I pounded my hand into my black baseball mitt.  "C'mon, you can do it!" I yelled
to our pitcher, who looked like he was standing a million miles away. He probably
couldn't even hear me.  I shook my head in disgust.  I wondered again how I had
gotten into this mess.

We were playing co-ed intramural softball.  Well, it was supposed to be co-ed,
but I was the only girl on our team, Joey's Jambalayas.  The only girl on almost
any of the teams, in fact.  For some reason, most of the girls preferred
cheerleading and sorority pajama parties to sweating it out with the guys.  Not
me.  I'd played team softball in high school, and I was thrilled to be playing
again.  I was nineteen, a sophomore, and I was dating Joey when the season
started.  Yes, that Joey.

I wasn't sleeping with Joey Jambalaya any more by the time game number twelve
came around.  But I was having too much fun every Sunday to quit, so I stayed on
the team.  That was a good thing too.  Most of the guys on the team were bad-hit
okay-field NCAA Division III-Z wannabes, and they needed all the help they could
get.  On the other hand, I was a decent singles hitter and played a great Second
Base.  Or at least I did, until week twelve.

But that week a worm infiltrated my Jambalaya fruit basket.  His name was Michael
Hunter, and he'd joined the team as a favor to his pre-med roomie, who was
quitting to study for his MCATs.  At the beginning of the game, the whole
Jambalaya team trotted out to take the field.  I jogged out to second and
stopped, like I always did.  Then I noticed that the new guy was standing right
next to me, between me and the base.

"Excuse me?" I said.  "Can I help you?"

"Nope," he responded.

I noticed that he was giving me the old once-over as we both stood there.  That
wasn't really a surprise.  All the guys did at at one point or another. I was in
good shape from the softball and from my running, which I did every night. I even
used that to my advantage in the games.  On game days I would always wear a pair
of pretty tight denim short-shorts that showed off my ass, and a scoop-necked
shirt that hugged my curves and displayed some cleavage.

Usually the guys on the other team were so busy ogling me that they'd get
distracted.  Pitchers forgot to pitch me hard and fast.  Fielders weren't careful
when I was baserunning.  And opposing runners never wanted to hurt me by running
me over at second base, so they'd get into easy outs.  Who says women are stupid?

But this guy Hunter, he was giving me the Eagle Eye on a totally different level.
 He wasn't just imagining me naked, like everybody else.  No, I could tell that
his imagination was much more vivid.  I narrowed my eyes and looked right back at
him.  But he seemed to enjoy that even more, and I could swear that he was even
smiling to himself, like a judge at a Wet T-Shirt contest. Or maybe like the guy
that gets to splash buckets of water on the girls' tits.

He was giving me the creeps.  And he was just standing there at second base. Who
the hell did he think he was?

"Hey buddy," I said in my friendliest we're-just-teammates-so-get-your-
eyes-off-my-boobs voice.  "Shouldn't you be out in Right Field by now?"

"Second Base is my position," he said.  He stood there, not moving.

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him.  "Not on this team, Buster," I said.
 "I play Second.  New guy plays Right, and bats eighth.  You have a problem with
that?"

He looked right back at me, his eyes doing a vertical rhumba as they danced over
my figure.  Then he looked into my eyes and smiled, a lopsided sort of grin.

"OK, have it your way," he said.  "But you'll see.  And then you'll be sor-ree." 
With that, he turned around and jog-trotted his way out into deep Right Field. 
He stopped, gave me a cocky wave, and put on a pair of blue Ray-Ban Terminator
sunglasses.  Great.  I had been warned.  But what was he warning me about?

I turned toward home plate, where the other team's leadoff batter was taking a
practice swing.  I noticed that he was a lefty, and from the looks of things he
was a lefty pull-hitter.  That meant he'd be hitting the ball in my direction.
And in Hunter's direction.

As it turned out, I was right.  The leadoff batter was a lefty.

So were the next six batters in a row.

The first inning was a disaster.  I made a few good fielding plays on short-hop
grounders, and we got the first two guys out pretty quickly.  But then they
started hitting 'em to the outfield, and our new right fielder turned every play
into an adventure.  He lost two pop flies in the sun.  A hard line drive broke
right as he broke left.  A soft roller down the first-base line turned into an
inside-the-park home run.  After they'd scored four runs, Jambalaya Joey looked
at him in disgust.  And then he looked at me, also in disgust.  For which I
couldn't blame him, since I had dumped him two weeks ago without even a farewell
fuck.  I had always promised him one, but then I reneged.

In retrospect, I should've done it.  I barely would've felt anything, and it
wouldn't have taken too long.  I could've even caught up on some of my reading
for my English class.  Hell, I could've finished two, maybe three pages.

But I hadn't and so it was no wonder that I was soon in Right Field, cursing
Mikey-Boy under my breath.  And over my breath.  And at the top of my lungs,
especially when he made a miraculous back-handed stop of a hard screaming liner. 
What a bastard!

