The Harlem Globetrotters Leaked A Sex Tape
Truly, expert ball handling.
The sex tape opened on a postgame locker room full of pants-less men in Globetrotter jerseys. A few Washington Generals had ventured in, too, low posts exposed, all seemingly eager to get back onto the hard wood. Things were collegial: the industry standard for post-game basketball orgies. The plot was never clear if there had been a wager on the “game,” however a few Globetrotters and Generals were overacting a bit, one pair even belaboring their apparent relationship as step-siblings.
The Globetrotters started things off in their circle routine, the expert ball handlers taking turns in the center hotdogging. As one of the Generals approached the pants-less posse, his jersey was ripped off, revealing it had only been held together with Velcro. He gave a faint moan as his eyes lit up, fully nude now, and he stepped to the center of the team as the more-than-five-man-press constricted around him. The other Generals joined the mass of Globetrotters now, too; one of them, now, inexplicably, delivering a pizza.
Knees buckled as each twosome and threesome started to find their place in the sweaty mass: a puzzle of skin slowly solving itself. One cross-team dyad ran their hands over each other, finger rolling in and around everything; there were a few quick pop outs but nothing ever coming close to a three-second violation. The shot focused on one particular General half “stuck” in his locker but completely unconcerned as his breath quickened and his face started to crinkle before — just like that — he was inexplicably showered by a bucket of confetti.
A Globetrotter duo, seemingly well into the fourth quarter of their action and repeatedly dunking on one another, paid no notice the disembodied hand venturing into frame before it goosed one of their butts, throwing off the one Globetrotter’s shot and knocking the spinning basketball off his index finger.
The camera scanned the room now, everything just dripping in so much pomp and fanfare: a pornographic paragon for anyone sporting a kink for “showboating.” Amid the forced turnovers, pump fakes, and rimming out, there was still a lot of high-fiving, rhythmic clapping. There was a fair amount of double dribbling, too, but the referees leering from the corner weren’t calling it — it was the Globetrotters after all.
Despite the prancing, the shot calling, and the garden-variety poor sportsmanship from the Globetrotters, the Generals were still having an objectively satisfying time. The contrived acting was expected, as it is in any porn or novelty basketball exhibition, but it was more than made up for by the surreal surprise of the masses of naked men extricating themselves from their sweaty tangles at one point, reforming their circle, and ending their show by dancing to “Y.M.C.A.”
