There are two things I enjoy greatly in this world, and those two things are tennis and women. Like any true man, I love pretty women, they are just soft and wonderful. All manner of women in some way strike my fancy, and I don't mean in a strictly boarish, misogonistic, oogling sort of way. Women are beautiful, I appreciate beauty, therefore women are something I like in all forms.
I also like tennis. I'm good at tennis, having myself played since I was 12 years old. It is a great game, easy to learn but hard to master. Growing up, I watched all the tennis I could and played and practiced for hours on end day in, day out trying to learn and get better. So, naturally, when the two collide I am very much in a good mood.
That said, today is the Women's Final at Wimbledon. I love Wimbledon. The grass is magical and I'm sure that being there in person would be as well. Mostly I love Wimbledon because in my head it is pronounced Wimbly-Don and that makes me smile. Aside from that, the women's game rarely holds interest for me. I find them to be rather slow paced and dull on many occasions, mooning the ball back and forth lazily as if they have only just picked up a racquet for the first time. But one of the things I enjoy most about women's tennis, which is a point of contention amongst the elite and purists, is the grunting and shrieking during the matches.
Many people find these noises to be annoying and distracting from the game itself. I don't. I enjoy the fact that they are so committed to their craft and trying as hard as they can that they show that even during the point being played. Sure at times it does get a bit excessive, but in those moments even if I can tune out the caveman sounds, I find my mind wandering and wondering. Sometimes I think about what it would have been like if I had continued my tennis playing and attempted to break into the major levels of the game, other times I question decisions of the players as far as shot selection and placement. Most times though, especially in the women's game, I can't help to think to myself,
<Kyle (my inner monologue's name)>. <Kyle,> I say, <I wonder if the grunts the women make on court are the same as they are in the bedroom.>
This often times sparks a debate or anger in women in general, as they think I'm a pig. And maybe I am. But if you've ever watched women's tennis, as a man (even if you're not a man but you try to think like one now and again), you can't help but think that. How satisfying it must be, in the throes of passion, as you rail a beautiful woman, to hear such noise and passion. The fact that you could be the one to ellicit such sounds would be a powerfully addictive thing indeed. Every day would become a drug seeking adventure with you begging, pleading, and seeking out the sounds that bring you climactic realization. And how magnificent a feeling when that happens!
Okay, that's it. That's my chauvanistic thought train for the day. And also, to quote David Mitchell, especially since Sharapova just went down in the final, "In the women's game, why does the pretty one always lose to the moose?"
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