Shane and Carmen: The Novelization Ch. 21

Chapter 21 What About Bledsoe?

When Shane got home from work one Monday several weeks later, she found that a package delivery company had left three boxes on the back porch, all for Carmen. She took the cartons inside and put them on the kitchen table. One box was round and looked like a hat box; Shane looked on the label and saw that it had come from a western wear hat company. The second box looked like a large shoebox, and had come from a specialty boot and shoe company. The third was rectangular but not heavy, and looked like it might have held clothing. Shane looked at the label but didn't recognize the name. Something-or-other sportswear.

"Oh, good!" Carmen exclaimed when she came home a while later, walked through the kitchen door and saw the boxes. Shane stood near the stove, making dinner. "Hey, babe," Carmen said, coming over to kiss Shane hello.

"What's in the boxes?" Shane asked.

"Parts for a costume I have to make. I wanted to ask you, I've got this big gig next Sunday afternoon, and I wondered if you'd help me do the set-up and take-down. There's a very narrow time window built into it, and I have to get offstage with all my stuff really fast, so they can set up for the next event."

"Sure, no problem," Shane said. "I can be your roadie."

"Exactly! Thanks a million. Who knows, there may even be a reward in it for you, a little thank-you present."

"Oh? What?" Shane asked.

Carmen flirted. "You'll have to wait to find out." But she stuck her tongue in Shane's ear, leaving little doubt about what form her reward might take.

After dinner Carmen got out her portable sewing machine she kept in her closet, and set it up on the kitchen table. When you are a production assistant in Hollywood, you learn all sorts of trades, and there's almost nothing a top production assistant can't do if she put her hand to it. In Carmen's case, she had grown up in a household and a neighborhood where women learned to sew before they started elementary school. Carmen had made, altered, or otherwise modified her own clothes all her life, as had her mother, her grandmother and all her sisters and cousins.

While Shane watched TV in the living room Carmen worked on adapting the costume parts she got out of the boxes. She worked for nearly two hours. Shane could hear the sewing machine working from time to time, and she heard Carmen talking to herself, and even once or twice humming or singing to herself as she worked away happily. When she was finished she packed up her portable sewing machine and went into her room to try on her new DJ costume. After she'd changed into it, she stood in the doorway to the living room, where Shane was engrossed in watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip she had recorded.

"Shane, when you get a second, there's something I want to show you."

Shane held up her hand, still focused on the TV. "'Kay, babe, this will be over in just a sec."

Carmen stood watching the end of the show, waiting for the commercial break. When it came, Shane said, "What's up?" and turned to look at Carmen. Her mouth fell open.

"What I wanted to ask you was have you ever had a fantasy about fucking a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader? Put her backfield in motion and then watch her end zone dance after a big score? I know I have."

Carmen stood in the doorway, laughing at Shane's astonishment. She wore her version of a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader outfit, starting with shiny, white, patent leather, mid-calf cowboy boots trimmed in blue piping the same shade as Cowboys' blue. She had hot-glue-gunned blue Cowboys stars on the sides. She had on as skimpy a pair of white booty shorts as Shane had ever seen, and which featured a wide, white, shiny, patent leather belt that had blue stars on it, just like the shorts and belts the Dallas cheerleaders wore ... or maybe a bit less so. The Dallas cheerleaders had copyrighted their signature uniform so no one could use the look without the permission of the Cowboys front office, which it almost never gave. Their cheerleader blouse design was a blue shirt with long, puffy sleeves, but cut off at the midriff. Instead of buttons, it was simply knotted in front at the bottom of the sternum. Over this shirt the cheerleaders wore white midriff-length vests that had two Dallas Cowboy signature blue stars on each half of the front.

Carmen had not bothered to even try to replicate this top; instead, she had characteristically put her own touch on the uniform. She had bought a Dallas Cowboys football jersey from a sporting goods outfit that sold football team jerseys. You could pick whatever number you wanted, and have your name put on the back in the same block letters your favorite team used. The jerseys, though expensive, were as authentic as it was possible to get. Carmen had chosen a white Cowboys team jersey, and on the back she had ordered LA PICA in blue letters as her player name, and below that her team number. Then she had gone to work on it, making modifications. First, she had gotten some standard shoulder padding used in some kinds of women's dresses, and built up the shoulders a little, so it looked like she might have been wearing a football player's shoulder pads under the jersey, or at least the suggestion of it. She had cut the sleeves way back and put in elastic, so the sleeves clung tightly to her arm above her biceps the way many football players wore them.

