The Football Diaries

There was a time... a time
when man played mahjong, and the woman watched,
when man asked for a hand-job, and a blow-job he got.
when man played Sunday sports, and the woman thought he was god,
when man wielded the remote control and the woman's slot.

I was a woman of that time.

Dating a male-chauvinist, football-betting, car-loving, wrestling-watching, mahjong-playing, Hokkien-speaking, family-doting man for 4 years didn’t turn out to be an unbelievable waste of my time, as you would presume this blog entry will be about. Instead, these four years, unbeknownst to me, was life’s way of putting me through the University of Patriarchal Repression, of which I graduated with a double degree in Asian Submission and Women’s Assets Capitalisation – with flying colours. In retrospect, I even did a cross faculty module and earned a minor credit in Male-Banter-Ology.

To think I spent months crying my heart out when it ended.
To think I thought life was over when it’s only lust (I mean just) started.

Today, I live to tell the tale of my life after male domination.

When it hit me, it hit me like the tsunami hit Phuket. With some warning signs, but still totally unexpected. For many, engaging in conversation with random guys after getting out of a long relationship must be like Chewbucca trying to string a sentence. But for me, it was as easy as getting tits on your pc screen.

I was not interested in men anymore. All of them looked to me like Sloth in The Goonies – eager and pathetic. Nothing more than bumbling fools, hungry for love, acceptance, and someone to stroke their dick. I had developed a serious condescension for them, one that was downed with a bitter shot of vodka and pity.

And that seriously drove the men nuts.

One especially. I know so, because he told it to my face. We just met in the pub after a quick introduction by a friend and I didn’t even bother catching his name. (although I did catch a longer than needed view of his face). Minutes later, he walks up to me, in all grown-man casualness and offers me his beer. I declined with a disapproving headshake, the kind my primary 2 form teacher used to give me. And he said:

He: You look angry. Do all men annoy you?
Me: *managing a weak smile* No.
He: Only me then?
Me: *smile getting politely impatient* No. *looks across the bar to display bore*

*awkward silence*

He: *Using his chin to point his attention to a couple at the end of the bar* aren’t they having the most electrifying date?
Me: *laughs appreciatively, then gesturing to a ladyboy who was pulling her moves on a man next to the couple* Watch Out. Man ON!
He: *throws his head back and laughs out loudly* that’s so funny! *shouts across the bar* Balls! Do you see what I see?
Me: oh, looks like it’s going to be a stalemate.
He: Nah… She’s going to score.
Me: A hatrick perhaps? *all laugh*

He: My name’s _______. We met earlier.
Me: Ya, I kn…. OH MY GOD…. Are you who I think you are?
He: *looks skywards cheekily* I am NOT David Beckam.
Me: OH MY GAWD! It’s you!

*** he is a famous local footballer. A bit of a celebrity.

He: Yes. Yes. I see you are friendlier now.
Me: Oh, sorry about earlier, I was a bit out of it. All good now.
He: So, you know your football! Good girl!
Me: Just enough to impress you.
He: You must have a boyfriend. That’s why.
Me: yeah, I did. He taught me lots. For instance, the offside rule.
He: you did? So, that means he’s not here today?
Me: I saw you, so I told him to go home and have a wank.
He: haha. which is his favourite team?
Me: Spurs.
He: That’s a good team. Your favourite team?
Me: Leeds.
He: WHAT?!?! I take it back, you don’t know your football.
Me: Hey, that’s why we broke up. So don’t go there. Ha. Actually, it’s Liverpool. I say Leeds, because Harry Kewell is sooooooo cute lah. Oh, maybe Blackburn then, cos David James is so.goddamn.yummy.
He: *wipes the imaginary drool from my chin, and gives me a first bolt of eye contact stimulation* David James can suck my dick. ha. Kewell, I know him. Do you know he’s Aussie?
Me: Do U know George Michaels is GAY?... *more laughs* He was a KING, until he became QUEEN
He: smart cookie. Come’on, let’s go to my place. *and he took my drink from my hands, put it on the counter, scooped me at the waist and led me out of the bar* watch some football.
Me: *followed him like a lamb following a blade of grass to the slaughterhouse*

Every now and then, women who are witty and acerbic, headstrong and full of scorn need - like lambs - a goddamn skinning.

He got in. didn’t turn on the lights. Neither did he offer me a drink. He just sat on the coffee table, pulled me closer to him by the hips and said, “So, where’s that witty girl gone?” and he lifted up my dress. “Tough cookie, not so tough now, huh?” and he undid his own pants. I pushed at his chest and he took my wrist, and put it behind my back. Every move I had, he countered it with a sexy animalistic aggression. He did as he pleased, ignoring my mini protests and working me at his own pace. When he wanted me to kiss him, he guided me to him by pulling at my neck. When he wanted to stop kissing, he pulled me away and smiled. When he wanted more, he got it. And when I wanted anything, he made me beg for it. I was totally dominated and it felt fucking good. I let that submissive girl in me take over and it was bizarrely arousing. I allowed him to dictate the flow and it felt strangely empowering. It was mind-blowing and I was the one on my hands and knees causing it. “Sit here… Show me… keep going… good girl” was all he needed to say, and I’d shoot him a defiant look, only to be contradicted by my actions that complied with his instructions. He was the alpha-male and I was riding him. The irony amused me. And my lack of power stimulated me. He wouldn’t let me say no. Well, even though I did, he paid no attention. He was an animal and I was his prey. Like a lamb to a wolf, I was food and he was exacting his right. I could run, but he would win. We were just letting nature take over.

One by the master, one for the slave, and one for the road, by the errant knave.
I enjoyed myself 3 bags full.

And alas, after what must be 3 hours, we were lying down on our backs with a pant of finality – smiling from ear to ear.

He: You know what I like about you?
Me: My flat nose.
He: ha. That too.

He: You’re the kinda girl who thinks you got it all, all men are wrapped around your finger… every guy wants to get into your pants….
Me: Hey, that’s not…
He: And you are. You are.
Me: Wow. Thanks.
He: you’re not from Singapore.
Me: I am!
He: I mean, you’re not like a typical one.
Me: Oh, I see, you have slept with enough to make a random sampling of the population?
He: ha. I like you. You talk like a man. but you kiss like a girl.
Me: that’s cos I AM a girl.
He: I saw you tonight, and I knew I had to fuck you.
Me: what?!
He: So glad I did. *laughs to himself*
Me: hang on, let me check footballer off my list.
He: aw… that’s mean.
Me: you should really stop relying on your stardom to get laid. Over-rated
He: *tickles me*
Me: why do guys do that when they don’t have a comeback?
He: *tickles me again*
Me: it’s ok. Brute strength got you this far.
He: your nasty mouth should eat this…

It went on for another 2 hours… these footballers have so much stamina, and I have so much to give.

***This entry would like to thank my ex-boyfriend for his contribution. For without that 4 years of football trivia training, the author might have never had such a crazy night with a football star.