Blowjobs for Goals - Football Fan Fellatio

Forget the old mantra 'He shoots, he scores!'. Back in 2021 I decided 'If we score, he shoots!'.

(Note for readers: This was originally written back in the heady pandemic era of 2021, hence the references to rare socialization, and indeed the England game in question. It is however something of a favourite of mine, so forgive my self indulgence with a repost - there’s something new coming later this week!)

I am, perhaps unsurprisingly, not much of a football fan. And to clarify several things from the outset; by football I mean soccer for those of a transatlantic persuasion, and by ‘not much’ I mean I regard it with roughly the same level of disinterest as crochet, pingpong, or the literary works of E.L. James.

I’ve always considered myself to be too much a cynic and pessimistic soul to really get behind any sporting enthusiasm. If anything I’d argue it’s the more rational approach - If you expect your team to lose then it’s surely twice as exciting if they manage to secure a victory, meanwhile a loss is - to badly cross some sporting similes - par for the course.

Such are my startling levels of ignorance in footballing matters, I’d managed to completely miss that there was an international competition in progress for quite a staggeringly long time. Indeed, the first I heard of our national team’s surprising progression through the competition was when I was informed in no uncertain terms by a group of friends that we were going to participate in something otherwise unheard of within our friendship circle. Heading out to a bar to *watch a game of football*.

Now after the year that was I didn’t intend to turn down any opportunity for some actual, in person, socialising, but I’ll admit I was perhaps a little apprehensive at the prospect. I’m all for the bonding and unifying sense of national pride (in small doses), and an enthusiastic crowd is a powerful and often emotional thing to find yourself a part of. But this was watching England play football. I couldn’t help but allow my cynical soul flare near the surface. What I was sure I was being invited along to was to watch a large group of people be throughly disappointed.

But I was sternly informed to “stop bing such a miserable fucking downer and let’s go the fuck out”. Who was I to refuse?

We wisely avoided what we were sure would be the more popular watering holes and instead chose to head for smaller and, we hoped, less busy drinking establishment. Sadly we were not alone in such delicate planning and were joined by tens of dozens of other like minded folk. We’d arrived an hour and a half before the game was due to begin and already the establishment was nearly at capacity. Mercifully, seeing as we were four young (I’ll keep steadfastly quantifying myself as young until next year, at which point such an assertion would simply look desperate) women in an establishment of perhaps 80% men, we were not short on offers of seats, spaces to cram into, or tables to join. We gratefully accepted the offer - largely at my insistence - from a group of nine guys who’d commandeered a long bench/table that filled a corner nook with both excellent eyeline of a screen and relatively easy access to the bar.

The guys had secured the excellent seating by being present since the morning, as was adequately displayed by their levels of inebriation. There were two in particular who’d clearly been drinking for so long they were almost sobering up and facing the hangover. Tipsy though they may be, they were delightful company and more than happy to welcome us to their throng.

I’ll save you the hour of smalltalk. Simply know that I was on top form wit-wise, a fact that almost entirely wasted on the excessively inebriated company.

All you need know is that, with an hour to fill, try though I might to avoid it, eventually the topic of football was raised and almost immediately my cynicism once reared its ugly head.

Despite the obvious enthusiasm of all present, I couldn’t help myself from pointing out that we were all simply setting ourselves up for disappointment. England always loses when the stakes are high. It’s just the way of things. If history has taught us anything it’s that - with the notable exception of war - the odds are we’ll lose.

Needless to say, this didn’t go down well. Though, in fairness, in other less civilised company, it could certainly have gone down *worse*. We found ourselves in something of a debate about the difference between pessimism and cynicism and the relative importance of passion in support.

It was - and I mean this very much in both senses of the word - an incredibly stimulating discussion. Each side - by which I mean me verses everyone else at the table - argued their points well, but neither side would be swayed.

Which was when I heard myself say it.

