AmericasDarlings (4 page)

“Tell us, what exactly do you have against sexual gymnastics?”

“
Them
,” she said, pointing at us with a long finger tipped with a manicured red nail. “They’re what I’m protesting.”

I shrank back in my seat. My palms felt suddenly, horribly, clammy.

“Her! Leah Collins! She’s the worst of all!”

Benson put his hand on my knee. He squeezed it. “Steady, babe,” he said under his breath. “You know she’s nuts. Everyone does. Even Markham.”

“Leah?” said Ryan Markham, feigning surprise. “But Leah’s such a sweetheart! How is she the worst? Please, do explain.”

The traitor.

“She prostitutes herself on stage!”

“I do
not
,” I said weakly, my voice barely louder than a breath. I rubbed my palms on my pant legs.

“Whores in the Olympics!” bellowed Marion, “What is there to explain?
We won’t abide whores in the Olympics!”

“We’re not whores,” I squeaked.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Benson. He looked at me, concerned, and took my hand.

I tried to blink away the black spots in my eyes.

I thought Marion was about to explode from her seat, she was leaning so far forward. “You
are
whores! You accept money, is that not correct?”

Benson cleared his throat. “Endorsements. Just like any other sport.”

“Payment! For sex acts! That’s
prostitution
!”

Ryan Markham leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a smug look on his face.

I was about to throw up.

“So you admit it!” shrieked Marion, “You do sexual acts—in public—
for pay
. Is that not true? Answer me!”

Benson stood.

He trembled with barely controlled fury. He glared at Ryan Markham. “You interviewed Leah recently. You
know
you have to be careful with her! How could you
do
this? We’re leaving.” The main camera swiveled around to focus on him. “C’mon, Leah. Let’s get out of here.”

I stood up, swaying. Benson put his arm around me, helped me to take a step. I swallowed. The camera followed us.

“Now, now,” said Ryan, “can’t we discuss this?”

“You tricked us!” hissed Benson. “
Look what you’ve done to Leah!
You might have ruined our chance to get a medal! I hope you’re happy. I hope you got your damn ratings.”

He pulled me in tighter and steered me away from the cameras.

I buried my face in his shoulder.

“The public needs both sides of a story,” Ryan said, “
and this is a good story!
”

“Asshole,” whispered Benson.

I’d been so excited to see Ryan Markham again. I’d hoped to spend time with him even! I’d thought he
liked
me. Now I was mortified. How could I have read him so wrong? Was I that clueless? I hoped Mom and Constance hadn’t seen the interview, but I knew better. Mom was already installed in her hotel room outside the Olympic Village, resting up for the next few days. She’d have watched the broadcast—there was no way she hadn’t. And Constance had told me only last night that she didn’t intend to miss a moment of her little sister’s road to fame and fortune.

Of course they’d seen every wretched moment of it.

Benson and I made our way back into the green room, where I promptly burst into tears. Coach Debbie rushed to me and threw her arms around us. My chest heaved. My nose began to run. I couldn’t get enough air. But even in this state I saw the irony—I could control my orgasms but I couldn’t control my emotions. How’s that for screwed up?

I barely noticed the horrified stares of the rowing team.

“We’re outta here,” one of them said, “forget our interview with that jerk.”

“We’re great fans of yours,” piped up the rower standing near the door.

“Don’t let it get to you,” another one said, patting me on the shoulder, “and good luck tomorrow. We’re coming to your event. We got tickets a long time ago. We’ll cheer you on!”

“Thanks,” said Benson.

“I saw it all on the monitor,” said Coach Debbie.

I nodded miserably.

She handed me my shoulder bag. “Horrible. We’ll boycott him for the rest of the games.” She drew us into the circle of her arms. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he would do that. It was wrong, so wrong, to blindside you like he did.”

“Asshole,” Benson said again.

Coach Debbie took a deep breath. “Let’s leave.”

Coach Debbie and Benson walked with me the entire way across the Olympic Village. We were a unit. We walked arm in arm, the three of us, with me in the center of their protective bubble, drawing comfort from them. We avoided the curious glances of the other athletes on the pathways—swimmers and runners and weightlifters and horse riders, chess players and soccer players and badminton players. Did they recognize me? Did they wonder at my teary face? Americans and Germans and Chinese and Koreans—and, always, everywhere, Mexicans. Could they tell we were sexual gymnasts? Did we look different from anyone else?
Were
we different from anyone else?

