Jersey Girl

"God damn it!" Tracy spat out as she jabbed the disconnect button on her cellphone. "I hate that fucking car. Do you know how much it's gonna cost to get that transmission fixed?"

I was driving and she was beside me in the front seat of my car. I knew better than to answer.

"Twenty-five hundred fucking dollars. That's how much." She wisely put down her cellphone before slamming the side of the door with her fist. "There goes the swimming pool again." Her anger and frustration was palpable.

I drove on and kept my mouth shut.

"It's not like I've got any choice, do I?" she said. It wasn't really a question. "Maybe if we do an above ground pool," she began. "It's a lot cheaper. We wouldn't have to put in all that concrete decking and we could cut way back on the landscaping."

"If that's what you want," I said quietly.

Tracy glared at me.

I changed lanes.

"You know god damn well that's not what I want."

I did know that. Tracy had dreamed of adding an in-ground pool to the back yard ever since we'd moved into our house, but it was expensive. In order to get the privacy that we both wanted, it would take a lot of landscaping to shield it, and our skinny dipping and nude sun bathing, from the nosy neighbors. We'd planned and saved, but every time we got close to being able to afford it, something came up and made it impossible. Tracy's car problem was another glitch keeping the dream at bay.

"I know," I said. "But I'll go with whatever you want to make it happen."

"You're trying to humor me, be nice, and make me feel better. I hate it when you do that. It just makes me madder."

Despite those words, I could feel her beginning to cool down. Frustration was fueling her outburst and I knew that it wasn't directed at me. We were tightly connected and had been since the very first day we met. That was our special bond, we knew each other inside and out. Even when we truly made each other angry, it didn't last because behind any ire in the moment, we had an extremely deep and abiding love for each other. It was going to be okay for me to poke at her a bit.

"I definitely don't want to do that, with you being armed and all," I said.

Tracy had a concealed carry gun permit and never left the house without her pistol.

"You got that right mister," she jabbed her finger at my arm. "But I wouldn't shoot you. That would be too easy, too quick." The playful tone that I loved so much had crept back into her voice.

"Oh yeah. What does that mean?"

"A little suffering, some torture would satisfy me so much more," Tracy quipped with a wry smile.

"Yeah?"

"I think you'd need my paddle or a little of my whip. But then again, you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Damn straight," I answered. "My gun might even go off."

Tracy burst out laughing. The tension of the car problems evaporated.

It's not like we were dirt poor or anything. But the 2008 economic down turn had hit us hard. It was the year that my divorce was finalized. That was a great thing, but after my very toxic ex-wife got a disgustingly large share of my assets and an outrageous alimony, my boss apologetically informed me that the company I was working for had to downsize and I was being let go. He helped me get a series of part-time jobs doing graphic design and directed some clients my way. It kept money coming in, but nowhere near as much as I'd been earning. Ultimately, after years of hard work, I built up a reputation and founded my own company that netted me a respectable, if limited, income.

Through my divorce I'd also hung on to my old photography gear. I actually did that out of spite toward my ex. She had tried to declare it as a marital asset that had to be sold and the profits split. But judge turned her down laughing because she didn't know an SLR from an SUV. I loved it, and my camera rig represented a small victory for me in a war that I'd mostly lost.

The good news was I took advantage of that. After the split, I began taking photos of my kids playing on various sports teams. By the time the last one was on the verge of college, I had improved to the point where I was selling the sports photos to the parents and making a little extra money. That was how I met Tracy.

It was at my kid's last high school soccer game. Tracy's son, I ultimately learned, was the goalie on the opposing team. I was hunkered on the side line with a large telephoto lens focused on the action when my son scored with a header to win the game in the closing seconds. The picture of the ball just squeaking by the goalie's hands was worthy of Sports Illustrated. The look of elation on my son's face was matched by crushing disappointment on the other's (Tracy's son).

"That's going to be a great picture. Can I buy it?" I heard a woman say as I lowered my camera and loudly cheered the goal.

"Sure," I answered still clapping. "But why do you want a picture of my son?"

"I don't want that," she answered looking at me like I was an idiot. "I want the shot of

my

son, the goalie. That was an awesome score and I've never seen such an incredible effort to stop an unbeatable shot. It was amazing and I want him to know how proud I am of him, even if things don't work out as he hoped."