The next thing Carmen had done was to cut off the bottom of the jersey so she had a bare midriff. She had re-hemmed the bottom of the jersey and put in more elastic, so the jersey clung to her ribcage just below her breasts.

The typical jersey had a standard T-shirt-type neckline. There was no way Carmen was going to let as fine a bosom as she possessed to be hidden from view. She had skillfully undone the blue trim at the throat and cut a generous scoop neckline out of it so the jersey revealed the warm brown tops of her breasts and gave her some cleavage. She re-hemmed that cutout, too. Then she sewed in bottom cups to hold her wonderful breasts up, without the need for a bra.

Her final alteration was the back, where Carmen had left the large team number in place, cutting a square out around it so the bottom two-thirds of the number hung down beneath LA PICA like a bib. The net result was the team number hung down on her back, but her bare midriff theme continued almost all the way around. Just below the bottom of the team number on her bare caramel skin rode the twin faces of Ixchel just above the top of her booty shorts.

The team number Carmen had chosen was, of course, 69. No surprise there.

On her head she wore a gorgeous white Stetson cowboy hat that had the Dallas Cowboys blue star embroidered on the front and the number 69 embroidered on each side in two-inch numbers.

She was delectable enough to give the shade of Davy Crockett a major hard-on. Shane stared.

"Because, you see, the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders are extremely popular," Carmen said. "I don't know if you know this, since you know virtually nothing about football, but they even have their own annual calendar. There's about thirty or forty million men who would sell their souls if only they could fuck a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, especially one from the calendar, and I wondered, you know, you being an excellent judge of high-quality pussy yourself, how you felt about them."

"Uhhhhhhhhh..............." Shane said. Carmen knew it would take Shane over an hour to try to process enough information to frame a coherent answer.

"So, what do you think? Do you like it?" Carmen asked. "Does it make you want to fuck a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader calendar girl?" She twirled in a circle, showing off the outfit like a fashion model, wiggling her butt suggestively at Shane and striking model poses.

"The gig I'm doing on Sunday? It's for a bunch of Texas oil men. They have an out-of-town convention Thursday to Monday in Santa Barbara. And as it happens, next Sunday evening the Cowboys are playing the Carolina Panthers, and all these poor Texas oilmen so far, far from home are gonna watch the game from their convention ballroom, and they hired me to be the DJ for their pre-game tailgate party for two hours. So I've got to set up in the ballroom, do my gig while they tailgate in the ballroom, drinking themselves senseless and eating barbecue in preparation for the game, then I have to clear out quick, so they can set up a jumbotron so they can watch the game. So that's why I need your help, to get off-stage and out of the way right before the game starts."

"Well, you've certainly got the tail for a tailgate party," Shane said.

"Why, darlin', you turn a girl's head," Carmen drawled. "So what do you think? Do you think they'll like my outfit?" She pirouetted in a circle again, and leaned over, giving Shane a view down between her breasts to her navel.

"Uh..................." Shane said.

"Don't be shy, you can tell me," Carmen said, striking another model's pose against the door jamb. "Haven't you ever fantasized about fucking a cheerleader? I know I have, and I won't mind if you say yes, too. And while you think that over, let me tell you a few things about the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. They are sweet and pure, virginal and innocent and wholesome just like the All-American Girl Next Door."

"The girls next door where I live are a pair of power dykes," Shane said, not unreasonably. "And there's two more dykes living in our garage. I'm pretty sure there's not a virgin among them. Not much innocence, either."

"Shane? Try to focus."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, the Cowboys are America's Team. And so do you know what that makes the Cowboys cheerleaders?" Carmen asked.

"America's Nookie?"

"You are oh so very close. They are America's Trim," Carmen said. "And everybody in America wants to put the wood to America's Trim."

"I don't."

"You don't?"

"No. I'd be happy to lick America's Trim. Kiss it. Tongue-tickle its lovely pink clit. I'd suck America's Trim all day long, in fact. But I don't have any wood, so as wholesome as you say these girls are, I doubt I'd be able to do much for them, if it's a piece of broomstick they want. I take it that America's Trim are hetero?"

"Well, that's clearly the theory," Carmen said. "Although virginal and ladylike, one assumes they prefer cock to pussy in the bedroom and in the beds of their pick-em-up trucks under star-filled Texas night skies. But perhaps a few of them might be a little bit, you know ... bi-curious."

"Bi-curious, huh? You mean ...?"

"Yes. It's possible some Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders might pine to experience a love that dare not speak its name."

"Oh, my goodness," Shane said. "I'm shocked. Don't they have laws against that sort of thing in Texas? Has President Bush been told?"

