He was a winner.  Standing there, legs outspread, arms aloft soaking in the adulation.  They loved him, at that moment they all loved him, every single one of them.  The majority of them wanted to be him, the remainder wanted to fuck him. I wanted to fuck him.  My seat was near the players entrance, I had a press pass, I was going to use it to corner him, to fuck him.  

There is nothing like it, that moment in extra time when the home team scores the winning goal and the crowd around you erupts.  Mass hysteria. And any grumbles about player’s attitude vanishes. Any any aches and pains from sitting in silence for so long are healed.  And your wife is forgiven for leaving and taking the children, and the house, and she is even forgiven for burning your programme collection 2005 to 2010.  In that moment everything is right in the world.

In that moment I get an overwhelming desire in my loins, I want to touch myself, I want to feel those strong male hands that are raised in celebration about me feeling me all over.  Rough hand slipping under my parker, under my shirt, pulling off my tracky bottoms and invading me until I orgams, shuddering and explosive orgasm.

It’s not just me, with all those endorphins flowing on the stands as the players go back to the centre circle we are all feeling the post coital glow.  But today I have the press badge, it might just be a fanzine but it is going to let me play out the fantasy that has happened every time we score for as long as I can remember.  When I stopped coming to football with my dad and started coming with my mates I took little steps to enact the fantasy. First I tried jumping up and down making sure my boobs rubbed against my friends, but they didn’t really notice, or didn’t react.  On a few occasions I have flashed my tits, it was first when the player ran to our stand waving his shirt over his head. But always, when the crowd starts to settle, one of my more sensible friends calms me down, suggests I put my top back on and I become the quiet, meek me again.  Then we chat about the finer points of the game in the stands and in the pub after and no one mentions my boisterous behaviour. Except Jim once said I should probably not take my top off. That was after a leary drunk man has called out show us your tits, love, as we left the stands and I shrank a little behind my male friends, there is nothing that would make me want that drunk man’s eyes on my tits or his hands on my body.  Vile.

But not today, I thought as I stood to make my way down to the marshal at the pitch edge, today it will be Jeff’s eyes on my tits, and his hands all over me.  The final whistle blew before I got to the marshal. The players were still in the joy of the goal, hugging each other. A couple players lifted Jeff to their shoulders carrying him along the touchline while he waved to the crowd.  Most of the crowd clapped and cheered, except for those trying to make a quick exit, the ones trying to get to the pub first, or their to their car before the traffic got bad. They bumped and pushed me as I fought my way against the flow, I swear some of their hands were groping me, but it might have just been because I was thinking about Jeff’s hands all over me.  

I got to the marshal, he let me though and I got to a big old nothings as I had to wait behind the TV reporters, the newspaper reporters, the PR men, and a dozen others more important than my little fanzine.  As I waited I had been practising what to say, I knew the right thing was to mention my fanzine name and ask if he had any special word for us… And for the fans Jeff said… But that wouldn’t have helped me get his shorts off and his cock in my mouth.  While I was waiting I decided I didn’t mind whether I fucked him or not but I definitely wanted to blow him. That was my aim. If a fuck happened it would be great if not it didn’t matter. What mattered was having a moment to remember because, to be honest, with such a long wait I had lost that sexy feeling, I no longer needed to come.  I was still hanging on to that post coital, post goal feeling when I got to ask him my question. We were pretty much alone, he looked at me, I smile and spoke.

So how does it feel?

He looked at me as if I was stupid, as if it was my fault I didn’t know how he felt.  As if he hadn’t explained how he felt in the stance he had taken after scoring. He looked away from me for other people’s questions.  Well, fuck you, mister football star, if my question is not good enough for you, you sure as fuck aint putting your cock in my mouth, or any of my orifices.  

Then I found a quiet coffee shop to write this.  But of course I didn’t post it, I posted a well balanced, if slightly critical report of the match and included a quote for our readers that I had heard Jeff give another reporter.


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