In my mind is a ballpark of cocks.
The image came to me simply enough. A good friend and I were discussing the merits of a well-endowed man I was sleeping with. She compared him to a previous guy and asked, "Are they in the same ballpark?" The picture came to mind. Now I can't get rid of it. It's where the cocks I have known gather.
There are rows of seats, and a game on the field, a pitcher's mound, loudspeakers and, perhaps appropriately, hot dogs. The sun is shining down on the game and on the group of penises lounging in their seats, nut sacks tucked under them, chilling with each other.
There is the broad fellow determinedly pushing his way to the front and the long elegant gentleman who bides his time. There is the slightly smaller, extremely eager guy squeezing his way into a tight corner. There are a couple larger fellows who don't say much of anything, but really don't need to. Everyone knows they're there.
It might seem strange to segment men like this, but I'm closest to the cock when I was furthest from my lover's face. Guys refer to their cocks in the third person. I can see why. They seem like pets, moving and growing on their own, difficult to keep under control, eager to play and timid at the same time.
I love the penis, which, as a straight girl, works pretty well. I love the softness of the skin and the hardness of the shaft, the ridge at the head and the stir of blood under the surface. I love that each one is unique, its size and shape and even its sensitivities are its own. I love how easy it is to manipulate and how instant and obvious its reactions are. When you have a guy's balls and shaft, well, you have him by the balls for sure.
In honour of that trust, I feel like I owe the ballpark a round of drinks on me, a hot dog or a shout out. To the cocks I have known, you were fantastic. I was glad to know you. To everyone else, there are lots of seats left. It is VIP and invitation only, though, and I expect to be impressed. —Anonymous
