The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever (21 page)

"A measurement of what?"

"Your cupcakes."

"But you already know my bra size."

"That's the problem. Bra size doesn't tell
guys what they really want to know about their women's cupcakes. So
a while ago a bunch of engineering students went to work on a more
useful standard for sizing them, a standard that would tell them
how many mouthfuls of cupcake they'd been dealt."

She laughed. "You're insane."

"Not me—the engineers. They started by
defining a cubic mouthful of cupcake as a Herman."

"Why a Herman?"

"I don't know. Maybe the project leader's
name was Herman. Anyway, they then devised a method for measuring
the number of Hermans in a cupcake."

"So you want to count the number of Hermans
in my cupcakes. But why?"

"So I can tell my friends. I'll be the envy
of every guy on campus."

"Now I'm sure you're insane. Next you'll be
wanting to count the number of leprechauns that can polka on your
Blarney stone."

He laughed at her. "Dancing leprechauns
aren't my thing—unless I can catch them, and steal their
treasure."

"Do all men size their girlfriend's breasts
that way?"

"They do, unless they subscribe to the
minority position which holds that anything more than a mouthful,
is a waste. Now hold still while I measure your circumference." He
proceeded to bite around her breast. "Nine! Best yet for me."

"I'd rather listen to styrofoam than you,"
she said, nevertheless gratified that he seemed pleased with a
nine.

"So far so fabulous. Now we'll get the
length." He bit from the top of her breast to its jutting peak,
then he paused to fill his mouth. "Of all the Hermans, this one's
my favorite. Most Hermans are difficult to get at. Let's see now,
nine bites around and four down. That's eighteen cubic
mouthfuls."

"How do you figure that?"

"When Herman and his friends were refining
their technique they ran into a problem. If they assumed that a
cupcake was the shape of a half sphere, then all they needed to
know was its circumference. But if they thought it more closely
resembled a cone, then they also needed to know the length of the
hypotenuse."

"And that would be the second measurement you
took."

"Right. But whether half sphere or cone,
their problem was the same. They had to get out their calculators
and plug their findings into the appropriate formula."

That made her laugh. "I'll bet that caused a
few problems."

"It infuriated their girlfriends. There
wasn't a problem when the engineers started to chomp away. Sure,
their women were surprised, but they weren't unduly alarmed."

"They probably thought it was just another
one of those fetishes that most men have."

"Exactly. But when the engineers stopped
foreplaying, and started to make calculations, their women knew
they were up to no good."

"No kidding?"

"Their women began to exit stage-right at a
hell of a rate."

"Can't say I blame them. You're lucky I'm
still here with you."

"And there was another problem. Their
archrivals, the arts-men, were incapable of making the
calculations. So the engineers got smart, and sacrificed accuracy
for simplicity."

"Keep it simple stupid," she said.

"They multiplied the circumference of the
cupcake by its length and then divided by two—nothing to it. They
could calculate the number of cubic mouthfuls of cupcake they'd
been dealt in their heads."

"And best of all, their girlfriends had no
idea that they'd just been sized for bragging rights."

Brad grinned. "Really quite clever of those
engineers."

She placed Brad's hand on her breast. "So
tell me, will you get to brag about the eighteen Hermans your
girlfriend has?"

"Are you kidding me? Eighteen Hermans will
even pull most men away from Monday night football."

"Who'd have guessed?"

He grinned again, and then snuggled with her
while they talked the night away.

* * *

Two days later, in the late afternoon,
Betty-Jo was practicing her shots against the backboard on the
Coastal Carolina tennis courts. Somebody called her, and she looked
back. Jim Bob O'Hara was walking onto the court, and he was between
her and the only exit. A shudder ran through her. She was
trapped.

O'Hara's Revenge

Jim Bob O'Hara could play football. He had
quickly became the first string quarterback on the Coastal Carolina
varsity team. Late one afternoon, after practice, he was delighted
to find Betty-Jo alone, hitting balls against the practice board.
He was more infatuated with her than ever, and still smarting from
what she and her hockey-playing friend had done to him at the
Park.

