Chapter 1
Playing baseball brings up specific sounds and feelings, especially for the batter. One is the terrible ‘whiff,’ when you know you’ve completely missed the ball. The lack of connection swings through your body, jarring your elbows and shoulders.
Better is the hollow ‘thwack,’ that comes from a hit. Not perfect, but still enough to get the ball across the field.
And then there’s the sweet spot. You know you’ve found it the second the bat connects with the ball. The wood and leather meet perfectly, exactly , and that’s when you know you’ll at the very least get to first, probably to second, and maybe even all the way home.
Much like kissing a girl.
You know when you’ve hit a potential homer.
Thinking about girls and baseball are pretty much my favorite pastimes. The feel of the bat between my palms is second nature. The feel of a girl—well, there’s nothing better.
I inhale, breathing in the warm, early summer night, and get into position to wait for the right one.
The perfect one.
The first two pitches are balls, so I let them slide past. They both land with a thud in the catcher’s mitt. The third I get some wood on, tipping the ball back into the stands.
But the next one, I know the instant it leaves the pitcher’s hand. I see the release, the way his fingers roll off the ball, and I know. I know before it connects to the bat that I’ve got this.
Crack .
The ball hits that spot. The sweet one, the perfect place, and it zooms across the field, over the pitcher, past second base and arcing over the outfield.
The crowd is on their feet before I’ve left home plate, but I circle the field victoriously, glancing up into the crowd. There’s no better feeling than this.
*
“I saw your game,” the girl says. Mary? Maria? Something with an M. She eases up to me at the bar after the game, celebrating the win.
“Oh yeah?” I ask. She’s pretty. Long, blonde hair. Mischievous eyes. I knew her in school—sort of. We had Spanish together and we made out once at a party. She likes jocks and tends to be wherever we congregate. Her hand grazes my arm for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. I attempt conversation. “You like baseball?”
She looks at me through long, black eyelashes and confesses, “I like baseball players.”
Happily, she links her fingers through mine and leads me past the pool tables and arcade games. We leave the music and people behind, going out the back door. Mary (?) finds a shadowy spot and pushes me against the brick wall, unbuttoning my jeans, lowering my pants, pulling my cock out.
For a brief, slight moment I consider making her stop, being a gentleman and all, but her warm, wet mouth makes all coherent thoughts slip from my mind.
“Jesus.” I tangle my hands in her hair, leading her pace.
She performs like a pro. Her cool, slim fingers stroke my balls and she teases the tip of my cock before taking me down her throat. It doesn’t take long before I’m nudging her head, giving her the warning. She doesn’t stop, instead taking me in deeper, squeezing me tighter, and I’ve got no choice but to hold her head steady while releasing everything I’ve got into her mouth.
Man.
I help her off her knees and button my jeans. “Thanks,” I say, because what do you say after a spontaneous blow job? ‘Thanks’ seems appropriate, right?
“You’re welcome.” She presses her body up against mine and I tug at her shirt while kissing her hard. Her tits strain against the flimsy cotton tank and like that, my youthful dick perks up again.
It’s nice to be the hero.
Chapter 2
It’s Thursday night, game night, and my team is lined up against the dugout wall. Sunflower seeds scatter across the cement floor and Owen keeps trying to hock a loogie through the fence.
“Knock it off,” I tell him.
We stare at one another, blue eye against blue. He does it again anyway, a thick, gooey string of spit and snot
Playing baseball brings up specific sounds and feelings, especially for the batter. One is the terrible ‘whiff,’ when you know you’ve completely missed the ball. The lack of connection swings through your body, jarring your elbows and shoulders.
Better is the hollow ‘thwack,’ that comes from a hit. Not perfect, but still enough to get the ball across the field.
And then there’s the sweet spot. You know you’ve found it the second the bat connects with the ball. The wood and leather meet perfectly, exactly , and that’s when you know you’ll at the very least get to first, probably to second, and maybe even all the way home.
Much like kissing a girl.
You know when you’ve hit a potential homer.
Thinking about girls and baseball are pretty much my favorite pastimes. The feel of the bat between my palms is second nature. The feel of a girl—well, there’s nothing better.
I inhale, breathing in the warm, early summer night, and get into position to wait for the right one.
The perfect one.
The first two pitches are balls, so I let them slide past. They both land with a thud in the catcher’s mitt. The third I get some wood on, tipping the ball back into the stands.
But the next one, I know the instant it leaves the pitcher’s hand. I see the release, the way his fingers roll off the ball, and I know. I know before it connects to the bat that I’ve got this.
Crack .
The ball hits that spot. The sweet one, the perfect place, and it zooms across the field, over the pitcher, past second base and arcing over the outfield.
The crowd is on their feet before I’ve left home plate, but I circle the field victoriously, glancing up into the crowd. There’s no better feeling than this.
*
“I saw your game,” the girl says. Mary? Maria? Something with an M. She eases up to me at the bar after the game, celebrating the win.
“Oh yeah?” I ask. She’s pretty. Long, blonde hair. Mischievous eyes. I knew her in school—sort of. We had Spanish together and we made out once at a party. She likes jocks and tends to be wherever we congregate. Her hand grazes my arm for the third time in the last fifteen minutes. I attempt conversation. “You like baseball?”
She looks at me through long, black eyelashes and confesses, “I like baseball players.”
Happily, she links her fingers through mine and leads me past the pool tables and arcade games. We leave the music and people behind, going out the back door. Mary (?) finds a shadowy spot and pushes me against the brick wall, unbuttoning my jeans, lowering my pants, pulling my cock out.
For a brief, slight moment I consider making her stop, being a gentleman and all, but her warm, wet mouth makes all coherent thoughts slip from my mind.
“Jesus.” I tangle my hands in her hair, leading her pace.
She performs like a pro. Her cool, slim fingers stroke my balls and she teases the tip of my cock before taking me down her throat. It doesn’t take long before I’m nudging her head, giving her the warning. She doesn’t stop, instead taking me in deeper, squeezing me tighter, and I’ve got no choice but to hold her head steady while releasing everything I’ve got into her mouth.
Man.
I help her off her knees and button my jeans. “Thanks,” I say, because what do you say after a spontaneous blow job? ‘Thanks’ seems appropriate, right?
“You’re welcome.” She presses her body up against mine and I tug at her shirt while kissing her hard. Her tits strain against the flimsy cotton tank and like that, my youthful dick perks up again.
It’s nice to be the hero.
Chapter 2
It’s Thursday night, game night, and my team is lined up against the dugout wall. Sunflower seeds scatter across the cement floor and Owen keeps trying to hock a loogie through the fence.
“Knock it off,” I tell him.
We stare at one another, blue eye against blue. He does it again anyway, a thick, gooey string of spit and snot
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