I haven’t written since the Kings’ ousted Vancouver. That’s not a coincidence. I haven’t been terribly busy, have had plenty of time to write, but oddly, I’ve barely thought about the Kings at all.
When that puck came flying off Jarret Stoll’s stick and by Cory Schneider’s ear, I exploded, and not unlike explosions reserved for the bedroom, a refractory period went into effect. I have watched the rest of the league finish out their first rounds numbly. I have perused through articles written about the upcoming Kings and Blues series as casually as I would a story in the paper about a warehouse worker in Pomona caring for a group of mangy animals during his lunch break. I want to get excited, but I’m spent.
However, just as bedroom escapades leave me spaced out and sleepy, all it takes is another silky coy look in my direction, one more brush of soft, warm flesh to graze my goose-bump braised skin, the slightest nibble to moisten cracked lips and I come crashing down, eyes bright with wonder, heart racing and brimming with energy. Though the Kings have not made it to the second round in 11 years, a familiar feeling patters its way through my chest, skipping down my stomach. Anticipation builds. Whether I was there last week or last decade, the come hither look has been spotted as the day is a moon away. Skin caresses skin as starting lineup is announced against starting lineup. The players set up for a face-off, eyes burning holes through the others head, mine like lasers through a TV that shoots phosphorescently back, a nervous nervous handslicks back my hair, another wraps tightly around a knot of hers. The dance begins.
Am I frustrated? Maybe a little, if that wasn’t clear.
Perhaps I’ll become motivated to write about some technical things – whether Richards and Carter will show up to this series and if we can win if they don’t, how both teams rolling four lines will affect the games, will Trevor Lewis continue on as a He-Man, Quick vs Elliot/Halak, Oshie vs. Brown, whether I still hold a grudge against everyone to wear a Blues uniform because of one asshole named Courtnall (the answer is yes) – but I just can’t do it right now. You don’t want to analyze the neurons that fire to ignite passion when she is yours and you’re as hers. You don’t discuss the mechanics of a hip thrust when together they move perfectly as one. You certainly don’t mention that she might shamefully scamper back to her car in the morning while the night is still young.
There is a good chance I am just jealous. Jealous of you all, you who won’t be sitting at a wedding ceremony at 4:30pm tomorrow. You who won’t be watching two people vow to spend the rest of their lives together as I deny myself the bachelor party for one of my life’s longest relationships. You think about all these things, the excitement, the buildup, the sweating and the groaning and the exclamation when she doesn’t catch your gaze. When you just have to imagine. When she hangs on someone else’s arm.
Oh well. You’ll get her later. Luckily for you you’re just a guy sitting at home. The TV has a pause button and the real action doesn’t take place until that big orgy you have penned into your calendar for Thursday, May 3 at 7pm. Someplace called Staples, which is weird because you didn’t realize you’re into that sort of sadomasochism thing until you tried it, but once you did, you were hooked.
If at the end of this article you are highly confused, that’s OK. So am I.