Eagles Country

This is the story of a doctor's office nurse who goes to a Super Bowl party. It was written quickly in order to get it out in a timely manner. It's basically a first draft, so please ignore any mistakes that made it through.

—

I had a date for the super bowl. It turned out to be a one night stand. That's kind of a bummer, because I liked the guy and I'm a girl who doesn't date much, but, it is what it is.

I'm a nurse at a doctor's office. It's a busy place in the winter, with lots of respiratory illnesses, like bronchitis and sinusitis, and of course the flu. This year was nasty with the flu. I came down with it myself, and was only back to work a few days when Brian asked me out. It came as a surprise, him asking me. He's not in the office as much as the people who come in for every little thing, but he's been in a few times since I started working there two years ago. He's memorable because he's handsome. Tall and well put together. By that I mean he dresses nice. The other girls at the office comment on him sometimes, when we're gossiping about patients, so I know I'm not the only one who thinks he's a looker. I think that might have contributed to why I decided to go out with him.

You see, we're not supposed to date the patients. From what I've heard it happens now and then, on the sly, but I'd never done it. I tend to follow rules. Ever since I was a kid I've been that way, and I can tell you every instance of when following the rules made life less fun. Why is life like that? "It just is," my dear mother would say, if she was listening to me right now.

Brian was cute when he asked me out. The doctor had already seen him and I was bringing him his paperwork: a script for an antibiotic he probably didn't need. He had a bad head-cold and a bad sore throat, but it didn't look like strep so it would probably go away on its own. Brian was buttoning up his shirt, a nice black denim one that looked really good with his faded bluejeans. He'd looked really good when he had it off, too, with just his jeans and black leather boots on.

So he was buttoning up his shirt, with just the two of us in the small examination room, and he hit me with the question.

"Would you like to go out sometime? Maybe dinner, or a drink or something?"

A nice polite refusal was the office's policy. We'd even had instruction on how to do it nicely. But I don't know; maybe it was the way he was dressed, or the way he was getting dressed, or the nice sparkle in his tired looking eyes. Maybe I wanted to make him feel better, because I liked him and he was sick. For whatever reason, I broke the rules and said yes.

Brian gave me his phone number that day. I told him I'd text him later in the week, after he got feeling a little better. I did, and we transitioned to phone calls, and we hit it off nicely. I'm not sure why I had such a reaction to him, but...every time we spoke on the phone I got horny.

I should tell you — I'm a forty-five year old woman. Not exactly a spring chicken, or a fount of horniness. My love life has been frustrating. I had high hopes for it, back in high school, but it just never caught on. I don't know why I'm talking about it like it's something that's not a part of me, but it just feels that way most of the time. My real life and my love life are two separate things. One grows and is healthy, and the other has shriveled brown leaves and soil that's usually as dry as the desert. Calling it a love 'life' is laughable. It's very near death, and this nurse missed the part of med school where they taught us how to fix it.

So yeah, talking to a handsome man on the phone made me horny. I liked it. I felt a little more alive after each phone call. They weren't long, 'young lovers' kinds of phone conversations; they were cordial, with a little chit-chat, but mostly they were about trying to zero in on a time when we could get together for a date. Brian wanted to wait until he was completely over his sickness, even though he was already feeling a lot better. The weekend was coming up, but he was busy Saturday night with family and Sunday he had an annual Super Bowl party to go to, at a friends house, something he'd been doing for the last ten years.

"I can skip it," he nicely offered.

"No, you should go," I said. "It's the Eagles. You're probably excited about that, right? We'll find another time, even if we have to wait another week."

"I know it's not a real date, but, why don't you come to the party with me on Sunday?"

"Won't your friends mind? Isn't it a 'guy' thing?"

"No, they won't mind. There's been a girlfriend or two over the years. Do you like football?"

I told him I did like it, in a casual kind of way, and I told him that I'd be rooting for the Patriots. I was born and raised in Worcester Massachusetts, so the Red Socks and the Bruins and the Patriots are all sort of in my blood, even though I'm not the biggest of fans.

"Oh, no!" he chuckled. "You can't root for the Patriots! You live in Scranton, now! This is Eagles country!"

We both laughed about it. "Sorry," I said "I guess we're gonna have to agree to disagree on this one."

