Sports

Baseball Erotica #3: Ty Cobb and the Golden Showers

by Leigh Cowart
Aug 14 2014, 1:40pm

Illustration by Jonny Ruzzo

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 third installment is below. Enjoy!

It all started that one afternoon when he caught Sam Crawford pissing in the team's game water. Well, maybe "caught" isn't the right word, because that would imply that he had been outraged when he came upon Crawford and promptly delivered him to justice. No, on that fateful August night Ty Cobb curled into the safety of a long, dark shadow and watched silently as Crawford positioned his hips atop the refreshment's container, dangled his long, thin penis over the water, and relieved a fetid stream of pungent urine. Cobb felt his pulse quicken, embarrassed by his blushing, beads of clear sweat springing up on his upper lip. He wanted to breathe quietly, but the sight of that amber liquid made his body scream for more oxygen than his was willing to risk indulging. 

"Ken Griffey Jr. scowled into the night beside the ripening dumpsters tucked behind a filthy Orlando Denny's..." Read more.

Cobb looked on in horror as the thought of the metabolized whiskey and leftover coffee streaming into the pot filled his mouth with spit. He ignored the rush of blood to his genitals—or rather, gripping his left testicle in his bare hands, he crushed the delicate organ with such furor that his erection would have no option but to relent.

It didn't.

Rationing his air made him frantic, but it didn't matter. Far worse was the urge keeping him seated in the shadows. The growing realization that the filtered waste of his nemesis—his smug former "mentor," no less—was fowling something precious made him desperately parched. Cobb's fat, short cock grunted between his muscular thighs, nudging forward with its characteristic impudence. He grimaced when recalling that first, rousing intrusion, how the sickness of his affliction settled low and close to the root of his traitorous member.

Cobb thought about how it felt to stab a man.

Mouth wet with yearning, Cobb remembered the way that first sip of tainted water filled his maw with a bitter, earthy flavor, the way shame burned him to the core, incinerating him with erotic potential, a jolt to the crotch. He remembered the way hot tears of shame dripped onto his shirt as he swirled the lemonade, like semen mixed with cat piss. The aubergine slit in his glans wept a single, viscous tear at the memory.

But that was then.

Cobb gagged involuntarily, the smell cradling him like something more solid than air. The hot pit of his degradation burned his stomach wall like a cadre of fire ants were trying to eat their way through his guts. The smell of the latrine clogged his nostrils, masking the stale ammonia of masculine spray that clung to the unwashed surfaces of the trough before him.

They'd won the game tonight, but not without substantial effort. It was hot down in Cuba, and the Havana Reds were armed with Lloyd John, a man so mighty that Cobb could do nothing but project bitter hatred at his magnificence, lest he betray how deeply he yearned to smell the crease between his thigh and his crotch.

Shaking the thought loose, Cobb's sunken grimace curled into a delighted sneer when he remembered the evening's fracas. Once again, the team was put up in some two-to-a-room motel, line-drying their underwear with the women and children, while Cobb spent the night swimming in a bed fit for a king. He thought back to his lush accommodations, the redolent aroma of late summer flowers and fine liquor infused into the undoubtedly imported bedding. He thought about the man who attended his luggage, the way the late afternoon lit the contours of his mahogany face to reveal the smoothness of his perfect skin. How the sight of moisture clinging to the bellhop's sculpted brow made him quiver, lips twitching with the tell of a cat stalking a pigeon.

Cobb felt the shameful congestion start to clog his devil stick. It was almost time.

Cramped under the crude toilet of a local blues joint, Cobb extricated his right hand from its pinned position between his ass and the dirt. He had to sit on them to make it through the wait, a fact which boiled him to pure bile, a concentrated self-loathing so pure it could etch glass. Gingerly, he worked the hand between his legs, pushing through his sweat-slick thighs like a babe through his mommy's cunt, careful to avoid the rigid marker of his perversion, as if the circumnavigation of his obvious arousal could erase its existence. (Once he'd carelessly brushed against the underside of his shaft and erupted so violently that his balls ached for a week.) The thought of someone discovering him made him sick; he gagged again. It filled him with a swollen violence.

Cobb thought about how it felt to stab a man.

Finally, the sound of the door opening reached his ears. From his hiding spot beneath the drain, where the wide bowl opened into a kind of sanitation colander, he craned his neck to peer through the peep holes. The man's dark skin made him want to break out in a song of praise. He bit through his cheek.

Pulling away, Cobb dropped his jaw, opened his throat, and pressed his needy mouth to seal the pipeless drain.

He closed his eyes.

Hand in position, he gripped a testicle between thumb and fingers, hurting himself as much as he could stand. It was the only way to keep quiet. It was something he deserved.

The stream was pungent and salty, the kind of piss that happens when spicy food and hard liquor and cigarettes and hookers and manual labor come together to create a putrid, fluid masterpiece. When it hit the back of his throat, he struggled not to throw it back, or to pinch the pink folds of his greedy mouth. Oh, how he longed to savor it, to gargle it, to smear it across his throbbing need! But no, there was no time, it was not safe. He simply opened wide, accepted the gift from above, and cried silent tears of release as his cock pumped pearls onto the earthen floor. It was the only time he felt at peace.

Leigh Cowart is not sorry. Follow her on Twitter.