Therapy Night: Pitching Slump

All characters are 18+

Hello folks, Welcome back to the 4th inning of this critical game for our Gotham City Knights who are now down 3 to 1 against the Windy City Bandits. We are in the depths of August, and Gotham City is in the hunt for the last Wildcard spot for the playoffs. Our former Ace, Anthony Dove, is in a battle of his own. The former 3x All-Star and Multi Time Cy Young Runner Up is having a rough season. He only has 4 wins out of 23 starts and an ERA of 5.23. Manager Todd Kelley is giving Dove a lot of leeway here keeping him on the mound. Todd has stated in multiple press conferences that he trusts his former Ace and wants him to figure it out on the mound. However, with 8 earned losses and the bullpen bringing back multiple games, I don't know how much time Dove has left.

The count is 3, 1 with the Bandit's number 4 hitter up and a runner on second base. Dove usually throws an inside curve to get back into the count. Dove winds up for the 3, 1 pitch, and... it's gone. A home run to left field. The Bandits are now up 5 to 1. The Knights manager is already on the field before the hitter gets home. Dove's night is over. Possibly his time in the starting rotation as well. He walks off the mound with his head down and visibly distraught. You can hear the rain of boos descend upon him from the press box. Hopefully, this is not the end of what was once a great career.

"Son, I am taking you out of the rotation for some time." The manager says to me as I stand in front of him in his office.

"I'm sorry, skip. I don't know what has gotten into me. I can't throw the damn ball." I say with my head down.

"It's not your mechanics. It's your damn confidence. You used to walk around here like you own the place. I could see your dick flopping around from my office window hard as fuck ready to strike motherfuckers out the moment you walked into the building. Now, you are just a shell. Find some fucking confidence, son. If I had any right mind, I would send you down to triple-A."

"No, no, I can get through this. Coach, I just..."

"I can't afford to give you time, son. We are calling up Clayton from Triple-A." That damn Clayton has been gunning for my spot since he was drafted two years ago. And I left the door wide open to take my spot.

"Listen, take the week off. I will tell the press you are staying in town for rehab purposes during the Bay Area series. Find your shit. I need my ace if we have any chance at making the playoffs. Otherwise, it is now an open competition for the last spot in the rotation. Don't let that silver spoon kid take your spot. But, if he's better, I can't save you, Anthony."

"I won't let you down," I say, with no conviction.

I have what some baseball people call, the yips. My teammates know it too because they look at me like a contagious sick patient. They don't know if my breath or my touch will give them the yips too. Just a subtle "keep at it", "you're fine", and "don't let it get to you." A few words of encouragement that aren't necessary for a response.

I almost feel like I should clean out my locker and hang my glove up. This is sports after all. Most have a few years of greatness and then a sharp decline just in time for the next young up-and-comer.

I sit at my locker with my hands on my head. I can't help but contemplate what has gone wrong to the point of earning my 5th straight loss. Every mechanic is the same: just no velocity, no vigor, and no umph in the pitch.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, "Dude, I know you are going through a lot right now. Take the time off and get back in the groove." Jeremy Stephens, my catcher, says to me.

"I'm going through a lot," I say trying to dismiss him.

"You found out your girlfriend cheated on you at the start of the season and you've been shit ever since. Just because you won't talk about it doesn't make it any less of a problem. Now you bottled it up and it has become the entire team's problem. You consistently gave us 15 wins a year. Now you are shit because that sexy ass ex of yours is gone. Or so says the idiots on ESPN."

"I don't think that bitch is the problem."

"You just called her a "bitch", my man. She is the problem. You need to let loose. Don't bury yourself in baseball. You need an outlet to get out all that stress and anger."

"Ball is all I got, Jeremy." I try not to break. He is right, to be honest. Both of my parents have passed. My ex only stayed with me for the money and to brag to her friends while she found her bid modeling break and fucked someone else. And the season is long and nonstop. There has been zero time to get my shit together."

"Listen, I think it's time you open up. Don't be so rigid and structured. You want to know why I'm always loose?"

"Do tell." I wave him off.

"You remember when I played in Oakland and I could never call a good game for my pitchers?"

"Yeah, teams started calling you 'night off'."