I was flabbergasted. That was the most incredibly supportive thing I'd ever heard a sports parent say about their child. The vast majority that I'd met were only interested in their kids' successes. If, for whatever reason, their off-spring didn't achieve greatness on the field, they didn't seem to care and certainly didn't want a picture of it.

"I absolutely will not sell you that photo," I said.

The woman bristled, preparing to put up a fight.

"But I will trade you."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Trade? What do you mean?"

"I'll give you a copy of that picture, eight by ten, eleven by seventeen, whatever you want, in exchange for having a beer with me."

"I don't drink beer," she said.

My heart sank. There was something about the woman that called to me. I really wanted to get to know her better.

"But I love cocktails," she ever so subtly emphasized the work "cock".

"Deal," I said with a huge smile. I stuck out my hand. "My name is Steve."

"Mine's Tracy," her grip was firm, and her skin was soft. "My son has his own car and can drive himself home. I'll meet you at the Drunkin' Duck in thirty minutes. You do know where that is?" Her all business, not-going-to-take-no-for-an-answer tone was intriguing.

The Duck, as it was commonly called, was one of my favorite places. There was nothing fancy about it, by the food was excellent, the drinks renowned, and the atmosphere casual and inviting. I nodded yes and headed across the field to congratulate my son. My heart was beating fast. I was really looking forward to spending time with this new woman.

That was three years ago. Since then, Tracy and I got married and established a great life together. I still did sports photography, but had advanced to shooting mostly semi-professional teams. The money that I earned doing that supplemented what I earned from my graphic design business. We made ends meet and had a little extra, but not a lot. Tracy and I were on our way to a photo shoot when she got the call about her car transmission.

"I really wanted to be able to put in the pool this year," Tracy said calmly.

"I know," I answered. "But neither of us is going anywhere and we can do it later. You have to get your car fixed. That's not an option."

"Yeah, yeah. You're right. And I don't want to do a half-assed job of the pool either. If we can't lounge around and swim in it naked, then I don't want to do it at all."

"Me either. But I definitely want to do 'it'," I teased.

"You're a guy. You always want to do 'it'," Tracy said. "I just don't want the neighbors calling the cops on us. And I definitely plan on doing things by the pool that would make them want to call." A wicked smile spread across her face.

"You're a bad girl," I said with an equally big smile.

"You should know." Tracy settled back into her seat and picked up the phone. She punched in the number to the auto repair shop and with a heavy tone told them to go ahead and fix her car. After a few moments of staring off into space, I was sure thinking about the pool, Tracy asked, "So where is it that we're going?"

"It's an Ice Hog game," I replied referring to semi-pro hockey team two cities away from where we lived. "I'm doing color shots." The term refers to taking pictures idle players, families, managers, the coach or other non-players. They are meant to get the fans to see the team as people, not just athletes.

"Do we get to watch the game?"

"Sure. I'll be taking some photos during the game, bench shots, fans, gear, coaches, the cheerleaders. And a bunch afterwards."

"Cheerleaders?" Tracy exclaimed with surprise. "They have cheerleaders at hockey games?"

"They have cheerleaders for every sport. There's nothing like short skirts and tight midriff sweaters to get fans riled up."

"Why anyone would want to do that I'll never know."

"Hunh?"

"Be an airheaded cheer girl," Tracy said.

There's one thing about my wife that always surprised me. She could judge very quickly, sometimes without really thinking about it. However, as fast as she does that, she will keep an open mind, and sometimes actually change her opinion after learning more.

"Two of the 'airheads' for the Hogs are senior chemical engineering majors at the University, and one is going to be graduating this year with honors in international relations. She's going to law school next year on a full scholarship."

"And how do you know all of that?" Tracy asked. There was a distinct tone of surprise and a little bit of fascination to her voice.

"I've actually talked with them and not just oogled. You should try it yourself."

"We'll see," Tracy said ending the conversation just in time for us to pull up to the hockey arena.

The first period was underway by the time we got inside. It wasn't a big place like the professional teams play in and it was only about half full.

"Not bad for a Thursday night," I said to the team manager when I got to the rink-side bench.

