Shut up, it's from Joyce
The Bloom is on the Rye
2012 Euros commentators: Alexi Lalas/Michael Ballack.
Notes: Title from the standard, which is mentioned in Joyce's "Ulysses," it was just Bloomsday hurrah. I will eat a shoe if there is not Lalas/Ballack. I really will. So, to prevent Sperry-snacking, and also a way to get myself away from writing surname-only stories as I refuse to compose sentences about Lalas doing this or that. Or Michael Ballack, as the case may be - we get this.
Warnings: Sex is like a hobby; blowjobs to keep busy when there's nothing else to do. Unedited, though Kate did provide invaluable advice about how to write the disrobing. Written in an afternoon.
Michael looks as serious as anything when he's giving a blowjob. It's not that much of a surprise. He always looks serious; he takes notes during telecasts seriously, he nods at Rebecca seriously, he'd come up for drinks with a serious look, and he'd plucked at Alexi's tie with such a look of utter concentration that the notion of breaking it up, of saying that this was probably not such a good idea, a bad choice, was too much.
When Alexi makes bad choices, he makes them big. Go big or go home. Or in his case, go big and then go home, but Europe's a tough nut to crack and it's not like Los Angeles was ever really home. Nonetheless, for all his failures: he is forty-two, on a king-sized hotel in Bristol, speaking on ESPN every day, and right now, having his shirttail slowly loosened. Michael scrapes his teeth over a well of skin, and licks Alexi's hipbone. He still looks uncommonly serious, but it's not like that's stopped Alexi so far. It's not going to stop now.
It had better not stop now. Hot little breaths gust out over the cool of his skin, and Michael pulls some trick with his tongue so that it is both a light press and a deep dark want that Alexi feels. So it's pretty obviously not going to stop, is all. He wonders if Michael will be so serious during sex, and decides that he probably will.
Alexi looks over to the small desk suite (because, what, he'll be inspired in the middle of the night with some pithy thing to say about Tomas Rosicky's ankles that he would have to write it down) where two tumblers mellow, and two very nice suit jackets hang off the backs of two chairs. They're squirming around on his bed now; at least they're not breaking the lines of Italian tailored wool. Michael smoothly unbuttons-unzips Alexi's trousers, showing no awkwardness with the backwards nature of the thing. Alexi might put it down to a certain amount of footballer's grace, comfort with moving around others, but Michael is uncomfortable with the short touches of hand-to-shoulder, of knee-to-knee durin g the day that Alexi is much more inclined to credit it to practice. Which is still a footballer thing, talent and practice, and then Michael is resting one palm on the inner curve of Alexi's thigh.
Then Michael is making hard, throaty noises, and following some fast (but undeniably good) rhythm with his mouth and his hand. He's good, talented; it's not fancy, but Michael's mouth is warm and his fingers are clever. Alexi swears, but mostly breathes hard. Towards the end, he lifts a knee, absently, and Michael's following along, obviously enough, but doesn't pull away. It ends when Michael swallows, which prompts a sort of hiss-crackle of pleasure in Alexi's mind, even now, even right after this, even though he's had blowjobs before. Not from Michael, reddened lips and petulant perk of chin and abiding seriousness. Not for the first time, it occurs to Alexi that genetics can be very unfair: Michael's played for Chelsea, he came down the field like a car in fifth or sixth gear, and he's this good-looking. And somehow, they're doing this.
Michael is still very serious. Alexi offers, "hard to find the words?"