"Yeah, and it was crap. But, my agent sent me here to New York for a weekend and specifically sent me to this club that had a thing called 'Therapy Night' every month. It changed my life. Made the All-Star game the next season and signed a 10-year contract with this team in New York. Now you are stuck with me." Jeremy said proudly.

"I don't know, man. I can't see how one night at a club can get me out of this funk. I may be done and dusted."

"Hell no. Your mechanics are still intact. And you still have the velocity. Here, fuck it, I know your agent will be pissed but, my agent will contact you tonight. It just so happens there is a 'Therapy Night' tomorrow night." Jeremy gets up before I can deny his offer. Honestly, I may take up any help at this point. I still love the game and want to play. I know from seeing how my past teammate's careers worked out that once you turn 28 and fail to hold your own, they start to look toward the next generation of players.

The good thing about living in New York is that most people only recognize the Basketball and Football players. Only the die-hard fans notice baseball players walking around. Otherwise, I am just some tall white dude walking the streets.

I drop my bag in my penthouse apartment and plop down on my bed. No lights, TV, or music, laying down on the bed with my arms and legs wide like a snow angel. My phone vibrates three times in my hand and my eyes squint at the bright screen. I read a notification from an unknown number. But the first line tells me precisely what I need to know.

Text 5551235890: "Hey Superstar! It's agent Mike from NewStar Player Agency. I heard from my client that you need some mental health relief."

"Well, I have just the thing for you. Come by "The P Spot" tomorrow night. It's the best thing athletes like you need to get your groove back. Just promise me not to Google or look up what happens there. Just come with an open mind."

"You may know, Gunner Altman, another client of mine who plays for the Empire City Icehawks. The driver will pick you two up at 8 pm tomorrow. Be Ready Superstar."

Fantastic. I am starting to believe this is just another promotional event. Getting tricked into signing a bunch of autographs. I can already see the headline:

Anthony Dove, was sued by his agent for 1.5 million dollars due to alleged improper communication with another agent.

I disregard one of the text messages and Google the place.

I chuckle at the results comparing the "P Spot" to the "G Spot." I don't think those are the results I am looking for. However, the third result was what I was looking for. A link to the club's website. I click and the home screen shows some objectively attractive men having a good time at a club. I shrug it off and look for more. The only thing on the website besides the photos is a quote that just says, "Come and Witness." Before I reply that I'm not interested, I pass out on my bed with my phone on my chest.

I awake in the morning to the sound of my phone alarm blasting right by my ear. The damn phone slid down my body overnight. I forgot to turn off my morning alarm which wakes me up for morning workouts. I have an actual free day for the first time in a long time. I walk into the living room and turn on ESPN. We are in that weird time of the year where Baseball is the only major sport besides the fact Messi is now playing in the MLS. I make a pot of coffee and eggs as I hear in the background,

"He's done and dusted. Anthony may as well hang up his glove right now. He can't pitch. He. Can't. Pitch. Hitters go up to the batter's box knowing their numbers go up when they face him."

"Come on, man. It is just a slump. He is still the pitcher he was two years ago. He needs to find the right adjustments."

"No, he's not. No, he's not! The city of New York, the historic Gotham City Franchise, deserves a better Ace than this man. This ain't two years ago. Move on. Call up Clayton Briggs. That's a stud right there. New York has no patience for past their prime players. This is a WIN NOW city. Dove is a LOSE NOW player. I'm done with him."

I pause and process what I just heard on the TV to the point my eggs burn. The burning smell brings me back to reality. I throw it away as I sit on the couch with my cup of coffee and contemplate. I used to think Baseball was the only thing that mattered. I woke up every day as a kid and hit the batting cage. I would go to major league and triple-A games wishing I was one of the players. Then I would wake up the next day and train harder. I hit a growth spurt in 10th grade and focused on becoming a pitcher. I was disheveled when major league teams were not looking at me as a possible draft pick out of high school. So I used that as motivation in college and signed a scholarship with a school called Big U. My pitching coach at Big U pushed me to become elite. We made it to the College World Series during my four years there. I found some motivation from the Football Players who got all the hot girls. I hoped one of them would notice me, so I pitched harder and faster. They did not. Instead, I was a first-round draft pick from Gotham City.

