Game Day

Would you look at this, Publius wrote a one-off! It's been a while.

The inciting incident for this story is 100% real. A complete stranger told me the story a few days ago at a bar, and in seconds, this the entire ridiculous, over the top story you are about to read blossomed to full flower in my mind.

Again, only the inciting incident is real. But since the woman who pulled the oopsie in real life is a quite elderly South Florida retiree, rather than the hot young newlywed I envision, that is probably for the best.

I think with this one, it is especially important to warn the reader that I am always uninterested in gritty reality, hurt feelings, or likely consequences. My work is designed to be ridiculously plausible. I think I pushed the ridiculous button a little extra hard here, to be fair.

It's just a romp, boys and girls. Enjoy.

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Game Day

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"Will you make up the ranch, honey?" Jess asked over her shoulder as I returned to the kitchen with a case of Coors from the garage. She smiled at me idly before turning back to pay attention as she ran zucchini over the mandolin, creating perfect slices for the crudité tray.

"Sure," I replied. "Just let me get these beers chilling. I should have done this an hour ago." She only nodded.

And so I shortly found myself getting out the buttermilk, sour cream, and mayonnaise from the fridge.

Among the things I would not have suspected three years ago that I would be doing with some regularity, count making from-scratch ranch dressing right atop the list. But I glanced back up at Jess's back (and backside) as I got started, and she smiled back over her shoulder at me once more. I had found that there was little I would not amiably do when requested by my wife of nearly a year now.

And since she pre-made huge batches of the spice mix for ranch dressing, all I had to do was mince the fresh garlic and assemble.

Jess would even try to give me the credit for the ranch, when our guests arrived for the Falcons playoff game. It was sweet of her. But they all knew us well enough, two had started out as my friends, not hers, after all, to know that I was just her pair of extra robot hands when it came to things in the kitchen.

When I finished, I wrapped the bowl and slipped it back into the fridge, along with the unused dairy, and stepped up to her from behind. I waited until she finished slicing the carrot she was working on at the moment, so her hands were free of the wicked sharp blade, and I slid my arms around her, proving that my 'robot hands' could function autonomously as well. I slid them up over her belly to grasp her breasts happily. We had only gotten up a few hours earlier, and she was not yet dressed for company.

That meant that she was just in gray, knit-cotton shorts and a teeshirt. No bra yet. Not that she needed one ever, I often told her. She never bought that line, even though it was true. I squeezed her firm, generous flesh through the thin fabric of the shirt, and murmured in her ear, "Your white, creamy goodness is delivered."

Jess snorted and pushed her sweet, curvy ass back against my dick for a moment, making it twitch idly. "I'm sure it tastes marvelous," she said slyly, but then brandished another carrot. "But we are behind as it is because of creamy goodness delivery already this morning," she said sternly. "I still have the mushrooms to slice."

"Want me to do that?" I asked equably, not quite ready to let go, but also aware that our libidos had indeed been satisfied thoroughly, just an hour earlier.

"No. I want you to go vacuum the living room like you were supposed to do last evening," she said tartly.

"Oh, all right," I grumbled. I hate vacuuming, and I would have whined much more than I did, but it is hard to work up a good evasive whinge when my hands are full of those tits. By the time I gave them a last, good grope and reluctantly released them, I was well and truly committed to getting out the fucking Shark and vacuuming all the crumbs off the floor.

We were all only going to scatter three times as much fresh detritus during the game. I could have just vacuumed it all up in just the one pass after everybody left. Right?

Once I was done vacuuming the second time, because Jess decided I had half-assed the first pass, she found task after task for me to follow up with.

I had to admit, the house looked great, but it had been a lot of work.

Back in the day, just a few years ago, when Falcons Football Festivities were simply bachelor me and my two similarly unattached buddies, Tom and James, things were much simpler: Cool the beer, open the chips, make sure the toilet wasn't disgusting, turn on the big screen.

Last year, while Jess and I were engaged, I had missed a few Sundays to be with her, but it had been no big deal. Besides, the team sucked that season.

I had been uneasy when the start of this NFL season, Jess's and my first as husband and wife, rolled around. Among her few but manifest faults, Jess knows nothing about football, and has yet to show much interest in learning. I had been worried that my Sunday Game Day ritual with my boys would be pushed into the rear-view mirror.

