Friday, June 15, 2012
I’ve watched tennis for years. I like the sense of sparring, and the unique combination of power and beauty that it embodies. I watch all the majors: The Australian Open, The US Open, Wimbledon, and Roland Garros (aka the French Open.)
Of course, being an author, anything I watch can be fodder for a story or a poem, and late in May, as Roland Garros was in full swing, I was watching the women’s early rounds. One player started strong, then began to falter, but through determination, she won it in three sets. Her transformation, the sense of determination, the way she took charge as her game became more intense. I love that kind of game, and my mind wandered, wandered to a man watching the same thing; a man who has been searching, trying to find what he wants in a woman. Maybe a vanilla sex young man who lives an orderly, gentle life and knows something is missing. Knows some stirrings, some cravings come to him, but does not know how to express them. He sees something in the tennis player’s determination, and her frustration which becomes focus. He admires her power and becomes even more fascinated.
Epiphanies come in strange ways.
Becoming the Ball ©2012 Craig J. Sorensen
I want to marry a tennis player. Perky, tactile nipples poke through bra and pastel pink top. Her moves across the court, a dance, she looks so playful as she wins the first set so handily. The second set is no picnic. She struggles, fights, but ultimately loses, and as the third set starts, bright white teeth nearly puncture her lower lip.
Man she looks pissed. I lean forward, feel a bit of heaviness down low. My eyes turn to her racket. I absorb the grace in her swing. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it as her strokes get stronger. Long thighs, thick in negotiating the court, flex. Her biceps are grainy and shapely. At the point of impact, the pop of the tennis ball, my testicles get tight.
Her voice is not longer giving up soft, gentle grunts. It explodes, deep and hard on a wicked forehand. It is even louder on the two fisted backhand. The ball grazes the line. She wins the point, pumps her fist.
I am hard.
Most every ball falls inside the court, until she regains control of the match. She taunts with some serve and volley. The wind up of a power stroke that results in an unexpected dropshot. I whimper in the surprise, and the next shot is full power with no backswing. I scream out. My ass feels suddenly as hot as an iron. I want it to feel hotter.
Why did it never occur to me before, how much I need a tennis player? A golfer won’t do. As good as it sounds to lie in the rough, or get caught in a sand trap, and as much as I might pull out a one wood to do her bidding, let’s face it, a pitching wedge and a putter just aren’t the same.
No basketball player for me. Who wants free throws, tip offs and lay ups?
Maybe a hockey player? A slap shot sounds promising, but I’m not sure I could handle the icing.
No, I need a tennis player who strings her racket tightly. A woman who wins well, but loses badly. A woman who bumps me deliberately in the change over. “You’re going down in this set,” she says with a laugh, still looking sweet and pretty as a princess.
Of course, I’ll struggle every time out on the court, and yes I’ll win a point or two.
Long may she win the matches.
Posted by Craig Sorensen at 3:31 AM