This looks lak a good time t' have a chat
with the gal, he reasoned as he parked his Jimmy beside the only
gate in the ten-foot high chain-link fence that surrounded the
courts. Then he hopped out, and strode through the gate toward
Betty-Jo. This'll give her somethin' t' thank about. "Hey, B-J," he
yelled, "can yu spare a moment fo an ol' friend?"

* * *

What kind of an animal am I dealing with?
Betty-Jo wondered, as she watched Jim Bob saunter toward her. Is
this a pussy cat or a wild cat? Possibly a pussy, but he's acting
kind of weird, and after his behavior at the Park the other
evening, I can't rule out wild. I'm out of here.

She ran hard at the far corner of the
chain-link fence, leapt, grabbed hold and then struggled upward.
But it was slow going, because her shoes slipped repeatedly on the
chain links. Jim Bob was going to get to her before she could get
over the top.

* * *

Jim Bob watched as Betty-Jo tried to scale
the fence.

Didn't want t' scare her that bad, but it
serves her raht fo dumpin' me. He strolled across the two courts.
No need t' rush—she'll nevah make it.

"You're mahn now," he shouted. But by the
time he got to her, she had one foot on the top of the fence, and
he couldn't reach her. He backed up, and then took a running leap
up the fence. His hand brushed her sneaker, but he couldn't hold
on.

* * *

Betty-Jo was being as careful as possible
because the top of the fence was a series of jagged wire ends, not
the most appealing obstacle to be traversing, especially when
you're not wearing panties. One slip, and I really will be Pussy
Nomore.

Getting over the top of the fence, without
injury, became even trickier when Jim Bob started to shake it.
Where is that lover of mine when I need him? Somehow, she managed
to get an arm and a breast over the top.

The fence shook again. "Come on down, B-J. Ah
jus wana talk."

"Strange behavior for a guy in a talking
mood."

She managed to get her other arm and a leg
over. Then she pushed away with her other foot. I'm safe! Or so she
thought until her tennis shirt caught on one of the wire ends. On
the drop down the far side of the fence her shirt ripped to the
hem—which unfortunately held. She was strung up on the fence, her
face covered by her shirt, and the rest of her temptingly on
display.

"Ah can't believe ma good fortune," Jim Bob
said.

She struggled to free herself but couldn't.
"I've decided to hang with you for a while," she said.

Jim Bob laughed. "From where ah'm standin',
it looks lahk you've already been the victim of at least one panty
raid today, 'cause B-J, yo bloomers aren't where they're sposed t'
be."

Darn you, Brad, and darn your ease of access
obsession!

"There's a sayin', B-J," Jim Bob continued.
"It goes, 'from the cradle to the coffin, underwear comes first'.
Remember it, an yo squirrel 'll be modestly dressed from now
on."

God, this is embarrassing. "Obviously you
don't know about no-panties-Monday." If the Wart Hog buys my
no-panties-Monday bull, I'm going to become a professional poker
player.

Jim Bob laughed again. "Any day's a good day
fo no panties when yo with me. Now don go away. Ah'll be ove t'
check yo out, in a two shakes of a houn' dog's tail. Then we can
look fo yo missin' undies together."

As Jim Bob climbed the fence, he paused to
grope her through the mesh. "Wart Hog!" she growled. Then she drew
up her legs, and pushed against the fence as hard as she could. The
hem gave, and she fell to the ground—winded. By the time she caught
her breath, Jim Bob was coming over the top. She looked at the
bushes that surrounded her. Bad place to be caught by a wart hog,
she thought. Without thinking she grabbed a handful of sand and
pebbles, aimed for Jim Bob's head, yelled "Hey, Poo Breath," and
threw. Then she turned and ran—past the football field and down Tom
Trout Drive. She checked behind her as she crossed the parking lot.
Then she slowed to catch her breath, and knot her tennis shirt, as
she skirted Singleton and the Kimbel Library. She was still
catching her breath as she entered the Student Center where Brad
was waiting for her.

* * *

Brad was sipping a Coke, and chatting with
the Fox, when Betty-Jo threw her arms around him. When she'd
stopped shaking, she said, "So where were you when the Wart Hog
almost got me?"

