My first rule of thumb for casing out some new joint is that I always bring along my Bat-Bat.
To the naked eye, the Bat-Bat has the appearance of any other rugged-looking wooden bat, except for the fact that it’s jet black in color, much like the more popular aluminum bats favored by players of today. Let me go on record saying that I have nothing against aluminum bats. They’re a cheap, effective way to get the ball where it needs to go, namely across the field and preferably out of the gloved hands of the opposing team. If I were to take Stanley’s advice to purchase the Orioles and rename them Batman’s Baltimore Bats, I would definitely buy all the guys bats made out of aluminum, or at least an aluminum alloy. Shit, I would probably use one myself because let’s be honest, if I were to go through all the trouble of buying a baseball team, I would be playing on that fucker, in addition to managing it and being captain. That would be my right as owner. Also, my clubhouse would be called The Belfry and players would be allowed to smoke in it if they wanted to and act all crazy. I would also install a bunch of gear on the rafters in there so that they guys could strap in and hang upside down, which helps to keep the blood out of the game down there and in the game up here.
But I’m not talking about a game. I’m talking about real-life. And in real life, sometimes you find yourself knee deep in you-know-what. When that happens, you need a way to paddle out. For me, that paddle is my Bat-Bat, and the Bat-Bat is made of wood. Not any old wood, but a beautiful dark-hued Indian rosewood as hard as nails but with the added bonus of having once been a living thing and therefore possessing residual power of an occult, spiritual variety. It’s the ideal brawling weapon for a guy like me, and I like to slip it in my back pocket whenever I’m about to head into uncharted territory. Most of the time, just the sight of the thing is enough to scare off any dickbag dumb enough to consider messing with me in the first place. But the few times I have had to use it, it has come through and then some. Swinging that thing, I feel a little bit like Buford Pusser from Walking Tall or Chris Vaughn from the remake, Walking Tall, only more handsome than Joe-Don Baker, less of a bro-ham than The Rock, and with a less shitty name than either, plus a better piece of wood. Did I mention that the Bat-Bat is absolutely obsidian shit-jet? It is. The bat’s original rosewood looked pretty if we’re talking about a piece of furniture, but I wanted the warlike thing to match my non-nonsense suit, so I colored it black with an expensive German magic marker that Alfred bought me online a couple of years ago for my birthday.
Since I didn’t know what I was about to get in to with this [sic] holding hands rootless reiki business, I figured I had better bring Old Trusty along, which is where the trouble started. Old Trusty is the nickname I gave my Bat-Bat, by the way. An ironic choice on my part it turns out, as you’ll soon read.
I found the place easy enough since it’s right in the heart of this hipster-nice part of South Gotham with trees and avenues and row houses with window boxes full of pansies, nosegays, and other soft, fragrant flowers of the like. My destination was a rare, freestanding house of obscure time period and design—sort of a grotto, in the vague shape of a squat tree or toadstool, that looked like it could have been built around the salvaged husk of a giant firkin. Judging by the fact that the whole upper part of it was shrouded in tree limbs, vines, and various mosses and lichens, I deduced that there must have been some kind of rooftop garden thing going on up there.
“Must really like trees at this place.” I thought to myself as I sauntered up and rapped on the door. “Wonder what they’ll think of Old Trusty,” I continued thinking, with a mental smirk.
Finally, after about five ass-scratching minutes in which I was left scratching my head about how these dirks could possibly expect to run a successful business if they couldn’t even promptly answer their own door (and who makes customers wait at the door anyway? Ever heard of a waiting room, smart guy?) the thing opened and I was face to face with this dirty-haired, back-to-the-earth looking lady.
“Hi,” she said with a smile, extending her hand.
“Hey,” I muttered, taking it.
Hers was: warm, soft, and covered in a thin layer of fine dust. Even through my leather-clad hand, I felt the kind of electric charge that you only get when there’s an intense and innate psycho-sexual connection with someone.
“So, this is your place, huh?” I drawled coolly, even as I felt anything but.
“Yeah, pretty great, right? I love the location and the building itself—I mean, come on, I couldn’t have asked for anything more amazing.”
“It’s alright,” I grunted, trying to keep my enthusiasm dialed down so as not to appear too eager, despite the fact that I was. “You do all this yourself, or… ?”