But among Jess's numerous manifest wonderful qualities, she loves to entertain. And she has two friends of her own who came equipped with football-positive husbands who had turned out to be all-around quality guys. So now Falcons Sundays, instead of three dudes destroying a party-sized bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and some beers, consisted of eight people feasting on elegantly arranged hors d'oeuvres, and drinking beer and wine. And still demolishing at least two bags of Doritos... And the team didn't suck this year either. To illustrate this, we were ab out to watch a playoff game.

I was sent to the shower first... alone. She was still browning toast points and couldn't leave them. I used to always think that the egregiously large shower in my bathroom had been a stupid waste of square footage, before I met Jess. Now, I hated whenever I had to shower by myself. I attempted to wordlessly convince her to join me, instead of taking turns.

"Dale! Knock it off," Jess told me, pushing me away gently, her hands lingering on my chest. A note of regret ruined her attempt at sternness. "We are late already."

I looked at my watch and grumbled assent. My traditional early-bird, James, would be here at 12:30 on the dot, like always. Jess's Lisa and Harry would be hot on his heels. We had less than 45 minutes until then. Even if Jess started that instant, she'd never get ready in time. She quite justifiably takes her time with her appearance, even though I kind of prefer the disheveled, recently-fucked look she was rocking at that moment.

I liked making her look that way, too.

"Once the Falcons win this game and we throw everybody out, I am going to split your legs so hard," I growled, pulling her back against me.

Jess yelped and kissed me. "You already did that today," she giggled.

"Some things need doing repetitively. You know... to make them stick," I growled in her ear. Then, because she was right that we were running very late, just like she was right about most things, I released her with an affectionate swat of that tasty rump and headed upstairs.

*

I could still hear the shower running upstairs when James rang the doorbell. I had changed into some red shorts and my Steve Bartkowski jersey, and had already finished laying out all the food, so I headed to the door.

I was wrong, Lisa and Harry had actually beaten James for once. I smiled at them both, gave Lisa a hug (never a bad experience) and shook Harry's meaty paw. As I turned to lead them into the living room, Harry asked idly, "Dude, I keep meaning to ask, who the fuck was this Bartkowski dude?"

"QB back in the day," I said idly. "I never saw him play. But I think the name is hilarious, and I got the jersey at a thrift shop for peanuts."

I had not even gotten them seated before the bell rang again. I tossed the remote to Harry, who snatched it easily out of the air. Of all of us, Harry was the only actual football player... in college no less. Division Three admittedly, but still, he'd been a starting wide-receiver. We were all about thirty, but he still looked like he could suit up for his old school.

My buddy James, who was at the door, was the opposite. He was not fat or terribly out of shape, but he was short, and had the muscular figure of the code geek that he was. Jess actually insisted that James was flat out handsome regardless, and I guess I could see it, but combined with the natural shyness of a code geek, he seldom seemed to accomplish much with his alleged handsomeness.

James waved cheerily at Lisa and Harry as we entered, and made himself useful grabbing beers for himself, me, and Harry while I poured Lisa a glass of Pinot Grigio.

Tom entered my house on his own without ringing the bell, as was typical, and sang out, "Go Birds!" as he appeared. He gave me the high sign from across the room, slapped James on the shoulder, then went and fucking knelt before Lisa on one knee. He lifted her left hand and kissed it extravagantly. "My lady," he intoned.

"My hero," Lisa said back sarcastically.

Tom's kiss of her hand was actually very brief, and as he turned with a grin toward Harry, Lisa's husband shoved him playfully. They both laughed and clasped hands. Tom was an incurable flirt. He also knew how to do it without crossing any lines, so most guys just found him entertaining.

He would flirt incessantly with Jess when she appeared, of course. I didn't mind, because he genuinely wasn't trying anything. Moreover, I found Jess to be be a little extra excited about things at bedtime after an evening where somebody besides me paid her attention... I never told Tom, but he tended to make my sex life better whenever he spent time with us.

Ew, but, well... true.

It was almost game time when Gail and Mike finally showed--late as usual.

