“Yeah,” Deen says. “I always say sex is like soccer: It’s fun and athletic, and you should do it with your friends.”
Yes, I think. Right. Certainly. Here is a simple statement that Deen means pretty much as it sounds, but it also pithily expresses yet another reason why you or I will never be the sort of soccer player James Deen is. It’s not just that he’s got bigger, you know, feet than we do. It’s that for you, on that night of enduring awkwardness when you went out for drinks with the woman in the adjacent cubicle and achieved your long-cherished fantasy of playing soccer with her, you did so not because you thought she was going to be this tremendously good soccer player. It was that you were thrilled that she found you sufficiently nonrevolting that she was willing to get on the field with you, which was a big consideration, because as you both knew, what makes the game so very, very exciting isn’t its competitive physics but the conceit that the game is actually a high-velocity delivery system for privileged emotional knowledge of the other player’s secret self. And that even if you’re the sort of freebooting venereal Olympian who tries to play soccer with absolutely everything that moves, your compulsion to play is still ultimately grounded in the marrow-level conviction that the game matters in some way a good deal more complex and high-stakes than simple athletic fun.
…among other gems. This is fantastic (although worth noting that it does describe, you know, porn, in detail, so be advised of the content).