Been awhile, not that I haven't been writing, just haven't been writing here. As is my way, I tend to just DIY the whole darn thing So it's all on me, my bad.
Enjoy the read and vote if so inclined. However, comments or direct emails are always appreciated (even the haters) and mostly replied to - usually.
"Great game man, thanks."
Yeah, great game. Sure I was the one basking in the exultation of victory. And while still standing, my legs felt like jello and I was struggling to avoid bending over, and sucking in deep lungfuls of recovery breaths. With forced nonchalance, right wrist holding my basketball to my right hip I raised my left hand and flipped a half salute to my vanquished foes. In all ways other than the final score those guys kicked my ass. The only reason I won was that they played as much against each other as against me.
I'd come to the park intent on practicing free throws and dribbling up and down the court. I wasn't even looking for a pickup game as my most recent one-on-one with Chrissy had left my barely able to walk. Not that she kicked my ass, those days are past. She didn't kick my ass, she kicked me in the balls. And down I went.
Shit. Okay, she kicked me because she had finally gotten the ball inside the free throw line and she was trying to back me down the lane to get an easy bucket. There was a time when she was able to do that with regularity. I was a solid twenty pounds heavier than that time, I was set and unmovable. She kept pushing her butt into my pelvis and nature finally took its course, between pushes I popped a no doubt about it hard on.
In my defense, we had come to the park for a simple shoot around, maybe a game of "h-o-r-s-e." As such I was wearing a t-shirt and athletic shorts (with the summertime heat, I was also sans 'support,' I.e., commando.) Chrissy was similarly unencumbered, baggy boardshorts and a fairly tight, lightweight sports bra. Everything was fine while we were just shooting around. But as is often the case between Chrissy and me, things got competitive.
It started with a missed shot (mine), since the rebound was arcing toward me I raised my hands to receive it. Suddenly, without warning, an NHL worthy hip check moved me sideways, and Chrissy had the ball with a shouted, "Game on pansy boy."
I pivoted and got a piece of the ball as she went for a quick jump shot. She thought I would drive in for a lay up, a stepped back for an easy ten footer. I shouldn't have, but I most certainly did razz her with, "Michael 'one' on a sweet, sweet ten footer, ChrisTINA 'zero.' Oh yeah, game fucking on."
In the game of basketball, height is an advantage unto itself. Although Chrissy's quickness posed challenges I am hard pressed to neutralize. In this one-on-one game, a basket is one point and the winner is first to fifteen. The game went back and forth, but I slowly built up a lead. When I faked Chrissy and drove past her for a layup, the score was Michael 'thirteen' and Chrissy 'seven.' Chrissy grabbed the ball and walked to the free throw line, bouncing it fiercely with both hands. I walked to the top of the key and raised my hands to receive the ball. "Thirteen seven."
Which is what you do. If Chrissy had scored she would have said, "Eight twelve." No big deal. Then I made it a big deal, maybe it was the hip check that started this, more likely it was the hard slaps and scratches on my arms due to Chrissy's failed attempts to steal the ball or block my shot. Whatever it was prompted me to say, "Game in two and there ain't shit that you can do to stop it from becoming the truth."
Trash talk. Yeah, I know, not my usual thing. Which was why Chrissy's eyes went large in surprise then squinted down in purpose. "Bring it Mikey."
I dribbled towards her intending to fake right this time then spin left and drive the lane. I did a lousy job of selling the fake and halfway into the spin Chrissy had position and I had no place to go. Chrissy's defense became seriously physical as she pressed her chest against my back to keep me away from the basket. I tried twice to back her down and there was no give to her position. You might think that in the fast paced action of basketball a guy wouldn't have time to notice soft breasts pressed against him - well, I seemed to have had more than enough time. Which was why I was almost hard when I threw a half-hearted hook that clanged off the rim and was an easy rebound for Chrissy.
She got the ball, dribbled out past the key and drove on me. I figured she would fake drive the lane, stop and pop at the free throw line for an easy point. I faked a step back to defend the layup and pushed forward as she came to a stop. I'd caught her in mid pivot when started (trying) to back me down to free up her shot.
She kept pushing her butt into my pelvis, but I was set, stable, and unmoving. Well most of me was unmoving, the almost hard part became crazy hard between Chrissy's pushes. It happened so fast, the basketball player in me didn't want to give up my position. The well mannered gentleman my mom tried relentlessly to encourage wanted very much to give way. The gentleman finally convinced the baller to step back.
