Fuck Baseball, Part Six
Craftsmate and I determined that I was hung up on the rules of “baseball”. That there was a decided order in which things were done and in which people engaged with each other.
“I can’t help it,” I said, “you ran straight across the field to second base, you probably had to knock over the pitcher.”
“Nah,” he replied, “when I was a kid, I was the catcher. Because I didn’t mind balls flying at my face.”
I laughed. I don’t know why I get hung up on standards prescribed by a society of whose counterculture I seem to belong to in more than one way. I don’t know why I would give in to the obligation to kiss someone when I didn’t want to.
Craftsmate is a play partner. Him playing with my nipples is an expression of a play dynamic and not the progression of a romantic relationship which neither of us have any interest in. Because I’ve never had the BDSM without at least the semblance of a traditional relationship frame, I had a little trouble categorizing Craftsmate and determining what was appropriate.
But I think what’s appropriate is what makes us feel good and what is mutually enjoyed and respectful. And that’s a lot of stuff, but it’s not kissing and it’s not sex, coital or otherwise, which I determined in going over my boundaries with myself.
So fuck baseball. Seriously. I don’t even like the game, so why would I follow its stupid rules? If I want the base to base progression, I’ll do it out of willingness, but not obligation.
Daddy, when is it baseball season again?
swing batter
source needed
Jonathan Leder for Jacques magazine I believe.