My spectator event of preference would be the sport (perhaps even “art”) of gymnastics. There is nothing in this world I prefer to a quiet afternoon sitting on my rattan sofa watching lithe nymphs express themselves through motion on the uneven bars. Their supple bodies wrap around the wooden bars and contort themselves in ways nature never intended. They are as fiexible as the branches of the fragile willow blown by a cruel wind.
I have little to no interest in football or baseball, no matter what grand significance my fellow professors may attach to the motions of the game. I find these sports pedestrian. How can one enjoy the triumph of the human spirit if the players are dressed like aliens from the latest Steven Spielberg science-fiction film?
The thought of a gymnast working the balance beam makes my mind race with excitement. They must have strong legs and excellent muscle control to straddle the beam so seductively. As they dismount, their look of extreme concentration gives way to a look of release and ecstasy.
I often imagine the top of the gymnast’s outfit falling down while on the bars, revealing one or both of her creamy-white breasts. Perhaps they wear those restrictive garments only to protect the sensibilities of the common man. However, the forms of these shapely sprites are not meant to be concealed by glossy spandex vestments. The commoners would have these goddesses adhere to mortal laws. They make them slaves to their clothing. I say they should free their naked bodies for better performance. They should shun their oppressive garb and embrace me. Embrace me like tomorrow may never come.
Oddly enough, the sport is only enticing on television, a medium I ordinarily abhor. I’ve tried watching the meets live, but there is not one alluring close-up of slender legs or pouty lips. From the distant bleachers, I must keep myself fully clothed and share my dainty beauties with the riff-raff beside me. I yearn to be as close as the cameras are. Those spread, inviting legs right in my face, saying, “Hello. I am legs. Aren’t I fine and supple? Would you not like to taste my fine wares?” I would reply, “If you are selling, I, my dear, am buying.”
I hope that I am not misunderstood. I only enjoy women’s gymnastics. Men’s gymnastics leaves me cold and unsatisfied. They are ham-fisted, knuckle-scraping brutes who should be shot merely for trying to share in the passionate, fiery energy that the lovely female gymnasts have brought about. Make no mistake, let it be heard on every hill and dale, and let it be written for all eternity: Gymnasts are hot!
