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getting around

It's important to stress right off the bat that I did not have much sex in my thirties. Granted, I thought about sex all the time, and wrote about it a good deal. But as for the having, it was predominantly a solo affair, executed in vigorous, porn-addled outbursts. Tennis Elbow, meet your new roomie, Jackoff Wrist.

I mention this because the chance to have sex with someone else ranked as a major occasion in my life. That a woman would undress and let me at the hidden places, that things between us would turn wet and desperate — the notion alone was enough to send me shivering off to the bathroom, dong in hand. This makes it difficult to explain why, on numerous occasions, faced with this delicious prospect, I chose instead to watch a sporting event.

But let's start here, in southern New Hampshire. It's a Sunday night in early October, 2000. I'm at a fancy hotel, doing a buffet dinner with a bunch of artist types. There's one in particular: packed into a school-marmish blouse and shooting me the lonely brown eyes. I've got my own lonely eyes, and so we find each other over the chicken skewers and do the necessary coital sniffing. Molly is separated from her husband, up from Manhattan for the week, a friend of a friend. She's drinking Merlot.

I'm drinking too, whiskey and soda, but that's just an excuse to freshen my drink at the bar, where I can sneak looks at the TV overhead, because my Oakland A's are in the playoffs for the first time in a decade, matched up against the Yankees in the fifth and deciding game of their series. I've rooted for the A's since I was five years old, a doomed loyalty that marks the longest-standing commitment in my life. The team was not expected to make the playoffs, let alone push New York to the limit on the very night of this buffet dinner.

Tennis Elbow, meet your new roomie, Jackoff Wrist.

It comes as a curious relief when the A's give up six runs in the first inning. The Yanks have Andy Pettitte on the mound, their ace. The game is over, in essence, which frees me up to return to the buffet and my pursuit of Molly, who has returned from the bathroom with a new coat of lipstick.

She tells me about her sculpture, which sometimes involves body molds, and this leads, hopelessly, inevitably, to a broader discussion of genital molds, and the logistics thereof. Molly prefers plaster of Paris to the newer polymers. She describes the process in less than delicate terms. "There's some crushing if you don't shave down," she tells me.

"Sounds messy," I say.

"I don't mind messy." She sips at her wine. "Sometimes messy is the most fun."

This is clearly an allusion to me, and our conversation, and the mess that might lie ahead, given that we are both soused to the point of considering genital molds acceptable small talk.

I excuse myself to get another drink and resist checking the score of the game, except that there's a guy standing in front of the TV scowling.

"What?" I say.

"Fucking Pettitte."

Yes, Fucking Pettitte who has (against all reasonable expectation) given up three runs in his first three innings. I should turn on my heel and report back to Molly. I should do that. Because her skin is pale and her mouth is red and she's a sculptress and she's up north for only a week and she doesn't mind messy. But the A's have just scored two more, and the tying runs are now on base, and the truth is I can see how it's going to proceed with Molly; I've seen this picture before. It's great for the first half hour. Then the glandular momentum winds down and we're left with the complicated sorrow that draws two people into such abject arrangements. So I sit myself down on a stool and watch the A's murder the rally and fifteen minutes later, sure as rain on London, Molly makes her appearance: stunning, disheveled, at least one Merlot past her limit; the tilt of her mouth murmurs something promising to my groin.


        

 

17 Comments

Wise choice, my friend. Women are not worth the effort - they'll always betray you in the end. Live your life, pursue your dreams, and leave the females to stew in their own insanity.

pm commented on 10/02

Yeah well he's got a kid now so I'm pretty sure he's living and stewing with females now.

MR commented on 10/02

I love articles like this that make it seem like you passed on a hot/cute girl, when the reality is if she were cute enough to fuck you'd have done so and there'd be no article.

PO commented on 10/02

Silly boy. And wow PM, clearly some issues there.

LF commented on 10/02

I was gonna pass on the article based on the title and then I saw Almond's name and I'm glad I read! Steve is one of my favorite writers on Hooksexup/Babble/whatever.

swtp commented on 10/02

this is a perfect example of why i have never nor will ever date/fuck/spend my life with someone interested in sports.

hkc commented on 10/02

Fucking pathetic. Good for him, more for me! Go keep jacking off to your favorite pitcher or whatever sad thing you do.

RGJ3 commented on 10/02

pm-leave the females to stew in their own insanity So you like the cock? That's fine too.

RGJ3 commented on 10/02

I'm gonna play sensitive devil's advocate and firmly stand by the idea that if she Reaalllly cared, she'd have been nice and finished the game with him! Haha, this is an awesome story though. Very much enjoyed. Honestly, sex isn't the only pleasurable thing in the world, and there's always more of it to be had. Sports are just easier to get into the pants of on a regular basis.

DJ commented on 10/02

I hate to say it, but PO may have called it... And the whole crotch moulding thing is so art school that you know things would have gotten messy (in a non-fun way) pretty fast--she's in her 30s, it's just lame, not hot, like twisting a cherry stem into a knot in your mouth at a bar. But --yay!--another awesome Steve Almond article. Loves ya, Almond!

YH commented on 10/02

WTF? Seriously, how long would it have taken? Bang the shit out of her for 15 minutes......And lie about something you forgot and have to take care of.....Or, tell her the truth, and switch on the game while your both naked in bed..........who cares if she's pissed?

CR commented on 10/02

i love you, steve almond.

ja commented on 10/03

The imagery and much of the phrasing is just great. I particularly liked "glandular momentum". But choosing the As over some A. Mind-boggling.

jl commented on 10/04

Steve Almond, I adore you! I loved this piece.

SS commented on 10/04

can't agree w/ the Oakland A's but if it were the Cowboys, Magic, or UT basketball I think I'm usually happier watching those than trying to talk to women unsuccessfully. At least those teams winning percentages are higher than mine haha

mts commented on 10/22

If this article is genuine - and I suspect it was thoroughly made up 1/2 hour before the submission deadline - then you're just a fucking pussy. Once bitten twice shy, I guess - I've learned to stay FAR away from 'men' like you. You stick with your beloved A's - and leave the path clear for real men that actually enjoy a woman's company. How pathetic.

SS commented on 11/09

Forgot to add: For the record - I'm a die-hard soocer fan, but even during the World Cup sex comes before sports. And I'm female, LOL.

SS commented on 11/09
 

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