First Game
It wasn't just black pride that made Greg keep his dick out in public, but a hatred of baseball--hand and cock, the fuck-you metaphor for the sport. Besides all of that, it was a beautiful day--sunny and too hot, one joyful setup anywhere else outside of the stadium. But inside, America's favorite pastime made the air feel as boiling as much as it was boring.
The heat felt worse in the dark, so Greg opened his eyes and squinted in the sunlight and everything else it touched. He peeked at his long, thick, coal-black penis that was proudly erect and aimed at the sky. The cock was glistening from tip to shaft, sweaty as the rest of his body--that tall, slobby, overweight frame of his that could leak gallons even in cold weather. But Greg smiled, thinking about his reflection. He'd been called fat, black and nasty so many times, but women could only fall in love with the nasty, black thing between his legs.
The stadium was mostly empty, just a few on-off patrons close by, the more dedicated followers of the sport way down in the "you're not a scumbag seats". Greg's dick had privacy. And he really did hate the sport, but had to go to the game, due to being raised in frugality, where nothing, especially gifts should ever be wasted. This mentality was the reason he kept a healthy bank account . . . and way too many pounds on his bones.
One of Greg's buddies had passed the tickets along, a guy that he knew hated the sport just as much. He accepted them because that was the decent thing to do, then quickly tested his morals by trying to sell them off to his other friends, marking the price down from dollars to cents. But it seemed that all Blacks were averse to baseball, none of them interested in watching hours of guys tipping their hats, chewing gum, spitting tobacco, standing, sitting, running every now and then, the rare swing and contact, sending a tiny ball up and away, leaving humans far below, scattering like rats for its attention.
In all truth, Greg felt some excitement upon entering the stadium--the first time. Delicious odors, beautiful colors, sexy girls and their boobs everywhere. But oh the terror of being the only black person in sight, the biggest, fattest person at the game. Nobody seemed to care as much as Greg, an angry glare directed his way was probably aimed more towards his shadow.
And they were better things, standards, like giggling kids, their laughing parents, the smiles lingering even as they failed to keep ice cream and ketchup off of the expensive attire their children wore, the messy faces of their favorite players, the soiled team insignia, both proof of a possible joy in failure.
People just looked happy. Greg told himself that it might be jealousy that irked him to annoyance, never seeing a crowd of his own in such comfortable glee. So he stayed cool, and moved to the rear seats of the stadium to make sure his fears and prejudices wouldn't spoil the mood for anyone else.
And he was back in that same area again, this day, his second visit to baseball. The announcer's loud, grating voice was a serious assault to Greg's serenity, causing his heart to flow into a gallop pushed by random cheers from the crowd. It seemed like happiness was bad for the heart.
Stroking his dick helped calm the nerves a bit. Closing his eyes helped him to fly. Thinking of sex gave him a journey.
"FOUL!!" the announcer screamed, yet again, forcing Greg back to down to earth.
He shook his head and decided that he might as well stay awake for his final baseball game. And for someone who didn't give a shit about the sport, the rear section of the stadium was the best place to be. It's where the worst of the bored would sit, so as not to be forced into any of the America-dipped, screaming pride requirements of the front rows.
But there were others who stayed in the same area for different reasons. They were more worst of the worst, of the perverse, horny, sick and twisted. And Greg met a few of them on his first trip to the stadium.
There were a lot more people in the stands back then, to the left, right, and circling. It was a good thing he had arrived so early, because the few holes left in the growing crowd would've probably closed real quick upon sight of his fat and scary black ass approaching. Greg found a section with enough room for him, his popcorn and pizza, and sat down, gorging on his food like any proud slob would.
And when he heard the sucking sounds coming from his left, his stomach rumbled for whatever drink was being siphoned through a straw. He glanced over and saw something else: some young couple that had seemingly appeared right next to him, the woman on the far side, bent over and sucking her boyfriend's cock like it was made of candy and there was nothing else left to eat.
