Super Bowl Sodomy Timeline


Every year my wife and I make an Unholy Bet for the Super Bowl. This is yesterday’s timeline:

7:58 A.M. – Wake to sleeping wife. She looks smug, like she’s dreaming of a Baltimore win, dreaming of the things she’s going to stick up my butt.
8:03 A.M. – Sit on the toilet and cry.
8:15 – 8:40 A.M. – Pace the floors of our apartment.
8:43 A.M. – Remember the dog needs to go out. Watching Sunny poop makes me anxious.
9:45 – 10:25 A.M. – Turn on the computer. Type a poorly-written blog post.
10:35 A.M. – Start biting nails, which makes me think of my wife’s nails. Refuse to cry.
11:02 A.M. – Sneak into our bedroom and quietly pull out my suitcase. I accidently wake up my wife, who sees my pathetic attempt to flee. “Oh right, Super Bowl!”
11:03 A.M. – Taunting begins with wife slowly worming her finger towards my face.
11:04 A.M – 12:15 P.M – Field texts, calls, and Facebook messages from friends asking who I picked (Niners), wondering how I’m feeling, and wishing me luck. My mom calls and asks what I’m cooking today. I tell her I don’t want to talk about food. She asks what’s wrong. I make up an excuse to get off the phone.
1:35 P.M. – I feel like I’ve been watching the pregame show for a month, but I can’t look away. I’m hoping they’ll tell us one of the Ravens is dead.
1:49 P.M. – After an interview with Ray Lewis, my wife starts trying out his war dance. I ask her to stop. She keeps dancing. She says, “I’m gonna stab your butt like Ray Lewis.”
2:38 P.M. – We place an online order for hot wings. I already regret it. My stomach is in knots.
3:15 P.M. – How the hell is this pregame show still on?
3:29 P.M. – Alicia Keys starts singing the National Anthem, which means it’s almost kickoff. I wish it was still the pregame show.
4:07 P.M. – Flacco drills one to Anquan Boldin for a touchdown. Ravens take the first lead. Wife claps and dances around. She shows me her finger and repeats, “Gonna stab it in there like Ray Lewis.”
4:29 P.M. – San Francisco settles for a field goal. The delivery guy buzzes. The wings arrive.
4:50 P.M. – Ravens force a fumble and recover. I wonder if I’ll ever recover.
5:20 P.M. – Wife just starts picking up objects and showing them to me. There’s no way that ketchup bottle is going to fit.
5:22 P.M. – I’m so stuffed, but I defiantly eat a wing as my wife pantomimes spreading my butt-cheeks and crawling her whole body into my butt.
5:30 – 6:30 P.M. – Each live-Tweet I post tears through my heart. I’m trying to be funny, but I’m miserable. It’s clear the Niners are overmatched. Beyonce does give me a small reprieve, but only an act of God will save my rear.
6:32 P.M. – POWER OUT AT THE SUPERDOME! Act of God! Act of God!
7:00 P.M. – Power back on. So are my wife’s taunts. She’s doing a form of the running man in our living room. Our dog starts spinning in circles. I feel betrayed.
7:29 P.M. – Holy crap, the Niners have pulled within 5! Just under two minutes to go. It’s 4th and Goal. Kaepernick chucks it to the corner for Crabtree. I close my eyes and listen as Jess screams. It’s a happy scream. It’s over. Almost. We watch as the last seconds tick off. Ravens win.
7:33 P.M. – I’m taking off my pants as I walk to the bedroom. Jess says, “Come on, let’s savor this for a bit.” “DON’T USE THE WORD ‘SAVOR.’” I get on my back, hold my knees, and close my eyes. My wife pushes a button. The buzzing fills my ears. I start giggling. I can’t stop.
“Why don’t we just tell people we did this?” Jess says. “No one will know.”
“I’ll know.” Three deep breaths.
And we have penetration!
I start to scream, then suddenly stop.
“What?” Jess asks.
“It’s…not bad.”

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Super Bowl Sodomy

It’s Super Bowl Sunday, which means I’m nervous.  I can’t stop pacing.  It’s not even 11:00 A.M. and I’m already sweating.  If the Ravens win, I’m going to cry.  This must be what gambling addicts feel like, only instead of worrying about losing my kid’s college tuition, I’m afraid of what’s going to get shoved up my butt. 

 

My wife and I, you see, we have this bet.  It’s unholy.  It’s my fault.  I was trying to be funny.  I didn’t know it’d be annual.  Now I’ve turned this wonderful day into a horror show.  I should be thinking about the snacks I could make, the cocktails I’ll consume.  Should I stir something fancy? Something red for San Francisco?

