| "I Was a World Cup Widow"
copyright June/July 2002
This is part fact, part fiction. All I know is that
I can't decide whether to look forward to June of 2006 with
dread or anticipation. *g*
Comments welcome at femecrivain at netdot dot com - or
either via the handy form on my website:
Please, no reposting without asking me first. It's "I
write, you read" not "I give, you take."
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
FIFA World Cup. World Cup. Football. Soccer.
No matter what it was called, it meant the same thing to
me: no sex.
We'd been for a year, together for three, so I'd
never experienced the World Cup during our time as a
couple. I'd heard about it and knew it was a big soccer
match; or football match if you lived outside the US.
It was May thirtieth when he casually remarked, much as if
he was discussing the weather and not his number one,
recently rekindled obsession, "Oh, I forgot to tell you,
the World Cup starts tomorrow."
I envisioned something like the Super Bowl: two teams, one
big game, it's over. Or else the World Series - World Cup,
World Series -- I saw a connection: seven games, best of
four wins, fini. How wrong I was.
Three to four matches a day, fourteen days straight, shown
at late (or early, depending on how you look at it) hours
only night owls, drunks and obsessed soccer fans would be
likely to keep. If he didn't stay up and watch the games,
then he taped them to watch after work. He'd get home, wolf
down whatever I'd made for supper, then plant himself in
front of the TV, remote clutched in his hand like a
talisman. I heard "GOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!" so many times
during those first few days I started hearing it in my
sleep. Or maybe that was just him shouting it during the
2 A.M. matches.
For the first four days it wasn't so bad. I actually liked
watching Germany beat Saudi Arabia 8-0. It was heady to
yell "Kick it! Kick it!" and watch goalies do feats I'd
only seen accomplished before by ballerinas.
After day seven, the newness wore off and I stopped
worrying about who would beat whom. I started worrying
about my sex life; or should I say, lack of one. Going
without had never bothered me before, but there were always
good reasons: I was between boyfriends, boyfriend was out
of town, I was out of town, etc. I'd never gone seven
straight days in a relationship before without getting
Nine days into the tournament and still no sex. Not even
oral. Nothing remotely approaching a sexual act. I didn't
count the peck on the lips I got as he rushed off to work,
or the slightly-longer-but-not-by-much kiss I got before
going to bed.
Day ten dawned and I knew I had to take matters into my
own hands, so to speak. The batteries in my vibrator were
little more than a month and already they were starting
to go dead. And I had a sneaking suspicion I was
developing carpel tunnel syndrome in my right wrist.
Definitely time for action.
I tried bribery first. "Honey, I'll buy you that expensive
ale you like, if you come to bed early?" No dice; he could
buy the ale himself. "Honey, I'll rub your back during the
whole game, if you come to bed afterward?" A grunt and a
shake of the head. Evidently he didn't like to have his
back rubbed as much as I thought he did. I offered to blow
him, in the hopes he'd return the favor after the game was
over. I could see him trying to decide whether or not my
head movements would block his view of the television. He
patted me on the rear and thanked me for the offer.
World Cup: 3
I tried fixing his favorite foods in hopes he'd be so
appreciative he'd give up a game and give me sex instead. I
tried meeting him at the door wearing nothing but a push up
bra, high cut and a smile. All he said was, "Did
you hear who won?"
By the time the first round games were over, I was almost
ready to throw the television out the window. I had never
been so frustrated, or so horny, in my life. They say a
woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of thirty-two; I
was peaking, and then some.
The semi-finals came -- I still hadn't. I wondered if
dressing in soccer apparel, painting a number on my back
along with the name "Keane," rolling around on the grass to
drench my body in an earthy smell, and then meeting him at
the door with a "Hey babe, is that a soccer ball in your
pants or are you happy to see me?" would work. Probably not.
I glumly realized how "football widows" felt: neglected,
second best, superfluous. I didn't know how they could do
it year after year after year; I shuddered at the
possibility of going through it every four years.
Two days from the final game and I glumly contemplated
what would happen if I dressed like a Brazilian porn queen
and served bratwurst. With my record so far, he'd barely
Desperate and determined to get laid by the morning of the
final match, I searched online for what I needed. With
express delivery I'd have it in my hot little hands by the
next day. Perfect.
The final game was playing in our time zone at 7:00 in the
morning. By 6:30 I was showered, perfumed, made up, dressed
up, and ready for kick off.
He was sitting in front of the television, remote clutched
in hand, listening to the lyrical voice of the Irish
announcer and counting down the minutes until the game
started. I timed my entrance to coincide with the Brazilian
I stepped into his line of vision - directly in front of
the television, as a matter of fact. I was dressed in a
fantasy of - crotch lace panties, lace bra with
peek-a-boo nipple slits and a sheer robe that brushed the
tops of my thighs.
"Hon--" he started to say, his complaint breaking off when
he took a good look at me. His eyes crossed, but I couldn't
be for sure that it was because of what I was wearing or if
he was just trying to see the screen.
"No excuses," I started out by saying. I wanted to make
sure he knew that I meant business. "Just shut up and
listen. I've been patient for the past month, putting my
sexual needs on hold so that you could watch sixty-three
games, uninterrupted by me. I think I've waited long
enough. I'm tired of going to bed alone, tired of being
neglected and tired of feeling invisible. I'm getting
fucked this morning if it's the last thing you do!"
I slid the robe down my arms and let it pool at my feet. I
turned to face away from him, backing up and sitting in his
lap, my legs on either side of his. His arms came around my
waist and squeezed. "I'm sorry," he whispered in my ear.
I leaned back and turned so I could whisper back, "I know."
I stayed pressed back against him, my eyes fastened on the
television as the game started. His hand came up to idly
tease my exposed nipples. "Brazil's in yellow, right?"
"And both teams have been to the World Cup seven times?"
"Has either team ever played each other before?"
"Not in a World Cup, no. Maybe never, period, I dunno."
I could feel him starting to get hard, and I wiggled my
butt. "I hope Germany wins." I blew in his ear. "I think
the goalie's kind of cute." He moaned.
If he considered my commenting on the game as some form of
talking dirty, I was willing to do it.
And by the time Brazil had scored their second goal, I'd
scored two of my own.