There are some days that come around when I sit at my desk, massaging sore legs and wonder how normal people do it. Not “it”, the very subtle allusion to secretive human (and surprisingly enough, the natural biological form of reproduction) S.E.X., but actually the “it” of not having any. Granted, it would be a slight exaggeration of the truth were I to claim that I got some on a regular basis from a wide variety of victims, I mean, attractive volunteers, but if I’m somehow lacking at least I get worked over frequently by the Pool-Boy I like to call Rugby.
The moments when I come home covered in mud, bruises, or scratches and babbling happily to my roommates are, oddly enough, the times when I find myself favoured with more blank looks and raised eyebrows than usual. Is there something wrong with enjoying a little blood and dirty work? Undoubtedly, despite what your mother or pastor would tell you, it’s the sweat and the resulting ache that land and keep survival of the species on everyone’s mind. So why wouldn’t I spend eighty minutes rolling through the mud with a ball? The women I play with may not be exactly my idea of a good tumble, but the balls and adrenaline that my Pool-Boy brings to the field are more than worth forfeiting my ability to walk the next day (which is something that gets left at the door before decent playing time in the bedroom anyways).
While I’m sure that knitting the sex drive away may be some people’s visionary answer, I personally feel it lacks a certain sense of rush, of excitement, of… While I may not be expressing myself clearly, generally, other options could only result in boredom. Subject yourself to some mud and bruises first, and then tell me that your preferred Pool-Boy is stamp collecting.
The moments when I come home covered in mud, bruises, or scratches and babbling happily to my roommates are, oddly enough, the times when I find myself favoured with more blank looks and raised eyebrows than usual. Is there something wrong with enjoying a little blood and dirty work? Undoubtedly, despite what your mother or pastor would tell you, it’s the sweat and the resulting ache that land and keep survival of the species on everyone’s mind. So why wouldn’t I spend eighty minutes rolling through the mud with a ball? The women I play with may not be exactly my idea of a good tumble, but the balls and adrenaline that my Pool-Boy brings to the field are more than worth forfeiting my ability to walk the next day (which is something that gets left at the door before decent playing time in the bedroom anyways).
While I’m sure that knitting the sex drive away may be some people’s visionary answer, I personally feel it lacks a certain sense of rush, of excitement, of… While I may not be expressing myself clearly, generally, other options could only result in boredom. Subject yourself to some mud and bruises first, and then tell me that your preferred Pool-Boy is stamp collecting.
No comments:
Post a Comment