I knew that nobody was ever going to call me "Joltin' Josh." But I also knew what I could do. I could hit singles. And a double, now and then, just to...break the monotony. And, yes, I had entertained thoughts of DiMaggio's record, as well as Ted's. Why the hell not? Until the beaning, at least, I had been spraying base hits around like Ty Cobb on steroids. The only reason I wasn't still hitting over .400 in late May was that a funny thing had happened to me after I'd gotten my cheekbone smashed.. Just barely lightly teasing the head of your pulsating cock. Your hands find their way to my shoulders as you try to force me down over you, but, grabbing your wrists briskly I throw your hands up over your head and straddle you instead. My legs sprawled out in front of me flanking your body... the soft suede of my shoes brushing against your cheek as you nuzzle up against them. You kiss frantically over them as you remove my shoes and toss them to the side. Repositioning until I sitting. More

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