We were watching the Last Dance on Netflix. A show about Michael Jordan’s last season in Chicago Bulls in 1997. The third episode was about Dennis Rodman. I knew who he was since I was a teenager because he had an affair with Madonna. I am not a big fan of basketball, my boyfriend is. We were sitting on a green IKEA couch, tangled together as we usually would be when we are alone. I was stroking his hand or he was stroking mine. Warm and cosy I watched the testosterone on the screen: black men chewing gum through sweat and swearings, violence under the basket, soaring bodies with a ball, tears of loss, fierce of celebrations.
Dennis Rodman wasn’t always a bad boy. He had tough childhood living on the streets for two years but eventually he became a professional basketball player: speedy, muscular, ruthless. He was also a little bit naive, people said in the interviews. It’s late 80-s footage: a young talented black sportsman with short black haircut, a gummy smile, and bad skin looks into a TV camera. One night he was found somewhere away from home with a rifle on the front seat of his car. “I was in a lost place,” old Rodman said. Later on he met Madonna, of course, who told him that life is too short to pretend and that he has to be who he was, his real self. He dyed his hair pink, put on leather pants and lacy shirt, leopard plush hat, pierced his nose and lips. He still was amazing on court. A famous picture of naked Rodman in full make up and a basket-ball covering his groin flashed the screen. I felt sorry for him, I felt admiration, I felt alike. Was I lost?
The episode ended on a drama scene when Scotty Pippin, another Chicago Bulls player, returned to the team pushing Rodman on the third place away from Jordan. Rodman was his best man, but apparently Scotty was better.
I turned to Alex. We kissed. We usually kiss for long. Soft tender kisses turn wet and hungry. I wanted to chew his lips. He moved my thighs closer to his, I felt his arousal. I felt mine too. As I continued devouring his lips I imagined how my clit is becoming bigger and stronger. The naked Rodman picture in make up and with a basket-ball between his legs passed my mind. “I like Dennis Rodman, - I said without stopping kissing, - I like his queerness.” “You like it?” “I do. I think inside I am like him, inside I’m pierced and dyed in crazy colors.” He continued kissing me, pushing his body against my thighs. “So in fact you are fucking a black tattooed queer basketball player who pretends to be a soft asian woman.” We laughed. “But in fact I’m Dennis Rodman.” “Ok.” “My clit is Dennis Rodman.”
