Basket(BLUE)balls

Written By: Snug McNugg Ph. DDD

Ladies you know how it is... You hear a song on the radio or catch a glimpse of your legs in the mirror and in your head you've quietly resolved, "I'm gonna get some dick tonight."

...Oh, you don't?

Well for the sake of argument, let's just say you do.

So all day you're planning-- no plotting-- on how it’s all gonna go down: you stop by the grocery store, get ingredients for his favorite meal, put a couple of Heinekens in the icebox, shower up and put on the bra that makes your cleavage damn near touch your chin.



The kitchen's smelling all aromatic, with the promise of a home-cooked meal filling the air, you're all oiled up (in more ways than one) and you're like "I might even skip the foreplay", cause you've been ready all day.

With all the elements of your plan in place, you politely (and seductively) announce that dinner is ready and you wait for your ravishing and ultimately horny man to come running around the corner like a hunting dog who's caught a scent, tongue all hanging out and dripping, with the possibility of other body parts soon following suit.

No reply so you wait.

Smiling, anticipating because after all, when does your man ever passed up good food or fucking?

Then it dawns on you as you hear the commentators in the background: you have been trumped by the other woman. The spawn of Satan more commonly referred to as sports.

Doesn't really matter what sport-- NBA, NCAA, NFL, CIAA, PGA, MLB-- Since puberty I have been attracted to the guy who eats, breathes and sleeps sports. Any sport. Which makes it easy when you’re buying birthday and Christmas gifts (an authentic Charles Woodson signed home jersey from his U of M days, NBA League pass, Tickets to the Duke/UNC game at the Dean Dome) but puts a huge damper on your sex life? After all when it is NOT a sport season?

So I desperately tried to become that woman who would watch sports with her man. The one
who could talk stats with the best of them, the one who'd about just as many obscenities over a bad call, the one who threw Super Bowl parties.... I just couldn't stop thinking, "Seriously? I just wanna fuck."

What else would you expect me to think of when I see (mildly attractive) sweaty, athletic men running around aggressively? Not to mention the man sitting next to me who is extremely passionate about most all sports watching his favorite team in the playoffs-- I may as well pull my battery operated boyfriend out cause he's going to be here for a while.

But as I walk away, seemingly defeated, the noise of the game threatening to drown out my every existence, taunting me as if to say, “Step back bitch, you're the mistress tonight.” I take it as a challenge, and I have home court advantage.

Because the question isn't if a man can abstain from sex or not-- it's for how long?

So I return, pull out my unsolicited-head-sneak-attack only to receive no active participation on his end.

*pause* “Oh HELL no... I'm not going down like THIS” I think as he looks past me at the last five minutes of the game that is already decided by the obvious lead.

Without even looking up, he asks, “Why'd you stop?”

Don't call me when ping pong or poker dominates the talk on sports center; I left the Jergens on the night stand.

The hell with sports!!! That's what TIVO is for damn it!!! I dare you to try and TIVO me, try and come back to me after the final buzzer, rewind me to well before the point where I wanted hit you in the head with a basketball.

I hope you get Lebron's elbow issues.