We belonged here, didn’t we?

I wondered if any of the athletes I saw had won a medal. Had anyone heckled
them
? Told them they didn’t belong in the Olympics? Made them feel like throwing up and hiding in a dark cave the day before competition?

It wasn’t fair.

But the fresh air felt good. The walk was helping.

After a while, Coach Debbie gestured to a well-groomed path that veered from the main walkway. Thick with bougainvillea and other flowering vines, it had to be one of the twelve “secluded getaways” promoted in the orientation brochure. Sexual dalliances were heavily discouraged in all other public areas. This one would probably be mobbed.

“Let’s follow it,” Benson suggested, “Leah? What do you say?”

I nodded. Secluded was good. It was the middle of the day. Maybe no one would be there.

We walked single file on the narrow path, batting away branches, and found a lone bench nestled in the bushes. No one was there. It was the perfect place for three people who needed to be alone.

We plopped down and sat in silence. A bird twittered nearby. I clutched my knitting bag to my chest.

After a while, Coach Debbie slid next to me and patted my knee. “Honey, those freaks used to taunt me too, back when I competed. You can’t let it get to you.”

“I try not to.”

Benson sighed heavily. “Markham had to know it would screw with her mind.”

“And he didn’t care,” Coach Debbie said.

“Or maybe it
was
what he claimed. Anything for a good story.”

“Ratings, yes.”

“Asshole.”

Coach Debbie rested her head on the back of the bench. After a while she shifted and took a long look at me. “How are you?”

I didn’t answer. I kicked at the gravel in front of the bench.

“We should get going, I suppose,” she said after a moment.

I took her hand. “I don’t want to. Not yet.”

“Then let’s hang out for a while,” said Coach Debbie. “We don’t have anything scheduled until team dinner at six o’ clock and that’s three hours away.”

“Okay,” said Benson.

“My mother is coming to the dinner,” I said. “I can’t let her see me like this.”

Benson picked a flower from a vine. He must not have read the part of the orientation brochure that warned against picking flowers in the village. “My parents are coming too. And a bucketload of relatives.”

“And after dinner they’re going to take team photos,” said Coach Debbie.

“I can’t deal with all that just now,” I whispered.

Coach Debbie slid closer to me.

I let my bag slide to the ground and she put her arm around my shoulders. I rested my head on her warm neck. Benson scooted sideways then lay down across our laps, his long legs outstretched along the bench. He sighed, long and deep, and closed his eyes. It felt good to be there with them in the dappled Mexican sunshine. To be away from the team. Away from the crowds. To have this precious time to recover from the verbal attack. It felt
really
good.

I felt myself relax and I wasn’t even knitting.

I raised my head and smiled at Coach Debbie.

Then she kissed me. Full on the lips.

I gasped.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

I turned my face to her and kissed her back. “Do I
look
like I mind? I always wanted to couple with you again!”

“Me too,” said Benson, opening his eyes, watching us.

Coach Debbie swept a lock of hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. “You did? You should have told me. I didn’t know you felt that way. Either of you.”

“Well, I do.”

“Me too,” said Benson again.

“Leah. Benson.” She laughed softly. “America’s Darlings. Did you know I always get a VO when I watch you two perform? Every single time. You do that to me. And I ought to know better. I’m your coach.”

“You’re much more than a coach, Debbie,” Benson said, “and you’re
supposed
to get a VO.” He chuckled. “Good thing coaches and athletes are allowed to practice together!”

“
Expected
to practice together,” Coach Debbie murmured.

I snuggled into her. “Just another thing that sets us apart from everyone else.”

Benson shifted on our laps.

He turned so that he lay on his back across our legs, his head resting on Coach Debbie’s lap. Slowly, deliberately, he slid a hand up Coach Debbie’s shirt.

She smiled and closed her eyes.

His hand roamed over her stomach.

I watched his every move, my mouth open the tiniest bit. I was feeling better already.