Brad looked at his Tawny Cat. She was a mess.
Her tennis shirt was held together by a knot in the front, her legs
were cut and bleeding, and tears were running down her cheeks. He
wiped away her tears. Then he kissed and held her.

"Jimbo did this?"

"Not really. He had me trapped on the tennis
courts behind the football field—I did this to myself, when I was
getting away from him."

"Is he still there?"

"Maybe. I don't know." She clung to him.

"Stay here," Brad said. "I'm going to have a
chat with the boy." He tried to ease away from her.

"Brad, don't go!" She clung to him even
harder.

"I should have settled the score with Jimbo
at the Park. This is the last time that sick, old dog will come
sniffing around you." He kissed her again, released her hold on
him, and strode purposefully out of the Student Center. The Fox ran
to catch up.

"Where do you think you're going?" Brad
said.

"I'm coming with you—in case you need
help."

"That's a nice thought, Fox, but you're not
invited." With women around, fights were always bloodier than they
needed to be, because face-saving retreats were impossible.

"Then you're not going either." she said, and
stationed herself behind Old-yellow. Brad was unable to back out of
his parking space, unless he was prepared to road-kill her.

"I don't have time to argue with you, Fox.
Get in."

He glowered at her as they drove down College
Boulevard. She leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't be
mad," she said. "Today's one of my days to have you anyway."

"One of your days to what?"

"B-J didn't tell you?"

He looked directly at her. "Tell me
what?"

"Oh dear...but maybe it's just as well."

"You really are a trouble making fox, aren't
you?" He drove across the tennis court parking lot, and stopped
beside Jim Bob's Jimmy.

Jim Bob opened his Jimmy's passenger-side
door, got out, and strode toward Brad. He looked dreadful. One eye
was swollen shut, and it looked as if he could barely see out of
the other, but he was still the aggressor. It was Jim Bob who swung
first. Brad easily blocked the blow, moved in tight, and hit him
twice in the mid-section. It was all over, but for good measure,
Brad threw an upper cut that snapped Jim Bob's head back. Jim Bob
staggered away, and collapsed against the tennis-court fence.

"Don't worry, Jim Bob. I'll save you from
this crazy!" The Fox leapt onto Brad's back, and then wasn't easily
dislodged. When he was finally able to pull her arms from around
his neck, she let go with her legs, and slid down, pressing her
breasts against him as she went.

"Enough Fox," he said. "You get B-J's
racquets, while I have a chat with Jimbo."

"You get them," she retorted. He took a step
toward her. "On second thought, maybe I'll get them after all."

Brad walked over to Jim Bob, drew back his
foot, and said, "What's your preference, castration or campus
security?"

"Ah can't believe B-J did this to me."

"Say what?"

"She nearly blinded me."

"And you did nothing to her!"

"Ah didn't know she'd try t' climb that
fence. All ah wanted t' do was talk—try t' get her back."

"Your approach sucked."

"It wasn't an approach. It jus happened. Ah
finished ma practice an' there she was. Ah can't ged her outta ma
head. She's all ah thank about."

Been there, done that, Brad thought. Damn it!
I kind of like this guy.

The Fox returned with Betty-Jo's gear. "Jim
Bob, you shit-for-brains asshole!" she said. "You are so lucky. If
I hadn't been here to save you, this Crazy would've crippled
you."

"Is it okay with you if ah kill er now?
Painfully," Jim Bob said.

Brad grinned. "Be my guest. The more pain the
better."

Jim Bob struggled to his feet, and slowly
took out after the Fox. She let out a shriek, and ran.

When Jim Bob returned to his Jimmy, he threw
Brad the A-okay sign. Brad returned it.

The Fox was livid. On the drive back to the
Student Center, she kept trying to hit him. He used one arm to ward
off her blows. "I thought Jimbo was going to catch himself a fox,
and skin it," he said between chuckles.

"You guys would bond in the gutter," the Fox
replied, as she changed her tactics, and shoved her breast into his
arm. "But I'll forgive you, if you'll kiss and make up." She swung
in front of him, and kissed him on the mouth—firm, inviting.

He pulled away. "Would making up without
kissing be an option?" he said.