Day 68 – The Last Dance

A lot of sports fans are busting their nut over this 30 for 30 44253-part series “The Last Dance” about Michael Jordan. “Oooh Michael Jordan is so great, blah blah blah.”


Growing up I hated Michael Jordan. Well to be fair, I didn’t even think about him until 1991 when he beat the Lakers in the Finals. I think what pissed me off the most was seeing kids my age wearing Bulls gear all over here in LA. Really? I think that’s also when my cynicism towards people started at the tender age of 12. People are fucking stupid and have no loyalty.

Throughout the 90s there really was no reason to watch basketball. If MJ was playing, then the Bulls were going to win the title. The Lakers were… Well no one really reminisces about the great Nick Van Exel era or Del Harris.

During Jordan’s second comeback with the Washington Wizards from 2001-2003, I got sick and tired of hearing everyone kiss his ass. So I did what any early 20-something would do, write a slanderous story about him.

I just read it, and oh fucking hell is it just a bunch of cringe. But I guess that’s what happens when you read what you wrote almost 20 years ago. So I present to you: I WAS MICHAEL JORDAN’S SEX SLAVE.

It began innocently enough back in my senior year of high school back in 1997. I had been out of the closet for just over a year and was naturally horny. I was ready to stick my dick in any orifice available (and have other dicks in my orifices).

My mom and her boyfriend had an extra ticket to the Lakers game against the Bulls. Of course this was the time the Bulls dominated the NBA. Although basketball bored me to tears (still does), I had nothing better to do that night so I decided to go.

My mom’s boyfriend, though, was a basketball nut. He wanted to get to the Forum early in hopes of meeting some of the players. I decide to separate from the old folks and sit against the wall to write my poetry of angst. As I’m lost in my world of verse and doom, I sense a shadow standing over me. “Does it say ‘circus’ on my fucking forehead,” I yelled, not looking up from my notebook.

“It’s mighty nice to see someone being productive with their time,” a deep voice intoned. I looked up and there he was – the driving force behind the Bulls (and Hanes, and Nike, and Gatorade, and countless other brands). I admit I was a bit starstruck for a moment, but that quickly passed as I realized he broke my concentration.

“You made me lose my train of thought,” I exclaimed. “What are you going to do about it now?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I hesitated. It would be cool to hang out with a superstar, but he interrupted me as I was going to respond.

“Let’s tell your parents that you’re going with me,” he offered, and off we went. He said he wanted to change his clothes and take me out to lunch as a peace offering.

We arrived at his hotel room, and I waited on his bed checking out the room as he went into the bathroom to change. As I was fiddling around with the clock radio (little things interest me so much), he came into the room wearing only a leather jockstrap that was too small for his willie.

“I’m sure you want to have some fun now, don’t you,” he asked.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I coquettishly. I could feel my ass clinching and a hardon starting to form.

Right then he tackled me onto the bed ripped my clothes off and tied me to the bed. After whippings and multiple orgasms, it was game time for him. When he came back, he continued his complete usurping of me into the wee hours of dawn.

From then, we started a bizarre relationship. Whenever he would come into town, we would “hook up”. The sex we had was way too perverse to go into details here (I’ll save that for Penthouse Forum). Let’s just say that I still have some scars from those days.

There of course was a monetary benefit for being a sex slave. I didn’t use any blackmailing schemes or anything; this was something implicit in our relationship. He was more than willing to give me money, and I was more than happy to accept. I won’t divulge dollar figures, but there was enough money to keep my CD collection flowing and build up my wardrobe.

There was a time when he escorted me on a shopping binge. After a day of scouring Melrose Ave. he decided to get me a nice bondage outfit from a store on Santa Monica Blvd. He chose one out for me and had me try it on. As I was undressing in the fitting room, he came in holding onto his dick. As the dutiful slave, I got down on my knees and nursed that baby to completion.

As with all good things, it had to come to an end. I had just graduated high school and was ready to go off to Santa Barbara for college. After nine months that we were together, he told me he was getting bored. He wanted to get into fisting and I absolutely refused. There was another boy who was “more open to things”. Like all men, he wanted the newer model with more features.

Whatever. I told him respectfully to fuck off, and that was that. I’ve gotten over it in the five years since, though it was hard as first (as with all break ups). The only thing that surprises me is that his wife was willing to take him back after they filed for divorce. Perhaps he IS a changed man and will control his urges, that we won’t “just do it”.