Baseball and pornography have more in common than you think. They are both great American pastimes. More than that, though, they both have multiple players always ready to play, balls constantly flying at their faces, and large rods in their hands. It's basically a description of an erotic film set. If you're outside in a beautiful field watching sweaty men throw, catch, and hit balls, it is understandable that your mind might wander to sex, and it doesn’t help that the names of some of these players fit perfectly into the porno in your mind's eye. Names of various players, though not always the sexiest or the most famous, certainly give us something to think about. What exactly was it that made Babe Ruth a Babe, and why is that candy bar so damn big? From Rod to Pussy, these men helped define the sport of Baseball. Porn parodies are long overdue for a spots classic. Squirts Illustrated was a nice try but, like Bad News Bitches, it was fun but not really grounded in reality. Now Field of Creams came close, but i think what is really needed is a take on an authentic player reimagined as a pornographic film.
As one literary genre after another has, in our media-drenched civilization, gone sterile, the limerick has retained its pristine, antiquated elegance and its caustic wit, as this generous collection of limericks happily demonstrates.
As a divorced woman in my thirties, I have witnessed my fair share of injustices. For example, my husband stopped being attracted to me after I couldn’t lose the baby weight from having our son and I wasn’t awarded full custody because I was unemployed. I have bounced back from my divorce and I am comfortably well-off, with a good job, and liberated enough not to have to take alimony from my ex-husband. Even though those points in my life were some of the lowest, I find it difficult to complain about it. For most people around the world, marriage is something that can never be achieved, never mind getting a divorce.
She sat on her couch in silence, her thoughts consuming her. She ran her fingers through her dark, short hair, closing her eyes and focusing on her breathing. Recent events had left her wondering how they had gotten to this stage. The more she thought about their relationship now the more she thought about how they had first met and how wonderful things had been back then. She was 22 and had been making her way to her new flat. She was still very unfamiliar with the area and had yet to make any friends. She had decided to take a walk, but didn’t want to go too far, in case she managed to get herself lost. Regardless of her intention, she had managed to do exactly that. She felt very foolish and walked into a cafe to get out of the rain. She sat down for a coffee, taking a look around the cafe as she did so. She called a friend to ask for directions, but got her voicemail.
I still can’t believe it happened. Had I not been laid off from my job as a flight attendant, it never would have. It’s true that every cloud has a silver lining. I really enjoyed my job, as I love to travel. When I heard that I was soon to be unemployed, I was depressed. Two of my girlfriends invited me out dancing, and I happily accepted, needing to forget my troubles. But once we arrived at the club, I didn’t feel all that comfortable. As a dark-skinned black woman, I felt very out of place in a crowd of mostly whites. So I decided I’d just hang out at the bar.
The Arab Sheikhs smelled of expensive cologne. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung off the low ceiling in the basement of a centuries-old Parisian building. The neon sign outside lit up the words Le Crazy Horse de Paris. There was little other indication that you had arrived at an iconic location. It was 1987, I was 19, and my father had just paid a small fortune for us to sit up close at one of the most erotic and oldest burlesque revues in existence. Plush red velour banquettes were filled with eccentric looking men and exotic looking women. The lights dimmed. For the next few moments, my eyes adjusted to the low lights and a single silhouette of a beautiful woman drenched in mist, almost enveloped by a revolving glass door on a stage. Black Russian in hand, my father grinning beside me, I settled in for what would be two hours of the most stylized, visceral experience of my young life.