Choices Choices

Today is the start of the football season. Do I watch my team or do I go to a femdom event and catch up with some lovely people I haven’t seen for months. Tell me, dear reader, what do you think I should do?

A post for Sinful Sunday. Click the lips for more Sunday sin.

Sinful Sunday

Flying the Flag

I never really thought that at my age I would ever be a football mascot. Well, actually, I wasn’t really but I did get to hold the Proud Baggies’ flag as the players came out for West Bromwich Albion’s home game against Swansea City on Rainbow Laces Day.

Rainbow Laces Day is the day when football clubs and their supporters embrace diversity and promote the message that football is for everyone. Several of the players wore rainbow laces, there  were rainbow corner flags, there were clear messages for those who are not yet on board (and there are some) that the club stands fully behind its LGBT supporters.

This is not a football blog so I will say little about the actual game except to say that our team played the best football I have seen for several years and won 5-1. The weather gave us a lovely surprise with the rapid interplay of rain, hail and sunshine producing a lovely rainbow over the rather unpoetically named Smethwick End.

And so on to the Loft Lounge for drinks. And chat. And more drinks.  We are a diverse group and fully reflect the diverse nature of the LGBTQI community.  There are those who argue that the various parts of the community don’t necessarily belong together, and it has been suggested that the T doesn’t really belong. I have discussed this here and explained why I consider it to be wrong. This is not an issue in this particular queer football family. Our group includes straight allies, there is Carlos from Portugal who just loves hanging out with queer folk (and well who wouldn’t!). For we are multinational too. Our Austrian Proud Baggie Sophie couldn’t be with us on Sunday but was watching at home in Vienna.

In a world that is darkening with the rise of populism, nationalism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia and suspicion of the other, our rainbow is a light pointing the way towards a better world. And an illustration of the capacity of football to bring out the best in people.

If you want to know more about our group check out our website


Happiness Stan

Everyone knows Stan in our town. 30 odd years ago he played for our local football team. A real character who always had a pint in the bar before the game and still gave his all for 90 minutes on the pitch And then, after the game, well he was rarely home before midnight. When you look back you wonder what his wife made of it all, and, lovely man that he was, she let him in the end. What else was she to do?

But even as his personal life was falling apart he was a hero for us kids. I can remember well his little tricks, the dummies and shimmies, that goal at Brentford the one and only time we got to the FA Cup First Round. I am not exaggerating believe me, high ball into the box and there was Stan, took it on his right, back onto his left, a swivel and back into hs right and bang! A crisp volley into Brentford’s net to put us one up. Brentford’s defenders had been completely mesmerised by Stan’s genius. We lost 6-1 in the end but Stan’s status as a local hero was sealed. This had been the biggest day out in our club’s history and Stan’s goal had made it special.
And then he packed up playing, probably a year or two early because of the drink. Not knowing what to do with himself, he did the only other thing he knew. He drank.

He still does. Stan spends his days on a bench in a secluded corner of our local park drinking beer from cans. I never knew what he did for food so I used to take him a sandwich, a pork pie, sometimes a take away coffee. And I would sit and chat. His eyes always lit up at the mention of the Brentford game, some 40 years ago now but still the highlight of his life. And how many if us with our steady jobs and mortgages and so on, have ever, in one moment of inspiration, sent 4,000 of oir fellow human beings into rapture? Stan had and the knowledge of that clearly gave him the feeling that his life had been worth living.

One day as we chatted Stan said he had a favour to ask. It was years since he had had sex and well as he didn’t feel right approaching a woman and while he wasn’t gay would I mind? Well I would probably have done anything for Stan. He unzipped his flies and pulled out a still impressive cock. I dropped to my knees on the gravel path, took his cock in my hand, pulled back the foreskin and took him into my mouth. I had always thought of myself as a straight guy and this was a really new experience to me. But I found myself enjoying the sensation of a cock hardening and swelling in my mouth, enjoying the groans of pleasure that Stan was making. When he came into my mouth I knew what to do. I swallowed a bit , I had never known it was salty, and kept a bit in my mouth. I moved my mouth towards his. I kissed him and transferred the remaining come into his mouth.  He smiled.