"Hey, guys," Mike crowed as I ushered them into the Living Room. "Sorry we are late, but Gail was still putting her face together." Both Gail and Mike seemed to actively enjoy throwing each other under the bus, but I was never comfortable hearing Mike do it. Jess has known Gail (and Lisa) since they were all freshmen together at Purdue, and she vehemently insists that the ragging on each other with those two is actually foreplay. To each their own, I guess.

"Her majesty is still getting dressed?" Gail asked me, looking up at the ceiling with a smile.

"She just finished putting together the food," I said, defending my wife's honor perfunctorily, while showing that I don't throw her under the bus. Even when she totally deserves it...

Lisa took in the spread of food and said, "It does look good. Like always." But she too rolled her eyes at Jess's chronic tardiness. We were not known for being on time for things, even our own events. "But I know what a whiz Jess is in the kitchen, and she says you actually are useful and willing to be so," Lisa went on, giving Harry an affectionate glare, "so all this couldn't have taken that long to put together."

"We, uh, got a late start today," I muttered sheepishly. As excuses go, it wasn't great, as it was met with various calls of 'Oh ho!', 'Gotcha, Mister Still Barely Newlywed!', and a simple leering laugh from Tom.

Lisa just looked at me. "Here's hoping you aren't too tired to watch the game," she said slyly. Harry hugged her with a grin.

"Lisa!" Gail said, mildly scandalized. It honestly doesn't seem to take much to scandalize Gail.

"Come on, Gail," Tom said smoothly. "Some days you know it is just too hard to get out of bed. Amirite?" She tried to glare at him for the double-entendre, but the brief, blushing smile ruined the effect.

I had often wondered to Jess, who is, let's say, a bit of a free spirit, why she was such good friends with such a conservative woman. I was always told that still waters run deep and Gail was just a good egg.

Who the hell says someone is a 'good egg' anymore? My wife's vocabulary is weird.

I would never complain about any of Jess's friends in the first place, of course, but I really would never complain about Gail being around. She has a very plain face that becomes downright pretty when animated by a smile, as illustrated moments ago when she lit up the room at Tom's sally.

Oh, and she has a world-class rack. And I am not kidding about that. It's amazing. Jess has a killer body, with great tits, but even she can't compete with Gail's. The woman does not ever outright flaunt her assets, but they cannot be missed. The dark blue sundress with yellow flowers that she was currently sporting was about as daring as she ever went, with spaghetti straps that dictated no bra. The elastic ruched tube top provided the only support for those breasts, but big as they were, they needed no more than that.

About the fifth time that Jess had caught me staring at those breasts after I had first gotten to know Gail, my then fiancé had told me to chill out, but I had defended myself by observing that even Jess sometimes had to stare at them too...

To be clear, amazing as those tits are, and I had seen them one glorious time in a bikini, my wife is hotter overall. Jess is the walking, talking, complete package.

Lisa laughed at Tom's joke harder than it deserved, but that was just to give herself an excuse to tease her husband by repeating it, running her fingers idly around the circumference of his ear. Her comparatively modest breasts, in her loose, blue, silk shell top pressed against Harry's arm. Lisa's boobs were a definite third place in the room, but that in no way meant they were not plenty fine. She just didn't try to show them off much, at least not when she knew she would be hanging out with Gail and Jess.

Lisa let go of her husband and spun to actually approach the food. The salmon mousse that Jess had piped onto cucumber rounds had caught her eye.

Of course, when she turned, what caught my eye was her backside in the painted-on jeans she habitually wore. Lisa didn't try to show off her breasts, but she liked to flaunt that ass. And why not? It was unparalleled. I caught James shaking his head slightly at the sight as she bent over to pick up the first snack of the day. I only caught sight of him gawking because I had taken a brief moment where tried not to look myself... It was very brief. I gave up and just drank in the sight.

Tom didn't just track Lisa with his eyes, he followed her to the snack layout and pounced on the deviled eggs. After making yummy sounds while devouring one, he turned to me and said, "Dale, I want to thank you for getting married."

"For my getting married? Why?" I asked warily.

"Yeah, for getting married. This is way better than we used to eat on game days," he said enthusiastically, reaching for a second egg. He straightened, and carefully looking only at me, he added, "Scenery's gotten better too."

