Bridgeting the Gap
DooneLetter - Winter 2024

Happy New Year, Friends!

Well I finally got this newsletter out, but clearly I’m going to have to switch from a monthly offering to a seasonal one. It’s not that I don’t have things to share with you - I most definitely do. It’s just that I’m behind in my other comparatively boring commitments. So please accept my apology, as well as this Winter publication of the DooneLetter. It’s a tad long for a newsletter, but it’s spicy! So, read it one bite at a time . . . in the bedroom . . . in the bathroom . . . in the kitchen while you’re waiting for water to boil! But please . . . READ IT!


Here’s what to expect:

In keeping with my 3-part composition, I begin with Sex and Sensibility, which in this issue, is a follow-up on the steamy golf scene I detailed in the October newsletter. The question was: Is it possible for a man to batter-dip the corn dog while his woman is bent over the wheel (or the dash) of a golf cart? I didn’t know and wasn’t sure how to find out, so I asked you, my readers, for any insight on the matter. Sometime later, I got the answer from Jeff, an Assistant Golf Pro at a course I frequent. I’ve known him for many moons and had told him I write erotic fiction, but if I knew he was a subscriber to my website, I would have asked him the ‘golf cart doggy’ question directly, and much sooner, thus sparing the beer cart girl my somewhat clumsy interrogation. I think you’ll have a laugh.


As an aside, did you know the average salary in the U.S. for a beer cart girl is about $33,000? I wonder how much it is for a beer cart mature such as myself. I’d love the job, although the temptation to toy for tips and pilfer the inventory would be overwhelming. I’m afraid I can’t be trusted with a cart full of alcohol and a multitude of men vying for my attention.


And speaking of golf, the For Your Eyes First section contains another scene from the novella I’m currently working on - Golf Match. If you remember, the story centers around Neri Germaine, a 50’s something mature who has joined the Golf Match dating app to meet a golfer worthy of her skills . . . on the course and off. But the story is really about the greenskeeper, Charlie, a man 15-years her junior who she befriends and to whom she details her weekly and often wanton social engagements. I hope you enjoy the steamy scene I’ve included here and that you can empathize with Charlie, who is falling desperately in love with Neri, but can never be her golf match.  


Finally, the Not Tonight Fellas, I’m Just Here to Get Drunk, section will describe my creative adaptation and evolution of the Pickleback. Hope you enjoy it, but if you don’t like Irish whiskey and/or pickles, I won’t take offense if you skip it.

Sex and Sensibility

So, sex in a golf cart. Sure, a straddle works, although I prefer that in the backseat of a Buick. But doggy? I really wanted to write the scene that way, but I got a negatory ruling from Jeff. He assured me it wouldn’t work, although he didn’t tell me how he knew that. But as it turned out, he didn’t have to, because I’d already been enlightened by the beer cart girl. It was a hot and humorous back and forth. Here’s how it went down:

I was on the range on a particularly humid afternoon trying to adjust to a new set of hybrid irons, when I saw her heading out to the first tee. I dropped my Pitching Wedge and cupped my hands to my mouth.


Belinda executed a faultless 3-point turn and drove up to meet me. She hopped out high and spry and landed like a butterfly, her logoed v-neck tee and short-shorts de rigueur for beer cart girls, although clearly not regulation attire. She didn’t offer me a drink - it’s highly unusual for someone on the range to summon the barkeep.

“Is everything OK, Ms. Doone?” she asked, adjusting her long blonde ponytail higher on her head. Sidenote: The majority of beer cart girls have long blonde ponytails. In fact, I can’t remember a single Miss Beer Cart Girl USA who didn’t have one.

I explained that I was a writer of somewhat racy material, and I was working on a golf story, and I needed her help. She seemed confused and kept looking over her shoulder. I suspected I was making her uncomfortable, but perhaps she was just worried about getting in trouble for not doing her job, as well as losing out on some of that 33k.

“I was wondering if you’ve ever stumbled on any funny business out here,” I said. I air-quoted ‘funny business.’

“Funny business?” she asked, as if she'd never heard those two words put together.

“Sex,” I said, realizing that Gen-Zers are not familiar with that idiom, “Sex in the cart. Specifically, doggy.” 

Belinda’s eyes went round as quarters and she took a step backwards.

“Who told you?!” she blurted, her eyes welling up with water, “Was it Jeff?”

