Page 8 of Cash

THREE - Kimberly

Jennifer was onceOceanside High’s head cheerleader and all-around bubbly blonde bimbo. Now fifty and divorced with two adult children, she was reduced to being my ditzy blonde neighbor, sounding board, and best friend.

Short, and golden bronze from baking in the Southern California sun, her athletic size four frame and D-cup boobs attracted the immediate attention of most men. Hair color and Botox treatments masked her age, and she could easily pass for being in her late thirties. When she talked with me about sex, she acted like she was still seventeen.

She leaned against the edge of my kitchen table, holding her coffee at arm’s length. Her hands encompassed the cup like she was presenting me with a peace offering.

She blinked a few times, and then looked at me with dreamy eyes. “Like Dwayne Johnson?”

I peered over the top of my cup and gave her a confused look. “Who?”

The corners of her mouth turned upward. “Dwayne Johnson.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Dwayne Johnson,” she cooed. “The Rock.”

“The big bald-headed guy?”

She drew a long breath through her nose, and then exhaled softly. “Uh huh.”

If there was ever a woman who lived vicariously through others, it was Jennifer. Our conversations were often about men, and included detailed explanations of how she’d behave with them if she was given half a chance.

“No,” I said. “Not even close. More like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Only taller.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “That’s not big.”

“He was big,” I assured her. “He had a presence about him, too.”

She gave me a side-eyed look. “If he was skinny like Brad Pitt, he wasn’t big. I think this big thing was all in your head. You were drooling because he kicked Marvin’s ass.”

“I’m not you. I don’t need a man in my life. He was big, and he was kind. Those are the facts. There was no drooling going on.”

“Your senses were distorted.” She shrugged. “It happens to the best of us.”

“My senses were just fine.”

She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the edge of the table. A serious look washed over her. “I screwed the quarterback of the football team at a house party when I was in high school. On Monday, when I was bragging about it in gym class, I compared his cock to my wrist. Half the girls I was talking to gasped, and said, ‘You must have fucked a different Jeff Simmons than the one I fucked, because that Jeff Simmons has a dick the size of a grape.’”

My eyes narrowed. “A grape?”

“A big grape.”

I chuckled. “And you thought he had a monster cock?”

“I was sure of it.”

I gave her a look. “Where are you going with this?”

“When I had sex with him, I was drunk. He was handsome, and the quarterback of the football team. So, in my mind, he was hung. In reality, he wasn’t. I think you’re wanting this guy to be some oversized muscle-bound hero. But, if he’s built like Brad Pitt, he’s a skinny twit.”

The biker wasn’t skinny, and he wasn’t a twit. To satisfy her, and to end the lop-sided conversation, I reluctantly agreed.

“Fine,” I huffed. “He was a skinny twit.”

“He sounds like a douchebag, too. What’d you say his name was?” She giggled. “Dolla Bill?”

I sighed dramatically. “Cash.”