turn the conversation had
taken almost capsized the raft.

   Oh my!

   "I'm hungry," Elaine announced, dabbling her hands to move the raft
toward the shallow end.

   "So'm I," Mom admitted.

   Setting my water bottle on the deck I surged toward them.  "I'm
ravenous," I responded, bringing my weight down on the side of the raft to
dump them off it, looking forward to a relaxing evening in Elaine's hands.
   I am such a perv.