After scoring and winning the second game 11-5, and thus winning the first match 2-0, and watching Ian get mad, and then offering him a lemon Powerade in consolation and grabbing a grape one for himself, Joseph asks Ian a question:

“So what’s it like? This reaction of yours with chick’s legs?”

Ian’s sweaty face lights up, yet gets all of a sudden very serious. “Ok: So I stop dead in my tracks,” he starts. He stares into the distance, eyes widened. His talk, faster than usual. His tone and manner has adopted an urgent-yet-authorative, quasi-military quality. He continues: “Eyes darting wildly up and down them desperately striving, rushing, to take in every visible square inch since this moment won’t last forever. I’m in a daze of disbelief, awe, bewilderment. A terrible pang of… anticipated loss, self-loathing, self-pity, resignation! At what will most probably end up being yet another unfulfilled reward hits me, BAM! right in here, smack in the middle of the solar plexus, see? Salivary glands start aching, scalp starts aching, hands start trembling. Sweat runs down scalp. Sensory perception, triples. Heart rate, cuadruples. This fucker? Quintuples. Those two things, man. Those. Two. Things. I don’t know. That pair. That dumb, fucking pair. That functional pair. An evolutionary marvel, but corrupted by culture, fashion, lust, vanity, thrown foot-first, pun intended into the face of the instinct-laden male. Functional marvels but now thrown in the field of aesthetics, and yes, eyes darting wildly. Right foot, right thigh, left calf, right shin, left foot, right thigh again! Left knee, left upper thigh, right ankle, left knee. Right lower thigh, left calf, right calf, left calf, right calf, left foot, left upper thigh, right knee, repeat. The rest of the world around, a muted blur.”

Joseph, just now finishing his Powerade, simply looks at him, slightly amused. Ian goes on.

“Chest hurts. Balls hurt. Motherfucker utters, ‘Je-sus-fuc-king-mo-ther-hell-damn, godfucking damn-damn-damn-damn-damn… Damn! FUCK! DAMN! Jesus H, fucking CHRIST! Fuuuuccck… My god, Jesus, look at that, Jesus, look at that…’ People, staring.”

“Damn”, Joseph mutters.

“Overwhelming. Overwhelming. You know though, right, that this has nothing to do with… normal sex, my relationship to my honey, when I got one, and shit, or anything, right? Which could not be better! Or could it? Anyway, and it’s not about coming up to someone at a bar, not about coming up to someone you see somewhere like that. Has to be a stranger. Total stranger. Someone new. Someone first-time-seen. Nameless, mindless, soulless, just a physical object, just an entity, just bone, flesh and skin, just another animal, another hairless animal under the sun. Speaking of, the more daylight the better. The more exposed legs the better. If she’s walking, better. If glistening due to perspiration or sebum, better. If among the midtown dwellers of the bell curve regarding skin pigmentation, better. Outliers only welcome in selected cases. If the flesh slightly rattles, in the right places, upon impact at every step, better. If muscles discernible at work underneath at every step, better. If no eye contact, better. Cellulite, less welcome. Tiny little hairs more welcome. Wrinked sags, far less welcome. Contact redness from just having had them crossed during a two hour lecture, more welcome. Scars if not too feisty or extroverted, welcome. Tatoos, less welcome. Aaggh! Hopefully she’s not some ultra-fast-walking-can’t-hold-it-in-much-longer-Speedy Gonzalez-type bitch, too. Now. Legs have to have shape to them, you know? Shape? S-H-A-P-E, shape. ‘Three-dimensionality’. Thick without being fat. Cause fat kills shape, normally. Mesomorphs usually the winners. Some endomorphs. Not obese bitches of course. Rarely skinny bitches though. Proportions! Slightly longer lower leg than thigh. Slightly longer thigh than lower leg. Both work. So many fucking variations. So many shapes. Or skinny chicks with smooth, low-muscled-toned, thin thighs but then juxtaposed with angular, thick, emmusculated lower leg, fuckers thicker than those thighs. Low calf and Soleus insertions evening out the leg. Oh yeah. Fetishes. Let’s talk fetishes. You throw in some tall shoes, wedges, pumps, call ‘em the fuck you want. What they do, they bring the leg closer to you, see? Closer to eye-level. Put them up on freaking pedestals. Like all of a sudden, now they’re objects. Like fucking art? Art! Priceless articles! On public display. Shiet. It has all been visual and from proper, well-mannered, respectful distance up ‘til now. Gotta admit I have no idea what will happen the day I actually act out what I usually just dream about, kneeling on the floor just in front of a pair these idols, just as when I was toddling about at fucking three, planting my big, trembly, sweaty, richly innervated say right palm, on the back of her knee; my other big, trembly, sweaty, richly innervated left palm, a foot or so above the other, planted right where thigh becomes cheek, then run the popliteal palm down, curving convexly down along thick, round calves, down slowly to meet her grab-worthy, sufficiently-thicker-than-will-allow-the-tips-of-my-thumb-and-middle-finger-to-touch-going-around-it-part-of-the-lower-leg-just-below-the-calf-and-just-above-the-ankle, you know, then down the ankle to the base of the foot, my femoral palm then going for the whole ride, sliding down along the back-of-thigh to feast in dermis thanks to ample, indifferent, sweet-smelling, friction-easing clear sebum from the cat while at the same time taking in the tenderness of that primeval layer of subcutaneous fat, the primeval cushion that deliciously rounds the rough edges off of all subjacent muscularity, you know? Starting with both heads of her glorious Gastrocnemius, her single double-peeking Soleus, all the way down to, ah, connect, with the … Calcaneal.”

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“The tendon.”

“Right. Then my tarsal hand, back upstairs, this time planting it just above the patella -- on the front this time of the leg – to take in some fine, scrumptious Vastus Medialis. Then, time to hear the sound of healthy meat. Giving that fleshy lower thigh right, you know, above the knee, you know? A single loud solid slap. ‘SMACK!’ Then do it again. Three times is enough. Cause this all needs to be processed and appreciated internally also, you know?”

“So, you’re looking forward to this… casual … encounter. Happening. Someday.” Joseph lays down the empty Powerade plastic bottle and stands, picking up the basketball and resting it against his side under his arm.

“You know, planting eyes on… the one. You know? That one female walking by with her naked legs on full display and I just won’t fucking resist and will actually carry that shit out. And that she’d be cool with it? Fuuuuckk. That would bring the odds of that actually happening down to like literally zero.”

“But you’re looking forward to that, though. Right?”

“Don’t know. Actually. You know?”

“Why not?”

“Well…”

“What?”

“Shit man.”

“What?”

“Well, if it were to actually happen… if it were, could be I like… fucking die that day. You know?” Ian is looking at Joseph straight in the eye. He tosses his empty Powerade bottle behind his back. It hits the chain link fence that separates the court from the park, then noisily falls on court’s concrete and bounces a few times only to roll back and come to a stop against the back of Ian’s Air Jordans. A few seconds later, his stern expression relaxes. His eyes narrow slightly as his upper lip pulls back to reveal his gumline and then a wide, cap-studded smile. He starts laughing.

Joseph smiles, then laughs too. “I bet bro.” He drops the ball from his side and catches it against his thigh before it hits the ground. “I bet.”