Michael mutters something unprintable in German. Alexi's conversational German is limited to ordering beer, but it's pretty clear that there's nothing complimentary about it. Which is fine: if Alexi subsisted on compliments he'd hardly be doing this, he could just have a quiet evening in with his own press clippings and the media releases about how well-ranked the broadcasts are and all that. Since he's not doing that - something about how Michael had looked so grim before that second vodka and soda, and admittedly, what Michael had looked like when he finished the drink - Alexi is determined to make this a success. Which means that Michael's going to have to look a whole lot less serious, and a great deal more relaxed. This is a not-inconsiderable challenge, given that Michael has spent the entire time he's been in the US, and certainly since Alexi first saw him, going over the projection software with everyone else, looking critical. Not unhappy, at least. It's complicated, there's something about his mouth -- a lot of things, actually -- but something that draws that full lower lip tight. Alexi isn't that abstract a thinker, and it all settles this in his mind fairly quickly.
In hazy, post-blowjob magnanimity, he tells Michael, "don't let's make it about this. Come on," Alexi says, and reaches a hand toward an uncomprehending Michael. "Come up here. You're slipping off the bed."
"That's fine." They both stare at the end of the bed. The sheets are neatly tucked, but Michael's feet ate hanging off the edge. He bends one knee, and looks somewhat less lost, but the other foot is hooked on the slippery comforter. He's still in his socks, and that stockinged foot, traitorous but otherwise uninjured, curls again. Maybe it clicks at something in Alexi's mind, but maybe it doesn't; he doesn't have pants on, this is not a time for these issues. But. Even swanky hotel room beds aren't big enough for this to really work. He's seen in the statistics that Michael's listed at six-foot-two-and-a-half, which is too exact for it not to be something of a fib, but Alexi has never fibbed about his own height. (Lots of other things, maybe.) As Michael moves up the bed, Alexi grabs at his tie. In his grip, it loosens, slinking out of Michael's collar. "Just fine," Michael says, somewhat closer, into Alexi's ear.
"It's not." Alexi knows Spanish better, but Michael's English is awfully good. They're appropriately international: he'll have to, Alexi thinks as he undertakes the complex task of unbuckling Michael's belt, mention that to someone important. Everyone likes the big, beautiful game, the splendid cosmopolitan one. It'll help, he thinks, as he gets his fingers under the cotton of Michael's briefs. It'll help; these are the kind of things Alexi thinks when he's got Michael running scratches down his back and practically growling. Which, great: Alexi had just wanted to make him a little less serious, and hadn't really thought so far beyond it. He should probably think less during sex, and get back to twisting his wrist like that again. Because he might be talented with his feet, and yes, his professional career included a month in Ecuador, but someone's got to play there, and obviously it wasn't wasted. Michael breathes, hot and wanted, on his shoulder, and it's like doing drills still drunk from chapo juice. He feels like he might pass out, and he's not drunk on plantain liquor or even scotch.
He almost does. Michael clutches at him, and Alexi leans closer. They separate, but after a while. It's nice, actually. The room is pleasantly cool, and Alexi sits up against the headboard. His shirt is all rucked up, and his trousers need to be pressed at the very least; he breathes deep. Michael lies on his back and looks at the ceiling. Alexi tilts his head up, to see if there's anything there, but when he looks down again, Michael is sitting upright, legs splayed. He leans forward, then, and it jogs his ankle, and then they're almost touching, just like on the set. Except that Michael is not so grim, not so serious.
Michael appears to be trying to think of something to say. "We are in the middle of nowhere."
"It's Connecticut." At least they don't have to talk about anything. There's always work, even when it's not really work, and there are two more weeks of it.
Michael blinks, and levelly says, "I don't understand anything about this country. Your country."
"We're matched, then." Alexi is not really sure to what he is referring, but Michael blinks again and doesn't seem inclined to ask very many questions.
He moves off the edge of the bed and stands. "Do you know where my necktie is --" Before Michael has finished asking, Alexi holds it up. The silk is hopelessly wrinkled, long creases where Alexi had held it so tightly. Michael takes it uncomplainingly, and runs it between his fingers. He pulls at his collar, and swings the tie around. With quick fingers, Michael buttons his short back up, and makes a neat knot. "Thank you."
It is not just about the tie, and Alexi stares, unsure of what to say. It was nothing? The viewers at home are probably terrified of us all? Anytime? "You've been good."
