Tuesday, June 9, 2009

What's love got to do with it.

I spent most of Sunday humped over in a near doggie position. I was playing tennis, so nothing juicy to report on that dismal front. My butt cheeks and thighs are sore today though, even after letting my partner do most of the work.

Come to think of it, tennis is a bit like sex from what I can remember. Hot. Repetitive. Hard on the knees when done properly. And "love", well, that's just another word for 'somebody's going down here and it's likely going to be me'.

We were in a mixed doubles tournament. Like having Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean on the same side of the net. Sort of, except Billie Jean wore the big boy pants in that match up, if I recall. Anyway, it's hard to tell whether men who willingly play alongside – or opposite – a member of the "weaker" sex actually like women, or secretly loathe us, and it is their intent to step out onto the court to humiliate (or woo) with manly power serves and beastly grunts.

I wonder.

But I don't really care. I was doing some beastly grunting myself. In fact, my partner told me to stop talking during the point. I think, by that, he meant stop swearing like I was giving birth to a big Tonka truck, when on the extremely rare occasion I missed my shot. I think I have what is commonly known as Tennis Tourete's Syndrome. It's a temporary, yet uncontrollable urge to yell things like, "sonofabitchbuggershitpisscrapfuckshit" all the while wearing a short, white pleated skirt with matching panties. (My apologies go out to Betty Hall for my for my drunken sailor language.)

Which brings me to tennis attire. To say I am a huge fan is, well, true. Any sport that encourages big-boned, "athletic" women to wear bullet-proof bras and stretchy skirts with built-in girdles is alright with me. I am waiting for the winter line of tennis pants, and tennis evening wear.

I managed to make it though five matches without a court violation, or a fist fight, but I doubt my partner will ever play with me again. I think it's from having to look at the back of my thighs and my ass humped over in his face all day. Even from a few strides away that must have been enough of a shock to to send the poor bastard running back to men's doubles. Or singles. Or badminton. Or worse.

Which makes me think of Renée Richards. Remember her, er, him, er, her. Lovely person. Her legal hissy fit after being banned by the US Tennis Association did wonders for transsexual rights. Renée would have been the perfect doubles partner. Cute outfits, but whacked the ball like she still had a pair under the matching lace panties.

I'd better run. It's election day in Havenot. The ball's in my court. Can't help but thinking no matter where my ball lands today, it'll be game over.