Skins?

You again?

If you play golf, you’re likely familiar with the betting game known as skins. Well, my hubby and I play a different kind of skins, more like a game of chicken, with real skin on the line. And losing has its consequences.

The hole was just past the turn, so we were near the clubhouse, but hitting away from it, on a par four dog-leg bending left. Each stroke took us farther away from possible witnesses but still within sight.

Hopefully, you can visualize the scene. If you can’t, you should take up golf, the views are beautiful. And you never know who you'll meet or what they are into.

After a quick hard seltzer at the turn, I was beginning to feel its effects as I stood over my ball on the tee. My score card was getting into my head and I was tightening up. My hubby had a sizable lead and he was in his groove. I needed to change my strategy, so I proffered a new bet.

Whoever wins this hole gets to cum even or gets to claim any article of clothing from the loser. Since I was down, and my hubby really had nothing to lose and everything to reveal. It was Game On.

It came down to both of us putting for par but he was away so he had to putt first. He drained it. My alcohol buzz had fully kicked in, and it was hot, and my putt really should have been a gimme, inside the leather as they say. My stress was building and my focus was waning. If I make it, we push. If I miss, hubby gets his prize.

I couldn’t believe it, but I lipped out.

On the next tee, hubby claimed my bra. I was surprised and confused and looked at him quizzically through half closed eyes. Deal.
I reached under my shirt back to unclasp my bra, to remove it from underneath my shirt, and he stopped me abruptly. He wagged his index finger in my face, scolding me. I was welcome to keep my shirt, but it had to come off first, then my bra.

If I won the next hole, I could either reclaim my bra and put my shirt back on or take the skin.

The group behind us was closing fast, so I had little time to debate the nuances of my first bet or this subsequent bet. It is shirt off, bra off, Game On.

Hubby took his time on the next tee. A few leisurely practice swings. A lengthy assessment stare down the fairway. The group behind us making their way to their green. I begged hubby to hurry up. He smiled a wry grin and went back to his pre-shot ritual.

I just sat in the golf cart, arm crossed over my shirtless breasts, heaving and steaming, and buzzing a little more from my first seltzer. Since I had nowhere to go, I cracked my second.

He drove his ball straight and deep down the fairway.

I play from the Men’s tee because whatever a man can do, so should a woman, no special treatment. Except today I regretted that mantra, I wished for the Ladies tee, farther down the fairway from the group behind us.

As I stood over my ball, trying to banish thoughts of other golfers, I could feel rivulets of perspiration snaking through my hair, down my jawbone, down my neck and between my now totally exposed and gently swaying breasts. My hubby sat in the cart enjoying my address.

Needless to say, my drive off the tee was not my best given the circumstances but let’s just say Ready Golf has a whole new meaning for me.

I sprinted to the cart and drove off in burst of speed to escape and being caught topless on the tee by the upcoming group.

Halfway down the fairway, I could take my time, or so I thought, until I saw the Marshall heading directly toward us. My hubby had just started driving the cart farther down the fairway toward to his ball. I was alone in the fairway wearing only golf skirt and a five iron.

The Marshall pulled up next to my hubby, just off the cart path, and they had a brief conversation, as I stood forty yards away my shirtless back turned partially toward them and the hole, my arms crossed and a golf club dangling between my legs. My body language screamed my guilt. Likely, the woman’s golf shirt and bra laying on the seat next to hubby confirmed any suspicions the Marshall may have had.

Now I was in pickle. The group on the tee box behind me had started hitting into me and the Marshall was still ahead of me.

And that’s when I reconciled with myself that everyone out there has seen boobs before, and now they were gonna seen mine too. And I started striding down the fairway toward my next shot, shoulders back, and two beers consumed. It was a glorious feeling.

To my absolute astonishment, the Marshall pulled a u-turn and drove away. I thought my hubby must be getting soft, missing an opportunity like this, I had no escape, he loves to see me squirm, especially when partially clad.

Miraculously, he missed a putt and I made an amazing chip, and we were even, but he was away again. Miss it, miss it, miss it, I chanted in my head. He missed it.

All I had to do was sink a relatively straight forward putt to reclaim my bra and my shirt.

As I bent over my putter, I could feel beads of sweat rolling across my back, down the sides of my ribs cage onto the sides my hanging breasts, down to my nipples. I felt as though everyone everywhere could hear the drips and they hit the green under my shoes.

I couldn’t care about anything more than making this putt. Drained it. I jumped for the sky, arms outstretched. Now give me my damn shirt.

I fell back heavily into the golf cart, smug in victory, but more relieved than happy.