"All right," he said. "But be prepared. The guys aren't gonna let you get away with that without some verbal abuse. Can you take it?"

"I can take it," I smiled.

After I hung up the phone I decided I'd rub it in a little bit. I poked around Amazon and I found a cute Patriots sweatshirt. It's not a big baggy thing, it's cut slim, designed for a woman, nice modern fleece with a wide crew neck. New England Patriots is emblazoned on the front, and the back has Brady's name and the number 12. I ordered it right away and had it shipped out next day air.

When the sweatshirt arrived I tried it on. It was perfect! I'm five foot eight and slender, so maybe that's why. Clothes tend to fit me pretty well. I tried it with a white t-shirt under it, but I liked the subtle sexiness without it, with my bare neck and upper chest showing. It was, after all, a 'first date'. I picked out a pair of nice fitting jeans to wear with it and I was done. Ready to rile up some Eagles fans on Sunday, and, hopefully, ready to turn Brian's head a little.

—

It snowed on Sunday, so I bundled up in a big winter coat and I drove up to Clarks Summit, a nice suburban type town just north of Scranton. The GPS in my car led me right to my target — a small, older house with four cars in the driveway. There was just enough room for me to pull in behind them. I saw the front door open when I was locking my car. It was Brian, waving as I walked up the walkway.

"Hi! You made it!" he said when I entered. He gave me a nice little hug. "How much do you want to bet there's a hundred accidents tonight. Slippery roads and Super Bowl parties don't go together very well."

Brian introduced me to his friends, all his age, in their mid forties. Jack owned the house. He was jovial, with a can of Bud Lite in his hand. He looked like he'd already had a few.

Leon and Jeff were smiley and nice, too, shaking my hand, welcoming me to the annual party. When I took off my big coat they saw my Patriots sweatshirt and they howled their disapproval. It was fun, good-natured ribbing. We all got a good laugh out of it.

They were all beer drinkers, so I went that route, too. Bud Lite tastes like swill to me, so I went with the only other choice in the refrigerator, Coors. Not great, but what are you gonna do. Actually, it seemed kind of appropriate — cheap beer and Super Bowl parties are sort of meant to be together. I braced myself for the inevitable overly cheesy nachos and lukewarm pizza, and there they were, free for the taking. I shouldn't make fun — guys are guys and football parties are football parties. A dimly lit room with a big-screen TV, pizza, chicken wings, nachos and lots of cheap cold beer. What more do you need?

Things got started with a surprising show of patriotism from the men — all four of them standing with their hands over their hearts, for both America The Beautiful and The National Anthem. They were both stirring performances, and standing there with the guys, I really felt it. It was a nice moment.

The game started and it was clear it was going to be a fun one to watch, with lots of passes and completions. Philly scored first, but I was sure their lead wouldn't last, so I started making bets with the guys. Just a dollar at first, wagered on which team would score the next points. Then Jack went to the kitchen and came back with a few shot glasses and a bottle of Absolute vodka that he keeps in his freezer, and we changed from dollars to shots for our wagers. The end of the first quarter — Eagles 9, Patriots 3 — was the reason for my first shot. It went down pretty smooth, but, oh yeah, I could feel it just a few seconds later.

When the Patriots scored a touchdown and were only three points behind, I got cocky. The vodka was getting to me and I didn't realize there was only two minutes left until halftime. I was certain my team was on a roll. I could feel it. The guys were all getting quiet, and I knew they could feel it, too.

"Losers at halftime wear underwear for the rest of the game," I said, announcing the bet loudly. I still don't know why I said it. I've never been a part of any kind of bet like that, and I was totally unprepared to be the loser.

"Are you sure?" Brian asked. "The Eagles are playing solid."

"So what's that mean?" I asked. "Are you takin' the bet? All you guys?"

Brian shrugged. "Yeah, I'll take it. If you're sure."

"Are the rest of you guys in?" I asked.

They all nodded, looking a little worried. "A field goal will tie it," Leon said. "I'm keeping my pants on if they tie it."

"Okay," I said, suddenly feeling the weight of the bet. "Yeah, me too."

