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Message-ID: <38784asstr$1034633402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Rev. Cotton Mather" <revcottonmather@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game II: Playing to Win (mf rom) 1/?
Date: Mon, 14 Oct 2002 18:10:02 -0400
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As promised, the continuation of "Playing the Game".

Enjoy.



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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
story is the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or
downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for
anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as
long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.

(copyright 2002, Rev. Cotton Mather)

E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather@hotmail.com
Don't be shy!  I enjoy hearing from you.
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PLAYING TO WIN:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK II


by Reverend Cotton Mather




- 1 -

SEAN PORTER'S DILEMMA


You wonder, sometimes, how you get into these situations.  Looking
back, I have to believe that, somewhere along the timeline of my
life, I was led to this point, that I would be here no matter how I
led my life.  But I digress...



In the spring of 1981, I was experiencing a crisis.  I was a 16-year-
old soccer jock with girl trouble brewing, ready to spill out and
burn me good.  On this particular weekend, I had spent Saturday
afternoon fooling around with Kristina Mendoza, the girl I had been
dating for a few weeks, only to end up frustrated when her mother
called, interrupting our fun, and she had to go home.  Later that
same afternoon, I helped coach a team of younger kids, a boy's under-
8 soccer team, to their first win of the season, and we all
celebrated by going out for pizza and sodas afterwards.  Davey and
Kip, two kids I had been working with who were on the team, fell
asleep in my car as I was driving them home, so I carried them into
their house, where my old girlfriend, Molly O'Toole, was babysitting.
One thing led to another, and before I could stop it, Molly and I
were going at it on the family room floor.

Now, here it was, Sunday afternoon, and I still couldn't work up the
courage to call Kristina, even though I knew she was waiting to hear
from me.  Not only did I screw Molly, but I had the feeling I had
royally screwed myself by letting the little head do my thinking for
me last night.  I had no idea what I should do.

So I did nothing, which was probably even worse.  I hid at home most
of the day, even though it was a gorgeous spring Sunday.  I didn't
want to see anybody, I didn't want to talk to anybody.  I couldn't
even stand being in my own skin.  I tried to tell myself to give
Kristina a call, pretend that everything was all right, but I knew
things weren't all right, and I knew my voice would betray me.  I
thought about calling her brother Jorge, one of my best friends, but
I wouldn't know how to explain it to him, either.  My best buddy Jake
would be sympathetic, but he had his own troubles, ever since he was
caught with his pants down, literally, with his next-door neighbor,
Jaimie.

It was just too much of a dilemma for a 16-year-old kid.

So I stayed locked away from the world at large, hiding in my room
(it almost sounds like a Brian Wilson song; in fact, it felt like a
Brian Wilson song).  I dreaded going to school on Monday, but I knew
I wouldn't be able to effectively fake an illness.  Mom and Dad had
seen it all with my older brother Mike, and he pretty much ruined it
for me and my younger brother Stephen when it came to trying to scam
the parents.

Monday morning dawned cold and rainy, perfect for my mood.  In the
hallway before first class, I imagined that everybody around me was
whispering and pointing at me accusingly, knowing practically first-
hand what had happened over the weekend.  I kept my head buried in my
locker, trying to will myself into some sort of invisibility.

By lunchtime, I was a wreck.  I wanted to move away, start life over
under a new identity.  Everything, including what little future I
had, looked bleak.  And then, things got really bad.

I was standing under the canopy of one of the rear doors of the
school during lunch.  It was one of the spots where the smokers
tended to congregate, but I was hoping that the weather would
discourage a lot of them.  Of course, today I couldn't be that lucky,
and I was enveloped in a blue-white cloud of cigarette smoke as I
tried to choke down my sandwich.  Finally, I had enough, and
disgustedly tossed the rest of my lunch away and yanked open the
door.  I thought maybe the library would be a safe place to hang out
for the rest of my lunch period, so I headed in that direction, only
to bump into Jorge Mendoza.

Jorge was a couple of inches shorter than me, but what he lacked in
height, he more than made up for in ferocity.  He grabbed the front
of my shirt and pushed me back against the wall.

"What the fuck is going on, Sean?" he growled.

I put my hands up in resignation, and tried bluffing.  "What do you
mean?  Get off of me, Jorge."

"You know what I mean," he said.  "Rumor has it you're back together
again with Molly.  So tell me, Porter.  What the fuck is going on?"

"No, I'm definitely not back together with Molly.  Where did you
hear that?"

"The usual sources," he admitted.  He let me go, but still stood
close to me, not willing to give me a chance to slip away.  "So how
would a rumor like that get started?"

"Uh," I said cleverly.  My mind was scrambling for something
plausible to say, and was coming up blank, as usual.

"You din' call Kristina all weekend, either.  And she's pretty upset
about it.  It's pretty suspicious, Sean," he continued.

I desperately needed a friend in my corner, if I had any hope of
redeeming myself in Kristina's eyes.  I had to hope that Jorge was
that friend.

"Look, Jorge, I need your help.  You've got to talk to Kristina for
me."

"Why, amigo?  Why don' you talk to her yourself?"

"Because I am drowning in a lake of shit, and she's probably going
to throw an anchor at me, instead of tossing a safety rope, when she
hears about this."  I put my arm around his shoulder and turned with
him to walk down the hallway.  I felt his shoulder muscles bunch up,
as if he wanted to shrug off my arm, but I was determined to enlist
his help here.  "I'll tell you all I have to tell, Jorge, but you've
got to help me convince your sister that I'm not the bad guy here," I
pleaded.

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but at least he didn't
shove me away and bury me.  I steered him toward the library, where
we might be able to find a corner we could whisper, and I could
confess my sins.

I laid myself bare and told him nearly everything.  I told him about
studying with Kristina in the afternoon, about making out with her
after lunch.  I told him about the soccer game, and how well the boys
had played, and especially how the keepers had seemed to grasp what
Jorge had tried to teach them.  I told him about going out for a
pizza celebration afterward, about how the boys had fallen asleep,
and about how Molly had answered the door at the Wilkinson house.  I
told him about putting them to bed, and about how I was looking at
Molly's art project.  I confessed about being lulled by her, and I
told him about her little play with the wax banana, and how she used
it to her advantage.  I told him about fucking on the floor, sparing
no detail, offering no excuses, letting him see the Sean Porter I had
come to loathe.  The only thing I didn't tell him was how his sister
looked on my family room floor, her hands on the back of my head,
pressing my mouth harder onto her naked pussy as I reveled in her
sweet taste, and how much she loved licking her own juices from my
face and lips.  I needed an ally, after all, not another enemy.

"Sean, you really fucked up," whispered Jorge as he shook his head.

"I know I did.  I've been beating myself up about it since it
happened.  But what do I do about it?" I asked in desperation.

"I dunno.  Lemme work on it a little."  Jorge stood up from the
table and walked away, still shaking his head.

Maybe I had found an ally.  I hoped I had.  Then again, maybe I had
given him all the ammunition he needed to bury me.



(Continued in Chapter 2)


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