The Baseball Player
The baseball player drives a black BMW with tinted windows -- as if he wasn't cool enough already. And he isn't what most women would consider to be a classic beauty. Somewhere in my mind this gives me a leg up on the situation. It makes him this little gem, hidden from view, secreted away in my imagination. It's not like I'm fantasizing about Brad Pitt, or Antonio Banderas, those guys get enough mental pussy. The baseball player probably doesn't. Because women can be shallow sometimes...as shallow as the shallow men that they abhor. But I recognize that the baseball player is strong and healthy and so so talented. He's a record breaker, an award winner. He's quiet and unassuming, he rarely smiles, rarely speaks above a whisper. HE'S A PROFESSIONAL ATHLETE LADIES...so you know he has to have endurance, and strength and he could throw ya' around a little bit. Baseball biceps. Think about it.
And lately, as if my fire needed anymore fuel, I've heard that he's sort of...arrogant. And a general not nice guy. This is intriguing (although I don't believe it), because it only confirms the fantasies I have harbored about 'nice guy' athletes, hoping that secretly they are 'bad boys' in disguise. There's hope for Mark Brunell and Brian Urlacher yet.
Anyway, after having my head filled with ideas of what a jerk he was, (and certain women know what an appeal this has) I had a dream about the baseball player. I'll expand on it here since some of the finer details of the dream were sketchy.
I was at the bar that I hear he frequents, and noticed that he was there with some other baseball players. I was with my friends, girlfriends, not sports fans, and they didn't know who he was. My husband was not there, and apparently zero Cub fans were there, because he was able to sit there and chat with buddies without being accosted. I decided to be bold and send him a drink (as if he couldn't buy his own). I watched as the bartender gave him the drink and he just shrugged and looked over in my direction as if it was the biggest chore in the world.
"What a jerk," my friend said. I kept staring at him though. How could I not? He's my favorite baseball player, and he was sitting only yards away from me. Seeing him out of uniform was thrilling, and it made him look even sexier than usual. But only to me of course. No one else can see it, I'm sure. I felt like I knew something about him that no one else could possibly perceive. Like pheromones sent right to me or something. When one of his friends got up from his seat, I decided to go over and say something to him (that's how we know this was a dream).
"Hi, just wanted to say what a big fan I am, I mean, even from your rookie year."
"That's when everyone was a big fan," he said, throwing back a shot. The other players around him started laughing. I felt myself blush. I was pissed. First of all, he's about seven years younger than me, and he was treating me like shit. It was grade school and high school and college all over again, right when I was starting to feel good about myself as an adult. When I was twenty one I wouldn't have had the balls to say hello to a celebrity. Now I could see why. But he also looked nervous, like he was trying to impress everyone with his dickishness, but was uncomfortable doing it.
"Well, I was also a big fan when you weren't playing,
when everyone thought you were done, when everyone said you couldn't come back.
Nice to see you're such a prick. I should have just let you drink your fucking
whiskey in peace," I said, walking away.
I felt very proud and infinitely cool at having the last word, something I never
get to have in real life, because I can't ever come up with it. I felt superior
at having shut down a celebrity, a millionaire to boot. I only had about $20
until payday.
So I went and sat with my friends again, noticing that every once in a while, the baseball player was looking in my direction. My friends noticed too and began a little giggle fest.
"He's staring at you," they said. "He won't stop staring at you." I waved it off for a few minutes, staying strong, staying mad, but began to feel my heart jump every time I looked over and he caught my eye.
So I got up and went over to him again, pretending I was on my way to the bar even though we clearly had a waitress helping us out.
"Hey," he said, grabbing my elbow.
"Don't grab me," I said quietly. "What do
you want?"
He smiled this 'trying to be smooth' sort of smile that
didn't work on him and said, "What are you and your friends giggling about
over there?"
I wrenched myself free of his grip and said, "About
how such a young kid could be such a prick."
"What's your name?" he asked. So I told him. "Why
are you busting my balls so much?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"Busting YOUR balls? You're the one being the asshole."
"Doesn't seem to keep you away. Whatcha orderin' up here at the bar?" He said.
"Nothing for you, that's for damn sure. I learned my lesson the first time."
He went quiet for a minute and we just stared at each other like Taming of The Shrew. I was hoping a vase would appear that I could throw at his head. Instead, he stood up from his barstool (he's very tall), grabbed me around the waist and kissed me so hard on the lips that I thought I'd fall over. The whole bar started hooting and hollering, clapping, saying his name, as if he'd made some huge conquest, and he just kissed and kissed and kissed me. The best kiss I could have imagined out of him, his strong, reconstructed arm holding me tight, right against him. Long, deep, like we'd been separated while he was off in Normandy and we were now going to be on the cover of Life Magazine. I pulled away and stared at him in amazement. He took me by the wrist and we left the bar, heading down the street without a word.