I sat down for the first time in a while, concentrating on the game, the way I should have been doing before I made the bet. Philly scored with thirty-eight seconds to go in the half. It was a ten point lead. I was sunk. But I'm not a welsher. My father and my three brothers taught me to always pay your debts and bets. On a normal day, I would have felt really bad that they'd taught me that good habit, but in Jack's dimly lit living room, with a nice mix of Coors and vodka in my belly, it didn't seem all that bad. I do think the guys were surprised that I was paying off. Maybe surprised is the wrong word. They looked excited and a little freaked out by what was happening. It was new and exciting, for all of us.

I took my shoes and pants off first. I left my socks on. Socks are underwear, right? And it was winter and I knew my feet would be cold. Thankfully, I had nice panties on; not some old dingy pair that I would have been embarrassed by. No, they were a nice pink pair, smallish and a little sexy, with some subtle lace on all the edges. I wore them because I didn't know If Brian and I would end up somewhere after the party, and hey, you never know. A girl can dream, right?

Now here's the thing. Without a bra, or a t-shirt, I didn't have any underwear on the top half of me. I suppose I could have pleaded my case to the four man jury, and maybe panties would have been enough to satisfy their requirements. They're nice guys and they probably would have let me off the hook. But I didn't go there. Apparently, I wasn't in the mood to plead; I was in the mood to be in my underwear, and panties and socks was all she wrote. I crossed my arms in front of me, grabbed the hem of my nice new Patriots sweatshirt, and whisked it off over my head.

"Holy shit!" Brian said.

"I didn't wear much underwear today," I said, feeling the heat of a strong blush on my face and body. "I guess maybe I should have. But...a bet's a bet, right?"

So why did I do it, I keep asking myself? Okay, that's a deep question. The horny hormones that Brian triggered in me every time I looked at him or heard his voice was certainly a big factor. The Coors and vodka that I'd poured down my throat was another big factor. A certain desperation to feel sexy again, at my age, was a biggie. But I'll tell you, I'd never done anything like that before, stripping to my panties in front of four men who I barely knew. It was a brave new world, and how I got there is still a blurry mystery to me.

As I think more about it, in the quiet of my room, the 'desperation to feel sexy' part of the equation looms large in my mind. And of course, any good detective would point to the question of why I wasn't wearing a bra in the first place. It's a fair question.

I've always been a slender woman who wears 'A' cup or smaller bras, ever since junior high school. Back then I was devastated that I wasn't going to get any bigger in that department, but I've grown comfortable with my small breasts. They're easy, that's for sure. A bra is only a sometimes thing for me. I wear one at work, because our uniforms are slightly open at the neck, and when I bend down, which I often do when I'm working with the patients, they might get a quick glance inside and I need to be covered. But away from the office, wearing a bra or not depends on my clothes. If what I'm wearing is thick enough to hide my nipple bumps I generally don't bother. Comfort rules the day, and not wearing a bra is a heck of a lot more comfortable than wearing one.

But still, out on a first date with no bra? At a party where I knew I'd be alone with four men? I'll admit it looks bad for me. Maybe even a little slutty. All I can say is it wasn't a conscious thing. Yes, I chose to go braless, but it didn't seem any different than when I make that same decision on any number of normal days.

And it wouldn't have mattered a whit if Tom Brady had done his usual Tom Brady thing, and the Patriots had rallied around his brilliance and done their usual Patriots thing. But...not so much this year. It surprised the heck out of me, as a casual fan. I wasn't up to speed on Brady's hand injury and Gronkowski's concussion. And the rest of the team seemed off, too, for some reason. Too complaisant, maybe. Too many wins in the big game, and they thought it was going to be easy.

For whatever reason, I was suddenly topless; nearly-naked eye candy for four middle aged men. To dive a little further into my psyche, I must admit to wondering, a lot, about what men think of me. What they think of my body, I mean. Is my tiny-titted self even worthy of the male gaze, in this day and age of cheap and plentiful implants? Here's another question I've been asking myself: if I had big tits would I have shown myself so easily? Was I silently screaming "Look! Look at me! I'm boyish, just like you! My tits are smaller than the ones you guys have from all that pizza you eat!"

But I'm not boyish. I have a nice figure, with nice legs and a nice ass for my age. I'm proud of it all, in a lot of ways, even though a feminist would tell me I shouldn't be, or shouldn't be worried about what the men think, anyways. That's hard to do when you've had the boring love life I've had.

