RGSOAS Advent Calendar: #10

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It’s the Sexy Football Christmas Special!

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The football team’s Christmas party has two things going for it. Both of them are being used to transport the glamorous waitress serving drinks, and are legs. Her skirt sashays liquidly atop pins that have clearly seen a bicycle or zero-gravity treadmill or two in their time. I watch her and can barely contain my excitement, ignoring the cracker-pulling and novelty paper hat wearing that occurs around me.

My thick, hard, football playing glans throbs like a bulging bag of icing sugar, such as one might use to decorate a Christmas cake or mince pie. My boiling hot spaff surges free in search of the cool December air, only to ruin the fancy new pants I was given by a team-mate as an early gift. I can barely stifle grunts that squeeze out from me arhythmically, like so much manky water from a freshly bled radiator. My smell is everywhere.

I make my excuses and leave. I tell everyone I have diarrhoea again, but I need to stop doing this.

Sexy Football: Doing It For (and Sometimes With) the Fans

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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.

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Sexy Football – Adventures In Football Erotica

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.

"UUUNNNGGGHHH!!!"