Indian
Dad took my hand and led me out to the car. He opened my door, and watched my cleavage approvingly as I got in the Mustang. He walked in front of the car, and got in the driver’s seat. He drove us to a big log lodge type building, and parked the car in the gravel lot. He got out and came around to open my door. He gave me his hand for support, so I could manage my skirt, and get out of the car somewhat gracefully. At least I didn’t flash the whole lot.We walked in to the big, double doors, which were open wide. Dad went to the desk, and told the hostess we had reservations. I always wrinkle my nose when I hear that word, used in that way. In the white world, it means privilege and special status, but in my grandfather’s world, it means land the U.S. Government thought was worthless, and that was where they herded the tribal peoples. Sorry, I just can’t ignore how I feel when I hear the word.The hostess showed us to a table. A waiter in boots, jeans, and cowboy hat brought us menus. I. “Yeah…oh…come inside me, dude,” and I closed my eyes, feeling peaceful, because I’d rather be me than anyone else in the world. Tuesday Scott slept all day again, probably exhausted from masturbating half the night, but we took him out to dinner, anyway, and that evening Dylan and I returned to our normal routines, including our pick-up basketball game that we attended no matter what. Scott slept through it, which was too bad because Dyl said he was quite the baller, but we didn’t miss him a bit as we gathered with our usual crew from our college’s ROTC program. We’d been playing together for over a year and we’d become pretty tight with some of the guys. We knew their girlfriends and wives, for example, and had already attended two of their weddings. It was a fluid group, because some of them were in the Reserves or were still active duty military, and we’d recently changed the game from Thursdays to accommodate some of the original guys who were just returning from tours in Iraq.
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