I've always been a bit of a tomboy. Who am I kidding? I am a down-and-dirty, in-your-face tomboy trapped in a little girl's body. Now before you guys get all pervy on me, when I say 'little girl' I mean my body has the physical attributes of a 13 year old girl but I'm actually 21 years old (nearly 22-please send birthday greetings and cash if you have extra).
How shall I describe my delectable bod? Slender? Willowy? Nebraska? I better explain 'Nebraska'. That nickname came from one of my three older brothers. We were on a family vacation motoring through the Midwest on I-80. I was about 12 or so and my brothers were mid-teens. They had hormones pulsating off them like radar beams. Whenever they would see a female with any kind of tits, they would poke each other and make a comparison of that woman to a geographic location. You can imagine what 'Grand Tetons' and 'Twin Peaks' looked like.
Anyhoo, back to I-80. A very shapely woman had just walked by our booth during a food and potty break. As a wannabe boy, I wanted my brothers to accept me soooo badly. So I blurted out 'Mount Rushmore'. OMG, you should have seen the food and drink spewing out of their noses! They were just howling with laughter. I don't know why, but as soon as I joined in the name game they must have thought I needed a little humbling for being the precocious little shit that I was.
After they calmed down, my oldest brother nudged the brother sitting by him, pointed directly at my chest and stated, "Nebraska". The three of them looked at each other and then nearly fell on the floor laughing their fool asses off. I sat up straight, looked from one brother to another, confused about why they thought that was so funny. So being the naïve sucker that I am, I asked my oldest brother what he meant.
He pointed at my chest again, and then pointed out the window toward the vast, flat plains of the state we had been crossing. He was just crying with laughter but managed to choke out, "you are as flat as Nebraska". Needless to say, the boys rode that horse all the damned way to Colorado. I was pissed off at them but a little thrilled that I was included in their high jinks from that moment on. I'm still referred to as 'Nebraska' or 'Cornhusker' or 'Neska' (meaning Nebraska doesn't need a 'bra').
The name my mommy and daddy gave me is Alexis. Thank you my dear rents, because I naturally became Alex for short; a very proper tomboy name. As I've implied, my booby size hasn't changed much since I was 13. Visualize sunny side up eggs. My dear Mother is the one who graciously termed me 'willowy'. My other female parts have shaped up pretty good due to a lot of sports and girlie hormones. I have an ass and legs that can turn heads if the man doesn't see my front side first. My short, blond hair frames a decent enough face (featuring a smattering of tomboyish freckles across my nose) but I will admit that no movie casting agents have stopped me on the street begging for an audition (at least so far, IMAO). My best facial asset is my smile and blindingly white teeth-I could be the poster child for the orthodontic society. When I smile, my eyes get all scrunchy and some people (my daddy) think it's just ADORABLE.
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, 'tomboy'. As a big girl I still love being around boys; their cussing, their spitting, their scratching. Since I've flown the parental nest, I still tend to hang around guys. When I moved into the city to start my glamorous professional life (ok, I'm the lowest slug ever in the corporate ladder) I sought out the best sports bar in my new neighborhood, knowing that there would be lots of young, horny men hanging out there.
Murphy's is the kind of place that attracts 20-something guys like blow flies to cow pies. The big-ass plasmas hang all over the walls, continuously broadcasting sports. The only time I can remember watching anything but sports at Murphy's was when 'Dancing With The Stars' had Jason Taylor (I would lick the sweat from his armpits he's so hunky) in the finals. For the sports challenged, Taylor is the 6 foot 5 inch god-like defensive end who plays for the Miami Dolphins football team. I think you get it-Murphy's is GUY place.
Oh, one more thing for my non-USA readers. I know you think football is played with a round, multi-colored ball by guys in short, silky pants. The football I'm talking about is the American version played by 350 pound water buffalos in pads and helmets. I don't want you to be confused.
I know, I know, you are wondering where the sex comes into this story. Keep your pants on! Sheesh.
By hanging around Murphy's long enough, I had ingratiated myself with the local boys who realized I didn't need to be treated differently than any other guy. I know my sports and try as they may, I'm rarely stumped with a sports factoid. Plus, I can play pool without ripping the felt and throw a dart into the board rather than the wall.
Unfortunately, one of my brothers was in town once and I took him to Murphy's. No, no, it wasn't unfortunate that my brother was there. I love the big buffoon. It was unfortunate to take him to Murphy's where he let my teenage nickname slip to the local boys. Thus, it was like déjà vu all over again (I think Yogi Berra said that). I became Nebraska again.
Not that the locals didn't already know that I lacked front bumpers. They've got eyes that tend to pluck every chick that clucks by the bar. I'd gotten quite a bit of grief from them already. It's just that my bro gave them a sobriquet (don't ya love big words that look great in print but you stumble over verbalizing?) that I will never be able to shake.
One more thing; my Murphy friends love to play poker. I know it's because ESPN calls it a sport and therefore shows HOURS of these Texas Hold 'Em tournaments. If those card players are athletes I'll stand naked in the city's central fountain and pretend to be a swizzle stick. If you sense that it's the one 'sport' I totally, freaking suck at then you win the stuffed panda bear.
That being said, since my guy friends like to play poker, then so do I. Here's how I suck at poker: I have one of those faces that other poker players have wet dreams about. If I pair up deuces my face twitches like a kitten's whiskers. Lord help me if I've got a set of aces. My forehead is like the Times Square electronic headlines billboard. In poker terms it's called a 'tell'. For me it's more like 'show and tell'. I lose my ass every time I play with my buds.
One fine summer day I arrived at Murphy's and joined my boys at the bar. There's a certain subtle slyness to the group as I elbowed my way to the bar. They are exchanging glances and poking each other in the ribs in a way that suggested something was coming. Regardless of the fact that they treat me like one of the guys most of the time, I don't have a dick. Therefore they sometimes revert to their piggish ways and don't think I have a BRAIN either (major eye roll if you could see me).
Every group has a leader and Bryan is ours. I should tell you that our core group of friends numbers six. Bryan epitomizes tall, dark and handsome (and filthy rich too if I can be so crass to note). I have a secret crush on him but he seems to favor the nubile bimbos that hang around the bar trolling for men (bitches!).
The other four guys all have certain qualities and professions that make our group interesting and fun. Jesse (Rocky is his nickname) is a short, muscular wrestler type who day trades in the stock market. Art the Fart (unfortunate I know) is good humored, tall as a redwood and works for a big accounting firm. Condor (nee Jarod) got his nickname from having a wingspan of the condor, which served him well when he played collegiate basketball. Now he dunks doughnuts instead of orange balls as a beat cop. Meat (his veddy proper mother prefers Steven) got his handle from something the guys just can't seem to keep their stories straight about. Once they told me he worked at a meat-packing plant when he was a kid. Later I hear he choked on a steak. Remember that BRAIN/GIRL thing? I know what they are chortling about (dumb asses).
By the way, Meat is an outstanding specimen of a man. He's blond, with piercing, glacial blue eyes. I don't care if you think I'm shallow but he could be a Chippendale dancer. He is a freaking gorgeous man. And he drives a sweet Beemer convertible financed by his big salary as an exec at a large multi-national.
Back to Bryan (oh yes, he is just Bryan-don't ask me why). Bryan doesn't work because he doesn't have to. Remember that rich reference? He's perfect for the leadership role of our group because he has so damn much time on his hands. He plans our road trips and keeps the group energized. He also has a bar tab as big as Shaq. He's generous to a fault but on my microscopic salary I appreciate the free drinks and he never makes me feel guilty.
