At the Ballpark, Blowjobs on Christmas

This was a place where blowjobs were ordinary and condoms were not. At the Ballpark, if you didn’t get oral, you just weren’t trying. Nearly every dancer would blow. Among the few who wouldn’t go to their knees, many would fuck you instead. Lap dances were for the others clubs. Handjobs were for chumps. And if you wanted to play it safe, bring a cover because lots of the girls just didn’t. This was the legendary Ballpark Tavern in Levittown, Pa., maybe the closest thing to an wild west saloon this century. Soon it will be two years since the Ballpark fell victim to liquor control and the prudes in the neighborhood. So as the auspicious date approaches, it’s time to remember the Ballpark and the glorious nastiness it provided 365 days a year. That’s right. Ballpark blowjobs on Christmas too. O holy night … Any Ballpark remembrance must begin with the best ending ever. I wasn’t there to see it. I did hear the owner recall it. A Russian dancer had taken some guy into the closet that passed for a private room. Whether he paid for a blowjob or a fuck we weren’t quite sure. Whatever he choose, it sent him over the top in a way he’d never felt before. The naked dancer came screaming out of the room. He was dead. Killed by mouth or a pussy. Didn’t matter which. The owner pulled up the happy departed's pants. Then he called the ambulance and the police. Don’t know if the Russian got paid. One of the legendary Ballpark’s most legendary dancers seemed not to get paid very much, which was a constant frustration for the crowd. "H" had what the consensus called the greatest pair of tits ever. You’re going to have to trust me on this natural wonder. Not just large, these were ripe and shaped to Playboy perfection. Long legs, a trim waste and a strong booty completed the picture. If you ignored the tattoos and the teeth you’d say she was worth looking at. Can I buy a dance? Not usually. H was renowned for ignoring customers. She’d take a few singles on a tip round, then settle in front of the video game machine to feed those singles in. As one frustrated PL observed, H is the only dancer in the history of stripclubs to spend more money than she earns. But those tits … There was a Ballpark ying to H's yang. Where H was the panda on display consuming more than she could earn, "C" was the beaver hard at work. The option was yours if C was on the schedule. You want it, you got – and always at one of the lowest prices on offer. Sure she looked perpetually pregnant on her diet of liquor and cum. Still, we loved her because she always delivered. And she never asked for more. Indeed, one time I gave her cash to take care of a young soldier just back from Afghanistan. The next time I saw her, she insisted she wanted to blow me for free because I’d made that kind gesture. Oh C, we do miss you. The Ballpark had plenty of sadness. I’m not just talking about the bad boyfriends and husbands. Too many of them were in jail. Too few paid child support. Car wrecks were are regular as the traffic. Drugs were even more regular. Too many dancers died too young, most from overdoses – some likely deliberate. Some of the departed were genuine sweethearts. So much sadness. And joy. There was the time when one of the girls was on her knees in front of the couch, my dick covered in her saliva. A pro who had polished my knob plenty (and expertly) before, she seemed distracted. I asked her why. “My boyfriend is here,” she said. “I don’t want him to see me doing this.” I should tell you here that for much of its existence, the “private” room at the Ballpark wasn’t private at all. It had no door and no curtains or anything except discretion to block the view of anyone walking by. So there we were. Me with my dick. Her with my dick. And her boyfriend with a view if he wanted it. What to do? What else? I told her to hide my dick between her big tits. Which she did. One song later, she had one of the biggest cumshots of my career glazing her chest. Never met the boyfriend. Or the girl who insisted implausibly that we must use a condom – only to abruptly yank it off in mid-act. Why? “You’ll come faster this way,” she said. And I did. The Ballpark existed in a perpetual haze. Cigarettes were only part of the reason why. The balance was depravity and desperation. You knew when you walked in that you'd crossed a line. Taking a dance, you were taking a chance. I know I did. I wish I could again.