I became an instant star and worked to keep it that way.Then, I guess, the ex happened. I should have seen it. A gold digger. She only dated me because it gave her access to eyes from the businesses she would not have had anyway. Life began to make less sense. But enough of her. Now, the only thing on my mind is whether Baseball is worth it. All of a sudden, I'm bringing down the team. I should just text my agent and...

*buzz, buzz*

Text 5551235890: "Hey stud, just a reminder, the car will come around your place at 8 tonight. No need to dress nice, just be casual. Please bring a drawstring bag. It is the only thing you will need for tonight."

I almost forgot about the Therapy thing tonight. I want to reply no, but before I can...

Text Jeremy Stephens: "Just Go!. You will feel like a new man after--a rejuvenated man. If you don't, I will let you call all your own pitches the next game. I promise!"

There was only one thing I needed to know. I Google, "Is the P Spot a gay club?" The top response was simply, "Does it matter?" The thing is that I am kind of curious. During my four years at Big U, I heard rumors about the type of "girls" the football players were hooking up with. And I did what all guys do at that college age and experiment with watching gay porn. I must admit some of the twinks were objectively attractive. So... why the fuck not. My career is spiraling down. Why not experiment for real now.

I got ready as best I could. Luckily sports party's are not the most formal places. I dressed in my causal white tee and jeans. Maybe a pair of sunglasses as well to subdue some lingering hesitancy.

I received a quick text message from Jeremy's agent notifying me that the car was here. I head out the door. I smirk at the lavish BMW waiting for me outside and get in the back seat. I see another man in the car looking as depressed as I am.

"Hey, man," I said lethargically.

"Nice to meet you, name is Gunner." He replied in the same monotone manner as I.

"Anthony," I replied. "Your agent got you going to this thing too?"

"Yeah, I had a horrific season last year and a dud in the World Championships this summer. No goals or assists. He wants me to find my groove back. I guess this little event is supposed to bring my confidence back. I doubt I will." Gunner says as he looks forward. His body language screams that he does not want to be here. "What about you? I caught your highlights on ESPN. Seems like you are having a tough season as well?"

"I guess I forgot how to pitch. Every ball I throw is just a softball for the hitters. So my catcher had his agent invite me to this thing."

"You know Hockey players aren't supposed to partake in this type of thing?" He insinuated.

I looked at him questioning what he said, "I heard Hockey players are some of the biggest freaks. Especially when you win the cup."

"Trust me, we are. But this place is different." He said. I can tell he was hiding a lot of information.

"Dude, what is it? Tell me. Like bondage or masochist women?" I try to pry anything out of him.

"You may hop out of this car if I told you the rumors about this place." He said coldly.

I just left it at that about talking about the "P Spot." We talked about our struggles in our performance. He revealed he picked up a major injury two years ago. Although his injury is structurally healed, the mental side of it has not. The hit he took still haunts him. I opened up about myself. It did not take him long to figure out that all my struggles happened right after what happened with my girlfriend. Before I could deny it, the driver announced, "We are here."

I step into an alleyway and see an entrance with a sign that says "The P Spot" lit up. A line of young and old men wait outside, all looking eager to get in. The driver rolls down his window and says, "Go up to the bouncer and say your name. He will let you right in. Have fun boys, I can tell you both need the relief."

Gunner and I walk up to the bouncer. His imposing figure is even too much for us. He looks 6' 5" and could be a heavyweight fighter. All he says in his deep voice is, "Name?"

We both say our name with a hint of cowardice and a touch of sweat running down my temple. He looks at his list and looks back at us repeatedly until he says, "Yeah, I'm a fan of both those teams you're on. Lost a shit-ton of money betting on you fools. Y'all need this shit. Come on in."

Gunner and I walk inside the club. The initial hit of blaring dance music nearly burst our eardrums. The dim lighting and colorful rotating lights cause me to put my sunglasses in my bag. Two things were evident at this club tonight. First, everyone in here is male. Second, half of the men here look like they finished with life.

"I thought there would be at least some women in here," I yell out to Gunnar, but I bet it came across as more of a whisper due to the music.

"It's a gay club. Especially tonight."

Shock comes across me. "What do you mean?"

