Count and I were invited to a card party in Waverly, just 10 minutes drive east of Lincoln on Cornhusker Highway. The party was to be held in the Trackside Keno bar. We gathered around a table waiting for the rest of our party to arrive. I quickly learned that Count was no stranger to this place, as a few ladies greeted him. One large gal in particular sat right next to Count. It might have been more accurate to say she sat on his lap, but she was not quite there. She was not all large. From the waist down, she had nicely tanned and fairly firm legs. Her loose short shorts also revealed that she wore no panties. Her upper body was very thick, with a nice portion of it in her bra. There was a
lot of leg-to-leg contact, and a great deal of hand to inner-thigh contact.
“Hey Count, what’s up?”
“Keep running your hands in there, and you’ll find out.”
“Oh yah, are you wearing my favorite boxers tonight?” “Actually, I’m doing like Tom Petty tonight.”
“Huh?”
“You know, Free Ballin’.”
“Really? Did you give them up for Lent?” “No. I didn’t give up anything for Lent.” “I think I’ll give up wearing bras for Lent.”
“Just don’t give it up until I get you into bed.” “So you’re not wearing any right now?”
“No more than you. Why don’t you just let your fingers do the walking, and see if you feel any boxer lines?”
“Oh God, Count, let me get you a drink.”
The gal waved her hand, and a Morgan and Diet Coke appeared almost instantly. From where I was sitting I proceeded to watch Count get a rub down through his denim shorts. A wet spot the size of a quarter appeared inside of two minutes.
“Hey Babe, where can we go to finish this off?” “That depends on how much time you have.”
“Well, do you want five minutes now, an hour later, or both?”
“Both.”
“Then the women’s bathroom will do for now.” I watched Count follow the lady to the women’s bathroom, enter, and shut the door behind them. Count gave himself too much credit. He was back to the table in less than four minutes, and me with no evidence.
I have always said my brother is a genius. The proof is in his manipulation of Mom as a youth. He convinced her that his desire to be an artist required him to practice drawing naked models. He wound up getting a subscription to Playboy magazine when he was 12. I guess that’s where it started for me. Two years his junior, I never missed an issue. The fi rst issue I saw was August, 1974 with Lynnda Kimball on the cover.
“…you know the difference between a hero and a liar; heroes don’t tell the story.”
lot of leg-to-leg contact, and a great deal of hand to inner-thigh contact.
“Hey Count, what’s up?”
“Keep running your hands in there, and you’ll find out.”
“Oh yah, are you wearing my favorite boxers tonight?” “Actually, I’m doing like Tom Petty tonight.”
“Huh?”
“You know, Free Ballin’.”
“Really? Did you give them up for Lent?” “No. I didn’t give up anything for Lent.” “I think I’ll give up wearing bras for Lent.”
“Just don’t give it up until I get you into bed.” “So you’re not wearing any right now?”
“No more than you. Why don’t you just let your fingers do the walking, and see if you feel any boxer lines?”
“Oh God, Count, let me get you a drink.”
The gal waved her hand, and a Morgan and Diet Coke appeared almost instantly. From where I was sitting I proceeded to watch Count get a rub down through his denim shorts. A wet spot the size of a quarter appeared inside of two minutes.
“Hey Babe, where can we go to finish this off?” “That depends on how much time you have.”
“Well, do you want five minutes now, an hour later, or both?”
“Both.”
“Then the women’s bathroom will do for now.” I watched Count follow the lady to the women’s bathroom, enter, and shut the door behind them. Count gave himself too much credit. He was back to the table in less than four minutes, and me with no evidence.
I have always said my brother is a genius. The proof is in his manipulation of Mom as a youth. He convinced her that his desire to be an artist required him to practice drawing naked models. He wound up getting a subscription to Playboy magazine when he was 12. I guess that’s where it started for me. Two years his junior, I never missed an issue. The fi rst issue I saw was August, 1974 with Lynnda Kimball on the cover.
“…you know the difference between a hero and a liar; heroes don’t tell the story.”
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