Tag Archives: stalker

Tennis Love and Manly Defeats

Tennis, as a sport and lifestyle, has always been on the cutting edge of male/female relations.

It is probably the only sport in the world (outside of some bull shit like bowling or golf) where men and women can actively compete with one another.

This presents men, in particular, with some serious problems.

You want to play with girls because, well, girl parts feel awesome on your wang. You also want to make sure the girls you play tell other girls how cool and awesome you are so that they too will want to play with you and maybe encase your meat stick with some awesome part of their body.

But playing against and with girls is totally problematic. If you lose then you are only half-a-man and no girl will want to give your love gun a shot. If you hand a girl a crushing defeat you are simply an asshole and, once again, most girls don’t want to feel an asshole’s sausage stick inside of their holiest of holy temples.

So, this blog is basically for the men out there. I’m going to help you guys learn how to do it right.

THE CLASSIC EXAMPLE

Sometime last winter I was sitting at my desk here in the office and generally fucking around on Twitter instead of working.

This stalker girl sends me a note and says she wants to play me in tennis.

Yes, it’s always a dicey prospect to physically meet someone you’ve met via Twitter. The biggest reason is that just about everyone on Twitter is totally mental except for maybe @Ms_MoneyPenny_ and @viciousbabydoll Those two ladies are totally normal and only mildly prone to violence and hystrionics. @stephanieOKC ? Psycho candy all the way.

But I digress…

So I pick a public place with plenty of people around to meet Miss Stalker — the crap ass public tennis courts at Bear Creek Park.

She arrives and sort of gangsta swaggers her way onto the court. She asks me if I brought water.

“Nah, I just chugged a bottle of peach schnapps.”

Then she instantly offers me a water bottle she has brought with her. She is extremely persistent. She says something about watching a dude die after not chugging one of her water bottles.

Hahahahaha!

Can you say “roofie water” and “no, I don’t want to be thrown in the back of your SUV and later raped for days on end until you filet off my skin and make a cape out of it” ? (Disclaimer: I could totally go for some girl molesting me for days on end but I HAVE NO INTEREST IN BEING SKINNED AND USED AS A FASHION ACCESSORY).

I repeatedly refused her water. Eventually, she gave up offering. I could tell by the disappointed look in her eye that the water was definitely tainted with some sort of powerful narcotic.

We warmed up, made some small talk and started playing.

Then things got hairy for old Lazlo.

This male/female match suddenly appeared to be a potential trap that could hurt my manhood and maybe start vicious rumors with the fairer sex that I was an unsuitable tennis/fuck buddy.

For starters, she was a breath taking brunette with a rock star body. You know, some women are mini-vans, some women are Miatas and then there are women like her… Total “Vroom Vroom” Ferraris.

The second problem was that she was obviously better than me.

She was the picture of style and grace as she floated across the court having her way with the ball. She obviously knew which angles were best and had this amazing sense of touch.

The third problem? It’s seriously difficult to play tennis with an erection.

My wang’s wangitude kept getting in the way of my racket. Plus, when you’re a hard charging major player like me, you need all of the blood to stay in the tennis bits and not the bed bouncing bits. After about 5 games my vision was starting to blur. And, being afraid to drink the water she brought, I was starting to dehydrate.

Things were looking ugly until on my third service game I went for the ball in my right pocket. My Bjorn bone had been slowing oozing pre-loving special sauce all over the third tennis ball. At first I was little grossed out and ashamed but then I realized at least half of the ball’s felt was welded with Lazlo Love to the ball.

Baseball has the infamous spit ball…

I just found… the cum ball!

I served it mightily and the ball swung through the sky like a wounded duck. It spiraled and dived and rose and finally landed in the service court.

My fetching stalker swung and miss. An ace. The world’s first cum ball tennis ace! (NOTE TO SELF: send this story to Tennis World).

Stalker scooped the ball up with her racket and flipped it back to me.

“Nice serve,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“How do you do that?”

“Oh, it’s all in the wrist.”