But I don’t care.  I only drink to numb myself.  I won’t watch the commercials.  I won’t chuckle at the little kid dressed as Darth Vader.  I’ll just be wearing down the carpet around my coffee table. 

Thankfully, only my wife and dog will witness my clammy disposition.   We’re not having people over.  It’s too much stress.  I can’t pretend to be polite.  I don’t want my friends to see me like this.  Most would take too much glee in my misery.  They’d taunt me.  I already get enough of that from my wife. 

Jess is still sleeping.  She’s not even worried.  We’ve done the butt thing with her on non-Super Bowl days.  She’s fine with it.  I’m not.  I’m so so so not.  It hurts.  I make weird sniveling noises.  I curl up and ask to be held

 

Even if I win today, I won’t take any pleasure.  I’ll just be thinking about next year.

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I Don’t Do the Gay Guys, Man

Yesterday I attempted a humorous post about the media’s coverage of Manti Te’o’s sexuality.  I was trying to find something funny in a situation that made me sick.  Even in this enlightened time when our President calls for equality for every human being, I realized that an NFL-hopeful, even a finalist for the Heisman, could never come out before the draft.  He’d probably get scooped up by a team eventually, but he’d lose millions, because to take on a gay player would mean more scrutiny, more vitriol, more interviews, and possibly fights in the locker room.  With dickfaces like , the CB for the 49ers, saying, “I don’t do the gay guys man.  I don’t do that.  No, we don’t got no gay people on the team, they gotta get up out of here if they do.  Can’t be with that sweet stuff.  Nahcan’t bein the locker room man.  Nah.”

I like how he said, “I don’t do the gay guys, man,” leaving the possibility that he only does straight dudes.

I also like how other players are getting asked if they’d have a problem with a gay player.  , linebacker for the Ravens, responded, “Absolutely not.  We don’t care.”  He said, “On this team, with so many different personalities, we just accept people for who they are and we don’t really care too much about a player’s sexuality.  You know who you are, and we accept you for it.”

His teammate, Brendon Ayanbadejo, has also been an outspoken advocate for same-sex marriage.  He’s using the Super Bowl as a platform to speak about equality for the LGBT community.  Ayanbadejo has even said Chris Culliver’s anti-gay remarks have inspired him to reach out to Chris Culliver, who apologized yesterday.

reported his words:

“[I was] really just not thinking. [It was] something that I thought. Definitely nothing that I felt in my heart,” Culliver said.  “I support gay people, gay communities, and different racial [backgrounds]. It was just something I feel apologetic to, and I’m sorry that I made a comment and that hurt anyone — that I made a comment that might affect anyone in the organization, NFL, or anything like that.”

The apology doesn’t erase what he said, but it shows that progress is being made.  Minds are opening.  One day a player will have the courage to come out, and an owner will have the resolve to give him a contract.  A lot of fans and players will scream and rage, but the bigots of the world need to realize their ignorance and hate will not prevail.

The Unholy Bet

This post is going to be about putting things in people’s butts.  If that offends you or if you’ve just eaten pancakes, you might want to skip this.  Or bookmark it for later.

Okay, now that it’s just us sophisticated adults, let’s talk about the place farts come out.

I’ve heard some people receive quite a bit of pleasure from this orifice, but I’ve always considered the brown-eyed monster to be far too hilarious, inappropriate, and gross to even imagine reaching euphoria by shoving things up there.  My tolerance for pain is embarrassingly low, and I’m prone to giggle fits when I’m nervous.

Just the thought of a finger creeping towards that area causes me to tremble.  It’s why I’m so nervous about this Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday, to be precise.

My wife and I, you see, well, we have this bet.  Every Super Bowl we each pick a team, and the winner gets to poke the other in the tushy.  Yes, it’s juvenile and disgusting, but it does make the game more exciting.

The bet originated seven years ago.  Jess and I were living in New York.  We’d only been dating for a month.  For the Super Bowl, we went to a bar with one of her friends.  The place was loud and we weren’t really near the TV.  Somehow we got onto the subject of anal sex.  Jess told the story about her ex-boyfriend and how he asked her to use a strap-on on him.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  It was fun.”

“Thatsounds like the opposite of fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one getting fucked in the ass.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Jess’s friend interjected.  “This is really gross.”

I turned towards the TV and saw the first quarter had already ended.  We’d hardly seen a play.

“I feel like we should be paying more attention,” Jess said.

“I know,” I said.  “But I don’t really care about the Steelers or Seattle.”

“Ooh, we should make a bet!” Jess said.

“Okay.  Like what?”