"Just think about it, Shane. Three dozen of the most fuckable young women in America. Working out together. Practicing their cheers, their dance moves. Their taut, lean bodies glistening with sweat in the hot Texas sun as they shake their pom-pons and work on their routines. And then, after practice, they go into their locker room. They strip naked, Shane. Naked cheerleaders. They're all in the showers together, soaping up their lithe, glistening, nude bodies. Bodies that perhaps ache for the kind of touch that only another woman such as yourself can provide."

"Carmen?" Shane said.

"Yes?"

"I think I have that woody now."

"Ohhh, you," Carmen sighed, "you say the sweetest things." She came forward, walked around to the front of the couch where Shane sat. She knelt on the couch, straddling Shane cowgirl fashion.

Shane stared straight ahead at the satin-smooth skin between Carmen's breasts. She thought maybe she smelled something familiar, something ... vanilla. She leaned forward, her nose touching Carmen's skin. She inhaled deeply. Yes. Vanilla. She kissed Carmen's sternum, then trailed her lips to the side, nuzzling the swell swelling of Carmen's right breast.

"So tell me," Carmen whispered. "Who's your favorite player?"

"That's easy," Shane said, still nuzzling cleavage. "Piper Perabo."

Carmen laughed, because Shane had a crush on Piper. "No, silly. Your favorite Dallas Cowboy."

"Mmm, that's harder," Shane said, turning her head to nuzzle the side of Carmen's left breast. "Roy Rogers? No, wait! Dale Evans."

Carmen sighed a big theatrical sigh and backed up off of Shane. "You're incorrigible. I think I'm going to have to give you a crash course in football before next Sunday, or those oil men will throw us both out of there." She turned and picked up the TV remote from the coffee table and switched the TV to ESPN, where the Monday Night Football game of the week had started.

"Who's that?" Shane asked, watching the two football teams gathered near the middle of the field.

"The New York Giants, at Dallas," Carmen said. "They are arch-rivals."

"Oh, right, right," Shane said. Then after a moment: "Which one's which?"

"Jeez, Shane," Carmen said. "The Giants have the ball. It's probably the opening drive."

"Who's that guy?" Shane asked as the camera focused on the Giants quarterback taking his team into the huddle.

"Eli Manning, their quarterback."

"He looks like he's fourteen years old," Shane said. "Think he's still a virgin?"

"I do," Carmen said, "but even so he's still pretty good. His brother is the quarterback of the Colts."

"The Colts?"

"The Indianapolis Colts? Peyton Manning?"

Shane shook her head blankly.

On the TV screen Eli Manning brought his team to the line of scrimmage, took the snap, and threw a 50-yard touchdown pass to Plaxico Burress.

"Who?" Shane asked.

"Plaxico Burress."

"Plaxico? Is he from Mexico?"

Texas Stadium had gone silent as announcer Mike Tirico and color commentators Tony Kornheiser and Joe Theisman rehashed the play.

"No, Shane, he's not from Mexico." Carmen put down the TV remote and climbed back on Shane's lap.

"Is this when the Cowboys get a chance to score?" Shane asked meekly.

"Fuck the Cowboys," Carmen murmured, kissing the side of Shane's neck and beginning to nibble on her ear. "You still haven't answered my question. Haven't you ever wanted to fuck a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader?"

"Yes," Shane said. "Now that you mention it. Yes. Yes, I have. It's been on my to-do list for many years."

***

Just before the end of the first quarter, Dallas quarterback Drew Bledsoe got drilled in his own end zone by Giants linebacker LaVar Arrington, for a two-point safety. Like Bledsoe, Carmen, too, got drilled in her end zone about half an hour later, although not by LaVar Arrington, and with some other significant differences. Unlike Bledsoe, Carmen made no effort whatsoever to avoid the sack; indeed, she jumped into hers with gusto. Although both events produced a great deal of moaning and groaning, Shane was far more tender and gentle than Arrington had been with Bledsoe, and she used a generous amount of lube, whereas Arrington had not. Bledsoe's debacle only lasted a few seconds, and he was quite unhappy about it. Carmen's experience, on the other hand, was much more positive, and it lasted much longer – perhaps because she kept exhorting, "Don't stop, don't stop, oh, God, don't stop!" -- words that Bledsoe certainly never uttered that evening.

Later that night Jenny and Moira came into the house to get some ice cream and to use the bathroom. The TV in the living room was on, but no one was there. Jenny went to the TV and turned it off, wondering who could possibly have been watching Monday Night Football, of all things. She went into the kitchen, where Moira had gotten each of them a dish of ice cream. As she and Moira sat at the kitchen table eating it, they heard a muffled cry coming from down the hall from Carmen's bedroom, something like, "Gaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

Moira grinned. "They sure like to make a lot of noise," she said.

