FIFA World Cup. World Cup. Football. Soccer.

No matter what it was called, it meant the same thing to me: no sex.

We'd been married for a year, together for three, so I'd never experienced the World Cup during our time as a couple. I'd heard about it and knew it was a big soccer match; or football match if you lived outside the US.

It was May thirtieth when he casually remarked, much as if he was discussing the weather and not his number one, recently rekindled obsession, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, the World Cup starts tomorrow."

I envisioned something like the Super Bowl: two teams, one big game, it's over. Or else the World Series - World Cup, World Series -- I saw a connection: seven games, best of four wins, fini. How wrong I was.

Three to four matches a day, fourteen days straight, shown at late (or early, depending on how you look at it) hours only night owls, drunks and obsessed soccer fans would be likely to keep. If he didn't stay up and watch the games, then he taped them to watch after work. He'd get home, wolf down whatever I'd made for supper, then plant himself in front of the TV, remote clutched in his hand like a talisman. I heard "GOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!" so many times during those first few days I started hearing it in my sleep. Or maybe that was just him shouting it during the 2 A.M. matches.

For the first four days it wasn't so bad. I actually liked watching Germany beat Saudi Arabia 8-0. It was heady to yell "Kick it! Kick it!" and watch goalies do feats I'd only seen accomplished before by ballerinas.

After day seven, the newness wore off and I stopped worrying about who would beat whom. I started worrying about my sex life; or should I say, lack of one. Going without had never bothered me before, but there were always good reasons: I was between boyfriends, boyfriend was out of town, I was out of town, etc. I'd never gone seven straight days in a relationship before without getting laid.

Nine days into the tournament and still no sex. Not even oral. Nothing remotely approaching a sexual act. I didn't count the peck on the lips I got as he rushed off to work, or the slightly-longer-but-not-by-much kiss I got before going to bed.

Day ten dawned and I knew I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. The batteries in my vibrator were little more than a month old and already they were starting to go dead. And I had a sneaking suspicion I was developing carpel tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. Definitely time for action.

I tried bribery first. "Honey, I'll buy you that expensive ale you like, if you come to bed early?" No dice; he could buy the ale himself. "Honey, I'll rub your back during the whole game, if you come to bed afterward?" A grunt and a shake of the head. Evidently he didn't like to have his back rubbed as much as I thought he did. I offered to blow him, in the hopes he'd return the favor after the game was over. I could see him trying to decide whether or not my head movements would block his view of the television. He patted me on the rear and thanked me for the offer.

World Cup: 3
Wife: 0

I tried fixing his favorite foods in hopes he'd be so appreciative he'd give up a game and give me sex instead. I tried meeting him at the door wearing nothing but a push up bra, high cut panties and a smile. All he said was, "Did you hear who won?"

By the time the first round games were over, I was almost ready to throw the television out the window. I had never been so frustrated, or so horny, in my life. They say a woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of thirty-two; I was peaking, and then some.

The semi-finals came -- I still hadn't. I wondered if dressing in soccer apparel, painting a number on my back along with the name "Keane," rolling around on the grass to drench my body in an earthy smell, and then meeting him at the door with a "Hey babe, is that a soccer ball in your pants or are you happy to see me?" would work. Probably not.

I glumly realized how "football widows" felt: neglected, second best, superfluous. I didn't know how they could do it year after year after year; I shuddered at the possibility of going through it every four years.

Two days from the final game and I glumly contemplated what would happen if I dressed like a Brazilian porn queen and served bratwurst. With my record so far, he'd barely even notice.

Desperate and determined to get laid by the morning of the final match, I searched online for what I needed. With express delivery I'd have it in my hot little hands by the next day. Perfect.

The final game was playing in our time zone at 7:00 in the morning. By 6:30 I was showered, perfumed, made up, dressed up, and ready for kick off.

He was sitting in front of the television, remote clutched in hand, listening to the lyrical voice of the Irish announcer and counting down the minutes until the game started. I timed my entrance to coincide with the Brazilian national anthem.

I stepped into his line of vision - directly in front of the television, as a matter of fact. I was dressed in a fantasy of red - split crotch lace panties, lace bra with peek-a-boo nipple slits and a sheer robe that brushed the tops of my thighs.

"Hon--" he started to say, his complaint breaking off when he took a good look at me. His eyes crossed, but I couldn't be for sure that it was because of what I was wearing or if he was just trying to see the screen.

"No excuses," I started out by saying. I wanted to make sure he knew that I meant business. "Just shut up and listen. I've been patient for the past month, putting my sexual needs on hold so that you could watch sixty-three games, uninterrupted by me. I think I've waited long enough. I'm tired of going to bed alone, tired of being neglected and tired of feeling invisible. I'm getting fucked this morning if it's the last thing you do!"

"Oh."

I slid the robe down my arms and let it pool at my feet. I turned to face away from him, backing up and sitting in his lap, my legs on either side of his. His arms came around my waist and squeezed. "I'm sorry," he whispered in my ear.

I leaned back and turned so I could whisper back, "I know."

I stayed pressed back against him, my eyes fastened on the television as the game started. His hand came up to idly tease my exposed nipples. "Brazil's in yellow, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"And both teams have been to the World Cup seven times?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Has either team ever played each other before?"

"Not in a World Cup, no. Maybe never, period, I dunno."

I could feel him starting to get hard, and I wiggled my butt. "I hope Germany wins." I blew in his ear. "I think the goalie's kind of cute." He moaned.

If he considered my commenting on the game as some form of talking dirty, I was willing to do it.

I continued.

And by the time Brazil had scored their second goal, I'd scored two of my own.


THE END


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