Sommer Marsden Takes a Seat

Writing a story about sports is pretty hard for a girl like me. I’m not what I’d consider sporty. I’m not what anyone would consider sporty.  Let’s see. I have…crashed my bike into a telephone pole, crashed my bike into a mailbox (same street, different bike), fallen off a skateboard and sprained my knee (I was sitting on the skateboard) and I once threw myself down the steps—multiple times, actually— to avoid gym class. No. You did not read that wrong.

P.S. I failed in my mission to avoid my nemesis and was totally fine and had to take gym class anyway.

The fastest I ever ran in softball (which I only participated in because my sister did and my dad was coach) was because I had a rock in my shoe and wanted to get back to the bench and take it out. My Jiu Jitsu instructor once yelled “This isn’t ballet class! Stop pointing your toe!” However, in my defense, I still remember out entire routine (is it called a routine?) that can be performed perfectly to “Eye of the Tiger.”  The nasty painful athletic cherry on top of my non-sports career…my mother almost came to blows with a snarky gymnastics teacher who called me “Melissa Mule” (and no, my name is not Melissa. She was being a bitch.)

There was one phys ed teacher—one magical unicorn of a teacher— in high school who I adored. She loved me because I was ‘willing to try’ and that was only—to be honest—because she was one of my favorite teachers in school. I mean, there are only so many times you can get stuck upside down on the uneven bars and have to get a push to keep going and keep your dignity. She wanted me to play basketball (on a team!) because I was tall and had an insane three point shot—a fact we all found out by accident. I was more surprised than anyone. But I am the most noncompetitive person you’ll ever meet (in sports, that is). I always had the insane urge to just hand the ball to whoever was coming toward me.

So…as you can see, athletics…not my forte. Not even a little.

When GIRLS WHO SCORE came along I had to ask myself what could really get me going? What would give me the right amount of inspiration to perform?  And you know there’s not a clean thought in my head, so…


From “Chairs” by Sommer Marsden:

It only seems like I have time enough to wash my hair before I hear Chevy yelling, “Well? Are you coming or what, Bowmen?”

I squeeze out my hair and wrap myself in the towel that is more like a washcloth. “Sorry, I must have lost track of time and I—” I move to rush past her but she clotheslines me. Not hard enough to hurt me, just hard enough that I bounce back and slow down.

“Where you going so fast, Andi?”

When she calls me Andi a slow, warm slide of fluid issues from me. I blush because I have no panties on to impede its progress. I have nothing to cover me but a school-issued towel that could be a tea towel for all of its ability to conceal.

“To get dressed?”

I hold my breath, listen. We are alone here. The only ones who remain after the game. This both terrifies and thrills me. “Nah. I think we’re good. This won’t take long. Your legs are weak. I’ll show you how to do chairs.”

Chairs? That doesn’t sound so bad.

“Some people call them wall squats, but because of my golden rule for thigh strengthening, we’ll call them chairs.”

“Why?” I manage, as she pushes me to a section of pale yellow cinder-block wall. She pushes her hands down hard on my shoulders so that I have to sink down the wall. Slowly.

“Because you’re going to do your best impression of a chair. It should be such an uncanny resemblance that I am tempted to

sit in your lap.” She winks at me and there is another warm rush between my legs.

I want to moan, both from arousal and embarrassment, but I bite my lip instead.

I am now pressed against the wall, towel slipping, doing my best impression of a chair.

“Nice,” Chevy says and I feel a stupid rush of gratitude for her approval. “Feel it in your legs?”

I nod.

“Your core?” she asked, touching my belly through the towel. The muscles there seem to jump and kick at her touch. I suck in a shaky breath.

I nod.

“Good. Now hold it for a minute.”

A minute!

“Yes, a minute,” she chuckles, reading my mind.

I watch the anorexic second hand sweep the standard-issue clock and when the final fifteen seconds starts to rush toward me, Chevy leans on my trembling thighs with her forearms and presses down.

I make a noise like some dying thing and she grins at me, white teeth flashing in the fluorescent lighting.

“You can do it, Bowmen. Five more seconds.”

My legs are truly shaking now. No fine quiver here; a bonedeep shaking has taken its place. “I can’t.”

“Two,” she says, “and there’s a reward.”

A reward?

Her eyes stay on the clock and when she turns to me and laughs, I start to straighten up.

“Wait,” she says.

Her mouth is hot and soft when it closes down on mine. Her lips just as demanding as the rest of her. My breath stills in my

lungs, my heart erupts in a chaotic new rhythm and then Chevy slips a finger into my pussy, curls it hard against my smooth inner walls and a flexing kind of shiver works through me.

“Good girl,” she says, curling that finger one more time.

And then she stands, leaving me sagging there. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll practice some more.”

And then she’s gone.



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