To make matters worse, the whole team was falling all over themselves
congratulating him after the catch.  Like he'd just won the game singlehandedly. 
So he made a nice play.  Big deal.  I sat on the end of the bench to sulk by
myself as we came up to bat.

He walked over and sat down next to me.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I didn't mean to
show you up.  But I can't catch fly balls to save my life.  That's why I always
play Second Base.  Besides," he added, "you can't really blame me.  I did warn
you, after all."

I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.  "Mmm-hmmm," I said.  "You did warn
me.  But since we weren't really making eye contact, I didn't get your full
meaning."

He wasn't even embarrassed.  He just raised one eyebrow.

"I mean, you WERE looking at my tits the whole time.  Look at you!  You're doing
it again!"  And he was, too.

Hunter wrenched his eyes away from my breasts to look me in the face.  "All the
other guys might do that.  And to be honest, I'm not sure I could help myself
either.  Your breasts are beautiful," he said.  "But only because they are a part
of you.  You are a beautiful woman, and I couldn't stop staring at you if I
tried.  All of you."

I didn't quite know how to respond, even though I realized that he was still
staring at my boobs.  And then he turned away and went up to bat.  Hey!  The
little shit was batting in my number seven slot!  What a silver-tongued bastard! 
I knew then that I had better watch my step with this one.  he was dangerous. 
And he knew it.

We lost the game, eleven to two.  Hunter didn't make any more errors, and neither
did I.  He did bat only one-for-five, though.  I could swear that at least twice
he made out on purpose.  And when I came up after him I could feel his eyes on me
as he stared at me in my stance from his seat on the bench.  The first time it
made me nervous.  The second and third times I got so mad that I smacked a single
and then a double.  And when I did, he smiled at me and winked.

At the end of the game, I felt a hand touch my shoulder.  It was him again.

"Hey, look.  I feel really shitty about the game today, and especially for taking
your position.  How's about you stick around for some extra practice." He must've
seen the look on my face, because he hastily added "for me, I mean. Maybe some BP
and some fielding practice.  Fly balls, so I could do better in Right Field next
game."

I made a slow nod, and so for the next hour we threw the ball back and forth,
occasionally hitting a few.  We also talked.  He told me about his plans for
after graduation, how he thought he might either go corporate or else go find a
remote cabin, maybe under a waterfall.  And he was funny, too.  He kept telling
me the wierdest things, talking and joking up a storm.  "I don't know exactly
what I'm gonna do with my life," he said.  "Maybe even some kind of writing. With
a twist.  Stuff you have to think about.  I might..."

I waited, but he didn't finish.  "Might what?" I asked.

"Exactly," he answered.

I didn't get it.  I said so.

He grinned at me.  "Think about what you just said," he smirked.  "Try saying it
again out loud, and pay attention this time."

I was baffled.  "What I said?  You mean, Might What?  I don't..."

Light dawned.  A light bulb went on over my head.  Might...What.  MightWhat. Migh
tWhat.  My Twat.  Very funny.  What a comedian.

He grinned even wider.  "Sophomoric shit, isn't it?  I could take a pen name.
Wouldn't even have to change my real name very much.  I could just shorten it in
strategic ways.  Wouldn't that be great?"  I reared back and threw the next one
over his head.  He ran after it, snickering.

After a while he started to look good out there.  Too good, if you asked me. I
was suspicious, but I was too hot and tired to wonder why he was suddenly a
superstar outfielder.  It was a relief when he finally said "Hey, it's almost
eight o'clock.  Let's call it a day and hit the showers, OK?"

But there was a problem when we got inside.  In front of the men's locker room
stood a yellow plastic sign, one of those "Caution: Do Not Enter" things. Then a
big black guy in a blue outfit emerged from the room and picked up the sign with
a pinkie.  He dragged it across the hallway until it was in front of the doorway
to the women's lockers and showers.  He looked at Mike.

"S'ok, buddy," he gestured with his elbow at the men's door.  "You can go in now.
 It's all spic and span."

"Um, what about me?" I said.

"Sorry, Little Girl," he said.  "I gotta clean out the Ladies' now, or I'll lose
my job.  You can go in first and get your stuff, though.  Wouldn't advise hangin'
around - it's gonna be at least an hour."

What could I do?  I went in and got my stuff.  When I came out, the black guy
went in.  He slammed the door behind him.

I looked at Mike.  Mike looked at me.  Then he reached out and swung open the
men's locker room door.

"Well, I don't know about you," he said.  "But I really need a shower."

"And what the hell am I supposed to do?" I almost screamed.

"You could wait for the guy to finish up in the Girls' Room," he said,
speculatively.

"But that's gonna take an HOUR!" I wailed.  "I can't wait that long!  And it's
getting late!"

He blinked once, and looked straight at me.  "Or you might..." he trailed off.
Then he shook his head.

I looked straight at him, staring directly into his dark eyes.

