by M. J. Fields
“Mitch,” I whimper.
He looks up, face glistening with my wetness. As he sits up on his knees, he licks his lips. “I’m not having sex with a girl I just met, Flower. No matter how good she tastes.”
In one swift move, he lifts my legs and rids me of my shorts.
“You lay back and let me eat the most delicious pussy I’ve ever tasted.”
Mitch
I leave her on a soaked mattress, sated and smiling.
I love that smile, the lazy kind, the one that silently says, I can’t move because I just came four times, then got a mouthful of homegrown, country goodness.
I see Logan lying on the couch, passed out, as I walk over, poke him, and whisper, “We gotta go, man.” He’s normally a bear to wake up, so I wait.
He opens his eyes and catches me licking my fingers.
I quickly shove my hands in my pockets as he sits up, rolling his eyes.
Defending myself, I whisper, “Freshie meat is much better than I expected.”
He walks past me to the door.
Once outside their room, he looks at me and shakes his head as we walk side by side down the hall.
“Don’t judge me.”
He glances over. “I’ll never get it.”
He’s talking about the fact that I unapologetically love eating pussy.
“A way to a man’s heart is said to be through his stomach, and as research proves, a way to a woman’s is with the flick of the tongue—”
“Your own scientific study,” he interrupts.
I finish, “Killing two birds with one stone and securing a cuddle season partner. It’s a proven fact. Ten out of ten women would agree.”
“Two words, Mitch—”
“Dental dam,” I finish his sentence.
He rolls his eyes. “You end up with throat cancer from licking the wrong snatch, and I’ll be the first to say, I told you so.” He hits the button to call the elevator.
~~~
I wake up feeling like a million bucks and hungry … but not for food, per se. For Flower.
After a shower, which I avoided last night because that girl smelled as good as she tasted and I wanted to fall asleep with her scent on me, I walk out and see Logan standing at the counter with a cup of coffee.
“I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”
He glances up at me.
“Carla will be pissed if we don’t,” I warn.
“Any chance you’re gonna stop grinning like that?”
“Like what?” I ask, trying to pull back the shit-ass grin I know mimics a high as fuck hippy.
He grabs his keys off the counter. “Let’s go.”
~~~
Jamie
My night with Mitch left me starry-eyed and sated. I slept like a baby. However, when I woke, I did so with guilty feelings.
Did I hold true to who I was while on my quest for becoming who I want to be? Did I use him to rid myself of a virtue that I had clung to so tightly that I made my hands bleed in the process? Did I allow myself to be used by a player because the allure of the lust in his words, his eyes, his touch was so abundant that it became mine, as well?
Digging into my figurative box of answers to questions from lessons that I have learned throughout my life, I search. Thankfully, it’s not a literal box, or it wouldn’t fit inside my tiny dorm room.
As a person of color, I’ve learned many lessons in life that others never encounter. One of those is that stereotypes and judgments are based sometimes without awareness or any regard for an unbiased answer. I have groomed myself to consciously be aware of falling down that ugly hole.
Unanswered questions and ignorance are catalysts for hate, anger, and confusion. Education, gaining wisdom, asking questions, and fearlessly living combat those often-thoughtless judgments.
Using my best internet ninja skills—okay, I seriously just had to put Mitchell Moore, Syracuse in the search engine, and his name popped up in four dozen articles—one site caught my eye. Jersey Chasers.
After clicking on the link, I learn that Jersey Chasers is some sort of online ranking system of the off-field “plays” of most every college football player.
A wave of nausea flows through my belly, but that wave is caused by insecurities and emotions rather than actual facts, so I continue.
Mitchell Moore, aka Munch, has obtained MVP status gained by having over ten passing reviews in different categories: First Down, Going Deep, Two-Gap Technique, Bump and Run, Illegal Touching, Roughing the Play, and Eligible Receiver.
Unable to see those reviews without paying the site’s five ninety-nine a month subscription fee, I click on the About Us section.
Jersey Chasers
The term Jersey Chaser has long been given a bad rep elsewhere. You’ve been called gold diggers, thought of as looking for a meal ticket, attention seekers who want the perfect IG photo to grow your social presence or sex-starved nymphs.
Jersey Chasers was founded by college athletes who admire the women (and men) who meet the needs of their favorite player while living out a fantasy few are brave enough to admit to having.
To us, you are the sexy women (and men) who, for the love of the game, provide us with enough mental, emotional, and sexual stability to get through our season.
To you, we are the men who give you a field to play out your wildest fantasy in a safe, consensual, and mutually beneficial platform.
We do not judge. In fact, the thought of you keeps us sane and energized from the first to fourth quarter of our game. We appreciate your school spirit and being a big part of our team’s successful season. We welcome your insatiable sexual desires for players and your aspiration to stay fit with rigorous bedroom cardio activity.
Say goodbye to dating apps and swiping left and right when you can just pick an already ranked player who will more than complete your sexual fantasy.
*Clothing optional, but helmets always required*
* Drama is not allowed on this site*
Click here to sign up now
I click the monthly subscription link and read—in the fine print—what the fee promises the subscriber.
