Baseball Erotica #4: Joe DiMaggio and the Worst Dinner Party Ever
Illustration by Jonny Ruzzo


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Baseball Erotica #4: Joe DiMaggio and the Worst Dinner Party Ever

Joe would do anything for Marilyn, but he won't do that.

With the possible exception of competitive pole dancing, no sport is more erotic than baseball in late summer. The long days of lounging about on plane rides and in clubhouses and dugouts and hotels, the close proximity to your teammates in all states of undress, the long gazes from the pitcher's mound to home plate and back, the words whispered during chance encounters at first base, the memories of that youthful night, out in the anonymous corn-covered land of the minors, when you and that kindly old reliever briefly expressed your hidden desires to one another in that Waffle House bathroom… Well. You get the idea. Baseball, and baseball players, are extremely sexy, and our Baseball Erotica fiction series celebrates that fact with some imagined (note for lawyers: 100 percent totally made-up) scenarios about famous figures from America's pastime's past engaging in various acts. The fourth installment, part one of a two-parter is below. Enjoy!


She was quiet in the car on the way over, but that was hardly unusual these days. They'd been fighting more than he liked to admit, but he couldn't help but notice that the way she folded her lush mouth into a sullen pout was just as arousing as it was depressing. He stared at the slope between the underside of her perfectly upturned nose and the two-prong protrusion of her lips. Marilyn's creamy skin wore the yellow lights of the city like a painted veil, her flesh dotted with reminders of the business of others.

Ty Cobb, piss drinker? Sure why not. Read more.

Joe DiMaggio realized he'd been starting when Marilyn turned to meet his gaze. Her eyes pierced him but seemed not to care, as if their sharpness was incidental and her glare insignificant. She saw him, saw through him, but was bored.

DiMaggio was desperate to break through to her. Perhaps if he just looked long enough he'd see a spark. At the very least, maybe her icicle stare would begin to thaw under the weight of his adoration. But, as always, just as soon as he found himself pinned under her apathetic scrutiny, her eyes flicked away to stare listlessly at the storefronts streaming past.

"You don't have to do this, Joey." Marilyn's breathy voice drifted through the chauffeured town car like expensive perfume. "Anton said I never had to bring my men, especially if they didn't want to come."

Joe scowled, turning away from her to hide his insecurities. "Of course I'm coming. I just can't believe you didn't mention these dinner parties sooner." His voice was edged in betrayal, though he tried to hide it with a jovial chuckle. But surely, she of all people knew better.


Marilyn sighed quietly, her shoulders slumping forward. "Do whatever you have to do, Joey. But don't act like I asked you to be here."

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

An hour later, Joe found himself jogging up the steps behind his beautiful blonde wife, her curls bouncing like the rabbit used to tease the greyhounds past their breaking points. He clung to a brief moment of relief when the mounting dread in his guts was momentarily abated by the roiling churn of her hips. He could watch that ass twitch away from him all day.

Marilyn reached for the ornate onyx handle of the oxblood door. "Now remember, Joey," she began with her terse, trademark smile, that world-famous mask. "Uncle Anton has known me a very long time."

"Right, right. The church organ player"

Marilyn cleared her throat as if she was suppressing a chuckle. Or about to sneeze. He could never tell. "Yes, the organist." She flashed another placid smile. "And please don't cross him, Joey. He's not that kind of man." And with that she pressed her perfectly oval thumb into the arch of the metal goat tongue that served as the door's handle, gave him one last pleading pout, and stepped inside.

DiMaggio took a final lungful of the sweet night air as the moon above him hung like a ripe peach bobbing in a pond, sagging and wet and whole against the purpled sky. By the time he entered the foyer, the silvery straw of her hair was nowhere in sight. He felt the familiar tug of panic start to press into his guts, but before he could pay it much mind, a polite girl of no more than 20 rushed to greet him.


"Joe DiMaggio?"

He nodded in short, masculine bursts.

"They're ready for you."

"Well, that sure was fast, sugar," Joe replied with a wink. He couldn't be seen to act nervously around such a frail creature. But she wasn't interested in small talk, her heels clicking away down the dark marble hallway, a beacon for him to follow. The vermillion bowels of the mansion opened for him, the plushness of the interior welcoming like a ripened womb. Joe tried not to think too hard about the foreign aromas that clung to the thick black drapes. "Must be French," he muttered under his breath.

When they arrived at the elevator, the girl wished him well on his journey. "Just turn the handle all the way, Mr. DiMaggio. When you get there, you'll know." He smiled as he stepped into the iron cage, unconcerned as to the destination. No, far more pressing was the question of just how pink and puffy those sweater-clad nipples were. He hoped the answer was "very."

The elevator came to rest at the end of a darkened corridor, and Joe tried not to imagine why anyone would need to burrow so far underground for a dinner party. Or whatever this was. Taking his first tentative steps into the drafty stone hallway, he recoiled in horror when the whisper of fingertips brushed his shoulder.

Joe might have noticed the fresh blood smeared across her swollen mouth. But of course, he did not.

"Easy there, big guy."

Joe spun around to face the voice, his anger choked out by the sight of her magnificent breasts. Bone-white in the darkness, the naked woman before him was patiently awaiting his full attention. Or at least that was his hope. Her heart-shaped face was lit from below by a black candle, the light flickering across her sharp, wide cheekbones and licking underneath her even sharper chin. The severity of her beauty tapered through her long neck before coming to rest on ballerina clavicles, upon which hung those abundant pin-up breasts. Had he be able to tear his eyes away from the dark buttons of her nipples, or at least recover from the shock of her nubile, young body, Joe might have noticed the fresh blood smeared across her swollen mouth. But of course, he did not.


Without saying a word, she slipped a fine-boned hand into his leathery folds began padding gently down the hall with his awkward, lanky form in tow. His flesh felt nervous and sweaty and wrong, like it could spread to envelop her fingers, like he risked degrading her delicacy by virtue of mere proximity. He wanted to pull away from her, but he was mesmerized and knew there would be no bolting for the exit. The languid way she not so much walked as poured herself across the floor was something he couldn't run away from.

He followed her into a room. He watched her lock the door from the inside. He decided not to think about what that meant.

"Please remove your clothes, Mr. DiMaggio." She spoke dispassionately, her face as cold and lovely as a stone Virgin Mary. Joe stood dumbly, his poor brain short-circuiting at the request.

"B-b-b-but," Joe stammered as her hands reached for his belt. When she grabbed it, he yelped like a puppy. "I thought we were coming for a dinner party!"

The woman flicked his belt open and ripped the button off his pants with surgical precision. "Well boy," she purred, reaching between her thighs. "What do you think this is?" Her fingers disappeared and she shifted her hips as if with a lover, bending her knees with a gasp and coming up with a wicked smile, treasure in hand. Giggling, she pressed the slippery object to DiMaggio's mouth, the coarse fur and bloody edge of it mixing with her own hedonic scent. Slippery ooze crept from the flesh, seeping between his lips like light through a crack in the ceiling.


It was some kind of animal ear. It was an animal ear that she'd pulled from… down there. DiMaggio, unthinking, began a backwards stumble toward the bolted door. "I… I… ma'am…"

Vulpine, she merely watched him until he made contact with that tease of an exit before—in one voracious motion—she crammed the marinated goat ear into her eager maw, moaning as twin ribbons of hot saliva spurted from the glistening corners of her smile.

The room was suddenly much too hot and much too small. And then everything went black.

To be continued…

Leigh Cowart loves cliffhangers. Follow her on Twitter.