"Might What?" I purred.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.  Then he swallowed once, hard, and
tried again.

"Well," he said.  "There's no one around, and I wouldn't want you to wait here
outside, all alone.  Especially not so late.  So you could..."

He swallowed again.

"...You could just come on in to the Boys'.  We could take turns or something.
Really.  This would definitely be the best way."

He'd regained his composure and was completely earnest.  Sincere.  And clearly
full of it.  Which might explain why his eyes opened wide when I calmly said
"okay" and walked into the men's locker room.

That must've been the most dedicated janitor in the history of floor buffers.
When Mike flicked on the light switch we saw that the room was so clean it almost
sparkled.  He turned to me as the door clicked shut behind us.

"Why don't you go first?" he said.  "I'll wait out here till you're finished. And
I won't look.  Honest."

"That would be such a shame," I said.  He looked baffled, and then leered. "You
waiting out here all alone, I mean," I went on.  "And I usually take kinda long
showers."  His eyes gleamed like he couldn't wait to hear what was coming. I
tried to look thoughtful.  I'm pretty sure I didn't really succeed, since I was
fighting back a grin.  He wasn't bothering to hide the look on his face. He
looked like a kid who'd just found his dad's Playboy stash.  Or his Hustlers. 
Whatever.

I tried to look stern.  "There are rules, though."  He nodded.  "Right. Rules." 
I ticked them off on my fingers.  "I stand on one side of the room. You're on the
other.  No touching.  Looking is OK, but not too much.  And if you ever tell
anyone else on the team about this, you're dead.  All right?"

He nodded.  "Right.  Rules."  I sighed, and then shook my hair out of my ballgame
ponytail.  I crossed my arms in front of me and pulled my shirt off over my head.
 Standing in my bra, I bent down to untie my sneakers and pull off my shorts.  I
stood up in my underwear.  "What is this, a free show?" I snapped.

He grinned again and yanked off his own t-shirt.  Then he pulled down his pants,
a little carefully.  Acting like I did this all the time, I reached back and
undid my bra (not a sports bra, either - how the hell would a minimizing spandex
band distract opposing teams?) and stepped out of my panties.

Totally naked, I toyed with my hair as I watched him finish stripping.  He wasn't
bad looking at all.  He had curly dark hair and dark eyes, a pleasant face except
for a permanent smart-alecky grin.  His chest was flat and a little hairy, his
tummy just slightly rounded at his belly button.  I bet that would probably get
worse over the next couple years.

But most interesting was the thing that went BOING as he gingerly lowered his
boxer shorts.  It wasn't huge.  Not even especially oversized.  But it looked
friendly and cheerful as it bobbed there, pointing right at my naked body. Sort
of like Mike himself, at the moment.  I smiled and turned toward the showers.  I
felt his eyes riveted to my ass as I walked, and I swayed a little extra for him.

The shower room was one of those gigantic rooms with showerheads spaced every few
feet apart on the tiled walls.  It was like the rooms you saw in military movies
or soft-core porn flicks about girls' boarding schools.  You know, the ones you
could get out of the video store in high school because they weren't rated X,
only "R-but-you-gotta-be-17."  The room was clean and shining, so I didn't even
put on my shower shoes.  I just chose a place close to the door and turned on the
faucets.

The water did feel good washing over me.  I faced the wall to wet down my front,
and closed my eyes.  As I heard Mike pad in behind me, I turned around. I let the
water run down my back and then straightened up, tilting my head back.  I stood
there across from him, my body wet and glistening.  With my head bent back a
little and my arms up over my head, my breasts were thrust out and pulled up.
Smiling, I moved my arms so the round ice-cream scoops (with cherries on top!)
bounced and jiggled wetly.  At the top of my legs, the curly triangle of my bush
was matted and dripping from the shower spray.  And that wasn't the only reason
it was wet, either.

As I turned back around I heard a faucet squeak once, and then nothing.  Then a
voice spoke from just behind my shoulder, into my ear.

"I know it's crazy," he said, "but none of the other showers seem to be working
right now.  I guess we'll just have to share."

I leaned my head back until it was resting against his chest.  "I guess so," I
breathed.  "I could use a little help washing the hard-to-reach places anyway."

Still leaning against him, I held out the bar of soap in my hand.  He took it,
and reached around my waist with it.  With one hand he guided the soap in circles
around my shoulders, under my arms, down my sides.  Then, with firm, hard
strokes, he soaped up my breasts.  Lathering up both hands, he cupped my slick
and slippery tits.  His hands squeezed and grabbed, tweaking my small pink
nipples until they were hard little points digging into his palms.  He played
with them until I moaned.

I spread my legs apart and leaned back on him for support as those magic hands
descended to my bush.  His soapy fingers plunged through the thicket of
short-and-curlies until they parted my lips.  I gasped as his fingers entered me,
and I moaned as he teased my clit.  His hard-on prodded my rump, and it slid into
the crack between my asscheeks as I pushed back against him.