Irish girls (Tami, Brigid)

        “And not only that,” Tami said, “I got an interesting gift from a visitor.  Look under the sink.”

        Rod at first did not know what this huge object was that he was dragging out of the cabinet, but as he supported it in his hands he suddenly looked at it in horror.  “God...  this isn’t...”

        “It’s not exactly what they stuck in me.  Mrs.  Wickland says it’s improved and they’re not into punishment any more.  There’s a remote there too.  Push the purple button.”

        Rod found the remote and dropped the huge tail in surprise as it buzzed.  “So now this is a vibrator?”

        “Ja.  Sehr nett?” Which meant, “Very nice?”

        Rod held it in his hands.  “I can’t believe this whole wooden part went inside you.”

        “I had had a lot of practice at the time.”

        Rod remembered Tami’s account of the huge dildos pistoning into both her holes at Chalfont under McMasters’s direction.  “It seems impossible.”

        “No, it’s possible.”

        He thought again about the old plantation grounds, the pony girl system.  That the slaves were there by choice made it in way worse.  “What a sick enterprise.  Playing master and slave.”

        “I had a dream about it once that wasn’t too bad.”

        “Oh really.  I suppose you were the lady of the manor?”

        “No, I was the barefoot Irish kitchen girl.  You were a field slave out picking cotton.”

        Rod cocked his eyebrow.  A black person and a white person would have different ideas about such a dream.

        “We would wink at each other, and one day we both escaped into the countryside, made love under the stars, and built a little hut to live in.”

        “If I was a field slave I wouldn’t get a chance to see you, much less wink at you.”

        “It was a dream, Rod!”

        Well maybe that was not so bad.  Tami sat up in the tub, water coursing from her nipples, and kissed Rod’s adorable shaved head.  He watched as she settled back in.  Her famous pubic fronds, buoyed by the water, waved to and fro like wheat in a lazy summer wind.  Plum-colored wheat, of course.

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       No more cold wintry winds.  No more torrential icy rains.  No more snow and sleet, battering the band from every direction, the cold slicing right through their uniforms even when they had their thermal underwear on.  Ahhh -- spring!  They deserved it, man!

        And no one deserved it more than their majorette, who had had to march through all that without thermals in her tiny uniform.  As they passed the crowds thick along the route -- it was so strange to be watched by folks in short-sleeved shirts, instead of all bundled up -- the band seemed to be playing especially for Brigid, whose majorette’s smile was really a smile this time, no sense of it being forced.

        He could sense as well as see the smiles on the faces of the people, maybe especially the Boston Irish folks -- such an obviously Irish majorette, how fitting for St. Patrick’s Day.  Her red hair and bright green eyes and white, slightly freckled skin sparkled in the sun.  She smiled at them and they smiled back!

        Whoa -- Brigid’s family!  There was big John O’Dierna, and the two little girls, Jessy up on her father’s shoulders, and Chrissy and Johnny and Sean, and a heavy-set lady with a cane who must be Brigid’s mother.  A couple of old folks who might be grandparents.  All waving proudly at Brigid, who smiled back during one of her turns.

        Now, on to “Our Director”.  The title made him think of Sarge, who as always, was walking to the side, back next to the saxophones.  Rod looked down, remembering what Sarge had said in the big instrument room about making sure there was street-cleaning before every parade.  For the first time Rod noticed how clean the pavement was, and how it must have been clean for every parade this year.  No oil spots to slip on.  No bits of broken glass.

        This was an easy tune and Rod could devote more attention to the girl twirling in front of him.  The sun brought out the best in her newly-conditioned body, the “definition” in her slender calves and thighs and shoulders, those tight buns, the narrow waist.  He got to like those tiny “bits”.  The green pinpoints in the sun blended well with the pink of the areolas, the pale skin, the red hair, and of course her green eyes.  As she carried her breasts to and fro, up and down, tightly on her chest, it seemed like the band was being led by the majorette’s nipples.

        The warm air must have made the majorette’s muscles more supple.  Her moves were different today.  The freedom from shoes, the freedom from the waist string, the tiny bits at the ends of her nipples, more comfortable than those clipped-on circlets -- Brigid pranced around more loosely now.  It was not only those throws kicked up by the soles of her feet, that she couldn’t do with flip-flops on.  As the barefoot majorette bounced and danced she kicked up higher, did more upright splits.  Her legs separated and spread out more.  Pumping away on his trombone, watching her to the extent he could while marching in time, Rod finally understood.  Brigid was proud of her new uniform and was showing it off, the little wisp in between her smoothly-shaven pubic lips, the pretty strand of shiny green thread, glinting in the sun, that she wanted all of Boston to see.  Her skin welcomed and soaked up the warm sun, and now she spun around again, her toughened soles on the warm asphalt, and did another throw.  A nearly-naked Irish sprite magically leading them to a land of enchantment.

        There was a soft breeze gently at their backs as they began the long slow downhill toward Downtown.  The route would take them back to the school eventually, or very close to it.  A long, three-mile route, but no chore at all on a day like this.

        He loved her, he wanted to be with her, he wanted to kiss her, hug her .  .  .  feel her tight, well-conditioned body against his.  Between songs, horn down, watching her tight bare buns jiggle as her bare feet marched in place, toes flexed, he wondered how he would ask her to the Junior Prom.  Just do it, he finally decided.  Can’t be too early though .  .  .  But he didn’t want to wait until the last minute.  Someone else might ask her first.  Two weeks from now -- that would be a good time.  He’ll ask her out for pizza after school.  What was her free day?  Tuesday?

        Roll-off by the drums, and into “Manhattan Beach”.  Brigid spun, her breasts seeming to lead the way as they bounced up and out and swung, then a high, high throw .  .  .  She smiled up at the sun and the sun smiled down on her, kissing her body, as she celebrated its warm caress.