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Playboy Fiction: Babylon
Fiction

Playboy Fiction: Babylon

They called me the Fat Dyke Ref that summer. It didn’t hurt my feelings so much as it violated my sense of exactness. Fat? I’d always been cinder-block thick, and it was true that I’d put on some weight since the desert. Dyke? Yeah, I liked vaginas more than dicks, they had me there. But a ref, in kickball? ¶ “Bitches, I’m an umpire,” I’d say, because that’s what I was, and because it was fun to watch strangers’ faces when I called them bitches. “Get it right or get off my field.” The kind of people who played Sunday kickball at McCarren Park weren’t used to being talked to that way, not by people like me. Some were staunch Brooklyn dwellers, freelancing hipster types welded into the rails of L-train culture. Others were wayfarers from across the bridge, ad execs, digital communication associates, office ilk with salaries and titles. Whichever borough they claimed, most were actually expats from Middle America, whiter-than-snow 20-somethings loaded up on brunch mimosas.…