Page 91 of The Fed Sex Man

Tyson

She was dressedin a flowing white tank and dark jeans that were skin-tight from her waist to her ankles. Dark hair draped along either side of her chest, coming to a rest just above her elbows. Her glasses had worked their way down her nose and were positioned half the distance between the bridge and her little button tip.

She studied the shrine devoted to displaying my accomplishments. Framed newspaper clippings, a Sports Illustrated cover, numerous magazine articles, action photos and an array of medals filled the lighted case. It was difficult to claim modesty in the presence of such a display, but I was just that.

Modest.

“You looked so young,” she said.

“I looked like I was fourteen until I was twenty.”

She looked at everything on display at least twice, and then glanced over her shoulder. “This is really impressive.”

“He collected everything when it came to me and the sport of football,” I said. “I just left it the way it was when he passed.”

She admired a framed photo of me releasing the ball just before being tackled. “Do you miss the sport? Being competitive?”

I was surprised she asked the question. It was an easy one to answer but answering wasn’t easy.

“Parts of it,” I responded. “The bond. The friendships.”

“You don’t miss playing?”

The truth was that I didn’t miss it at all. Football was my father’s passion, and I played it to please him, not myself. Admitting the complete truth, even in his absence, seemed like an impossible task.

“Not really,” I said. “Not the playing, anyway.”

“Oh.” She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I wonder if the tinkering with the car filled that gap in your life.”

The ‘gap in my life’ was filed with me sticking my dick in women at an unprecedented rate, but I found no value in admitting it to her. I’d changed my ways, and that was all that mattered.

“Probably.” I glanced around the poorly lit den. It felt creepy to be in there without my father. “Have you seen enough?”

She took one last look at the collection of memorabilia. “I suppose so.”

I flipped out the light and turned toward the hallway. “It’s about time to eat.”

Although she’d been inside my home before, I hadn’t bothered showing her any of my personal effects. Now that I was being truthful, I felt compelled to do so. It didn’t make the process any easier.

She followed me into the living room and circled the furniture like a cat trying to decide where to sit.

An island surrounded by barstools separated the kitchen from the living room. I sat down there and admired her as she perused the living room. Still undecided on where to land, she turned to face me.

Her face wore a look of concern.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I was just, I don’t know. Looking at all those pictures of you got me thinking.”

“About?”

“I want to uhhm.” She scrunched her nose. “Try something.”

In a display of my childhood antics, I swiveled the barstool from side-to-side. “Care to elaborate?”

Her lips parted slightly, revealing her desire to speak. For a lingering moment, she remained silent, gazing at me with her mouth open just enough for me to get a glimpse of her snow-white teeth.

In an expression of her innocence, she pushed her hands into her pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of her bare feet. “The reverse cowgirl,” she whispered. “Can we try it after we eat?”