Jenny nodded, toying with a spoonful of Rocky Road. "Oh, yeah."

Moira was quiet.

"Go ahead, ask me," Jenny said.

"You used to be with Carmen."

"Uh huh."

Moira, it turned out, was often just as inarticulate as Shane. She said nothing.

"What is it you want to know?" Jenny prodded gently.

Moira shrugged. "Nothing. It's none of my business."

"You want to know how Carmen was in bed."

"Like I said, it's--"

"She's incredible," Jenny said, calmly, eating her ice cream. "You wouldn't believe the things she taught me. It was Marina who first seduced me, but it was Carmen who taught me how to be a lesbian, and how to have sex and make love, how to be comfortable with it. Marina and Francesca were sadistic, manipulative, self-absorbed, power fuckers. They were into that whole dom/submissive thing. Carmen wasn't my first woman, but she was my first female lover, in the best sense of that word. She showed me how two women can make love, and there was none of that top and bottom, dom/sub stuff."

"So what happened?"

Jenny shrugged. "Shane happened. Carmen was always in love with Shane, from the very first moment. I knew it, Carmen knew it, everybody else knew it, except Shane. She was the only one who didn't have a clue."

"Didn't that bother you? The girlfriend you were sleeping with was in love with your housemate?"

"No, it didn't bother me. Carmen and I never lied to each other. We loved each other as friends, and we had great sex, but we never said we were in love, we never told those kind of things to each other." She made a face and adopted a character voice. "Oh, my darling, my beloved, I love you forever and ever! I will die without you! I lovey-lovey-love you, my darling snookums.' No, we didn't do that."

"You used each other."

"Well, yes, but in a good way. Like, maybe, friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. Like you and me."

That shut Moira up. When she finished her ice cream, Moira rose and washed the bowl and spoon in the sink, dried them, and put them away lest Carmen throw a hissy fit about finding dirty dishes in the morning. She went down the hall to use the bathroom. She could hear better the sounds of sex coming from Carmen's room. Then she went out to the garage apartment.

Jenny had a small bowl of ice cream, only a single modest scoop, but she lingered over it, idly licking the back of the spoon like it was a popsicle. Moira had never felt comfortable in the house; she had felt like an interloper from the first day. But Jenny was entirely comfortable there, in part because it had been her house to begin with, hers and Tim's. She held no grudge at all that Shane and Carmen had taken it over; after all, Jenny had been committed to the sharps ward in the broken cookie factory in Illinois, and as far as anyone knew, she'd never go back to LA. She came into the house in the evenings more often than Carmen or Shane knew, and she lingered much longer there than was strictly necessary just to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. Several times she had come into the kitchen quietly and discovered Shane and Carmen deep into lovemaking in the living room or the dining room or in the shower. Instead of going quietly back to the garage, she had stayed, sinking quietly to the floor in the dark kitchen, listening to the sounds of sex, the murmurs, grunts, whispers, cries, exhortations, the pleading, the coming. At other times, when Shane and Carmen were in one of the bedrooms with the door closed, she sat in the dark bathroom or in the closet at the end of the dark hallway, listening. Sometimes she masturbated, but often she did not, because this wasn't just voyeurism. It was that, and a bit more. It was fuel for feeding her demons, and also feeding her writing.

The stories she wrote were often surrealistic, mystical, strange and sometimes violent. They were nightmares made fiction. But Jenny often thought that perhaps she should switch gears, start writing about her friends, this group of young California lesbians and bisexuals who had befriended her and made her part of their group, their family. There was so much material it would have to be a novel, not a short story. The characters were rich: Carmen, the sensual Latina whose cunnilingual skills were almost supernatural. Shane, the androgynous bad boi/bad girl who fucked everything in sight. Tina, bisexual earth mother. Bette, the ultra-sophisticated power dyke who, like Shane, couldn't stop her eye from wandering. Crazy Alice, fucked up Alice, love-starved Alice who also called herself a bisexual although she probably would never have sex with a man ever again. Dana, the closeted dyke tennis player coming out of the closet and battling breast cancer. Moira, the tormented transgender who didn't know who or what she was, but hated it anyway. And then there was herself, the once-straight naïf from the Midwest, who'd lost a husband and battled her demons and her ambitions while discovering the joy of tongue-fucking juicy girlloin. Yes, there was a book there. And so she listened as Shane and Carmen brought each other to climax and fell asleep in each other's arms.