"It's in the name. 'The P Spot'. Kinda self-explanatory. I heard men invite their depressed friends to make them happy tonight. Some physical therapy if you want to be punny about it." Gunnar snickers at his small joke as he loosens up.

A gay club? The only time I thought I had experience with a male was after my complete game to clinch the conference title at Big U. A girl from the cheer team came onto me at the after-party. We had a little fun that night. Her name was Tiffany. She had a great ass and perky tits. The only reason why I'm iffy about whether Tiffany was a boy or not was because, in my hazy, drunk memory, I thought she told me she was a part of some group called the Cheerbois or something like that.

Before I could inquire more, the DJ came on the speakers, "Good Evening Men and Boys. Tonight is the night you have all been waiting for, Therapy Night!." I flinch a little as a loud woo could be heard among the men who have been here before. "That's right and tonight is extra special. We have two very special guests tonight, Gunner Altman from your Empire City IceHawks and Anthony Dove from your Gotham City Knights."

A crowd of sports fanatics rush to shake our hands and give us a bro hug. I get the most out of it because since we are in the wildcard push, "Hey man, I'm pulling for you. I need to see the Knights in the playoffs. You got this Dove, Push the Knights to the playoffs." Just some of the positive things they said to me.

Gunner and I looked at each other as if we did not want to be noticed. Although it is 2023, it is still risky for an athlete to be seen at a gay club.

But, the DJ continues, "Now men, you know what we say at the P Spot,"

The crowd shouts in unison, "Keep the tea in the P!"

"That's what I like to hear, we 'Keep the tea in the P'. Don't be bragging to your friends on Twitter and Facebook you saw the cocks of these two Superstars. So that being said here are tonight's therapists." The loud music comes on again but, it is outdone by the eruption of woos and hollers by the knowing men in the club. The regulars turn their head toward a staircase leading up to the floor. A stream of men with huge smiles come out into the club room. All of them are only wearing white underwear. Some come out in g-strings, others in jockstraps or briefs. These men have a sexual aura that I could feel from the back of the club.

I tap the shoulder of a man beside me who looks like he's been here before, "Who are these guys? What is with the underwear?"

He responds to my tap in shock and quickly transforms to giddiness, "Omg, Anthony Dove asked me a question. You are my favorite player." He says and gives me a quick hug.

I smile at him and scratch my head, "Thanks, it's always great to meet a fan."

"It's your first time, right?" He asks as he knowingly shakes his head at me. "So these 'therapists' are regulars from the club and, or freaks from the city or who knows where. They sign up to be 'therapists.' The chosen one's are assigned to one man to make them happy for the night. The best ones get assigned to all the depressed men. I bet you will get an extra cute one since you are a VIP here tonight." He joshed.

"I don't know about all that. I'm just one of the guys tonight. And what about the underwear?"

"Ah yes, the underwear. The type of underwear shows what they prefer. G-strings mean they are a bottom. Jockstraps are tops. Briefs mean they are vers. You were supposed to check what you prefer before tonight, but oh, hello." The man's attention was diverted to a fit, stocky Latino man with muscles and a jockstrap that was not hiding anything from the imagination. The man, who I assumed brought his depressed friend since he was happy, began to fill up the man's large, veiny forearms. His mouth gaped while his eyes did not come up from the man's jock.

I tip-toe back to Gunner and ask him, "Do you know what..."

He knew what I was asking and answered, "Top means you are a pitcher, bottom a catcher, and vers means you are Shohei Ohtani if you catch my drift."

"Yeah, I get it now." It seems like we are the last ones paired. We watch the rest of the crowd become acquainted with their therapist. The depressed men all of a sudden are now smiling for the first time in what looks like forever. At first, they were all hesitant, but now they looked like they did not want to be anywhere else.

All of a sudden, moaning is heard through the music. Everyone's attention was taken for a minute as the same man yelled, "Cumming!" We all watched a man drop his load on the floor as he was jacking off to his tall, jockstrap therapist.

The DJ came on the speaker and said, "Hey Man, the therapy session has not begun yet, and you nutted that quick? Come on, man." We all laughed at the DJ taking a jest at the poor man. Luckily for him, his therapist took him to the bar and rubbed his head as the post-orgasmic man lay on his thick thighs blissfully.