I was one push too late as Chrissy's perfect butt pushed onto and against my most male appendage. I sure as hell noticed, I hoped that maybe she didn't.
She noticed. She stopped playing, turned and gaped at my protruding organ, there was no missing that. Words were exchanged. She accused me of being a perv, amongst a number of other male-oriented derogatory comments. I may have insinuated she was practically giving me a lap dance (there may have been an unfortunate reference to a 'happy ending' being imminent.) I was in mid eye roll of disbelief that this was actually happening so I didn't see her actually kick me in the balls. I do know that I went down like a puppet with its strings cut. While I was down and she just walked away cursing me out as she went.
She never called to apologize and I made no effort to contact her. I was still slightly sore when I headed over to the park this morning. I'd just started grooving my shot when these two guys showed up and talked me into a game of one on two. If they'd asked earlier I'd have declined as I was still a little sore. But warmed up and moving well I said 'sure', so with a flip of the coin deciding I was 'the one" we began playing.
By the time we called it a morning I was spent and my shorts and t-shirt were dripping wet. I started my walk home wearing still damp shorts and my shirt draped over my back drying slowly in the late morning sun. Every once in awhile I'd dribble my basketball back and forth between my legs, except when I passed Chrissy's house. Then I dribbled the ball continually as I rounded the corner. I was nearly past when CC (Christina Conway, aka, Chris, Chrissy, or CC) came running, calling out to me, "Mikey,, wait up, I'm sorry okay?"
I stopped and looked at her, I did not smile.
"Michael (oh, 'Michael' is it? This was serious) I apologize for kicking you. It was wrong, I was wrong. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry." CC adopted an expression of earnest contrition. "Okay?"
"Apology accepted."
"Great, I need you to do something for me." She actually reached out to grab my arm! "C'mon Mikey, it'll just take a minute. Mike-y!"
Quick aside here, my name is Michael, I was Mikey for the first dozen or so years of my life. Intermediate and High school has reduced the group of people still calling me 'Mikey' to one - CC. Oh and to CC, the phrase "it'll just take a minute" has no relationship with any recognized measure of time - it means 'I need you right to now and for the foreseeable future. I'll let you know when we're finished.'
That said, CC and I go way back. I think she moved into the neighborhood between first and second grade. We became fast friends, bonding primarily through soccer, basketball, and other youth sports. And no we weren't on the same teams, but we practiced relentlessly against one another. Though we're the same age, at the time, she was almost a head taller than me. She was faster than me, and stronger than me. It wasn't until high school that I finally passed her. Now I'm a good head taller than her, heavier and stronger than her, and almost as fast as her. The basketball activity of a few days before was par for the course of our friendship, except for the whole kick to the balls part.
CC wanted me to come around through the side gate, so I followed dutifully behind. And yes, I was enjoying the wonderful wiggle of her butt as she lead the way. Since it was a summer weekday, her mom was probably at work so I figured CC needed me to move something or lift something or whatever something. Believe me, this is a situation that is not at all unusual, "Mikey can you move this, Mikey can you lift that, Mikey, Mikey, Mikey." Since we were going through the side gate I figured I was going to be moving patio furniture, or pool stuff, or something like that. Instead we turned toward the house, crossed the patio and entered the bonus room. The Conways used it as a spare bedroom, only it didn't have a bed, just one of those dorky looking convertible couchs and not much else.
Holy shit.
On said dorky couch was a stunningly beautiful blonde, sitting primly and precisely, ankles crossed and hands overlapped in her lap. She was wearing a well filled out white tank top with thin spaghetti straps tied in a bow at her shoulders. These contrasted with the black straps of a bra or bikini top. In stylistic opposition to her torso covering we're a pair of really baggy grey cargo shorts. I mention the bagginess of the shorts because I could see the outside of her thigh clear up to her hip. The view was awesome, I gave her some silent applause in appreciation of her bold sense of style.
Okay, that last observation is straight out of my typical male perviness. If she was sitting by the pool in a bikini there would be way more skin on casual display, 'nough said. And while I'd still be checking her out - for reasons unknown to me - getting a glance up her baggy shorts, that caused a stirring.
