They was working they hardons in the melon game. That means they stand in a circle in the buff and stick they dick in a melon — supposed to be a gourd, but they ain’t easy to find — or sometimes a acorn squash. Each of ’em be hanging a gourd on they cock and the last one to keep it impaled on they stiffy wins, so whoever lose they stiffy get disqualified.
Malcolm stood there with his massive knob swinging free, the at-risk young men sneaking giggles at it. His pecker was wrinkled and well-worn, unlike their smooth rods, concealed right now by melons. Malcolm let his manhood flop between his thighs as he looked down on the lot of ’em. “This ain’t just horseplay, ya silly winkles. This goes back to Africa. It’s a tradition that’s gone down the line through ya ancestors. It’s important. It connects you with ya heritage,” he said. The young men all looked up at him, their slim little bodies gleaming with sweat in the overheated locker room. They was all snickering gigglepusses today, and they looked like frightened fringes in the dingy, cramped room — this was the locker and shower for the halfway home in the church basement. They could smell the iron-hard convicts who came through this place. It stank of mildew and men in here.
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MN Manmacker's mansploitation