Statistically, February Sucks

My name is Linda. My husband's name is Jim. We've been happily married for ten years. We have stable jobs, a nice house, and two wonderful children. We are a fairly normal American couple.

The evening of this tale, our friend group of four couples had gone out for dinner and dancing at The Fairmont. This gathering has become our tradition over the past few years. Late February is a sports desert, a wonderful time to entice our guys into romancing us. The Super Bowl is over and March Madness is weeks away. Our only competition for their attention is regular season hockey, but some perfume and short dresses wins that coin flip.

The staff cleared away our dessert plates and refreshed our drinks. The band finished tuning and launched into a rhumba.

Jim grabbed my hand, saying, "I've got this!" and led me to the dance floor. He had surprised me with dance lessons about five years ago, and he knew the rhumba box well enough to guide me around while smiling lovingly into my eyes and staying off my toes.

After the rhumba, a foxtrot, and a waltz, we went back to our table and our wine. The guys were debating which of the NFC teams had the best chance to challenge the conference champions next season when my friend Dee made a low whistle and nodded not very discreetly across the room.

"Get a load of that hunk!" she whispered.

I looked where she indicated and saw a tall muscular man in a thousand-dollar suit making the rounds and stopping to speak a few words at each table. He had black curly hair and dark smoldering eyes. He looked a lot like a young Joe Namath - if Namath had been able to bench 400 pounds.

I shot a glance at Dee. Even she should have recognized him.

"That's Marc LaValliere," I said. "The tight end. I pointed him out to you during the divisional championship."

Dee sighed like a school girl. "But he had a helmet on. Hey - don't you have him?"

I nodded. I have him, and Heaven had put him tonight in my path. I silently thanked Vince Lombardi and jumped out of my seat. "I'll be right back."

I hurried to the ladies and returned in less time than it takes Cordarrelle Patterson to blow through a lousy kick coverage. Dee ripped her eyes away from the stud to focus on me. On my tits, that is. I had removed my bra and now the girls were bouncing free. If anything gets me into sexy Canton, it will be my firm alabaster puppies.

Our husbands were still deep in comparing rosters and didn't see my costume upgrade. But Marc did. His head swung around in my direction. My head turned away casually like I didn't know he was there, I shook my shoulders so the twins did the wave. I let my knees ease apart.

Oh, yeah. I had torn my panties off. Marc eyes snapped to my exposed crotch like a dog finding a squirrel.

He headed straight to our table. Six-five two-sixty quiets the room when it is in a horny hurry.

"Hello," he said, his attention fully on me and only me. "I'm Marc. May I have this dance?"

The guys finally noticed what was going on. It took a minute for them to recognize LaValliere

in the flesh and out of uniform. Three of them looked impressed. Jim looked concerned, then angry.

I ignored my husband, took Marc's arm, and let him lead me onto the dance floor.

The band started a sensuous slow version of Barry White's "What Am I Gonna Do with You". Marc pulled me tight. He had been taught close dancing well and knew to begin his step by sliding his knee first between my thighs before putting his foot down. It was considerate. It was sensual. Each time he straightened his muscular leg it rubbed against my cunt.

I could see in his smile that it was a trick that had never failed him.

Even though he was leading, and leading strongly, he was distracted by the way my hard red nipples peeked out of my dress top when he pulled me forward. At a foot plus taller, he was getting a good view of them. I was able to maneuver us away from the main part of the floor and into a dimmer part which was shielded by a row of tall potted ferns.

That, he did notice. His smile got wider, knowing I had led him over into the shadows intentionally. His tiny brain was no doubt thinking about caressing my twat. He laid one enormous paw on my bare shoulder and squeezed.

"Marc," I whispered. "You have great hands. Too bad you don't know how to use them."

He smirked and nodded, his mind fully occupied visualizing what was under my dress.

Then the nickel dropped. He tilted his head.

"In the third quarter of the divisional championship," I said. "You ran a five yard out. The safety bought your fake, took a wrong first step, and you were open. The pass was spot on. There wasn't a defender within reach. And you dropped it. Bounced right off your fucking fingers."

He looked confused.

"Now, I'll never know how that feels. Girls are too fragile to play football, I was told. I have to get my aggressions out with kickboxing. You ever kickbox, Marc?"

He didn't respond but eyed me with growing concern. He had reason to be.

I leaned back, tilted my hips, and drove my knee into his balls. His cheeks puffed out as his lungs evacuated, and he doubled over.

"That was a knee strike," I said brightly. "I hear players don't wear cups these days. Maybe you should take it up again."

He began to retch and sag. I had to put all my strength into supporting him.

"Then in the fourth quarter, you were down by two. Two! You only needed fifteen yards to give your kicker a makeable spot. You snuck out on a tight end screen. Your line had a lane open for you ten yards deep. But you bobbled the pass. You took a glance upfield and lost the ball. Oh, yeah, you corralled it, but not before the mike slipped the center's block and nailed you. Eight yard loss. End of drive."

I wound up and hit him with a palm strike in the kidney.

"End of game."

He groaned and started to go timber. I managed to guide him back onto a loveseat. He fell heavily. I jumped next to him and put my arm around his neck. A casual observer would see a drunk boyfriend being comforted by his woman.

"I had you on my team," I hissed, smiling for the world. "You and your stone digits dropped me out of first place. You want to guess who won the league? Huh? Not any of the men, no that would have been bad enough. Those combine-addicted idiots pick their quarterbacks by 40 times or how deep they can sling it. Accuracy and reading the coverage be damned, let alone the ability to look off the free safety. No! It was Dee. Fucking Dee, who drafts her players by how cute their names are. Fucking Dee, who comes in while the game is on and asks what fucking inning it is!"

Remembering the pain of watching Dee prance around with the plastic silver trophy made me want to hit Marc again. I calculated a heel kick to his face but heard Jim calling me.

I leaned in closer to Marc, who was drooling and coughing.

"You want to call the cops on me?" I said sweetly. "Imagine next season when eleven vicious roided up assholes on a defense find out you got shitmixed by a 105 pound mother of two. It's going to be humiliating to be trash talked while they line up to Theismann your ass. I can hear Romo giggling already."

"But it's not all bad, Marc. I am going to give you some free advice," I continued. "The same thing I will tell my son, and, by George Blanda's ghost, my daughter, when they put on the pads."

I wiped my slimy palms on his Sartorio Napoli jacket and then held them up to his face.

"Always look the ball into your hands."

I jumped up and signaled touchdown, then moonwalked away, twirled, and dropped to the floor in a split. Old cheerleader muscle memory.

I was grabbed and yanked to my feet.

"Are you okay?" my husband said in a worried tone as he looked at the second team All-Pro tight end heaving his last meal out on the loveseat.

"Never better," I said with enthusiasm.

We returned to our table, gathered our coats, and headed for the door.

Dee pushed up beside me. "What the hell happened?"

I shrugged. "We talked football. Seems we disagree on certain points. Say -- you still like him, don't you?" I could see it in her eyes. She did.

"Tell you what," I said. "Trade you: him for Kittle, even up. What about it?"