Greg was shocked and quite concerned, thinking that the attention would bring more eyes on him, eyes that missed the couple's guilt to focus on the black guy, searching for his role in any deviancy. And he was shocked again by the mass of white folks that had now dwarfed him into their middle. The third shock came from their obliviousness to the perversions going on so close to them.
Couldn't they hear the girl's dick-gags? Weren't they sickened by the youths lust filled rage against standard? The young rebel was now going quite deep on her boyfriend, and he wasn't that small in the pants, the last inch of his gleaming shaft still showed while she struggled to make her lips contact the shaved pool of skin below. Greg guessed that it might just be a thing to the people--sex at a game, in public, in broad daylight, so many fans a fingering distance away from the girl's bobbing little ass. Just a thing.
But obviously, not something so meaningless to him, as his intrusive stares must've stood out quite loudly to the girl, since her eyes opened and immediately snapped onto his. And she held him in intensity while her mouth stayed wrapped over the dick lodged down her throat, spit streaming out the corners of her mouth. Then those glaring eyes shifted downward and narrowed in analysis. Greg followed them and saw his own dick trying its best to bust a hole through his jean shorts.
"Just let them have fun," someone said.
Greg turned to the voice, saw an older woman sitting to his right, smiling, her sunglasses focused on the game ahead. She was one of those middle-aged types that seemed to only improve with years, prettier, softer where fuller, her possible post-birth heaviness adding layers of luscious maturity. And she looked real cool and easy in a black tank top, no bra, with her fat, happily sagging tits plumped so awesomely beneath--the damned nipples prominent without even being hard. A decent woman with upper assets that forced such an indecent display.
The rest of Miss Fattie--that was the name Greg gave her--was just as fascinating. She wore a lily-white skirt that seemed about sheer enough to imply that there were no panties beneath. If that was true, she was definitely shaved down there, clean as her heavy, shaven legs. And way down lower, Greg saw the hugest feet he'd ever seen on a woman. The toes looked fat and delicious, the nails were without color, but glossy and cut with precision.
Miss Fattie crossed a leg leaving the sandal on the floor. The fat palm of her foot was paler than her sun-bronzed skin and maybe as moist as Greg's sweaty, stifled dick. He could slap that black shaft over her foot for days, checking for any calluses, then rub the aching penis between both of her soles till he splattered them with a better lotion. Greg was so horny--hornier than he wanted to be in a white crowd, sitting right next to a white woman that seemed unaware of how close she was to getting him killed.
"Oh . . . I wasn't . . ." Greg said, trying to defend himself.
"It's okay bud," she replied. "Enjoy the game."
She reached over and patted him on the leg a few times, the last couple of pats, right over the sensitive mushroom tip that had worked its way out of his boxers to rub painfully against the rough fabric of his shorts. His dick was screaming EMERGENCY!!! Miss Fattie needed cum all over some part of her body. Greg hoped it was that fat foot of hers that had now begun rubbing against his knee. The wrinkling sole seemed massive enough for several loads.
It had been a long time since Greg cummed, taking his urologist's advice to abstain from jerking off for a while. His erections had been too soft for his libido and he couldn't imagine what he'd do without the only true positive he had on his body. Even pussy-less, the hard touch of his shaft could bring the most vivid images to his mind, leading to dreams full of the kind of bitches that would never give his dick a chance in reality.
So Greg stopped fapping cold-turkey. Sometimes his balls ached so much, he'd scream into his pillow for hours. He wanted to call his doctor, but lately, that motherfucker had been watching his dick in a much less professional way. Greg wanted to call the wife he saw in the pictures hanging in the man's office, accuse her husband, draw the woman close and let her tears drip off his cock as he busted a gallon of goo down her throat--revenge for her husband's misinterpretation of job when he put his hand on another man's penis. But after a few months, it seemed Greg had gotten his money's worth as his erections came back with a petrified vengeance.