“Look, you know I’m right. There’s no way we’ll win. We’ll not even score. I’ll blow a guy for each goal England scores…”

Laughed ensued. As did, apparently, a renewed hope and enthusiasm for victory from some of the men present. But then more drinks were drunk and the topic moved on. My dubious ‘offer’ wasn’t mentioned again.

The game started.

Four minutes in, England scored.

The wave of pure joy that filled the bar was electric. I could, in that moment, actual understand why people can be so passionate about a group of apparently easily hurt men kicking around what a mere century ago would have been a pig’s bladder.

During the enthusiastic celebrating, I couldn’t help but note at least two of the guys look my way and grin to themselves. I’d be lying if I didn’t grin back.

I’m no commentator, so to save you a lacklustre second hand account of active ball play (pun laboriously intended), I’ll simply say that England ended up winning Four - Nil.

Everyone - myself very much included - was genuinely delighted. We had one more drink in the establishment and intended to make something of a night of it, but the place was already filling further we newfound eager revellers and the atmosphere was turning a little less comfortable - not least when a persistent cough could be heard from somewhere on the other side of the bar - so we instead decided to take our leave in search of pastures new.

It was a fruitless endeavour. Everywhere was bursting beyond capacity. So, instead, eager to not let the night die and the company drift apart, one of the guys - his name was either Graham or Gary, I’m still not sure - suggested he lived locally and within easy reach of an off-licence so we could all cram in to his place instead to continue our revelry.

Fuck it, thought I. House parties are few and far between these days. Might as well make the most of it.

We lost a few en-route. Which is to say that one of our group had work the next morning and wasn’t in the mood for an all-nighter, and two of the guys had other places to be. In total three of us and seven of them descended upon Graham/Gary’s flat, bags of booze in hand.

The company continued to be splendid and the alcohol was as cheap as it was cheerful. It was almost two hours before the inevitable occurred and the topic of my earlier ‘offer’ was raised.

“So were you serious about your offer?” asked John, presumably trying to gauge it to sound funny instead of creepy, but just managing to miss the mark.

I feigned ignorance. I knew exactly what he was referring to, but I’d be damned if I didn’t make him have to awkwardly spell it out first.

“The blowjobs for goals,” he said without hesitation.

“Oh yeah. That. Fine. Okay. Get your cock out then.” I delivered the line so matter of factly he looked genuinely confused. I was just testing how serious he was. He was in a cramped living room with nine other people at least three of which were relative strangers. There was no way he was actually going to do it…

Reader, he didn’t even hesitate. In hindsight I can only assume he must’ve already undone his fly as - within the literal blink of an eye - there was his cock.

One of his friends called him a pervert. Another called him a legend. Both were probably correct.

It’s not that I hadn’t intended to follow through with my foolish proclamation - I turn thirty next year and have made a conscious decision to make the most of every ludicrous opportunity that comes along while I can still just about excuse it as ‘youthful exuberance’ - but I’d not really intended on doing it quite so publicly.

“This kind of ball play doesn’t make for quite such an entertaining spectator sport,” I suggested. “Should we move somewhere more private?”

He leapt up, cock still swinging free. “You heard her, lads. She’s going to play with my balls too!”

We headed to the bathroom and locked the door.

No sooner were we inside than John burst out laughing. “You’ve got one hell of a poker face! Right. How long do we stay in here so they think this is really happening?”

He stopped laughing when I actually took his cock in my mouth. He barely said another word beyond the occasional ‘Oh fuck’ for the entire time we were together in the bathroom.

In my experience, when heavily inebriated guys tend to either cum incredibly quickly or take a fucking age. John was very much the former.

My technique was designed for speed efficiency; head almost clamped between the lips, tongue alternating between circles and short sharp tickles on the frenulum while the thumb and forefinger work a corkscrew motion along the shaft and my left hand rubs/caresses the balls.

Even deploying this approach I was somewhat taken aback when, after what could only have been three to four minutes, John’s breath shallowed and he declared he was going to cum. The first shot came before he’d even finished the sentence, directly onto my tongue. A second and third followed in quick succession.