It was an ‘Oh shit’ occasion.

“It was just that one time,” she cried, “He shouldn’t have said anything! We could get fired!”

She was distraught, sobbing, shaking. I went to her and put my arms around her, which is surprising - I’ve never been a hugger.

“Jeff didn’t say anything, Belinda,” I said, patting her back, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Yeah OK, not really, because I just published it, but I DID change their names to protect their identity. Jeff, you know who you are!

“So, how was it?” I asked, treading carefully, “I’m just asking for literary purposes.”

“Belinda pulled a cold beer from the cooler and handed it to me. I don’t drink Coors Light because . . . well . . . it’s too light. Nonetheless, I accepted her thoughtful gift.

“The doggy was a failure,” she said, still sniffling, “and I knew it would be. That’s the kind of thing we beer cart girls talk about. There’s just not enough room to maneuver - it’s uncomfortable. More than that -  it’s UNSUSTAINABLE!”

Belinda leaned on the word, UNSUSTAINABLE, as so many young people do these days.  

“So what exactly did you SUSTAIN?” I asked, with some sarcasm. She missed it.

“Well, the straddle is the go-to; it always works, and if you know you’re going to get busy, you wear a miniskirt and a thong, so no clothes come off. It’s quick and it’s camouflaged.”

She shrugged, and anxious for more detail, I took advantage of her increasingly relaxed disposition.

“That makes sense,” I said, nodding introspectively, “So is that what you were wearing? A miniskirt and a thong?”

“Yeah, but not because I was planning to have sex,” she said, “I just felt like turning it on for the tournament that day, for tips. But the only one I turned on was Jeff, and the only tip I got was his.”

Belinda blushed just then and suppressed a grin.

“That’s funny,” I said, with a broad smile.

“Whew, it’s so hot up here on the range,” she said, “Did you know we’re building a shade structure?”

“No, I di-”

Belinda hoisted her 80-oz water bottle in the air, threw her head back, and showered herself. The torrent cascaded down her lightly freckled face, over her dimpled chin, slipping south into the sweaty divide between her youthful breasts, and soaking the front of her shirt. I felt like an audience of one at a wet teeshirt contest with one contestant. And I don’t know how this is possible, but I saw it all in slomo. It was another one of those, ‘Fuck, I hope I’m not gay,’ moments.

“Jeff got in the cart beside me and told me to drive out to the 11th hole - said he wanted to show me where a gopher tortoise had made a nest in a sand trap. We sat there drinking White Claws for awhile and then his hand was on my knee and  . . . well . . . I spread my legs a bit and that green-lighted him. I don’t know what got into me, Ms. Doone! He’s married! I’m so sorry! I know you can’t relate to any of this.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, “although you’re starting awfully young, Belinda. You don’t want to use up your good reputation in your 20’s. Save some of that excitement for your golden years; it’s a lot more fun, and it’s almost expected - older people say and do crazy shit - we get a pass.” I held up the empty beer can. “This went down surprisingly well. May I have another?”

I pulled a fiver from the tiny velvet compartment in my golf bag and passed it to her, and she proceeded to dig for the elusive Coors Light, the mining expedition taking her over the edge of the cooler and into the ice up to her elbows.

Damn, I wish my ass looked like that.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the icy brew from her, “You had to work for that one.”

“It’s what I do every day,” she said, shrugging.

“And sometimes in a miniskirt with just a thong underneath.”

“Hardly ever,” she said, “Only when the manager isn’t here. She doesn’t approve.”

“Understood,” I said. “Listen, I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but if I may ask, did you blow him first?”

Belinda’s eyes flew wide and she stomped her foot like a filly.

“NO I DID NOT!” she neighed, “I didn’t INTEND to do anything more than a little finger flirting, but-”

“I know all about good intentions,” I said, interrupting her, “Hold on for a sec.”

I picked up a pencil and an old score card and began to scribble.

“What are you writing?” she asked.

“Finger flirting,” I said, “I like it. I’m going to use it. In fact, Belinda, I just might write your entire experience.”

“You mean I’m going to be in your BOOK?!”

Belinda gasped with glee and jumped up and down in her wet teeshirt. I kept my eyes above the waterline.

“Absolutely,” I said, “So, what happened next?”

