It's Only a Game

She reached for my hand, grabbing it and guiding down the front of her shorts. I fought through the restrictive material until I touched the first crisp curls of pubic hair. I pushed lower until I felt virgin slit, untraversed by fingers other than her own, soaked from her libido.

"No tan cerca," panic rising in her voice. " Don't put your fingers in too deep."

I snatched my hand back for a second, fearful of hurting her, but like a starving mongrel, I couldn't stay away.

Mookie took a foul, two more balls, and three more fouls. My heart slammed against my chest in cadence with the chanting crowd. I couldn't breathe as L took another inch into her throat, working closer to my hilt.

I felt her throat constrict as she struggled not to gag. My thighs were wet with her excess saliva, soaking into the waistband of my pants. I removed my fingers, sticky and dimly aromatic, and sucked them clean. She tasted so pure; the oasis in my sexual desert.

One more ball and my patience with the game waned. I no longer cared what happened to the Mets. Lupe was right in the end; it was just a game. I tugged on her shorts, getting them past her thighs. She helped, kicking them down to her ankles. She gave me room to lie down and went back to handling her business.

Before she knew what was happening, I was tongue deep inside her, coarse hair tickling my chin. I heard her gasp, felt her thighs tighten around my head as I did what other guys in Harlem shunned. She spewed out a string of Spanish, words I've only heard her say in anger or in church; never at the same time. She squeezed my balls with one hand, stroked me with the other, little nips on my head at the same time.

I heard Mookie foul one more time; there is no way he's putting that past the infield. It was fun while it lasted, but the Mets aren't going to give me as much pleasure as I was receiving now. L increased the bobbing on my cock as I felt the familiar pressure build up in my lower abdomen.

I've felt that many times before during solo sex bouts on tenement roofs and I knew what was going to happen in less than 30 seconds.

"L, Hold up." I grunted, struggling to dislodge her. "I'm bout to bust,"

"Shhh," She stopped long enough to acknowledge my warning. "I want you to."

I tried to hold back, thinking of anything to halt the impeding flow. I stared through her parted thighs, slick with my drool and her essence, when I saw the moment that made me a sexual automaton at the mention of a certain ballplayer.

Mookie finally connected, a weak dribbler down the first base line towards Sox 1st baseman Bill Buckner. I gave Wilson credit; his heart was definitely in it, but he probably took less swings during batting practice. He was worn out. I concentrated on the play, hoping I could hold out. I didn't want her to stop, but the throbbing increased, straddling the border of pain and pleasure.

"Little roller along first," Vin Scully reported . "Behind the bag, It gets through Buckner!"

The crowd roar was deafening. Buckner leaned down to pick up the ball to end the game when the ball hopped away from his glove like a frightened kitten. It kept rolling through his legs. An error!

"Here comes Knight and the Mets win it!" Scully shouted over the crowd as Shea stadium erupted into pandemonium. Mets players piled on each other in the infield while the Red Sox plodded off the field, dejected.

In an amalgamation of a cheer, cry, and groan, I shot a deep blast right into the waiting gullet of Lupe. My whole body locked up in a state of paralysis as I spurted in rapid increments similar to Morse code. Pop, blast, pop; sexual dots and dashes.

I heard her gag as it was too much load for her to handle, felt the warm fluid coating my thighs, puddling on the plastic of the couch. She still had a death grip on me, pulling the remnants of seed from my pulsing organ. I closed my eyes, basking in the events that just transpired on the field, on the couch, in my universe.

For a minute, the only sounds were her coughing, my panting, and the screams from the television. Then I heard the deadbolt in the front door turning. The first of many locks on the steel door. The family was home. I heard the second bolt snap open as I willed myself to move.

Lupe heard it too as she scrambled off me, yanking her shorts up and bolting down the hallway, leaving me to deal with the rest. I heard the creak of the door, followed by the voices of her mother, giving instructions to the grandkids. I rolled off the couch, pulling up my pants in the process, willing my cock to deflate. I could only stare at the mess as the voices got closer and louder. There were still two unopened beers laying next to the couch in paper bags.

Without hesitation, I grabbed them both, shaking them quickly and popping the tops. The yellow brew immediately foamed, spewing an alcohol fueled mess all over the carpet, couch, and coffee table. I started jumping up and down, celebrating as if I were Mookie Wilson himself and thats how the family found me.

All conversation stopped as they watched my solo destruction of the living room.

"Has per dido su mente?" screamed Lupe's mother as I stood there dripping in warm beer. "You like those gringos at Shea now, pinche loco?"

Her three nephews laughed and pointed at me; I was a rumpled, sticky mess. But, the crime had been covered up. Their grandmother shushed them towards the back to change out of their church garb, shaking her head in amazement at my behavior.

L returned wearing her Jordache, a new lollipop in place, amused at my quick thinking.

"No more baseball for you, Raheem." She kissed her mother on the cheek before heading to the kitchen. "At least, not here."

I grinned sheepishly as she handed me a rag and bucket a minute later. I began to clean up the mess, paying special attention to the couch. The rest of the family scattered to different parts of the apartment. L tugged at her yearbook, shutting the window. She kept stealing glances at me.

"We got time to make it to the Latin Quarter, if you want to go."

"Naw, you probably want to celebrate your stupid game some more."

I stopped cleaning, watching her stand there, twisting the blow pop in between her lips.

"Hey, it's just a game, right?"

"Cono," She wagged a finger at me. "You need to change your clothes."

I picked at my sweat suit, which was clinging to my chest and legs. I felt come ebbing out, quickly gluing flesh to flesh. I wiped up the remaining residue of unabashed sin off the coffee table before dropping the rag back in the bucket.

"Walk me to the door?"

L smiled as she set her book on the end table and grabbed my outstretched hand. We strolled past the nephews who began chasing each other around with a football. I opened the door and turned around to a smiling Lupe.

"What?"

"You coming back, right?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I leaned down and stole another sugary kiss.

"I want you to know something, though." She batted her eyes as me, before looking behind her for prying ears.

"Tell me."

"We still ain't doing it." She jumped up and kissed me again before shutting the door.

We went out that night and true to her word, we didn't do it. The Mets went on to win the World Series two days later. I kept dating Lupe the rest of year and we did everything else except "it". By the time we did do it, The Men of October became the Boys of Summer again, but, that is another story for another time.