"Yeah," he said, then turned his attention back to the game play on the ice.

The whole team, players, coaches, managers and staff were very serious about hockey. They saw it as their ticket to a better life; a few years playing in the semi-pro leagues, and then get picked up by professional teams, most likely from overseas. The cheerleaders were a completely different story. All of the ones that I'd met, not just hockey, but also soccer, football, etc., were college kids who did it as a part time thing to pick up a little extra money and to have some fun. None of them were very serious about it.

"Steve!!" a youthful female voice called out right before I was enveloped in a bosomy hug. "You're here. Are you going to take my picture tonight?"

"Of course Stephanie, I'm going to get everyone's picture."

"Oh goody," she said bouncing up and down making her ample breasts leap about.

"She's the honor student I assume," Tracy whispered in my ear.

"Uh, no," I answered as my wife sat down and I went to do my job. She was next to one of the other cheerleaders who was resting on the bench seat.

For the next few minutes as I moved about taking pictures, I overheard parts of the conversation that Tracy struck up with Katie, the cheerleader next to her.

"I understand that you're going to law school."

"Yes ma'am," Katie answered. "I've gotten offers from a couple. I'm waiting to see which one gives me the most scholarship money. It's been a lot of work, but I know it will be worth it. I'm hoping that I'll end up working with an international non-profit or a government agency advocating for women's rights, especially reproductive rights, and for access to decent education."

Tracy seemed surprised by her reply. Katie wasn't the airhead that my wife had assumed she'd be.

I moved farther down the rink out of earshot trying to frame a good shot of the team bench. When I came back closer I could tell that their exchange had picked up.

"It's fun and I make pretty good money doing this," Katie was saying. "Hockey is only once per week or so, and I only do home games, I don't travel. That wouldn't work well with school. I also pick up some gigs doing soccer games. I really like those. I just do women's soccer, not men's"

"Why is that," Tracy asked.

"I like girls."

"Huh?" Tracy said clearly confused.

"I like girls, you know. I'm a little bit bi," Katie answered unabashedly

"What does that have to do with cheerleading for women's soccer?"

"The sex," Katie said calmly.

Tracy just stared at her.

I pointed my camera alternately at the ice, the bench, and up into the stands. I was hooked on what they were talking about and didn't want to miss a word, but also didn't want it to look too obvious that I was eavesdropping.

"The sex is terrific. All of the girl players are so hot. I just love the feel of a sweaty pair of tits rubbing against me. And their legs are so strong. God they can fuck for hours and not get tired."

Tracy's mouth hung open.

"Of course I like men too," Katie went on. "That's why I do the hockey and football games. Nothing beats a hard cock ramming into me, or exploding in my mouth. They like to think they're so big and tough and all. But every single one of them whimpers like a little boy, begging for more when I get my hands and tongue on them." She jumped up and joined her colleagues as they tried to rouse the crowd with a cheer.

Tracy looked stunned. She was obviously trying to match the images of an intelligent and successful college student headed for a full ride scholarship to law school with the sex kitten who so openly talked about how she enjoys both men and women.

Katie sat back down having been unsuccessful at getting the scant crowd to cheer loudly. "It's not just the players either. You see that equipment boy over there," she pointed at a skinny kid next to the team bench. "He doesn't look like much from here, but he's got the most amazing dick. It must be ten inches long when he's hard. And let me tell you he knows how to use every inch of it to please. And Stevie over there," she pointed at me. "Well, I've been trying to get to him for a while now, but..."

"Hey, he's my husband," Tracy interrupted.

"Oh, sorry didn't know," Katie said. "I'd never horn in between you, that's just bad form. And he's never, you know, given in. But if you're ever interested in getting together, the three of us, let me know. I think that would be really hot. My friend Liz would definitely be up for it too, if you'd like." Katie stood up with the other cheerleaders as the horn sounded ending the period. "Gotta go, but I'll be back."

While the Zamboni cleaned the ice, and the players hustled into the locker room to rest and discuss game strategy, Tracy sat immobile on the bleacher. I didn't have a chance to talk to her as I was busy taking photos. By the time I was finished, the players were streaming back onto the ice warming up before period two. When the horn blew to re-start the game, Katie and another cheerleader sat down next to Tracy.