I gingerly put the cum ball back in my right pocket and continued playing. When a point came (no pun intended) that I needed I would pull the ball out and serve it up.

She still won the set. However, because of the cum ball’s crazy acrobatics Stalker thought I was way better than I am AND a gentleman for “letting” her win.

Did I get laid? No. I never fucking get laid.

But who knows…

Maybe that stalker will tell some other stalker who will tell another stalker who wil…

No. Nevermind.

I’ll never get laid.

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Stalking is Fairly Easy

There are exactly 176 people named Turner in the Houston phone book.

I started trying to find Jessie after I sobered up in the afternoon.

I was lucky, because the names Theo and Theodore seem to have died out along with Hee Haw and leisuer suits. There were, however, a number of T. Turners.

If there is one thing I learned as a reporter, it was how to be a stalker. There’s a host of people you have to track down at any given moment in a newsroom. The relatives of murder victims is always an unpleasant task. Worse yet is getting a hold of the suspected killer’s mother.

“So, Mrs. Siveli, do you think your son killed that girl they found in by irrigation ditch?”

There’s no “right way” to ask that question.

Just in case this “Theo” still lived with his parents I called every Turner listed. I slowly made my way through the list. Each time I reached a real person I simply asked, “Is Jessie there?” They all either hung up or told me I had the wrong number. 

I hit pay dirt after 30 minutes when I called the number listed for  M. Turner.

“Is Jessie there?” I asked, trying my best to sound like I knew she lived there.

“She’s not here.”

“What about Theo?”

“Who is this?”

Bingo. I hung up the phone and jotted down the address on an old reciept near the phone.

Seriously, I could be a professional stalker.

I down loaded a map of the adress, took a shower and headed over to the house.

The place was on Little John off of Memorial Drive. I pulled up in front of a large stark white modern style house with a large circular driveway and block glass turret slapped to the front. The house was laid out like a “V” and was poorly landscaped. There was only one long and narrow plate glass window stretching across the northern front of the house.  

It was an eye sore.

The house stuck out like a wart among  the tudor and colonial houses that surrounded it. It seemed like someone pulled a really bad Miami Vice set and dropped it on the block. I’m sure it’s very existence completely pissed off the rest of the street.

That being said, I sort of liked it.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Silence. I jammed my finger into the door bell and finally heard a haggard voice say, “I’m coming.”

Three sets of locks had to be opened before I was greeted by a short, brown skinned man with a clump of dark hair.

“Howdy,” I said. “Are you Theo?”

“Yes,” he said, squinting his eyes slightly.

I judged him to be in his late 20′s or early 30′s. But it was hard to tell his age.

Both of his cheeks were marred with deep acne scars. His eyes blood shot eyes contained black pupils. He was dressed in flannel pajamas even though it was 80 degrees outside. A large coffee stain ran down the right side of his chest. He looked like Colonel Kadafi and Manuel Noreiga managed to breed together.

The stangest part was an angry red rectangle angled across his forehead. The mark seemed like he had been slapped with a ruler or got in the way of a paving brick

I spoke quickly and loudly with carnival barker voice.

“I don’t know you and you don’t know me. Do you by any chance know a Jessie Byrd? You see, I’m here to help. I’m here to help you. I’m here to help her. Her father has sent me to see if you need anything.”

“Huh?” he said.

The redness in his eyes. The jack rabbit approach he had to answering the door. This guy was stoned. This would be easy.

“I am here to help Jessie,” I continued. “Jessie Byrd. Is she here?”

“She’s not here,” Theo finally said in a dazed fashion, still wildly confused by my presence.

“Well then, let me come on in and we can talk about what you two kids need, eh?”

And like that, he let me in. Theo was either incredibly stupid or he had been pulling bong tubes all morning. I decided he was a little of both. No one in Houston would just let a stranger into their house.

After all, this is town where any knock on your day might be made by a someone trying to push their version of Jesus on you.

Or worse.

That knock on the door could be from a rapist. Or a robber. Or a salesman.

Theo was lucky, I’m just a tutor.

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