My favourite baseball team when I was young was the Oakland Athletics. I was a big fan of the ‘Bash Brothers’ which consisted of Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire, and there was also Terry Steinbech, Ricky Henderson and the lefty pitcher Rick Honeycutt on that team at the same time. I just loved them – it wasn’t even the team that my childhood sweetheart liked – the Detroit Tigers. I had stolen his hat enough times in the name of shameless flirtation to remember that useless factoid. I was also the only girl in my class that could name an entire starting roster of a baseball team, or even cared enough to. Perhaps it was these reasons why many people ignored the fact that underneath it all, I was still a girl – with the same curiosities (if not more) than the other girls that were playing with dolls and wearing dresses and Mary Janes.
Along with my Oakland hat and a couple of t-shirts, I had acquired a miniature replica of a baseball bat with #24 Ricky Henderson’s autograph on it (mass produced, of course, not authentic). It wasn’t long after I got this collectable that I noticed its ideal size and shape; from end to end, it was probably 12inches and the barrel was maybe just a tiny bit larger than the diameter of a quarter. Yes, it was the perfect junior sized dildo.
I had been exploring my nether regions for lord only knows how long – since I was maybe 7 or 8, but when I got this mini-bat just shy of 11 years old, I knew it was time to graduate to the next level. I wasn’t exactly a fiend with it – but I would take it out a couple times a month and go to town with it – usually fantasizing some romantic scenario with my sweetheart. It was surely ridiculous, naive and embarrassing, but at the time I got really off on it. I was aware that this sort of behaviour was (and is still) taboo, so of course I never spoke about it.
I had no idea if any of the other girls in my class were curious about their sexuality or if I was just an early blooming, over eager freak. No matter; it didn’t prevent me from continuing my bedtime activity. I usually knew before hand if I felt in the mood that night, so I would take out ‘Ricky’ (which I kept in the back of my underwear drawer), and I would place it under my bed for easy access later that night. The next morning, when the coast was clear, I would wash it and put it back in my drawer.
I thought I had a pretty good routine going on and Ricky never disappointed. It was maybe a year later that my mother, who was (and still is) an organization guru was going through my drawers and found my bat. She immediately pulled it out of my drawer and waved it in her hand while asking me, “What the heck is this doing in here?” I felt sheer horror and hysteria come over me simultaneously. I was morbidly dreading the revelation as to why it was there, but it was also hilarious watching my mother waving around what was essentially my sex toy. I don’t know if she noticed my conflicted expression but I just shrugged my shoulders and remained speechless; I thought that was the best defence. Luckily, her question was rhetorical and she didn’t actually expect a response. The fact that I had a habit of being 'anti-organized' and often left things in odd places meant that finding a mini baseball bat in my underwear drawer didn’t seem suspicious to her at all. Phew!
She did, however, ruin it for me from that day onward. About a week later, I took Ricky out for a play and all I could picture when I attempted to begin my fantasy was my mother waving it around. Damn it! I tried again a couple months later, but it was no use; Ricky and I were finished. I couldn’t keep it in my drawer anymore and I didn’t exactly want to put it back on my shelf with all my other baseball paraphernalia that had not, in fact, been up my vagina. Yuck! No thanks. So, one evening before garbage day, I said my goodbyes to Ricky and hid it in the middle of a full garbage bag, so as it wouldn’t poke out the side of the bag and rat me out; it was fun while it lasted.
I switched to liking the Atlanta Braves shortly after.