Eight ball, corner pocket, and I did not even have to think about it. That is how his Friday ended, standing in a dive bar holding a pool cue and the realization that the girl in the flannel and the backward cap had just run the table on him in front of his entire friend group. I am Charlie, by the way. I shoot pool, I drink beer without making it a personality, I can talk football until the bartender begs for mercy, and the bet, because there is always a bet with me, was simple. Loser pays the tab and owes the winner one favor, winner's choice, no appeals.
He racked them himself. A man racking his own doom with that much confidence deserves what happens next.
"You sure you want to do this, Charlie? I have been playing since I was twelve."
"So have I," I said, and chalked my cue. "Difference is, I got better."
I played the way I do everything, loud, close, and in his head by the third ball. Tomboys learn early that half of competition is commentary. I leaned over his shots. I called his misses before he made them. I sank the six off two rails and asked if he needed a permission slip to keep playing, and his boys were howling and buying me beers I did not need, and somewhere around the six ball his trash talk ran out and something else showed up in his face. He had known me two years. Two years of treating me like a mascot with a good arm. And there I was, bent over his table in jeans that fit like a rumor, running him, and I watched the exact moment two years of buddy cracked down the middle.
I sank the eight. The bar did the noise. He paid the tab with the face of a man paying a ransom, and when the parking lot had mostly emptied, I collected my favor.
"Your truck," I said. "Drive. I will tell you when we are there."
We got as far as the overlook above the river, because some favors cannot survive a whole drive. I climbed across the bench seat into his lap with my cap still on backwards and kissed him like I had been holding the shot for two years, which I had. His hands went straight into my flannel, popping it open over my tank top, and then the tank top was up and his mouth was on my tits in the cab of his truck while I ground down on the hardest thing I have ever felt through a pair of jeans, mine included in the comparison for pride. I got his pants open, wrapped my hand around his cock and stroked him while he groaned into my neck and called me Charlie in a voice no buddy has ever used. Then I turned around in that seat, facing the windshield and the whole river valley, pulled my jeans and panties down to my boots, and lowered myself onto him backwards, slow, so we both felt every inch of the bet being collected. He held my hips and I rode him in that truck cab like a girl who had been planning the angle for two years, my cap falling off somewhere around the part where he started begging, his hands coming around to work my clit while I bounced on him until I came so hard I fogged his windshield. He followed with my name and both hands full of me, and we sat there steaming up his truck above the river like a drive in movie for an audience of trout.
"Rematch next Friday," he said, when he could talk.
"Loser pays again," I told him, and stole his cap this time.
That is the thing about the tomboy, boys. She has been right there the whole time, in the flannel, at your table, and the only difference between her and every girl you have ever chased is she was waiting for you to notice she is a woman AND she can beat you. If you have one of those in your life, you are luckier than you know, and if you do not, I am hiring out. I am on PhoneBuckFuck for a dollar a minute of tomboy phone sex. If you like your girls with a softer landing first, Quinn is the nice version. But if you want the banter, the bet, and the truck cab, call Charlie. Rack them up, champ. Loser pays.