"What are you doing?" I said, breathlessly. We arrived at his car which was parked on a side street and he just pushed me against the door of it and kissed me again, harder than before, if possible, pinning me to the car with his arms on either side of me. I wanted to tell him to stop. I wanted to push him away, but on the other hand, it was everything I'd ever dreamed about him. I figured since he was kissing me, I probably had permission to feel his muscles, his back, his arms, his shoulders. They were just as strong as I thought they'd be. When I grabbed for him, when I pulled him closer to me to feel how warm and tall and hard he is, he stopped kissing and pulled away, breathing a little heavy. He yanked me away from the car door, unlocked it and just about threw me into the passenger seat. I sat perfectly still and watched him stalk around the front of the car, pull open the driver side door and slam into the driveršs seat.
"Is there a problem?" I said, trying to lighten the distinctly tense mood. He put the key in the ignition and fired up the car, which triggered the stereo to BLARE music at us. He lit a cigarette and turned it down.
"You don't know who I am." He said.
"Sure I do. I know all about you. I change my schedule to watch you pitch. I've been following your career from the beginning."
His eyes trailed up my legs, over my t-shirt, my arms, he looked at my hair. He was studying me. "You don't act like...it matters."
"What do you mean? That you're famous? It doesn't matter. I can still tell you you're a prick." I laughed at that. He didn't. He just put the car in gear and screamed down the side streets out to Lake Shore Drive. "Where are we going? My friends are going to think I'm lost." He pulled a cell phone out and threw it in my lap.
"Call them and tell them you're with me. I'm taking
you for a ride."
"I bet," I said, and let my friends know where I was.
We drove along Lake Shore Drive, south, closer to downtown and he just pulled over to the side of the road near North Avenue Beach and put the hazard lights.
"I was going to take you to my apartment, but I can't
wait," he said, leaning over and kissing me again. His hands were on my
legs, he was working at the buttons on my jeans, trying to get my pants off
on Lake Shore Drive.
"Stop," I said, pushing him away. "Slow down.
You're a maniac."
"I want to fuck you. Right here." He said. I shivered. As if in punctuation, six or seven cars zoomed by. If only they knew what they were passing up.
"Well this is a nice car. If we want to really make
it like high school we can fuck in the backseat." I said, and in fact,
the idea intrigued me. I'd never had that sort of experience in high school.
I'd never known the joys of a quickie in the backseat of a car. And if it's
a tinted BMW, my God. There's something to be said for it, that's for sure.
I leaned over and kissed him, gave him a wink and crawled
into the backseat. He just stared at me. I pulled my t-shirt over my head, unbuttoned
my jeans and pulled them off. Again, he didn't move. I sat there in my white
bra and panties and pulled the ponytail out of my hair, letting it fall loose
to my shoulders.
"Come on then. I'll take care of you." I said, pulling him to me by the collar of his shirt. All of the arrogance was gone. He was the nice, quiet, young boy that I'd imagined him to be.
But still a good kisser. I sat on my knees on the leather
seats of the car and unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled the t-shirt he had underneath
it over his shoulders and threw them both over the front seat. He slipped the
straps of my bra down my arms and freed my breasts, kneading them in his warm
fingers, then bending forward to suck at them. I stretched out on the seat,
listening to cars race by while the baseball player pulled off my panties
and bra completely and unzipped his jeans. He crouched over me, crowded in the
backseat of his own million dollar car, and kissed me again, kissed my throat
and my chest and my ears.
Here's the part of the dream I remember like Waterford Crystal.
I'll never forget it, ever:
He ran his fingers through my hair and asked me, very quietly
to spread my legs for him.
It was hot. It was very very hot, the way he said it. It would be an injustice to try and describe how velvety his voice sounded. Suffice it to say that the baseball player is from the south. And he has a very slight (probably only detectable to me) southern accent.
So of course, with that kind of request, I spread my legs for him. And we began this very slow, languid, cramped-in-the-backseat sort of screw that you can only have with a drunken, relative stranger. I noticed that he must be uncomfortable, because he's very tall, and asked him if he'd like to sit up. He sat in the backseat and I straddled his hips, riding him, looking out the back window of the BMW while he sucked and kissed my nipples. He only took a few minutes in that position, and when he came, I came almost instantly, just mostly triggered by the idea of having 'conquered' this local hero.
I pulled off of him and he kissed me softly on the mouth. I leaned against the door of the car and smiled contentedly. "Thanks for the drink," he said.
I fished around for my panties and bra. With a kiss on the cheek I said, "Anytime you arrogant prick."