So I was virtually naked at halftime, and it was the strangest head-trip I've ever had. Was it drug-like? I don't know; I've never done any. It was certainly boozy, in a warm, not-too-far-gone kind of way. I wasn't all sloshy drunk, if you're wondering that. But I felt nicely buzzed as I stood a little and sat a little, watching Justin Timberlake run around. I tried to keep my eyes on the TV; I wanted to just relax and blend in, but it was a losing battle. There was energy in me, nervous excitement, I guess, and it kept me more engaged with my surroundings than I wanted. I guess it's hard to blend in when you're nearly naked in a setting like that — a nice man's suburban home up in Clarks Summit, just hangin' out with the guys.

It wasn't just me who was feeling the nervous excitement. Jack and Leon and Jeff were showing signs of it, too, and Brian was acting strange and quiet. I guess maybe his 'date' wasn't turning out to be the girl he thought she'd be. I can't say I blame him. I wasn't turning out the be the girl I thought I was, either.

The halftime show kind of sucked, and we all ended up in the kitchen, chowing down on cold pizza and spicy chicken wings. I've never felt more like a desirable woman than I did in that kitchen with all those male eyes on me. I loved it. I was fifteen minutes into my naked freak show, and things had progressed in my mind. I was much more comfortable than I thought I'd be. I cracked open another can of Coors, lingering at the open refrigerator because knew the guys were checking out my ass. I went to the sink and washed my hands for the same reason. I was getting off on it, showing my best feature. I almost didn't want to turn around and disappoint them.

They were chatting about how good the game was, trying to act natural, but I could tell my presence was throwing them off. Their eyes were all over me, but nothing was blatant. When I looked at one of them, it was business as usual, like it had been before my clothes came off. They were surprisingly polite and gentlemanly about it all.

"Unless Brady gets his shit together I'm gonna have cold feet and a bare ass," I said, joining in the conversation. "Care to make it more interesting?"

"What's more interesting than that!" Jeff said.

"One piece of clothing for each score," I said. "I've only got three pieces left, so you guys can't count your shoes or your socks or your belts. That'll sorta even us up."

It was a crazy bet for me to make. The way Philly was playing I knew I'd be naked, and since the guys were all wearing jeans and Eagles t-shirts — and underpants, I presumed — that meant my Patriots would only have to put up three scores to get the whole house bare-assed. It was a real possibility and I knew it. My buzzing brain had it all calculated out. A sensible woman wouldn't have asked for it, but I did.

The guys tried to rationalize things before they accepted. New England had only scored twelve points in the whole first half. They were connecting some passes, but they were having trouble finishing. They even missed two kicks, one of them an easy field goal. They were playing kind of lousy. But Philly, on the other hand, they were playing well enough that there was a good chance I'd end up naked. None of them came right out and said that, but it was easy to infer from their evaluation of the situation. They looked a little nervous when they all nodded at each other and clicked their beer cans together. They took the bet.

I can't remember what was going through my head at that point. What did I think was going to happen, just a friendly wager and then we'd all pull on our clothes and shake hands and leave? Did I not expect male arousal? I'm a medical professional; I know what happens to the male body in certain situations. I'd already seen signs of it, lumped out in their loose fitting jeans. So what did I do with all that looming? I took a slice of pizza and I went to the microwave and I stood there the whole time it re-heated, shifting from one leg to another, showing off my ass in my little pink panties. I even stretched a little, arching my back and thrusting my ass out. I ended my little display by pulling my panties higher and tighter and standing there with hands on hips until my pizza was hot and ready. In a totally unexpected way, I was enjoying being the topless, panty-wearing eye-candy girl. Don't tell the feminists.

"Jack, can you turn the heat up a little?" I asked. "I'm freezing, and you guys are gonna need it, too, when you start losing. The Patriots are rollin'. Did you see how they ended that half?"

That started a friendly firestorm of disagreement. I stood there amongst the happy men, smiling, eating my slice of pizza.

The Game started again and it only took two minutes or so for my team to score — a touchdown pass to Rob Gronkowski that made me jump up and down with happiness. The boys all took off their t-shirts. It felt good to have some skin in the room other than mine.