I realize I haven't posted a baseball story in a LONG mother fucking time, so I thought I'd share one since it's getting to be that time of the year.
When I was dating my ex baseball, I had gone down to spring training to see him play. The Tampa Bay Rays were the opposing team, and as I waited for my dude to get dressed I happened to get the number of a guy on the Rays as they left the field. I'm a scumbag, I know, but I DID wait until we were broken up for a bit to make a move.
Anyway, my guy and I broke up for like, 4 weeks right after he got release. I ended up calling this dude and lo and behold, fucker was in Baltimore as he had gotten called up and they were playing the O's.
I mean, you've read this blog enough to know what the fuck my plan was. At the time, I was in college and I had an apartment, which was a huge helper. Also had my car. So I went to his game, he didn't get in at all, but it was still cool to be there and the game was decent. He decides to come back to my place, but isn't sure if he wants to stay over because he has to be back relatively early in Baltimore the next day for the 2nd game of the series. No problem, I don't have class tomorrow, I'll drive you back later tonight, I'm super generous. That drive it like, 45 minutes by the way.
So we go back to College Park, we get some food, chill, watched half of a movie then decided to go out. He wasn't drinking a lot, obviously. I proceed to get shitfaced because honestly, the conversation was really strained. Like, he was totally hot to look at, but pulling teeth is an understatement. A lot of staring at the TV's in Cornerstone.
I get a little wasted, we go back to my place, it's like 10:30, and we start fooling around. He's on top of me and I'm being all whatever - running my hands under his shirt, struggling with his fucking belt that took seven years to come off.
"Do you have condoms?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, and I went to reach under my bed in the drawer I kept them.
"Grab two," he said.
Wow. Dude's uh, a little ambitious, huh?
"Okay," I said, pausing and looking at him, kind of smiling because I'm wasted and I think he's being overly sexual.
"I just, um," dude starts to squirm. "I finish really fast so I'm going to finish and then just switch the condoms and keep going."
Okay, seriously, even typing that out, like 5 years later, I cringe. I pause and htink "what the fuck?". So I can't even begin to imagine (or remember) my semi drunk thoughts at this comment. In fact, I'm surprised I wasn't rude and like "are you fucking serious? get off of me, I'm going to go make some eazy mac instead, take the bus back to baltimore" because I'm pretty sure that was what was going through my head at the time. Mmm, Eazy Mac, I haven't had that shit in forever....ANYWAY, despite my drunk "what the fuck is going on am I on candid camera did he really just say that" inner monologue, I comply and grab two condoms.
We pull our clothes off, and I throw my shirt on the floor and i look back at him as he is holding himself on top of me.
"OH MY GOD," I said, putting my hands to my mouth. "DID I DO THAT?"
Okay, normally I'm a little more um...subtle? Or I have a little bit more couth. But I was drunk and seriously, it was jarring.
Dude had these marks across his shoulders...like from his pecs to his shoulders. I don't know how to explain it other than like....it looked like a bear tried to dance with him...or like in Disney cartoon movies (think Pocohontas) when the Indian dudes had paint parkings on their chest in big lines and they were reddy/brown in color. This is what it looked like. And of course, my drunk ass assumed my bitten-to-the-nubs finger nails were capable of inflicting scar-like marks. Way to go, drunk mcgee.
"Oh, no," he looked down at himself. "I gained a lot of weight in college," he said. "And these are just stretch marks."
Okay, now, there are a few things that make me gag and will immediately make me want to clamp my legs shut during sex. One, smells. Bad smells I can't deal with. Two, anything that reminds me of pregnancy and babies. Stretch marks automatically make me think of a woman who is pregnant and using coco butter to get rid of those zig zag marks that people lie about and say are "beautiful". No. Not beautiful. Gross. Babies. Pregnancy. Big things coming out of your vagina. NOT A FUN STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DURING SEX.
Okay, so now I'm holding two condoms, and my hand is still over my mouth, and I'm afraid to touch these things because I don't know if they will like, bleed or pop or if they are fucking contagious, so I put my hands on his waist, and he puts the condom on.
I'm pretty sure his dick, which was the size of my fucking thumb (I'm sorry TBR guy, but it's a good part of the story and no one knows who you are), so whether he actually got passed my thigh or not before cumming, I have no idea. It was like, 47 seconds in to him making the first thrust, and to be honest, I was staring at his stretch marks like, drunkenly mesmerized and terrified at the same time. So he may have gotten in, he may have not. But if he didn't, apparently my thigh felt good.
"I just gotta change," the sat up now, struggling to change the condom. I'm starting to sober up and I'm like, what the fuck am I doing right now?
"This is why
doesn't have a girlfriend," he says, kind of laughing at himself as he struggled to put on the 2nd condom. I don't know if he's referring to his stamina issues or his small penis. Or both. I think my face was screwed up in a "is he talking about himself in the third person right now?" thought.
We had sex for like, 5 more minutes, I think. Didn't really feel much. I finally stopped because he was sweating and he started to smell bad. My sheets were like, torn off my bed, and he rolled over and passed out.
I was awake for FOUR, HOURS. FOUR. All the sheets were of fmy bed so I was laying on my foam thing, it was hot because the AC wasn't turned on yet in our apartment and he was sweating and he fucking STUNK, and he moved every 7 seconds and was taking up the whole bed so I was against the fucking wall. It was pissing rain outside, and finally at 4 in the morning, I tapped him on the shoulder.
"Hey, why don't I drive you back to Baltimore," I said.
"Are you sure?" he said, and I could tell he was awake too. Maybe he had stayed up thinking about that phenomenally TERRIBLE performance and was hoping he didn't play the same fucking way if he got in the game tomorrow, because I don't think you can just STOP midway through a fucking major league baseball game and be like "wait, hold on, let me just get another mitt". I'm starting to feel hung over and mildly nauseous regarding the stretch marks that are now very obvious and red. Please don't pop on my bed. Please don't start to bleed. I'll throw up.
"Sure," I said, sitting up and getting dressed in like, nine seconds. Ready to go?
I drove his ass back to his hotel. I gave him a peck on the cheek and drove home like a zombie. I literally had my face two inches from the steering wheel, because it's not like 5 in the morning and I'm hung over and tired as shit. I park in the parking lot and have to walk up a fucking hill and am getting like, washed away by a deluge of rain run off. And all I'm thinking it I'm going to fall, get washed away and drown in that fucking gutter down there and that will have been the last sex I've ever had. So I struggle my ass up this hill to make sure I don't die on behalf of this terrible sexcapade.
Needless to say, dude and I never spoke again. He no longer plays for the Rays, but I've seen him play against the Yankees before with his new team. I don't call him when he's in town (though I have great thought of it when he played the Yankees because I wanted tickets) and I think, he actually might have a girlfriend now. Poor, poor woman. Or, she has the smallest, shortest vagina known to mankind. I don't know.