Coach Debbie arched her back.
I
arched my back.

Benson glanced at me and grinned as his hand worked its way over her hipbone.

She shivered.

I shivered.

He skimmed his hand lightly across her soft skin. He winked at me, knowing full well what he was doing to me. Then I realized he was doing this
for
me. Sweet, sweet Benson! He walked his fingers slowly across Coach Debbie’s rib cage as his eyes held mine. He caressed the skin around her navel, cupped a tight little breast, rolled her nipple between his fingers.

My fingers cupped cold, thin air. My fingers rolled nothing but each other.

Coach Debbie let out an almost silent “ooh!”

I did too.

“Hussy,” Benson whispered, grinning up at me.

A rush of heat spread through me.

Then he slid his other hand up my shirt.

Oh my.
Oh my!

He rested his hand tenderly on my breast. It was familiar, comforting, warm. He rolled my nipple between his fingers, the way he knew I liked.

My leg jerked.

Benson’s hand moved under Coach Debbie’s shirt and she moaned.

I looked down at him, lying on his back with his arms up both our shirts, playing with our breasts. My Benson.

“Hey, babe,” he whispered.

“Hey,” I answered, smiling.

Coach Debbie reached across me to rest her hand on Benson’s shorts, right on his enlarged cock. I worked my own hand under his butt, that butt I knew so well. I kneaded it. I rubbed my finger over his asshole. He made a low sound. He strained on our laps, writhing in slow motion, his hands clenching and unclenching at our chests.

Dear, dear Benson.

He wasn’t my boyfriend, but oh, how I loved him.

I relaxed, finally, into my lovemates. We lounged on that bench, taking our time, making each other feel good as the sun shone down on us. Distant voices murmured and laughed. A bird called out from a nearby tree.

How sweet it was.

And how different—oh so different from practice!

Benson moved in time to the ministrations of our hands. His eyes were closed, his brow lightly furrowed. Coach Debbie worked her hand into his shorts, folded her hand around his cock. He squirmed in pleasure. She moved her hand up and down, up and down, as I found his ball sac and gently cradled it in my hand, flicking his asshole with my pinkie. His hand clenched on my breast, sending an electric current through me. He moaned. I looked down at his dear face, so open, so vulnerable. I knew he was close. He was right on the precipice,
this
close to orgasm, in complete control. We were so connected that the closer he got, the closer
I
got.

Could Coach Debbie tell?

“Now, now, now!” Benson gurgled, curling around us, almost into the fetal position, almost sliding off our laps. “Holy
shit
!”

“Did you like that, Benson?” whispered Coach Debbie.

“
God
, yes.”

“What do you think, Leah? Did he like it?”

“I’d say he liked it. Yeah.”

“Benson.”

He gazed up at her, eyes straining to focus. He blinked.

“What should we do for our little Leah?”

He took a deep breath. “Well… she has this thing she likes…”

My heart quickened. What thing?
What thing?
I liked a lot of things!

“Go on,” said Coach Debbie.

“Tell her to pull down her shorts.”

She kissed me. “Pull down your shorts, Leah.”

The people at the far end of the path, the crowds on the other side of the hedges and trees—they faded to nothing. Besides, who was I, an exhibitionist by trade,to object to sex in public? I tugged my shorts down, slid my buttocks toward the edge of the bench, almost tipping poor Benson off my lap.

I was already wet.

“Now tell her to spread her legs…”

She kissed me again, with tongue. “Spread your legs,” she said wetly.

Trembling, I did.

“Go on, Benson—tell me what I should do to her,” said Coach Debbie, “Should I couple with our little Leah? Should I fuck her?”

He gazed up at me. “No. Not yet.”

Bastard!

He considered. “Hmm. Tell Leah to touch herself,” he said finally. “Tell her to dip her finger in her cunt. Tell her to swish it around and get it dripping wet—then tell her to roll her hot little clit under her finger.”

Coach Debbie nibbled on my lip. “Do what he said. Do it now.”

I rushed to obey. I arched my back, caressing my hot little clit. I moaned.

“Now tell her to suck your tit.”

“You heard him,” Coach Debbie said in a throaty voice, lifting her shirt.