surfers and sex
Things aren’t good for sportsmen right now and there is much to repair. Where once young ladies looked favourably at a man’s place in a professional sporting hierarchy in order to confirm his righteous credentials, they have lately been betrayed by several well-documented accounts of unbridled lust and unseemly appetites for violence and improper sexual satisfaction amongst this elite group of celebrated individuals.
This is not a good thing.
But there is hope.
The woman who prefers a safe sexual relationship with an elite sportsman can look no further than what she may share with a surfer.
He who arise hours before dawn, winter or summer, and without a thought for the questing hand that may delay his departure from the warm marital bed, journeys forth to wherever he hung the damp boardshorts and mouldy towel before vacating home and hearth for the dark and cold ocean waters that await his pleasure.
Only too return far too late to do anything but eat an apple and throw on his working gear before decamping once more, leaving the little lady in frustrated expectations once again. Though she is a patient woman and waits expectantly for his return. Such is the inexplicable allure of being married to a man of the sea.
The wait however isn’t for long as once again the sea beckons upon his return and a late afternoon glass off is not to be denied … she’ll be lucky if he turns off the car ignition in his haste to be changed and gone.
To return an hour after dark, hungry, cold and utterly knackered, incapable of any intimacy other than a polite kiss on the good wife’s forehead before flaking out on the lounge after dinner.
Whereupon he twitches and shakes, lost in an unconsciousness reverie of waves just ridden: the sorry evidence of a man addicted to his pleasures.
The sea is a ruthless mistress, her unrestrained volutions unable to be denied.