A warning is necessary from the very first line here, that this is a strictly adult-rated gay post, but if you have permissable parents, then PG is allowed. Since I'm neither an adult, nor am I 'out' to my parents, it basically means I'm not going to be allowed to see my own post, but what the hell, just the fact that I wrote it down in rainbow hues is good enough for me!
World Cup fever! And while dad and bro are watching the game excitedly, yours truly is sitting hunchbacked in the closet, fantasising about which players he would like to Do. Let's face facts: soccer is vastly more exciting than cricket could ever hope to be, the uniforms are tighter, there's so much more sweat factor, and the shorts fly higher. Irfan Pathan may be hot, but hell, he's all covered up, and those ugly white costumes and pads make you exercise your imagination so much that quite frankly, it's not worth the effort!
So here's a list of the Top Hotties on the field that Closetalk would like to get down and dirty with. Every little sordid detail of it...
First off, let's eliminate that stupid monkey with awful hair and severely flawed teeth who's supposed to be the toast of Brazillian football. I mean, the man gets his stoooopid galfriend to dance with her big jugs in a football bra and you can't get any more camp than that, it's true, but in sheer U.G.L.Y (Unceasingly Grovellingly Loathesome and Yellowish) terms, that is one Brazillian who is un-humpable.
Closet Reject No 1 is: Ronaldinho!
However, thankfully for world soccer, there are far more delectable men on the field, and so the closet moves on next to that Guru of Gayness, England's very own David Beckham. In fact, in the current English line-up, there is a whole host of beautiful men I'd like to get into so many fascinating positions here (we're only playing ball here, honey!), but Becks still gets a special mention. (And Veed is having an orgasm as we type this out here!) His Mohawk, or his black nail polish, his very obvious flaunting of the fact that he loves the gay idolatry, his Spice Girls wife and his flings with the nanny, all earn him a Major Star from the Closet.
Closet Award: Chocolate Candy First Class.
Becks is to be tied down on a chair in a deserted warehouse, only in his soccer shorts, and hot chocolate is to be dripped slowly down over his face, neck, shoulders, chest, o-so-smooth tummy, till he is coated with the gooey stuff, the smell of hot warm bubbling cocoa is everywhere, and all anyone can do is DIG IN with a vengeance. I expect Becks to make a lot of noise by the way, and of course, we want to encourage that in every way.
After we have made use liberally of the paper napkins at hand (bbye, Becks!), we shall move onto the next soccer sexbomb. Luis Figo of Portugal is not a new name, or a young one, but the man simply typifies the saying, Old is Gold. Personally, I would love to have him covered him in molten gold *screw chocolate!* and installed in a secret chamber underneath my bed, but since that would amount to culpable homo-cide of such a fantasmatic piece of MAN, I will instead award him a special prize from the Closet. With his tall, hunky frame, sinful smile that would make a witch's tits sprout warm milk (ewwwwww, ewwwww and all that!), wisps of curly black chest air that would make a bitch in heat howl into the night, this hot wolf gets me on fire!
Closet Award: Wolverine First Class
Figo cannot be tamed, so he must clearly be the one in charge. Picture bed with crimson satin sheets, and Figo's tanned, hairy frame swathed in yards and yards of the fabric. The creature bounds up to you suddenly and overpowers you, lowers himself in such an enigmatic way that you can feel the searing heat from the tall candles placed all around the bed, and locks eyes with you... a touch.. a whiff... a growl. The best course of action is to turn your head and expose your neck and shoulders and wait for the bites.
After we've faced the envious stares at the red welts on our necks in the morning, we must work on the strategy to ensnare our next Football Flame into our boudoir. What is it about Italians? All that romance and all that reputation, and just when you think it's all bunkum, up comes running towards you at a hurricane's pace is Franceso Totti. The man has modelled for Armani himself, and you don't need to wonder why. Totti is not about devil-attitude ala Becks, or sheer-intensity ala Figo - he's the God you want to see dressed up in his suit, and stripped down in his bare un-essentials, in your bedroom. Totti's the beautiful man, the one who is smart enough and sexy enough to know what you want from him in bed (and on the field, but that's secondary here!) even before you ask for it. The result: heaven is a place here on earth.
Closet Award: Sauve Killer First Class
Totti is the date guy. So there must be the red rose, the violins, the impeccable Italian accent whispering in your ears, and midway through the elevator ride, that's when his hand snakes out to halt the car, and he's all over you in the dark. Armani slithers off, belts buckles off, throaty voices in the dark, urgency at its peak. Totti is pushed back till his back is against the glass wall of the elevator, and within view of a shocked city of glittering lights, you get down on your knees to pleasure a god.
Ahem ahem. And the cup goes to...
Closetalk
*shy grin*
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