“Actually, yeah—took me two years of my life and a lot more money than I had, but it was worth it. I may be broke, but I’m surrounded by real green things all day long and doing what I love. What could be better than that?”
“To each his own,” I said. Then saved it hastily by adding, “or hers.”
She made a clucking sound with her tongue. I think it was meant to be a sort of gentle rebuke, or a mild spell. Whatever it was, it worked, and I felt my face turning the color of Old Trusty before I’d modified it.
“Honestly, though, the money’s not too bad,” she winked. “In a few years, I might break even.”
I felt like it was an appropriate time to ask the question that had been troubling me ever since I had heard the strange name of this esoteric business.
“What is it you do here, exactly?”
She smiled, a mischievous, elfin smile, and I immediately felt myself go 100% hard.
“Oh, you’ll see… What is your name?”
“Batman,” I said hoarsely.
“Well, Batman, you can call me The Dryad. This way please.”
She took my hand again and I followed her inside, down a long, curving hallway that kind of reminded me of the inside of the midget’s house from The Lord of the Rings franchise. At the tail end was a cool, candlelit room with terracotta floors, a low, sloping ceiling, and tiny alcoves with censors of burning incense. In the middle stood some kind of ergonomic table, presumably for therapeutic or medical applications.
“Lie down,” the Dryad said “make yourself comfortable.”
“What should I do with the bat?” I asked, remembering that I literally still had Old Trusty sticking out of my back pocket.
“Leave the bat to me, man” she said.
I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I figured I’d just go with it and lay down on the table like she’d told me.
After I got down there, there was this uncomfortable silence where nothing happened until she cleared her throat.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Um, are you going to take the suit off, or… ?”
“Oh, yeah, right.” I mumbled. So this was it, I thought, it’s really happening.
I stood up and peeled my suit off, slowly and sensually, standing right in front of her, making sure she didn’t miss a single, rippling detail. I could tell by the way her green eyes popped and sparkled like a glass of Dom that she was enjoying the show as much as I was. Finished, I turned dramatically, tossed Old Trusty onto the floor and lay face down on the table, flexing and stretching my muscular triceps and delts as I settled in.
I felt her light but athletic frame touch down gently astride my massive lower back in the form of her toned, straddling thighs, firm cushion of buttocks, and soft tuft of pubic hair. Bending forward, she kneaded up and down my aching spine with sure and subtle hands. I felt the nipples of her turgid breasts graze the space between my powerful shoulder blades, electricity surging through my chakras and supercharging the raging hard-on already well under way, as she bent to whisper in my ear:
“What’ll it be for you today, Batman?” she cooed.
“Take the bat,” I gasped, so heated up I had to think about Batman’s Baltimore Bats to even be able to speak. “Take the bat to the back of the cave.”
Evidently, she took this to mean something very different than what I had intended.
Suffice it to say that what followed was undoubtedly the best massage I or any man, woman, or beast on this earth has ever had. Perfect. Ten stars. Then, she attempted to insert Old Trusty into… well, into the batcave.
I can see, now, where she might have gotten the idea that that’s what I wanted—I guess from her perspective it made sense that this was the reason I brought the Bat-Bat—but at the time I was, well, surprised. So surprised that I left in something of a huff. Probably turned the table over, said some things I might regret. I guess I didn’t pay either, come to think of it.
The thing is though, we had a great time together, and I’d love to do it again. It was a simple misunderstanding and as you can imagine, its not like it got too far before she realized that we were working from different definitions of the same metaphor. I hadn’t felt a personal connection that strong in years and I never thought I’d say it, but it felt good to be with a chick again. I’ve tried calling her a bunch of times since it happened, and even taken a couple passes by overhead in the Batwing, but we haven’t been able to reconnect.
So, for now, it looks like I’m still flying solo. Not much has changed I guess. I can’t look at Bat-Bat the same way and no longer refer to it as Old Trusty, but the company’s doing fine and Alfred’s holding down the fort at home. Meanwhile, I’m left wondering if this thing with The Dryad, this crazy connection, is ever going to develop into something more, or whether I’m wasting my time even trying to step back into the minefield of relationshits.
Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.