I’d normally swallow without hesitation, but there was an unusual taste to John’s load that inexplicably reminded me of paint. Given the volume in my mouth and the convenient close proximity of a sink, I did what I consider to be the height of impoliteness, stood up out of my squatting position and spat his load down the plug hole.

John didn’t seem to mind. He’d sat himself down on the edge of the bath to recover his wits.

“You’ve got Harry Kane to thank for that,” I said, hoping it sounded pithier out loud than it did in my head. It didn’t. I left him to clean himself up, and returned to the living room. “Who’s next?” I asked, as casually as if I were enquiring where to acquire some crisps.

In honesty I’d rather expected this to be treated as a joke. That the guys, like John before them, would assume we’d just been pretending to do the deed, especially given my rapid re-emergence. This proved not to be the case. It turns out that while I was engaged with John, my friends had assured everyone present that there was no way in holy hell that I was only pretending, and that I was stubborn enough to see this through regardless. They weren’t wrong.

“Me next!” declared Richard, springing up out of his chair as though he’d been ejected.

Damn, I thought. Richard was my favourite. The most engaging debater and easily the best looking. I’d been hoping to save him till last.

John returned to an exceptionally laddish cheer from the male quotient of the room. He briefly attempted to pretend everything had been innocent and we’d just been playing along. However he was trying to pull this off while wearing the unmistakable smile of a man who has recently achieved orgasm. He was fooling no one.

Rather than endure his pitiful attempts at awkward obfuscation, I returned to the bathroom suggesting Richard should follow. He bringing a drink with him so I could wash the taste of John out of my mouth first. What a gentleman.

In the bathroom Richard told me I was under no obligation to do anything at all, and that instead he’d be more than happy to go down on me. Like I said; what a gent. I told him that it was a very generous offer, but that for now I had to decline because out of everyone he was the one I most wanted to fuck. He seemed both flattered and delighted. Rightly so. The competition was stiff. (Pun, as ever, intended)

We toyed with the idea of doing it there and then, but both of us were looking for something a little more substantial than a bathroom quickie so instead decided that we’d wait, I’d blow the other two guys first and then we’d head back to his place to enjoy the remainder of the evening just in each other’s company.

As he so eloquently stated; “you insist on blowing two of my friends before you’ll make the time to fuck me. Totally fair, but the weirdest agreement I’ve made in my life.”

We returned to the living room after seven minutes, pretending I’d blown him. I was convincing. He very much wasn’t.

The third guy had a small cock but huge balls. This was literally the only thing noteworthy. For a more detailed description simply reread what happened with John but change the name to William. It was near enough blow for blow identical. (Pun inten… you get the idea)

The fourth guy was far more anecdote worthy. I’d been calling him Darren but it turned out his name was Darryl. He was very nearly as good looking as Richard, but had been a little less engaging conversationally. Lacking a certain maturity.

It wasn’t until I had his cock in my mouth that I learned the reason for this. He’d clearly been waiting for this moment to tell me too. He was only nineteen. A full decade younger than me. I’d never felt so fucking old.

He was also, as is the genetic imperative for all nineteen year olds, a colossally cheeky fucker. Rather than letting me do the work, mere minutes after I’d taken him in my mouth for the first time he begins to thrust a little, managing somehow to do it precisely off rhythm with my own movements for almost zero actual gain. This was followed by him putting his hands on my head to hold and steady me as though I was the one making it difficult.

I allow this for a short while - him holding my head and essentially fucking my mouth - when he declares that he can very rarely cum from blowjobs, so maybe we should just fuck instead?

Part of me is tempted. But most of me wants into prove him wrong. I tell him that, given his current technique and total lack of rhythm that’s probably a ‘him’ problem, suggesting that he keeps still and let’s me do my thing.

Just under ten minutes later and the job is done. This time I swallow. Only fair to set a good example.

By the time I return to the living room, one of the guys who hadn’t partaken in my offer had already disappeared with one of my friends. Richard and I took this as our cue to leave too.

But that’s a whole different ball game.