As an official Jersey Chaser, you receive the ability to read others’ rankings, rank your player, and give honest feedback on their performance, giving you the means to decide who is worth your time and effort.
Curiosity is said to have killed the cat, and even though I don’t have a cat, I do have a mother and father who receive the emergency credit card statements. I’m curious, not stupid.
Clicking out of the screen, I go back to the search where Mitch’s name appeared and read what is provided—without a subscription fee—and find descriptions of some of the site’s ranked categories.
First Down is all about oral skills. Going Deep, the size of their “package.” Two-Gap Technique, team players, off and on the field. Bump and Run is how likely they are to ditch right after a “play.” Illegal Touching is forcefulness in attempts to make a “touchdown.” Eligible Receiver, the likelihood to form a relationship off the “field” with each “player.”
I feel sick to my stomach, angry at myself, and disgusted that I had joined yet hadn’t subscribed to the Jersey Chasers Club.
I swipe back and read more about Moore, partial reviews praising him. “His kind heart and golden tongue were his blessing and his curse. Everyone here clearly wants … Moore … but he’s not in it for the long “pass.” He’s here for—
To read more, please subscribe.
No, thank you.
I go back and learn that last year, he was awarded “The Golden Tongue,” as well as the “Most Playful Player” awards.
I force myself to not cry over what my parents would think, because they aren’t here, and I surely won’t be telling them or my aunt about this.
It makes me sick to think a site like this is an actual thing. Another wave of nausea rolls through my stomach.
I know … Lord, how I know I shouldn’t judge, and my actions confirm that bel
ief, but what woman would rate their experience and share it on a website with apparently over ten thousand subscribers?
You, if you keep this nonsense up with your recent and almost world-changing obsession with football, you will.
A reality hits that I have no way to google “what do I do now?” And I certainly can’t talk to anyone about it. Not my roommate, whose feelings could have genuinely been hurt, or my parents, my church friends, or … anyone.
Jersey Chaser, that’s me.
And then I cry. But when I’m finished, I make a promise to myself not to beat myself up for a choice—yes, choice—that I made.
“Today is a new day, a new start.”
~~~
Mitch
“Morning, boys.” Carla, my mother’s mom, smiles.
“Morning, Car—”
Logan elbows me.
“Grandma.”
She flashes a smile at Logan, and then at me. “You two have practice already, or are we carb’ing up?”
“Load us up.” I smile, and she raises an eyebrow in warning. “Please.”
She again smiles at Logan as she piles two plates high.
“Thank you, Grandma.”
Back at the table, I sit and look at Logan, who shakes his head slightly.
“What?”
He gives me the you know what look.
“She hasn’t been in my life since I was four.”
“She wants to be now.” He puts a forkful of eggs in his mouth.
“I’m trying, man,” I say, sitting back.
He nods. “You’re doing good.”
He knows we’ve been estranged but doesn’t know how deep that cut is, nor does he ask—not that I would tell him—because we don’t have that kind of relationship. We don’t brush each other’s hair, paint each other’s toenails. I don’t pry, he doesn’t pry, but he’s clearly pushing, and I hope he stops, or I’ll remind him real quick that I never watched Dr. Phil at home with my boy. Not about to start doing so here with him.
I glance up as Jamie and the girls sit at a table across the room.
“Eat your breakfast.” He chuckles. “We have practice.”
“Rather eat her,” I mumble.
“You have issues, man,” he says as he pulls his hat down.
I look over at Carla, a woman I don’t even remember, and think, I sure do, and they all started when Carla’s daughter, my mom, took off on the three of us.
Logan taps my foot with his. “You have to pick up the fork to eat.”
I look down and nod. “Is that how it works?”
“So I’ve learned.”
I look over at the girls’ table again and get the death glare from Elle.
“I should teach you how to eat the way I prefer, then your little friend Elle may not look so pissed off this morning.”
“She’s not my friend,” he grumbles.
“Well, she’s not blonde, and you’re clearly into her, so—”
“Not into her; just hate seeing kids fuck up when they seem like they just learned how to walk.”
Knowing what I do about Logan, I know he’s done with the conversation. If I push, he’ll check out, and I plan to make him walk by Jamie’s table with me before we head out, so I hold back my words and feed my face.
Walking up to the table a few minutes later, they’re all laughing. I’m glad to see they’re in good spirits.
“Good morning, ladies.” I wink at Jamie. “What’s so funny?”
“Lisa just found out I am black,” Jamie says, looking up at me.
“And Jamie just found out I am Asian,” Lisa jokes.
“What does that make you?” I ask Christy, the one who reminds me of my sister, Cara.
“Not your type,” she replies, and they all laugh again.
I realize really quick the joke is on me.
I look from Christy to Jamie and ask, “I have a type?”
Jamie looks at me. “Last night, Mitch, was that your first taste of chocolate?”
I’m not sure whether to correct her about it being my “first” or let it fucking go, but it pisses me off.
“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?”
Yep, she’s trying to piss me off.
