A recent tweet using the #erotica hashtag prompted a small but no less notable wave of erotic fiction writers to follow me. I was perturbed, yet aroused, like a man masturbating over an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a naked lady. The use of said hashtag was but more of my trademark frippery, but it has landed me in a sticky situation, like a man masturbating over an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a naked lady. Ruud Gullit Sitting On A Shed is nothing if not a manifestation of the dreams of its devoted fanbase. Imagine the disappointment of these new followers when they realise that, rather than writing to arouse feelings of the groin, I actually write about Nicklas Bendtner and Garth Crooks.
Like a man masturbating over an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a naked lady, I have decided to do what feels right, regardless of what others may think. I have taken recent events on Twitter as a sign that what the world wants, whether it truly realises it or not, is sizzling hot sexual football fiction; stories that really try to relate the personal turmoil of the modern footballer’s psyche, whilst also giving anyone who reads it misshapen underwear.
So, without further ado, RGSOAS strips off to introduce its first foray into a niche genre that, much like a man masturbating over an incomplete jigsaw puzzle of a naked lady, may be confusing at first, but will only become clearer the more you masturbate…
SEXY FOOTBALL #1: “Clean Sheet Bonus”
I waddle over to the bed, balls fat with cum, as I listen to irate fans on TalkSport. I take myself in the palm that only hours ago was adorned with a Reusch goalkeeping glove, but which now glistens with a water-based lubricant. I pump unto my glans, trying to empty myself not merely of my steaming hot spaff, but also of the thoughts of a disappointing day between the sticks. Losing by four goals is tough, like the throbbing six-inches of gristle that I clutch like a penis-shaped man-of-the-match trophy. As I race towards a satisfying climax like a post-Match of the Day highlights montage, I am overcome by the sound of criticism from the radio. I manage to drown out the negative feedback with my own primitive grunts of pleasure, and I try not to cry as I inadvertently fill my gaping mouth with my own protein.