Squash Hulk

Occasionally, when self-flagellation comprising of whipping myself with a thorned branch becomes tiresome, I’ll play squash instead. If I want to heighten the punishment to biblical proportions, I’ll play my girlfriend.

I should, to maintain the health of both my physical and sexual life, point out that in all normal situations she is charming, erudite, polite and sweet to the point of timidity. She also has awesome tits. However, take this same, lovely girl, place her in a squash court, and you create a monstrosity of such terrifying scale that you will shit blood. I can say, without a trace of exaggeration, that I’ve not witnessed swearing, screaming, cheating and sheer brutal violence since I last watched the French rugby team.

Today was a good day. She cried only twice and the racket missed my head by a good ten inches. Normally I can expect at least a continuous stream of highly debatable calls, verbal and physical attacks, not to mention recommendations on protective accommodation from the horrified on-lookers.

This, of course, is the only reason I insist on losing occasionally when I play her. Our relationship is a beautiful thing and it would be a ten month therapy session if I ever won.