Features

Actually, I fucked two.
Emerson King | Fulcrum Staff

THE HEADLINE SAYS it all. I fall into the category of people who have hooked up with a garnet-and-grey-clad athlete. I’m not telling you who they are or what team they play for because one of my deepest fears is that they have compared notes on me during locker-room talk.

I reined in my first horse during my first year at the U of O. We met through a mutual friend and grew close over the course of the school year. During exam time in April, we were hanging out—watching Pirates of the Caribbean, of all things—when he made a move.

Unfortunately, the speed and endurance that he was known for in the field didn’t translate well to the bedroom—he raced to the finish, leaving me alone in the dust. What’s worse, a tragic miscommunication resulted in me hauling my recently spanked ass to the campus pharmacy for some Plan B. I’m pretty sure I blew a kiss at the pharmacist when he handed me that little white paper bag.

I hooked up with this Gee-Gee a few more times throughout my university career. There were times when I considered something a bit more serious, but looking back, I think that was just the lust talking—he had a really cute butt.

Here’s the thing about athletes: I think we assume the sexual experiences we have with them will be out of this world, but that’s not always the case. They are a subject of fantasy, and a big part of fantasy is perfection. In terms of sex, athletes are just regular guys with nicer bodies.

Gee-Gee number two and I met in a traditional and practical student manner—at the bar. As we were flirting, he leaned forward to kiss me on the hand and get a good look at my boobs—something I’d probably consider sleazy if he didn’t look like Cam Gigandet’s body double. Although that’s normally not my type, it was already clear that this was a one-night-only sort of deal—I got a slight “Coach says I’m not allowed to see girls during the playing season” vibe from this guy—and I was diggin’ it. I was also a bit drunk.

I went back to his place, where we made a pathetic attempt at conversation about his new apartment and whether or not he was going to go pro. Needless to say, the chit-chat didn’t hold up. Proceed to us getting more comfortable in bed, and voila! We were soon tangled up in some sort of spider-like position, happily humping away.

And so commenced my first one-night-stand—during which I wondered if my bedroom skills were better than average, because this Gee-Gee was quick out of the gate too. This thought quickly disappeared when he went down on me in a “sorry I came too fast” gesture. It was really sweet—mainly because he was pretty darn good at it.

During the walk home, I recapped the chain of events from the previous night, wondering if I should have played harder to get and if teammates actually swap stories about these kinds of nights. My reflection was interrupted by someone yelling, “WALK OF SHAME!” out their window at me. Can’t a girl take a Sunday-morning stroll in booty shorts and tall leather boots anymore? Still, the thought resonated with me and initiated a ten-month dry spell, which I now refer to as “the lonely days.” Back to fantasizing about athletes instead of actually having sex with them.

Now it’s not as if each hookup was necessarily bad—it’s just that they fell short of the Harlequin perfection I had dreamed up. Perhaps I simply laid some of the groundwork in improving their bedroom skills for the next girls they went after. I can definitely say these Gee-Gees did the same for me, because I’ve since gone on to have much better sex—with guys without varsity jackets.