Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Gold Medals, Rhinestone Shoes

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I suppose you’ve heard the lurid stories of the Olympic Village, of terrible things done with the blunt ends of javelins, and writhing tangles of sinewy sweatiness. Taut muscles straining and necks clenched in sexual championshipness. Fierce competitors on the field of play, these young and fit stallions and mares hump with gleeful abandon.

Perhaps you’ve read this other places, but there are condoms provided to the athletes. Free of charge! They go through many of them, but there’s quite a bit of barebacking and rawdogging, this reporter is told.

Anxious to get my toddy hot, I skulked about the Village while on several dating sites. It should be noted at this point that I told no lies, except for using a fake name and photo and a cover story. Also, I wasn’t on several dating sites, just Grindr, because slut-shaming is frowned upon but queer-baiting is always good for a click or two.

My phone dinged with dongs. A handball player who wanted to play with my balls, with his hands. A pole vaulter who wanted to vault onto my pole. A tennis player wanted a blowjob. Several were black. There were pictures of their penises, which were lean and muscular, laid upon flags and other patriotic gear. One photo, from a judoka, was of the Olympic Rings, but the middle ring was a butthole.

A number of these gentlemen desired sex before five o’clock, like animals or Irishmen, and I had to call my straight home where my straight lady wife and her vagina, from which my straight children slid, reside. She calmed me. Oh, thank the Lord for women.

An hour saw me with three dates! I rushed to my first assignation in the Olympic Village, and found my homosexual. I shall leave out his distinguishing details, but he is a wrestler from Iran, and I will not reveal his name.

“Farouk Ismail,” I said to him. “I am actually a reporter with the internet. Tell me all about your gayness.”

“Oh. Oh, um. Please, uh, please don’t…why are you doing this? You know where I’m from? This could literally get me killed. I’m having the best two weeks of my life, and you know what? My life is unbelievably complicated on every level: emotionally, politically, financially. I gotta deal with my fucking mother, man. Don’t do this. Forget the fact that you’re gonna come off like a complete fuckhead, you could literally–literally–get me killed. Murdered. Just go away and forget you met me and rethink the thrust of this article.”

“How did you spell ‘Farouk’ again?”

And then he put me in a headlock and ripped my skull from my body and tossed my body in a favela and the dogs ate it and except for my wife and children–straight, all of them–everyone was surprisingly okay with it.

4 Comments

  1. Luther Von Baconson

    August 12, 2016 at 4:08 am

    i could see you hooking up and living happily ever after with an Olympic Life Partner. Perhaps helping out on the bench with the R7s, applying that Thing Tied Around the Upper Thigh with What Appears To Be Black Electrician’s Tape and Some Sort of Gauze.

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