“What’s wrong, player? You had a lot to say last night … until the cat actually had your tongue.”
“Oh my God,” Elle whispers.
Everyone, including Logan, gets a laugh out of it.
Annoyed that she’s talking about me eating her out to her friends which, yeah, I realize is fucked up because Logan knows—hell everyone knows—but …
Fuck it.
I lean in. “Best protein shake you ever had, right?”
Jamie now turns red and scowls. “I was drunk, so if I said that to you, it was the alcohol talking.”
I shrug. “Drunk mouths speak sober thoughts, sweetheart.”
“First time drunk, Mitch,” she tells me. “And the only thought I had about you up until you kissed me was, Damn, he’s into Christy.”
I want to call bullshit, but I don’t.
“Maybe I was talking about me,” I say … and I haven’t a clue as to why.
I glare at her, and she glares back, but I have no fucking clue why she’s pissed at me. She was smiling when I left her.
Fuck this.
“You ready, Romeo?” Logan grips my shoulder.
I nod, turn, and we walk away.
“You couldn’t have saved me from myself two fucking minutes ago?” I snap at Logan.
“You did a fine job back there.” Logan chuckles. “Fine job.”
Once in his truck, I start, “What the fuck just happened in there?”
He starts to say something, but I cut him off.
“It wasn’t a question. I mean, what in the actual fuck was that all about? She was drunk?” I throw my hands in the air. “Gasp, she’s black.” I turn and look at Logan. “I have a deep love for women of color.”
“Yeah, buddy, I know.” He chuckles.
“Don’t patronize me. No, you don’t. I—”
“First off, yes, I do. Second, so does anyone else who’s around you when you see a black woman. It doesn’t take a genius. Third, black, white, yellow, purple, or fucking orange, she’s a freshman and pretty cherry, man.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “You know better.”
“She’s not cherry,” I state, and he looks at me like I’m nuts. “No woman sucks dick like that when she’s cherry.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Links, I know women. Someone who hasn’t fucked sure as hell wouldn’t be so willing or eager.”
He shrugs. “Okay, man.”
“And cherry sure as fuck wouldn’t give me a rager watching it dance like it could own a dick.”
“Okay, man, okay.”
“No need to placate me, Links. I’m fucking done.”
He glances at me as he starts the truck. “Cool.”
~~~
It’s been a few days since I’ve even gone to the dining hall, or anywhere besides the gym and practice. I’m in a funk.
Women are a mindfuck, and the biggest mind fucker of them all gave birth to me and left when I was four.
Jamie, well, she’s the only one I’ve let get under my skin in almost as long as I can remember. Has to be the fact that she wasn’t cool “the morning after.”
Right?
~~~
Fifth Grade
“She’s not gonna give you the time of day, so why do you bother?” Lilyanne Jenkins, my best friend, JT’s, kid sister, laughs at me as she swings back and forth on the swing set, kicking her legs and soaring higher than I’ve ever seen anyone else.
“You’re a kid, Lily. You don’t know shit.”
“Do, too.” She pushes her legs straight out as she leans back. “And I’m one grade younger than you, Mitchell Moore, so put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“I’m never gonna smoke. I’m gonna be an athlete.”
“You’re gonna be a farmer.�
�� She laughs as she launches herself off the swing, nearly giving me a heart attack but lands on her feet, just like she always does every day at recess.
Right now, I wish she’d fall, because she deserves a bloody nose or a bruised ass for picking on me. Only, I’m a boy, and she’s a girl, so I can’t give her one myself.
“You’re gonna be a farmer … you’re gonna be a farmer … you’re gonna be a farmer,” she sings as she runs away.
I see JT high-fiving the group of boys he plays football with, and then he jogs casually over to me.
“She giving you shit again?” JT chuckles.
I nod. “I wish Cara were older; I’d have her pop her in the nose, just once.”
He laughs, even though it’s his sister I’m talking about.
“You ready to throw the ball around?” he asks as he tosses me the football.
I catch it and nod. “Yeah.”
I glance over in Lily’s direction to see she’s whispering in Megan Schooney’s ear and pointing at me.
“Little bitch,” I mumble under my breath.
She walks away, and then I see Megan whisper to her friends, laughing and pointing in my direction.
I look at Lily, who sticks out her tongue, turns, and skips her scrawny little ass into the cafeteria, just as the bell rings.
~~~
A knock on my door pulls me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, Dad’s coming to take me out to dinner. Let’s go.”
“Nah, man, I’m good.” I close the photo album and set it down, waiting for him to leave my room so I can hide it.
“Wasn’t a question. You need to stop sulking. There’s plenty of ass out there. She just wasn’t the one.”
“Links,” I state firmly, “I’m good.”
“You stay here and pout like a little bitch any more than you already have, I’m gonna get you some Midol and tampons and give them to you in front of the whole house.”
I glare at him.
“We’re going to Dinosaur.”
He knows it’s my favorite place, and I know the wait on a Friday night is usually a long one, but when you go with Lucas Links, that wait disappears. Plus, he’s trying to be a good friend.