I moved around behind them so that I could continue listening while I pretended to take pictures.

"This is Liz," Katie introduced her colleague. "And this is Steve's wife. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name," she said to her.

"Tracy," she said extending her hand alternately to the two girls.

"Nice to meet you," Liz said. "I understand that Katie has been bending your ear about how we like cheerleading."

Tracy nodded mutely.

"Katie can be a little crass. I've got no idea how someone so blunt has done so well and pulled down scholarship money." Liz shook her head.

Tracy is not one to keep her thoughts or opinions bottled up. "Maybe she'd been doing the professors or the admissions and tuition grant staff," Tracy muttered.

"No way," Katie protested. "School is like work. I

never

mix work and play, well, except for here. If I'm going to succeed or fail it's going to be strictly on my merits and not just because I'm a good fuck. I hate people who do that." She sounded hurt by Tracy's accusation.

"Sorry," my wife said, without actually sounding like she was.

"You're not the only one to think that way," Liz began. "A lot of people believe that just because we're good looking and fit, by the way we work really hard to stay fit, and that we love sex, that we're bimbos and skanks who sleep our way into whatever jobs we get. I've busted my ass, studying hours every day to do well at chemical engineering. I'm good at it because I'm smart and worked hard. I've earned my way to the top, not slept my way there."

"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to suggest that you weren't intelligent and hard working," Tracy sounded sincere in her apology.

"Forgiven," Katie and Liz said in unison. "And by the way if you were thinking about Stephanie over there," Liz pointed to the full-breasted blonde who greeted me earlier, "when you said those things, you were pretty much right." Both girls giggled, "She's a skank."

The three women burst out in laughter.

"We'll keep our paws off of your hubby," Katie said.

I felt Tracy's wicked side coming out. Like I said, we share a very deep connection.

"Oh feel free to tease him all you want to. I love seeing him squirm," my wife said.

The cheerleaders looked at each other and grinned.

The klaxon boomed and the second period ended. All of the cheerleaders moved onto the rink and carefully did a dance routine trying their best not to slip and fall on the ice. I sat next to Tracy.

"Get a good earful?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I tried to sound as if I didn't know what she was talking about.

"Give me a break." The cynicism practically dripped off her tongue. "Like you weren't listening back there pretending to take pictures. You heard every word."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"They're an interesting bunch, that's for sure. A deadly mix of brains and sex. I pity the men who wind up in their web."

"Brains and sex, huh?" I said looking directly into my wife's eyes. "Sounds exactly like someone else that I know."

The horn sounded again before Tracy could say anything. I jumped up to get back to work and the two cheerleaders took my spot on the bleacher.

"Did we tell you about the private parties and the photo shoots?" Katie asked.

Tracy shook her head.

"That's where the real money is."

"Yeah," Liz added. "Some of the high rollers, and sponsors will have us come to private parties as 'entertainers'," she hooked her fingers making quote marks in the air. "That's strictly off the books."

"You mean orgies?" Tracy asked. A red blush of excitement spread up the back of her neck.

"No," Katie said with disappointment. "That almost never happens. Well there was that one time with the football team..."

Liz interrupted her. "No, it's more like pole dancing, and a bit of stripping, wet t-shirts, that kind of thing. Every now and then we'll get asked to give a handjob or blowjob to some guy, usually a prospective draftee. Anything more than that is something we do on our own, just for fun, no money. If we did, it would be prostitution and I don't want any part of that."

I wondered about the fine distinction that Liz was making and wasn't at all sure that her line in the sand made much sense given the money they obviously got for everything else that they did at those parties.

"Of course, we've had plenty of private fun haven't we Liz?" Katie said with a huge smile.

"Yes we have," Liz added enthusiastically.

"Why don't you guys do pro cheerleading? I'd think that there would be a lot more money in that," Tracy asked.

"Way too serious a commitment," Liz answered. "You have to be on the road all the time and we'd never be able to get our school work done. Besides, most of the players are married or in serious relationships. The pickings are a lot slimmer, and like I said, we're not the kind of girls who are going to be part of a cheaters circle. No, semi-pro is perfect for us."