The comely woman in the front row has been eyeing me with her eyes for the entire first half, with a face that very much says that she wants me alone in the nearest cubicle as soon as possible. The referee’s half-time whistle is like a starter’s pistol, and I whisk her into the fallopian tubes of the vast stadium I have come to call home, muttering vague promises of the Make-A-Wish foundation as a poorly-executed alibi to a perplexed security guard.
We find a secluded utility room, and suddenly every utensil and cleaning tool therein becomes sexually charged – a nearby broom handle appears phallic to my partner’s lascivious eyes, and she demonstrates her desires in very forthright times. I slip into position with enthusiasm, like a wing-back eager to impress a new manager with his tactical perspicacity, and/or sexual monsterousness.
We must be quick, lest I miss the team-talk, as well as sufficient time to allow my post-coital gristle to subside to a necessary state of flaccidity. I pump and pump and pump, and realise it’s doing my tight hamstring absolutely no favours. Her cries of ecstacy drown out my anguished squeals of pain, as our genitals conspire to make a mess that requires full use of the nearby bleach bottle.
I limp back to my dressing room and inform the manager that I cannot continue. The callow youth-team debutante gleefully leaps in to deputise, but really I am the one who is happiest, as I watch the second half on the bench, with ice swaddling the tender flesh of my thigh and balls.