“OK OK, let me think,” she said, putting her index finger to her chin, “I want to get this right for the book; I really respect non-fiction. OK, so Jeff wanted to do me doggy, but that’s no surprise, right? I mean who doesn’t like doggy?”

“No one I know, Belinda,” I said, rolling my hand towards her to speed things up. As entertaining as she was, it was going to rain, and I REALLY needed to practice.

“Well, after the doggy debacle, he coaxed me into a straddle, and then he started working my tits out of the top of my teeshirt. I don’t know about you, Ms. Doone, but boobie-play gets my motor running.”

“Sounds like you do know about me,” I said, “In fact, you really should call me Bridget.”

“When he sucked my nipples into his mouth and squeezed my bare ass under that skirt, I just lost all my willpower, and the next thing I knew, he had his hot glue gun out of his pants. It was no nine inch nail, but it was just as hard.”

Belinda went wistful for a bit, before snapping out of it and finishing her thought.

“I rode him like I owned him.”

“Hold on,” I said, raising my palm in a stop gesture, “let me write that down - hot glue gun . . . nine inch nail . . . rode him like I owned him. Have you ever considered a career in writing?”

“It was over so fast,” she said, ignoring my question, “I KNOW no one saw us. Are you SURE Jeff didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, “It was just a coincidence that you had the exact information I needed - and so much more. You’ve been such a great help, Belinda. Thank you.”

She smiled at me, then climbed behind the wheel and tore off towards the first tee. I picked up my Pitching Wedge, but before I could address the ball, my cell pinged with a notification. It was the email from Jeff. It read:

‘Doggy in a golf cart? It's unsustainable. If I was you, I’d write it as a straddle.’

And so I did, but you’ll have to wait for that in Scene 4.

Next up, Scene 3 of Golf Match: Carnal Confession.

For Your Eyes First

Golf Match
Scene 3: Carnal Confession

Anxious for some insight from Jeanette regarding Charlie’s strange behavior the previous week, Neri arrived an hour early for her third Golf Match encounter. When she entered the bar, however, Charlie was already there. Surprised, she stepped back into the shadows and watched him interact with Jeanette - almost nose to nose. There was a closeness between them that hadn’t been previously apparent; it precipitated a pang of unwarranted resentment, for which Neri hastily admonished herself. When she approached the bar, the two appeared to startle and their manner morphed from weighty to weightless.

“Bombay?” asked Jeanette, lifting the bottle.

“It’s Friday isn’t it?” said Neri, with a half-smile.

“How are you, friend?” she said, sitting next to Charlie.

“Great, perfect. Why so early today?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she answered, “You’re not trying to avoid me are you?"

“Avoid you? Why would I avoid you?”

 “It just seemed like I upset you last week,” she said, “You know that wasn’t my intention.”

Neri placed her palm at the base of Charlie’s neck then gently squeezed, provoking a shiver down his spine. The vibration rippled under her forearm, prompting her to smooth her hand down to his waist and back up to settle him. She looked so beautiful just then, he softened, and returned her affection by sweeping a stray blonde lock from her brow and tucking it behind her ear. Jeanette observed the intimacy, and when she cleared her throat, Charlie suspected he’d been too forward. But Neri caught the stealthy communiqué and came to his aid.

“Thanks, Charlie. I’m badly in need of a haircut,” she said, making sure Jeanette was in earshot.

“Yeah so about last week,” said Charlie, looking down into his glass and twisting the base of it with his thumb and middle finger, “I was in a mood, and I don’t like talking about myself. You’ll have to forgive me.”

“You are forgiven,” said Neri, patting his knee, “and you are in luck, because I love talking about me. Would you like to hear about my date with Golfer #2?”

“Of course I would,” he lied, hoping it had been another disappointment.

Neri swiveled in her seat and rotated Charlie’s barstool to fully face her. She planted her hands on his knees and arched in, and his half-lidded eyes rested on the sun-soaked skin between her chin and the upper edge of the white lace bra peeking out from under her summer sweater.

“I knew right away it wasn’t going to be a love match; that’s reason enough not to do what I did.”

“What did you do?” asked Charlie, reluctantly raising his gaze to meet her spirited expression.

“I will say, though, he was a lot of fun,” she said, ignoring Charlie’s question, “I laughed all through lunch, that is, when I wasn’t drinking. We went through two bottles of bubbly, celebrating nothing.”

“Are you going to see him again?” asked Charlie, then nodded to Jeanette for another beer. “And some fries,” he yelled.