I stood up, brushed the gravel from my knees, and walked off without giving Stan a second glance.

I never saw him again. Whether he had left our town for good, or whether something bad had happened I will probably never know. But when I think of the happiness he brought me or even the fleeting happiness I brought him he will forever be Happiness Stan.

Swedish Nights

I knew I was in trouble as soon as she went down. I was going for the ball, I was sure I would get to it but at the last second Sara Martinsson turned with lithe grace, accelerated away and my outstretched foot caught her trailing leg. She went down and rolled over a couple of times, clutching her shin, just to make sure. The referee ran over waving the red card like a coast guard warning a passing ship to steer clear of the rocks.

No-one even looked at me as I passed our bench and made the lonely walk of shame to the dressing room. This was meant to be a highlight of my career, a Women’s Champions’ League Semi –Final First Leg away in Sweden, me marking Sara Martinsson the world’s best midfielder. She had been too good for me, fair enough, but she didn’t have to go down like that. I slammed the dressing room door behind me took off a boot and threw it against the wall. I sat down, pulled my shirt over my face and wept.

‘Fuck’ I shouted hoping I was loud enough to be heard outside. But that was a vain hope. Even a crowd of three thousand was making plenty of noise. Their team was 2-0 up, we were a player short and Sara Martinsson was pulling the strings in midfield. There must be more goals to come. There were still forty minutes to play.

My sobbing and self pity were interrupted by a knock on the door. I pulled the shirt back down over my midriff as it opened and Sara Martinsson stood before me,

‘They took me off, precautionary thing, I picked up a knock’ she said simply. ‘I’m sorry you got sent off I really am.’

I was about to day something when she said

‘Come to our dressing room. We can shower together There’s plenty of time ill the games’ over.’

She shut the door and walked off down the corridor. I sat nonplussed for a minute then thought sod it. I took off my other boot and padded down the corridor to the home dressing room in my socks.

I walked on and saw Sara. She had undressed already and lay on a bench, knees bent, legs slightly apart, pleasuring herself.

‘Have you been with a girl before?’ she asked.

I said nothing.

‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway take your kit off. We can’t have fun in our football gear can we?’

As I undressed she went to turn the showers on and adjust the temperature. I approached nervously. .

‘I haven’t got my stuff with me.’

‘You can use mine’ she said taking my hand and leading me gently into the shower. She came up behind me, pressed herself against me and began to nuzzle my hair.

She squeezed out some shower gel and started to rub it into my back in slow careful movements, starting from my neck and moving down my back to my buttocks which she caressed before rubbing gel into them. She knelt down and moved her fingers around my anus before moving between my legs to soap my cunt. As her fingers worked their way up to my clit I felt her tongue against my anus, licking round the edge,.

‘I like your arse. I like it a lot. Second leg next week. I’ll come prepared. I’ve got some fantastic toys. ’ She laughed and began to finger my clit. Hot water was streaming down from the shower heads and in the steam I could see nothing. That heightened the excitement as she began to play me like a fiddle. I had never been touched by a woman before. She massaged my clit with delicacy and expertise then stood up and came round in front of me. She took some more gel onto her hands and began to soap my tits. She washed off the foam and began to suck on the nipples, talking them between her lips which she pursed to squeeze them before turning her head to twist them. I let out a cry and she laughed. She gave them a playful bite and knelt before me to carry on applying the gel.  Soon I felt her tongue against my clit which hardened as she quickened the licks, stiffening her tongue to make a delightful abrasiveness.

We finished showering and Sara pulled a big fluffy towel binding us tightly together. We kissed. The smell of sweat, turf, and linament had quite gone. I abandoned myself to her as she gripped the back of my head and pushed her tongue deep inside my mouth.

