kisses my neck and whispers, I still get hard just thinking about those pink silver-dollar nips. I want you to go to the Ladies’ and take your panties off. I’d like to blindfold you with your panties.
I say, You got some peculiar ideas. But I do it. There was like something about the heat that night making us drunk.
We win the fifth race. Heat wave or no, the stands are full, and the regulars know what’s going on. You can’t hide a winning streak, let alone a blindfolded woman with 36Ds in a white summer dress and no panty line. There’s a rumor the IRS has surveillance going, but instead a flying under the radar, Frank’s pounding beers, flaunting our luck, yelling, Yeah, Rosebud baby, we’re back in the peanuts and caramels! I’m so sweated my lucky dress looks like a wet T-shirt contest. You can see my—you really don’t get it?—hot nips.
Look, Rafael, we’re both a little buzzed. You wanta hear it like it happened, I gotta get personal. Frank that sumnabitch noticed—not like you could miss it—that when I’m on a roll my nipples have a mind of their own. When he’d blindfold me, it didn’t just feel like I had super-hearing. It felt like everyone at the track had X-ray vision and was looking at my boobs, and big-shot Frank the exhibitionist is getting off on it. I’m in the zone with the voices. One’s praying a rosary like the Virgin cares who wins in the sixth, and the newlywed has a crying heart cause she knows she’s married a loser, and the old man’s mumbling today’s the day to go for broke and if he bottoms out he’s going to step on the third rail, it’s like he’s betting his life, like all their fates are riding on a bunch of Lasix-doped nags trotting around a goddamn track in Cicero. I can feel the sparkle horse crossing my eyelids, and then I hear that creepy whisper, Move that shapely ass , bitch , and I think: Who are you?
I must of said it aloud cause Frank goes, I didn’t say nothing, Rosebush. And at the same time, the creepy voice answers: Zorro .
This time, instead a tearing off the blindfold I let myself listen to what it’s been trying to tell me all summer, ever since we been winning.
You need that shapely ass fanned, slut?
That’s what’s making for hot nips, not buena suerte like Frank thinks. I can hardly breathe in that heat, and my finger’s sliding across the racing form, pointing to I don’t know what, and everyone’s looking at the bitch on a roll with the white dress riding up her legs.
I pick three straight winners, something I ain’t done since that first night.
Lester’s pleading for Frank to loan him money to play, but Frank ain’t listening. We’re all in our separate trances. Frank doesn’t take the blindfold off between races so’s not to mess with our luck, and for the first time I’m not dizzy anymore. I lose count how much we’re up. Three, four grand. Frank that sumnabitch is treasurer anyway. We’re in the zone, Rosebush, he says, you’re going to hit the Pick 3.
I go, You always said combo bets are for suckers.
Not today. We started with the Daily Double; we’re ending with the Pick 3. Going for broke, Rosebush.
Then he sees my picks for the last three races and chickens out, just bets a grand cause I pick three horses from the same stable where they name all their horses Bunny—Pearl Bunny, Precious Bunny, and Cool Bunny—and Frank thinks blindfolded or not I’m picking cute names again. Plus, what’s the odds on three Bunnies coming in first?
Well, I can tell you the odds that night: forty-four to one.
Pearl Bunny and Precious Bunny win their races. By then Frank’s hoarse from hollering. His shout’s a raspy whisper. He’s going berserkers cause Cool Bunny is boxed in eight lengths back. The blindfold slips down. Who knows how long it was off before I realized I could see. I’m so overheated I’m shaking like I got chills. I can smell myself. I smell like the bedroom and I think everyone at the track can
I say, You got some peculiar ideas. But I do it. There was like something about the heat that night making us drunk.
We win the fifth race. Heat wave or no, the stands are full, and the regulars know what’s going on. You can’t hide a winning streak, let alone a blindfolded woman with 36Ds in a white summer dress and no panty line. There’s a rumor the IRS has surveillance going, but instead a flying under the radar, Frank’s pounding beers, flaunting our luck, yelling, Yeah, Rosebud baby, we’re back in the peanuts and caramels! I’m so sweated my lucky dress looks like a wet T-shirt contest. You can see my—you really don’t get it?—hot nips.
Look, Rafael, we’re both a little buzzed. You wanta hear it like it happened, I gotta get personal. Frank that sumnabitch noticed—not like you could miss it—that when I’m on a roll my nipples have a mind of their own. When he’d blindfold me, it didn’t just feel like I had super-hearing. It felt like everyone at the track had X-ray vision and was looking at my boobs, and big-shot Frank the exhibitionist is getting off on it. I’m in the zone with the voices. One’s praying a rosary like the Virgin cares who wins in the sixth, and the newlywed has a crying heart cause she knows she’s married a loser, and the old man’s mumbling today’s the day to go for broke and if he bottoms out he’s going to step on the third rail, it’s like he’s betting his life, like all their fates are riding on a bunch of Lasix-doped nags trotting around a goddamn track in Cicero. I can feel the sparkle horse crossing my eyelids, and then I hear that creepy whisper, Move that shapely ass , bitch , and I think: Who are you?
I must of said it aloud cause Frank goes, I didn’t say nothing, Rosebush. And at the same time, the creepy voice answers: Zorro .
This time, instead a tearing off the blindfold I let myself listen to what it’s been trying to tell me all summer, ever since we been winning.
You need that shapely ass fanned, slut?
That’s what’s making for hot nips, not buena suerte like Frank thinks. I can hardly breathe in that heat, and my finger’s sliding across the racing form, pointing to I don’t know what, and everyone’s looking at the bitch on a roll with the white dress riding up her legs.
I pick three straight winners, something I ain’t done since that first night.
Lester’s pleading for Frank to loan him money to play, but Frank ain’t listening. We’re all in our separate trances. Frank doesn’t take the blindfold off between races so’s not to mess with our luck, and for the first time I’m not dizzy anymore. I lose count how much we’re up. Three, four grand. Frank that sumnabitch is treasurer anyway. We’re in the zone, Rosebush, he says, you’re going to hit the Pick 3.
I go, You always said combo bets are for suckers.
Not today. We started with the Daily Double; we’re ending with the Pick 3. Going for broke, Rosebush.
Then he sees my picks for the last three races and chickens out, just bets a grand cause I pick three horses from the same stable where they name all their horses Bunny—Pearl Bunny, Precious Bunny, and Cool Bunny—and Frank thinks blindfolded or not I’m picking cute names again. Plus, what’s the odds on three Bunnies coming in first?
Well, I can tell you the odds that night: forty-four to one.
Pearl Bunny and Precious Bunny win their races. By then Frank’s hoarse from hollering. His shout’s a raspy whisper. He’s going berserkers cause Cool Bunny is boxed in eight lengths back. The blindfold slips down. Who knows how long it was off before I realized I could see. I’m so overheated I’m shaking like I got chills. I can smell myself. I smell like the bedroom and I think everyone at the track can
Similar Books