“He wants to, but why wouldn’t he? I mean after what I did, but like I say, it’s not a match; it would be a waste of time.”

“What the heck did you do?!” Charlie pressed.

Neri put her finger to her lips.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone,” she whispered.

“Ketchup?” asked Jeanette, as she placed the French fries on the bar.

“NO!” said Charlie and Neri in unison, shooing her away.

“I won’t tell. Scouts honor,” he said, straightening in his seat and executing the 3-finger salute.

Neri skated her palms north along Charlie’s thighs, then dug her thumbs into the hip creases between his legs. He fought to maintain his limp biscuit as his eyes sunk once again into the deep crevasse betwixt her twin peaks.

“Before I tell you,” she said, biting her bottom lip, “please understand it’s been a long time; I’ve been lonely.”

And Charlie did understand; he’d been lonely too. The last time he’d made love to anything other than a sock, it was to Jeanette, 18 months ago, right before she left him for Joe Langella, the Club Champion and a champion asshole. To hear her tell it, it was meant to be; to hear Joe tell it - and he did - Jeanette was a helluva fuck, but that’s all she was. And having Shiny Object Syndrome - a continual state of distraction brought on by an ongoing belief that there is something new worth pursuing - Joe moved on rather quickly. Jeanette begged Charlie for a second chance, and maybe if their lives weren’t so tied up with Knottybush, he could have forgiven her, but he’d been embarrassed enough around here - taking Jeanette back would have made him an even bigger loser in the eyes of the members and the staff.

Neri gripped Charlie’s chin between her thumb and forefinger.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked.

“Yes. Sure. Of course,” said Charlie, refocusing.

And then, possibly perturbed by the unforeseen familiarity she’d witnessed between Charlie and Jeanette, Neri related her salacious story in excruciating detail and at a volume just one notch above what might have been discreet. Charlie struggled to play the part of best buddy, nodding introspectively and offering an occasional, “Mmmhmm,” “Interesting,” and “Yes, I see how that could happen,” as Jeanette fulfilled her bartender duties while throwing an eye-roll Charlie’s way every now and again. The only good news in Neri’s narrative, as far as he was concerned, was that Golfer #2 had shown amazing restraint, and was by all accounts the perfect gentleman he had been described to be. He knew Neri was over the limit and offered to drive her home, and that would have been the end of it if she would have just shaken his hand and got out of the car. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened.

“Thank you,” she said, stretching over the console to kiss his cheek, and in an apparent miscue, #2 turned his head to say, “You’re welcome,” and Neri caught the edge of his mouth with hers. And that’s all it took - that little bit of lip overlap - to flip a switch in her. She lingered there just briefly before snaking the tip of her tongue into the corner of his mouth, and what had been a cordial social engagement cascaded into a moaning groaning tongue tussle that steamed up the car windows and the crotch of those white satin panties.

“Sooooooooo,” the unassuming duffer exhaled, squeezing Neri’s shoulders and extending his arms to widen the space between them, “Wow . . . um . . . damn! Whew! Where is this going?”

“It’s going south, baby,” she said, feeling his heart begin to a beat a bass rhythm under her knuckles as she raced to unbutton his shirt, and when she yanked the shirttail from under his waistband, he took exception to her exuberance.

“Slow down, Neri!” he pleaded, as she lapped at his dark brown nipples and clawed at his leather belt.

But Neri was drunk, not just on champagne, but on power - the power to pleasure, and it felt so damn good to use it again. She twisted to look up at him.

“Can the Little Admiral come out for a reenactment?” she asked, coyly, as she slowly unzipped his trousers. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, then dragged it around her mouth in an exaggerated tease.

“Wait! WAIT!” he shouted, as she wrangled his semi-stiff stubby from the fly opening of his boxer briefs, “STOP PLEASE or I’m going to . . .”

That’s when he raked his hands through her white-gold waves and lifted Neri’s head, but she got a good lick on him on the way up and that was enough.

“Oh SHIT!” he howled, as he ballpaper pasted the steering wheel.

Neri picked up a French fry between two finger nails, blew on it, then folded it into her mouth.

“I never knew a guy could ejaculate without being hard,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Well?” she added, rolling her hand towards Charlie, “Say something.”

