rebound sex and baseball
Humor Sex and Relationships

Rebound Sex And Baseball (Or Something Like That)

rebound sex and baseball

By Darla Halyk of New World Mom

Some months after my separation from my husband (of almost ten years), I met a younger man. If you know anything about going through a divorce, then you know this: Sex has been absent from your marriage for some time. (At least that was the case for me.) At thirty-two, in my sexual prime, with two pre-school aged kids at home and no man in my life, I was libidinous. I was craving some gland-to-gland combat.

Not being the type of woman to ‘hook-up,’ mostly because what the fuck does hook-up even mean?, I found myself falling for this young, attractive, charming man. He had a silver tongue, and in no time it was working on my fragile, broken, divorced ego.

We met while playing softball in our local “slow-pitch league.” For the first few months, I would notice him as he peacock-ed his way through the beer gardens. At the tender age of hopefully over nineteen (he was 23, calm down), I paid little attention to him. I’m not ordinarily attracted to this center-of-attention type — and this guy loved to flaunt what he had. Regularly shirtless, he habitually had an assortment of ladies flocking to his side. Not my scene. Or so I thought.

Within a few months, we started playing on the same ball team, and this boy could twist a word: I believe if he were an ice salesman, he could sell ice to an Eskimo. It didn’t take long before he began furiously flirting with me, and it felt wondrous. He had primed my ego, and I was ripe for the picking. Every gorgeous word that spilled from his lips had me wanting more.

Over the next month, our attraction grew stronger. But having two kids under the ages of six, it was a challenge to spend time together, other than when we were at baseball. Besides, I wasn’t interested in bringing home a new man so soon. So the two of us would find time after our games — to sit and chat at the ballpark, to touch each other, to flirt like teenagers behind the bleachers.

Then one night after the team had left the park and he was walking me to my car, it happened: He kissed me. My body trembled as he placed his lips on mine; he had finally closed the deal. I bought the ice.

After each ball game, the two of us would wait patiently for the rest of our team to vacate the park so we could lock lips, and — eventually — he rounded first base, then second, and every time he went to touch third, I would send him home. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted nothing more than for him to slide into home plate, but I just wasn’t prepared to go to funky town in a parking lot…after a ball game. Not quite yet.

As the season started to come to a close, the two of us found ourselves wondering how we would find time to spend together without the ballpark. (We were also wondering if this would go any further than just a summer fling or if we would ever seal the deal.) Then we played the final game of the season. The team stayed after to celebrate with a few drinks in the parking lot, and as usual, the two of us waited for them to leave.

Pushing me up against the car, he kissed me with force. My body trembled with excitement as our lips pressed against each other’s. I hadn’t felt this type of sheer intensity in years, and drinking away my inhibitions certainly helped the situation. The two of us started to get heated; we needed somewhere to go, and there it was: His work van. Now, this wasn’t any old minivan. With half a bumper, paint chipping from the door and tinted out windows, this van had “do not drive through a park zone” written all over it.

With my head in a whirl of romance, he led me to his van, explaining we would have to leave where we were so we wouldn’t get locked in the parking lot.

After he had pulled his van into another parking lot, we jumped in the back seat and began exploring each other. The windows thick with condensation from our steamy, erotic inspiration, he finally pulled my shirt over my head. Kissing intensely and in our secluded little world, I began to undo his belt. With my hands shaking in anticipation and ready to let all my insecurities go, I slid his pants down over his hips.

As you can imagine, we ended up in the middle of a pants-off dance-off, and just I was about to talk to God, there was a tapping vibration on the window on which my head was pressed. I pulled his face to my chest, covering his ears. Like I said, it had been awhile since I’d had my chimney swept. Don’t judge. Again, another tapping sound, this time not ignored by my counterpart. Before I knew it, he was in the front seat, rolling down his window.

“Good evening. Can I ask what you might be doing?” No big deal. It was just a lady cop. Wait: a LADY cop, UGH!

“Pretty sure you know what we were doing,” my friend responded, still buckling his belt.

“Oh yes, I know what you were doing. But, umm, I was just wondering why you were doing it in a church parking lot?”

Before she had the chance to shine her fancy police light into the back of the van, I was fully clothed and sitting with my legs crossed, the halo above my head slightly bent and covering my abashed expression. Smiling sheepishly at her while wrinkling my nose, I spoke. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied, not as sheepishly, might I add. “Mind stepping out of the vehicle?”

As I gathered what sense of pride I had left, I crawled myself into the front seat and out the passenger door.

“So you do realize you are in a church parking lot?” She looked at me, as if I was most certainly going to the hell she believed in. “Clearly I did not, as I am not some sort of sexual deviant!”

Here’s the thing: When oscillating the unmentionables in a church parking lot, or any public place for that matter, it seems it does make you a sexual deviant, as I was so sternly informed in the warning I was given by my new, gun-wielding, badge-wearing lady friend.

Needless to say, half way through slippin’ and slidin’ in the back seat of a creeper van, I was interrupted once again right before I made my way to – “Joy to the world the Lord is …” I’ll stop there.

Luckily that night, we met with a police officer who had a sense of humor and were lucky enough to get away with our deviant behavior.

I know it’s not easy to find time to open the gates of Mordor, especially when you have children or are trying to date after a divorce, so please tell me I’m not the only one who’s been caught in the act. It doesn’t have to be a church parking lot, but anywhere? Anyone? Bueller?

This post originally appeared on New World Mom.


About the Author

Darla Halyk is the mom of a teenage boy and girl. She studied Business Management at Simon Fraser University. Soon after receiving her degree, she married and quickly got pregnant with her first child. Deciding to stay home with her kids instead of returning to the workforce after the birth of her son, she become an SAHM, but not your average one. The gig lasted until the kids were school-aged, and her marriage ended in divorce. Darla has enjoyed writing since she was old enough to hold a pen to paper. Currently, she writes for her blog at NewWorldMom. Bringing a fresh, honest and humorous take on parenting, women’s issues, relationships, divorce, and life, in general.