"See you for the Czechs and Portugal, yes." Michael buttons his trousers, and reaches for his jacket, laying it over one arm. The light in the room is suddenly very dim, graying out like a lemon pie, heavy with sugar. The shadows seem very tall, and extravagantly painted. This room is really too big for one person, which Michael knows; he has a similar one of his own, most likely somewhere on this floor. Potentially, it could be useful to know; they could argue about Bob Ley, and do the kind of things that players aging into mediocre do. But Alexi doesn't say anything when Michael leaves.
He sits on his bed for a long moment, once the door is shut. He does not look at the two tumblers of scotch. He kicks the mess of a comforter off the bed. He thinks about being lazy, and stands up to brush his teeth.
Because, yes, hey look Euros it's an exciting opportunity to talk about new places -- no no let's go to a state that looks like a wet stamp. Fucking thrilling stuff, it's like I don't even want people to read these stories.
2012 Euros commentators: Alexi Lalas/Michael Ballack.
Notes: Title from the standard, which is mentioned in Joyce's "Ulysses," it was just Bloomsday hurrah. I will eat a shoe if there is not Lalas/Ballack. I really will. So, to prevent Sperry-snacking, and also a way to get myself away from writing surname-only stories as I refuse to compose sentences about Lalas doing this or that. Or Michael Ballack, as the case may be - we get this.
Warnings: Sex is like a hobby; blowjobs to keep busy when there's nothing else to do. Unedited, though Kate did provide invaluable advice about how to write the disrobing. Written in an afternoon.
Michael looks as serious as anything when he's giving a blowjob. It's not that much of a surprise. He always looks serious; he takes notes during telecasts seriously, he nods at Rebecca seriously, he'd come up for drinks with a serious look, and he'd plucked at Alexi's tie with such a look of utter concentration that the notion of breaking it up, of saying that this was probably not such a good idea, a bad choice, was too much.
When Alexi makes bad choices, he makes them big. Go big or go home. Or in his case, go big and then go home, but Europe's a tough nut to crack and it's not like Los Angeles was ever really home. Nonetheless, for all his failures: he is forty-two, on a king-sized hotel in Bristol, speaking on ESPN every day, and right now, having his shirttail slowly loosened. Michael scrapes his teeth over a well of skin, and licks Alexi's hipbone. He still looks uncommonly serious, but it's not like that's stopped Alexi so far. It's not going to stop now.
It had better not stop now. Hot little breaths gust out over the cool of his skin, and Michael pulls some trick with his tongue so that it is both a light press and a deep dark want that Alexi feels. So it's pretty obviously not going to stop, is all. He wonders if Michael will be so serious during sex, and decides that he probably will.
Alexi looks over to the small desk suite (because, what, he'll be inspired in the middle of the night with some pithy thing to say about Tomas Rosicky's ankles that he would have to write it down) where two tumblers mellow, and two very nice suit jackets hang off the backs of two chairs. They're squirming around on his bed now; at least they're not breaking the lines of Italian tailored wool. Michael smoothly unbuttons-unzips Alexi's trousers, showing no awkwardness with the backwards nature of the thing. Alexi might put it down to a certain amount of footballer's grace, comfort with moving around others, but Michael is uncomfortable with the short touches of hand-to-shoulder, of knee-to-knee durin g the day that Alexi is much more inclined to credit it to practice. Which is still a footballer thing, talent and practice, and then Michael is resting one palm on the inner curve of Alexi's thigh.
Then Michael is making hard, throaty noises, and following some fast (but undeniably good) rhythm with his mouth and his hand. He's good, talented; it's not fancy, but Michael's mouth is warm and his fingers are clever. Alexi swears, but mostly breathes hard. Towards the end, he lifts a knee, absently, and Michael's following along, obviously enough, but doesn't pull away. It ends when Michael swallows, which prompts a sort of hiss-crackle of pleasure in Alexi's mind, even now, even right after this, even though he's had blowjobs before. Not from Michael, reddened lips and petulant perk of chin and abiding seriousness. Not for the first time, it occurs to Alexi that genetics can be very unfair: Michael's played for Chelsea, he came down the field like a car in fifth or sixth gear, and he's this good-looking. And somehow, they're doing this.
