Shee-it.
How is he supposed to play an entire team by himself? He shakes his head and lopes after the girls, who chorus something at him. It takes him a moment to realize they are shouting Pussy at him. Puss-zee-puss-zee-puss-hey-Sam.
His ears are chili-pepper hot.
Suddenly pissed off, he crowds Melanie Jandreau, who has the ball. Melanie sticks her tongue out at him as she passes the ball to Melissa. His hand follows the ball but it’s not there, Melissa has it and her tongue is out at him, and the girls are chorusing na Na na Na na Na na while Melissa dances triumphantly from one foot to another, dribbling the ball. Every time he goes for it, his hand seems to pass through a ghost.
The Mutant slips between him and Melissa, taking the ball, driving it toward the hoop. He tries to move between the girls and they are all over him. Jesus, where’s the ref? Doesn’t the idiot see them fouling him left and right, it’s Night of the Living Dead time out here.
He blocks the Mutant from the hoop. She feints but he’s with her and she can’t get the ball past him and he can’t get it away from her and they are locked in a weird dance. Why doesn’t she pass the ball back out to Nat and let her shoot it over him from outside? He can’t seem to get his hand on the ball when she dribbles it but goddamn it, she’s had possession too long. Where’s the fucking ref?
All at once, he realizes he’s stark naked, except for his high-tops. And he’s getting a boner.
The Mutant is just as suddenly bare-ass. Her creamy tits tremble and sway with every movement and her bush appears in brief glimpses between the rise and fall of the ball. The detail of the ball fades; he wants the damn thing down, so he can see her bush. Frantically he struggles for his concentration—and oh shit, all the babes are in their birthday suits. They move around him and the Mutant in a witches’ coven, Deb’s breasts larger than he would have guessed, Nat’s bush blazing red and her areolae as big as gold pieces, and there’s gold dust freckled all over her. The M & M’s are mirror images of each other, four perfect, perfectly identical breasts, twin elegant little navels, twin dairy-dream swirls of golden pubic hair. Their beautiful mouths making mocking kisses at him. His crotch feels as heavy as if he were dragging a ball and chain with his works.
The ref drifts into his peripheral vision, bucky too, except for his whistle and his black shoes.
Half-blind with the sweat running into his eyes, Sam lurches toward the ball. His heart leaps as his fingers succeed in closing on it. At the same instant the Mutant’s fingers coil around his arcing penis—the sensation a jolt of burning electrical cold, as if she has a handful of dry ice. With an angry shout, he shoots off instantly, his semen falling in a slow-motion silvery spatter over the ball between them. With the closed fist of her free hand, the Mutant casually bops the ball out of his grip from underneath and his spill rides it over her head, into the basket.
As the ball drops through the hoop and the crowd roars, he realizes all his family and friends are in the bleachers, and now his team is on the bench, and all of them are cheering the Mutant’s score.
Sam moans in his sleep. No one hears over the racket of the boys on the bus, growing ever louder as they approach Castle Rock.
Rick nudges him. “Wake up, man. We’re here.”
Tongue thick in his mouth, Sam’s face feels as if it melted while he slept. His headphones are askew. He hooks them down around his neck. He’s sweating heavily. Rick’s coat is over his lap. He pushes it off and sits up.
Rick leans close. “Thought I’d better cover you up, guy. You were getting embarrassing, you know?”
Blood hot in his face, Sam is suddenly aware of a puddle of stickiness drooling through his body hair. Then he begins to remember his dream and his embarrassment thickens.
“Shit,” he mutters.
Rick pushes his glasses up his nose. “Anyone I know?”
Sam ducks it. “You ever have one that was a nightmare?”
Rick laughs. “No. Sounds like the kind of thing happens to a guy who’s been cherry too long.”
Sam yawns. “Big friggin’ help, Doc.”
The girls have the court first. In the bleachers, with Rick and Sarah next to him, Sam swats away the immediate recall of his wet dream their appearance evokes. He groans inwardly at the stupidity of it. Why is it in dreams, no matter what weirdness is happening, you-in-the-dream just go along with it, like the dopey teenagers in the slasher flicks who are always falling asleep in class when Freddy Krueger is sitting right behind them, as if a person could fall asleep with a homicidal maniac fanning fingernails like gutting knives and grinning at you? Staring at the Mutant, he feels a little ill to remember what happened when she touched him in the dream. Or else he’s getting excited again. There’s something really sick about getting turned on by a freak like her, even in a dream. Next thing, he’ll be getting hard for Freddy Krueger.
To his relief, the game finally gets under way. The Mutant isn’t having a banner night. A minor fumble
