Oh, Kick My Balls!

Having a totally fucked up sleeping rhythm has its agreeable reimbursements. For instance you’d be more knowledgeable in thoroughly useless fine points of the ultimate ladder (The Shopping Network), extra conversant on the mating habits of iguanas (National Geographic), ultra proficient in exotic twaddle (Korea Channel), or, if you are slightly twisted, become extra competent in choreographed spasm (The Bollywood Channel).

Having dropped my keys in a friend’s car after another brush with inebriation I decided to spend the night (or what’s left of it) at my sister’s abandoned apartment. Somewhere between five to six in the morning I twitched from erratic sleep and surfed cableville for something to bore myself to sleep.

Then it flashed before my eyes: the very paragon of lustful lusciousness, the very distillation of simmering sexuality, the very archetype of testosterone overload who can induce moist discharges among women and can single-handedly make heterosexual males rethink their mating preference, the very one and only unbeatified patron saint of bisexuals everywhere. Are you paying attention, Pope Benedict XVI ?

Ladies, gentlemen and everything else in between, may I introduce my long-time confidential cosmic mistron...

David Beckham.

Yes. THE David Beckham, the supremely sexy football hero who became the intergalactic face of an odd breed called metrosexuals.

CNN and ESPN, among other violently gluttonous media platforms are rabidly spinning like ravenous vultures on the mania surrounding Becks’ recent uprooting from Spain's Real Madrid to LA’s Galaxy. I have quite forgotten about Becks for sometime now in worthless pursuit of lesser mortals until the CNN coverage “Becks on Becks,” which, if you ask me, is strangely beginning to sound like multiple bird oral orifices on cold inhalers.

For a whopping two hundred fifty million dollars, Galaxy hopes that the megadeal "will inspire kids to play." How very positive: Galaxy hereby instantaneously confers my erotic sweetheart supreme athletic laurels as The Ultimate Poster Boy for Hormonal Sports.

Our courtship, though never made public, initiated like a whirlwind - from his gauche beginning at Manchester United, to the controversial defection to Real Madrid. Of course, being a Demure Oriental I hang on to dear old hymen. Given our rigorous ancestral tradition I was waiting for Dear Becks to chop firewood for my entire clan, fetch water in galvanized iron buckets, feed the livestock, tend to the rice paddies and endure sexual abstinence until the wedding night.

This is particularly excruciating, given our high virility quotient. And it didn’t help that having mutually rigorous incompatible work schedules, plus the awful intercourse moderation, put an irreparable strain on our emotionally torrid relationship. Until it tapered and dwindled into final non-consummation. However, he shot into football superstardom.

Yet Becks, being a passionate lot, haven’t entirely forgotten all these years. He makes it a habit to take off his shirt midfield, or flash his jockstrap under the steady glare of cameras, in the great hopefulness that somewhere in the third world I am tuning in to ESPN and reading Sports Illustrated, and, possibly rethinking his carnal proposal for boiling ménage-a-trois with his now painfully glamorous wife, the equally-fuckable Victoria.

Of course I play coy about the irresistible, tempting proposition. I am a gentleman. And, evidently, outrightly stupid. Although I will never admit on public interviews that, for the record, I have amassed all available copies of Vanity Fair, Details, GQ, VMan and Arena Homme+ magazines featuring his abdomen and happy trail on the cover. This is, reasonably, a very noble attempt to shield pious Mormons from temptation and sinfulness. That’s how moral, unselfish, and deeply spiritual I am.

I remember reading the Vanity Fair profile in my office desk and had to send out an assistant to the cafeteria for ice packets to diffuse a raging erection two minutes before a major board presentation. The janitor had to mop my hormones off the floor to restore some dignity.

And now my beloved is raging stateside.

Fuck ancestral traditions, I’m booking a one way flight to L.A.