I could have called it. Tall skinny kid, slightly cute and on the opposing team. He was a pretty good pitcher. Nothing amazing, but he did his job. So once his team starting winning, as in 8-0 winning, he started showing off.
AT PITCHING A KICKBALL.
hey man, whatever gets you off at night. I can just see it now, he dreams of solid strike outs, where he pitches the ball behind his back, between his legs, with one hand, eyes closed, facing the outfield. He did it. He pitches a no hitter (kicker?). Then the usher is mouthing something to him. But he can’t hear. The roar of the crowd (no, there are no spectators at kickball) is too loud. What? He can’t make it out. He opens his eyes. Its his mother, cursing him for sleeping in past noon and ruining the sheets with his kickball-inspired cum. She pushes him aside, he scratches his balls, and she gathers the sheets to put them in the washer. And they will both dread Fridays. Her because it means another load of jiz laundry, and him because it will be a whole week before he can be anything meaningful.
So, why my insight into supposed Kickball King’s dreamworld? Well, in the midst of him being all high and mighty, I made it to second base. Then, after a play that drew Kickball King closer to second, he touches my lower back, like “hey, good job.” What? I didn’t say you could touch me. Even better, it wasn’t touching that could have played off as sportsmanship. We weren’t even on the same team.
The Kickball King can go feel up the girls on his own team.