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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!”
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. |
