I felt like such a ‘man’ yesterday. It worried me.
I never feel like a ‘man’. I wear women’s jeans and think beer is too fizzy. But I was playing football against a group of women. Which was a problem for me. I felt far too positive about the whole gender diversity to fit in with either group. The men thought I was too feminine, and the women thought I had a bit too much penis. So I was on the fence. I wanted to be like:
“Right on sisters! You show these ‘men’ that the beautiful game is for everyone!”
But I was in the ‘men’s team. So I had to be like:
“Grrr. I bet she’s got a nice vagina.”
Or something like that. I was trying my best to improvise. I’d heard ‘men’ being ‘men’ enough to know that you can operate pretty freely within the boundaries of football, beer, women, cars, and MMA. I’d gotten quite good at knowing when to laugh and nod and how to shake my head disapprovingly and spit on the floor when someone mentioned the word ‘homo’. But I was in a bit of jam yesterday.
We were all doing our ‘man’s warmup. If you’ve ever seen an amateur team warming up for a match on a Sunday morning then you’ll know what this involves. Half of the team are lying on ground at the side of the pitch with a cigarette hanging from their mouth and bottle of Coke in their hand. The other, slightly more eager and marginally less hungover players are kicking footballs into an open net and scratching their testicles. Grrrr! There is always one player, usually the veteran of the team, that is stretching and doing laps of the pitch. But for the most part everyone is acting like a true professional within the realms of Sunday league. Lovin’ it! You just stand about talking about how you could have shagged this one Polish slag at the bar if you hadn’t been so wasted from all that beer! Way-hey! Mantastic behavior with sexual hip pumps thrown in every now and again to emphasize the sexism you feel you need to express in order to be a true man. Lager!
So the other team start doing laps of the pitch. And with them all being women and all of us being ‘men’, we just stopped kicking the ball into the net and started staring at them. We looked some kind of community council initiative team that tried to reform sex offenders through the medium of Sunday league football. We just stood there scratching our balls and talking about which girl you’d have sex with, the occasional player wondering which one would be open to having anal sex.
I gave my testicles a quick scratch too. I might have even taken it all a step further and licked my lips. I couldn’t say for sure. Anyone that has ever gotten deep into the psychological state of a dark, sexually advantageous character will testify that you can lose yourself in the moment. You might do things that you’ve never done before and add new dimensions to the character that you never knew existed.
I stopped short of actually raping anyone because I felt that I’d done enough to prove that I was a real man. I’d played the game, scored a couple of goals and pushed one of the girls over. I felt really bad about it but I couldn’t show that, so I spat on her and called her a “slut” while she was pulling herself up.
There is absolutely no point to me telling you any of this. Parts of it are true and parts of it are lies. I felt like a ‘man’ and I didn’t know who to turn to. My team mates don’t know that I have a blog because I feel like if I tell them about it then they might discover that I’m not actually a rapist. I’m just someone who aspires to be like a rapist on Sundays so that I can make friends.
I had a free half hour before work and threw this together because I wasn’t sure when I’d get another one. This is truly nonsense and has no direction, but it’s the best that a crispy brain could throw together quickly, without a single idea on where it would start or end.