‘One more thing’ said Sara. ‘Kneel,’

She slackened the towel and I dropped to my knees. I pressed my face to her shaven cunt, felt the roughness of the stubble against my cheek. Just above the stubble I saw a small tattoo of the Swedish flag. I kissed it lingeringly feeing a frisson of disloyalty. Then I moved down pushing out my tongue in search of her clit. I probed and licked and she placed a finger on the spot where her clit sat beneath its hood.

‘Lick me just there.’ said Sara.

I worked away pleasuring her trying to make my tongue stiff as she had done when licking me, worshipping her most precious part, her lovely Scandinavian clit. I licked in slow form strokes and she gasped, grabbed a hanger to support herself as the pleasure coursed through her. She cried out in Swedish. I didn’t understand but didn’t care.  It surely meant my tongue was doing its work.

She turned round and I started sniffing her anus. It smelt sweet and fresh, like a meadow of flowers. I flicked my tongue out and began to explore the opening. I worked round the edge, licking the opening with slow leisurely strokes. I loved her arse, loved the buttocks I began to kiss, loved the dragon tattoo on the small of her back. God, this woman had spent fifty minutes humiliating me on a football field and now, it was almost as if the match no longer mattered. I had completely forgotten the match, had not noticed the time.

‘Shit!’ I said.

‘We’ve still got ten minutes. I think we’ve scored again. But we’ve got time for a finger fucking.’

I lay on the treatment table legs apart. She climbed on top of me and after rubbing my clit pushed a finger into my soaking wet cunt.

‘You’re wet, your cunts is open like a big cave. I knew you were a slut as soon as I saw you. You’re not much good at football are you, but sex well…..I’ll bring my toys next week and make it up to you for not being in the Final.’

She laughed and stuck in a second longer, then a third.

‘I want four, give me four’ I gasped ‘and fuck me hard.’

She was soon moving in and out. Her hands were soft and delicate for a footballer her fingers long. She moved in and out rubbing the skin over the pubic bone as she did so, arousing me even more, making me wetter and wetter.

‘I’m all yours, all yours’ I moaned.

‘You can come to our hotel next week. Some of the other girls would like to give you a real fucking. You can be the whole team’s pet slut.’

She moved her fingers in and out again, more and more vigorously

‘Make me you slut, make me your slut’ I cried, ‘Fuck me fuck me fuck me’

I massaged my clit as she reached a crescendo and came with a loud cry. I had soaked the treatment table.

Sara took a cloth to clean up. As she wiped the table I dropped to my knees and kissed her feet, the golden feet that could caress a football like no other woman’s, the feet on which she moved with balletic grace around the pitch, the feet that had humiliated me, the feet I adored, the feet I loved. I kissed her frantically, desperately, clung to her ankles as she tried to move away.

‘Make me your slut’ I said, quietly this time. ‘Please.’

Then we heard a cheer and voices coming from the tunnel and the click clack of studs. It was time for me to be gone.

I walked back to our dressing room in a daze. I had Sara’s shirt and pressed it to my face breathing in deeply the smell of her, the smell I wanted to remember for ever. The door opened and my team mates came in.

‘Five fucking nil’ said one looking at me as if I was to blame. ‘Were you going to ask or don’t you care? I was so looking forward to going to Paris for the Final. Fuck! Fuck!’

She took a water bottle and hurled it against the wall. As it bounced off the floor she cried out in another howl of anguish.


‘They took Sara Martinson off’ said somebody else. ‘They reckon she might be a doubt for the second leg.’

I froze. If she was injured she wouldn’t travel. I gripped the shirt tighter.

‘I know. She popped in to say sorry.’

‘And give you her shirt as well. You can wash it and frame it and it will make a nice souvenir of the day you lost us the Champions’ League.’

I ignored the barbed comment.

‘Wash it?’ I said. ‘I’ll never do that.’