Baby I Like How We Get Down
In The BackSeat
We Ain't Even Gotta Speak
Just Foggin Up The Windows
With Our Body Heat
Yeah It's Probably A Little Toxic
But I Like Being Choked
Not Loved
And You Ain't Gotta Tell Me
I Know That's Crazy
But Let's Be Honest
It Ain't My Mind That Keeps
You Coming Back
Baby You Know You Like How We Get Down
In The BackSeat
You Pull Up
We Slide Back
Just Foggin Up The Windows
With Our Body Heat
You Know You Like That We Ain't Gotta Speak
It's Just A Simple Text
No Panties For Me I'm Pullin Up
And I'm Ready
Got You In Aw Of How Juicy I Keep It
But It's Because I'm Choosey About Who Touch Me
And I Stay Choosin You
Stay Hittin Your Line With
Baby Please Pull Up
I Just Want To Slide Back
Spendin All Day
DayDreamin Bout What We Do In The BackSeat
Getting Excited For More
Baby I Like How We Get Down
In The BackSeat
We Ain't Even Gotta Speak
Just Foggin Up The Windows
With Our Body Heat
Clothes Off
Grip My Thighs Harder
Kiss Me Harder
Pull My Hair
Heavy Breathin
Your Skin Against Mine
So Warm
You Feel So Good
I Don't Want You To Stop
Baby I Don't Want To Leave
The BackSeat
Make Me Want To Keep My Panties Off
So You Can Pull Up WhenEver
AnyThing To Make You Happy
Like I Said I Know It's A Little Toxic
But I Like To Be Choked
Not Loved
And You And I Both Know
We Like How We Get Down
In The BackSeat
About the Creator
JLovee
Poet. Story Teller. Not Here For A Long Time Just A Good Time..
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins7 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Damn that's hot AF