When to Submit
Carl pivots into me and hits an easy lay-up to go up 7-1. From the top of the key, I immediately turn my back to him. He grinds into me. We’re about the same height, so his crotch rubs against my thick ass. I stand where I am, sort of enjoying the charge it sends. “No free buckets, boyo,” he hisses in my ear. I laugh and let my dribble get too high. He steals the ball for an easy lay-up.
"Street Basketball in NYC" (photo by Flickr user Bob Jagendorf)
Since meeting last Friday at this park, we’ve been playing almost every night. From the little that he’s shared with me, I gather he’s at least 30 and some sort of IT entrepreneur who lives with his sister. When I barely knew him, I won my share of games. Candidly, I’ve played much worse since I realized that I liked losing to him. I’ve definitely begun posting up more and more, which isn’t really my game.
He wins tonight’s first game 11-3. While he drinks from his water bottle, I blather about my dad giving me shit about not taking any community college courses this summer and how I really want to see the Transformers sequel, even if the critics call it despicable.
As usual, Carl just listens and occasionally nods. I don’t why, but I can’t seem to keep my mouth shut around him. The past week, I’ve told him about dropping out of college two years ago, how pathetic I feel bagging groceries every day, how my mother’s death five years ago still keeps me up some nights, and a shitload of other inane tidbits.
He wins the second game 11-1. I put my hands on my knees and shake my head. “I give up. You’re too good.”
He laughs. “That’s what I like to see, a guy who knows when to submit.”
He’s looking at me, I can tell. My neck and face burn, so I stare at the cracked asphalt and start talking about my asshole manager at work who always makes me drag down the replacement stacks of paper bags.
I check my watch. It’s 11:15.
Carl puts his hand on my back. “Dude, a retard can bag groceries. Why don’t you come over and see the place?”
The little hairs on my forearms feel warm. “Sure.”
At his house, we each drink a beer and a few shots. I’m going on about my friend Tony and how he’s at the University of Maryland and how he won’t accept my Facebook friend request.
Carl sighs and then stands in front of me. He unzips and grips my hair. His cock is sweaty and enormous. He sticks it in my mouth, finally shuts me up.
XXX
David Erlewine lives and loathes near Annapolis. His blog is whizbyfiction.blogspot.com.
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