Harry and Mike had been following him toward the table and looked at each other. They decided to ignore Tom to the point of shoving themselves between him and the table like he wasn't there, blocking him off from more deviled eggs.

I didn't know what they were giving him grief for. Tom had clearly been referring to my wife, after all...

"Game time," Mike said, and beelined for a seat. James and I swept in to grab some food, then followed everybody else to get comfortable around my 72", OLED flatscreen, with enhanced processors and massive sound bar.

I had bought the setup right before I asked Jess to marry me, on my father's advice. Before popping the question, I had gone to my father to discuss it.

"You got any stupid, expensive man things you want to buy boy? Do it now, before you pop that question and she gets veto power."

"Good to know, Dad," I had replied. "But my question was, do you think I should propose to her to begin with?" I asked, still uncertain about life's biggest step.

"What? Are you out of your mind, boy?" my father had asked incredulously. "I've been wondering for months why you haven't done it already. If you don't ask her, I will."

My mother is still very much alive and married to my father, folks.

On the television, the Falcons had completed their first possession, all three downs and a punt of it, before Jess finally came down the stairs. We all looked up, and she posed in the doorway. "Ta da!" she caroled happily, turning back and forth like a model.

She was a vision.

A totally ridiculous vision.

All five of us guys burst into uproarious laughter.

Lisa and Gail, who, like Jess, don't know dick about football, and don't care to, still managed to be a little puzzled at what she was wearing.

"Jess," Gail asked uncertainly of my wife, whose glittering smile was morphing into a scowl at me the other guys. "I thought the team is the Falcons. Why do you have a doggy on your shirt?"

Jess looked at me, her scowl becoming a smoking hot pout. "You dudes are all sitting around here in your different jerseys. I thought I'd go out and get some things to dress up for game day, too!"

"Oh god! I'm dying," Tom gasped. James and Harry were also laughing. Mike was busy not looking at Gail after that question.

"What is the matter?" Jess asked me, hands on her hips as she marched in to stand in front of us.

"Babe," I said, trying manfully but unsuccessfully to stifle my grin, "those are Georgia colors."

"The Georgia Falcons," Jess nodded along with me. She is from Indiana folks. She was ignorant by choice on the subject, not in any way a bimbo. But she still looked ridiculous, and honestly a little embarrassing. Hot, but embarrassing. "Why do they have a dog for a mascot anyway? A live falcon too dangerous?" she asked, gesturing toward Gail in reference to the prior question.

"Babe," I said, briefly putting my face in my hands, "you got the wrong team!"

"No I didn't," she protested. She pointed to the stylized G on the leg of her matching red shorts. "See? Georgia?" Then she pointed at the bulldog picture on the chest of the red hoodie she was sporting, which was an abomination regardless because it shapelessly hid my wife's glorious torso. "And this is the Falcon's mascot, the dog."

"Why would the Falcons have a bulldog for a mascot?" Harry asked, bewildered, and at last able to breathe.

"You guys were just talking two weeks ago about how The Crimson Tide has an elephant for a mascot. And the Auburn Tigers have an eagle," Jess said hotly.

"Yes we were, to illustrate that Alabama is filled with idiots," I said snarkily.

"Purdue is the Boilermakers, but we have a train for a mascot," Jess said dangerously. Jess, current evidence to the contrary, is astronomically not stupid. She is in fact a highly competent, sometimes brilliant mechanical engineer. She loves Purdue--the university, not their football team. And she is not alone in that sentiment. I needed to keep this from going off the rails, because bashing Purdue is never an option around any of these women.

"Those clothes are for the University of Georgia," I said patiently. "The Bulldogs. Different league. Different sport, even. Kind of..."

I don't know why we all thought it was so funny, but we did.

Jess was not finding it funny. I mean, she did, sort of. She has a wonderful sense of humor and the nature of her mistake was finally dawning on her. But she was not amused at being the butt of the joke. And she was never happy when some plot of hers does not go as she planned. "At least I'm wearing the right colors," she pouted some more, looking for some support somewhere.

Tom piled on. Because of course he did. "It's actually not even the right color red, Jess," he said. "Falcons red is slightly darker, more of a blood red. It's really not the same," he smirked. For the record, Tom is a graphic designer. I am sure he could have illustrated his point with actual CMYK codes, but he was having too much fun to get technical.