Charlie opened his mouth to speak, but having been thunderstruck by Neri’s carnal confession, failed to fashion anything intelligible, and her stimulating visual had hardened more than just his resolve to keep her secrets. He managed to cross his left leg over his right; it hurt.

“Oh my God, I shouldn't have told you,” she said, placing her palm over her mouth to camouflage a grin.

“Then . . . why did you?” he asked, finally finding his voice.

Neri rested her elbow on the bar and placed her chin in her hand.

“I don’t know,” she said, wistfully, “but there’s something about you, Charlie Barlowe, that makes me want to reveal myself.”

“Hey,” said Jeanette, jerking her thumb towards the end of the bar, “Golfer #3 is askin’ for ya.”

Neri stood and looped her purse over her shoulder, but before she could bid farewell to Charlie, he grabbed her forearm.

“Do you want me to wait around?” he asked.

She smiled.

“Come back in an hour.”

And so, what began as a curious connection between two mismatched pilgrims, evolved into a dependency of sorts, with the seasoned sophisticate scheduling her dates around the embittered young man’s Friday lunch so she could share her intimate adventures with him. Inextricably drawn to her, Charlie assumed the problematic role of confessor and confidante, knowing Neri would never accept him as her Golf Match, for painfully obvious reasons to them both. 

Not Tonight Fellas, I'm Just Here to Get Drunk

The Pickleback is a shot of Irish whiskey (typically Jameson), followed by a shot of pickle brine. It has developed a cult following, spreading rapidly from its beginnings in New York City circa 2005. It’s not completely a new idea considering Russia and the Scandinavian countries have paired pickles and brine with vodka for generations - consider the brine added in Bloody Marys and Martinis. But in all my years of experience, and despite the fact I love Irish whiskey (Tullamore Dew), I still hadn’t tried a Pickleback - AND I STILL HAVEN’T! It just doesn’t sound appealing to me.

Then, a few weeks ago, whilst I was enjoying one of my delicious jalapeno pickled eggs, I opened the liquor cabinet looking for Gin (aka Pant Remover - Sidenote: it also removes paint), but my hand landed on the Irish. “EUREKA!” I shouted, as my rendition of the Pickleback coalesced in my mind. Unfortunately the Irish/pickled egg combination fell short, but not one to back away from a seemingly bad idea, I pulled another pickled egg from the jar, wrapped it in a thin layer of Jimmy Dean sausage, dipped it in flour, beaten egg, and bread crumbs, and air-fried it. In other words, I made a Jalapeno Pickled Scotch Egg and served it BACK with Irish whiskey. OUTSTANDING! And they’re even better with a good beer!

Now I know what you’re thinking: ‘Bridget, I’m not a culinary master like you. I’m not going to make my own pickled eggs, and then complicate it further by making scotch eggs just so Irish whiskey tastes better.’

I understand your reluctance, my friends, but haven’t we all had enough chips and dip, and chicken wings? It’s time to up your appetizer game. I’ve simplified the recipe for you below - there’s nothing to it, and Jalapeno Pickled Scotch Eggs are sure to wow you and your guests, whether you serve them with Irish whiskey or not.


Ridiculously easy jalapeno pickled eggs: Save pickle juice from pickles or anything pickled, stab some hard-boiled peeled eggs (buy in the grocery store) with a toothpick, then put in the jar with the pickle juice and add sliced jalapeno peppers and red onion. Leave in the fridge for at LEAST a week, but eat within 4 months

Dry off the eggs and surround each with a thin layer of raw Jimmy Dean Sage sausage or any other sausage you like - make sure no white of the egg is showing

Dredge eggs in flour, then dip in beaten egg, then roll in breadcrumbs

Preheat the air fryer at about 390 F for 3 minutes

Spray eggs or interior of air fryer with olive oil

Air fry eggs about 12 minutes total, or until golden (you can also deep fry them or bake them)

Cut in half and serve on good quality mustard

Chase with a shot of your favorite whiskey or a hearty brew

Note: If you want my homemade jalapeno pickled eggs recipe, rather than the shortcut presented here, it will soon be on my website.

Well, that’s it for the Winter 2024 newsletter. There’s plenty more about me and my writings on my website, as well as TikTok and YouTube. Also, I’m always looking for Dear Bridget letters that I can share with my readers and listeners. Email me with just about anything at


Until the spring has sprung, MWAH!


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Copyright 2024 Bridget Doone