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Mourning castaway

Roy Haymond

    The Masters? Hell no! Not even the Minors!
    In fact, this is not really a golf tournament at all; it’s something like a summer camp for grown people, rich people, mostly middle aged, country club types who say they want to improve their golf games, but mainly just to get away from home and rub elbows with the pros (and this staff stretches the term a bit) and then crow about what they learned when the go back to their own clubs and bug their own pros about it.
    The few of us pros working this gig won’t make much money out of it, but we accomplish pretty much what all these rich duffers accomplish: a week in another scene, then have it written up in our local papers - credits, you know.
    But the main reason most of the pros come to these things is the women. Women among the attendees outnumber the men four-to-one, and most of the few men who do come are with their wives (and even some of the wives are on the make!). And some of these middle-aged girls are not all that bad.
    I stay away from that kind of stuff nowadays. Not that I’m immune to some middle aged charm, but Darlene is different from my other wives and I just don’t want to mess things up with her. And she’s too sharp for me to try anything. Even at three hundred miles away, somehow she’d know it if I got any on the side!
    But right now I’m amused at watching Randy and Rusty, who have somehow set their sights on the same prey!
    Randy and Rusty are two not too terribly unfriendly rivals who work as pros in clubs not too far apart. These two are as different as daylight and dark, and they have always been respectfully at each other’s throat.
    The subject of their current contest is Mrs. Maxwell. She’s a honey blond on the sunny side of fifty, but, damn, she’s a traffic stopper - nice long legs, great hips with the belly held in check, a face that’s movie-star pretty, and a gorgeous chest.
    And she’s a natural for conquest, what I call a mourning castaway. We’re in the fourth day of our tourney, and last night she worked herself up in the line to have a tryst with Joe-Joe Randal, our star, our only pro who still actively goes on the pro tours.
    Joe-Joe was the centerpiece they built this camp around. You know, “Tips from a touring pro”, though he’s not often seen out on the links giving any tips, rather just coming out and hitting a few drives and a few putts and having his photo snapped.
    He is seen around the club in the evening, though, holding up his reputation as a stud. I mean he’s one fellow who looks like he belongs in a country club. Everything just right: no flab around the middle, tanned just up to the right point, hair and clothes looking like the magazine pages.
    So he flits around with a different old girl each night, giving her a little bit of heaven, so to speak.
    But most of these old girls get the idea right on the mark: one moment with the grand prize and then and move on. Gain. No Pain. One in the memory book.
    But not Mrs. Maxwell (no word on whether she’s a widow or a divorcee or trying for cuckold). She just somehow felt that once Joe-Joe tasted from her cup, he’d just naturally stick with her, exclusively, at least until the end of the tourney, or maybe adding another weekend.
    So there she is on the links, pouting, moping, slicing (even a danger to the others when she picks up a wood), a mourning castaway, with Randy and Rusty moving closer and closer, each with a championship shoulder for her to cry on.
    And as they moved closer to the moment of truth, the time for the kill, I could see that the lady, deep in her hurt, fighting back her tears bravely, was indeed ready for the plucking - but as to which of these predators she would submit, I saw no clear answer. (Hell maybe the three of them? Nah!)
    Then she broke down. A compulsive fit of sobbing, no less ready to be bedded down, but for the moment needing to shorten the public spectacle.
    And, of course, in a case like this, Rusty always wins.
    Rusty is allowed to go with her into the Ladies Room.

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