“I don’t know.  Not money.”  We were both in grad school and broke.

“It should be something interesting then,” I said.

“Okay… Hmmm…” Jess was clearly coming up with something devious.  Not wanting to be outdone, I blurted:

“Anal.”

“God damn it, fucking stop,” her friend said.

I kept my eyes locked with Jess.

“Alright,” she said.  “Winner gets anal.”

“Okay, it’s a betWait!  Winner gets to GIVE anal, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“NOT cool,” her friend said.  “I’m seriously going to leave.”

That night, Pittsburg and I celebrated victory.  It was glorious.  The next year, Peyton Manning brought me my second championship.  I was unstoppable.  I got cocky.

Then came the New York fucking Giants.

I won the coin toss, but I let Jess pick first.  I knew she couldn’t resist her beloved hometown heroes.  The years of cheering on the Giants with her dad made this a lock.  She loved talking about the victory lap they took around the living room when Bill Parcells raised his fists into the air.  But those were the old Giants.  Eli and his buddies were facing the mighty Patriots.  Undefeated.  Bill Belichick.  Tom Brady.  The return of Randy Moss.  The puny Giants didn’t stand a chance.  The game was just a formality.  In a few hours the Patriots would finally rip out the hearts of New York, New Jersey, and the ’72 Dolphins.

I almost felt sorry for Jess as I sat on the couch smugly eating nachos.  I asked her if she wanted to get this over with during halftime.  I told her she looked nervous.  With two minutes left, I started strutting around the room.

Next, it was third down, barely a minute to go.   Four Patriots broke through the Giants’ line like jackals.  Eli scrambled.  He looked terrified.  I started to howl.  But then Eli contorted his body and escaped.  He chucked the ball to a leaping David Tyree.  Who the hell is David Tyree?  He caught the ball, pinning it against his helmet.  The most ridiculous catch the world had ever seen.  Jess jumped to her feet.  She danced.  She pointed at my face.  “Oh, yeah!  How you like me now?!”

I took a deep breath, told myself the Patriots were fine.  Belichick was a defensive mastermind.  There were still thirteen yards to go.  But after a bullet to Plaxico Burress, a man who would become famous for shooting himself in the leg at a nightclub, the Giants and Jess roared in celebration.

“Get in the room, pretty boy.”

Haha.”

“I’m serious, go.”

“Jess…”

“What, honey?  You lost.”

“Youyoudon’t even have a strap-on.”

“I have a vibrator.”

“Oh, God damn it.  Come on.”

“You made the bet.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”  The walk to our room felt like the green mile.  To be honest, electrocution actually sounded more humane.

Jess opened the dresser, pulled out her little friend.  Its tip was curved.  I started to well up.

“Anthony, hey, I’m just joking around.  We don’t have to do this.”

“No, we made the bet.”  Jess had never backed out of the wager.  I couldn’t either.  I unzipped and crawled onto the bed.  “How should II mean, uh…?”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s easier for you when…?”

“I guesson my back.”

I positioned myself, propped up a pillow, grabbed the backs of my knees.

I’d never felt more vulnerable.  I realized this is what women must feel at the gynecologist.

Jess twisted the knob.  Buzzing filled my ears.  It sounded cruel.

“Do you have to turn it on?”

“No…  I just thought it might be easier.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, just do it.”

I closed my eyes, felt the vibrating wand tickle the hairs on my butt.  I started giggling.

“Anthony, come on.”

“I can’t help it.  I’m nervous.”

“Well, it’s making itclose up.”

“Alright, alright.  Just give me a second.”  I took a few deep breaths, tried not to picture what was about to happen.  I thought of the beers in the fridge.  I should’ve drank more.  I shouldn’t have been so confident.  I should’ve been preparing myself.  How the fuck did David Tyree catch that?!

“Okay, Anthony, I’m going to count to three.”

“Fine, whatever.”  I counted along.  “One…”

Why did I come up with this bet?

Two…”

The tip entered my private space, but she hadn’t said three.  Why hadn’t she said three?  How rude!

I’m sure my scream could be heard from space. 

“Stopmoving!” I said.

“Oh, okay, sorry.  Do you, uh, want me to pull it out?”

“UhnoyeahI don’t know…”

“Do youlike it?”

“No!  But I’m afraid of what might happen if you pull it out.”

“Oh…”

“Just stay still.”

And we sat there, neither of us moving.  Finally, I opened my eyes.  Jess clearly felt bad.  I told her it was okay.  “We’ll get through this.”

“I think I should pull it out.”

“Yeahokay…”

It was over.  I curled into a ball.  Jess held me.

“You still want to marry me?” she asked.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

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