Michael is still very serious. Alexi offers, "hard to find the words?"
Michael mutters something unprintable in German. Alexi's conversational German is limited to ordering beer, but it's pretty clear that there's nothing complimentary about it. Which is fine: if Alexi subsisted on compliments he'd hardly be doing this, he could just have a quiet evening in with his own press clippings and the media releases about how well-ranked the broadcasts are and all that. Since he's not doing that - something about how Michael had looked so grim before that second vodka and soda, and admittedly, what Michael had looked like when he finished the drink - Alexi is determined to make this a success. Which means that Michael's going to have to look a whole lot less serious, and a great deal more relaxed. This is a not-inconsiderable challenge, given that Michael has spent the entire time he's been in the US, and certainly since Alexi first saw him, going over the projection software with everyone else, looking critical. Not unhappy, at least. It's complicated, there's something about his mouth -- a lot of things, actually -- but something that draws that full lower lip tight. Alexi isn't that abstract a thinker, and it all settles this in his mind fairly quickly.
In hazy, post-blowjob magnanimity, he tells Michael, "don't let's make it about this. Come on," Alexi says, and reaches a hand toward an uncomprehending Michael. "Come up here. You're slipping off the bed."
"That's fine." They both stare at the end of the bed. The sheets are neatly tucked, but Michael's feet ate hanging off the edge. He bends one knee, and looks somewhat less lost, but the other foot is hooked on the slippery comforter. He's still in his socks, and that stockinged foot, traitorous but otherwise uninjured, curls again. Maybe it clicks at something in Alexi's mind, but maybe it doesn't; he doesn't have pants on, this is not a time for these issues. But. Even swanky hotel room beds aren't big enough for this to really work. He's seen in the statistics that Michael's listed at six-foot-two-and-a-half, which is too exact for it not to be something of a fib, but Alexi has never fibbed about his own height. (Lots of other things, maybe.) As Michael moves up the bed, Alexi grabs at his tie. In his grip, it loosens, slinking out of Michael's collar. "Just fine," Michael says, somewhat closer, into Alexi's ear.
"It's not." Alexi knows Spanish better, but Michael's English is awfully good. They're appropriately international: he'll have to, Alexi thinks as he undertakes the complex task of unbuckling Michael's belt, mention that to someone important. Everyone likes the big, beautiful game, the splendid cosmopolitan one. It'll help, he thinks, as he gets his fingers under the cotton of Michael's briefs. It'll help; these are the kind of things Alexi thinks when he's got Michael running scratches down his back and practically growling. Which, great: Alexi had just wanted to make him a little less serious, and hadn't really thought so far beyond it. He should probably think less during sex, and get back to twisting his wrist like that again. Because he might be talented with his feet, and yes, his professional career included a month in Ecuador, but someone's got to play there, and obviously it wasn't wasted. Michael breathes, hot and wanted, on his shoulder, and it's like doing drills still drunk from chapo juice. He feels like he might pass out, and he's not drunk on plantain liquor or even scotch.
He almost does. Michael clutches at him, and Alexi leans closer. They separate, but after a while. It's nice, actually. The room is pleasantly cool, and Alexi sits up against the headboard. His shirt is all rucked up, and his trousers need to be pressed at the very least; he breathes deep. Michael lies on his back and looks at the ceiling. Alexi tilts his head up, to see if there's anything there, but when he looks down again, Michael is sitting upright, legs splayed. He leans forward, then, and it jogs his ankle, and then they're almost touching, just like on the set. Except that Michael is not so grim, not so serious.
Michael appears to be trying to think of something to say. "We are in the middle of nowhere."
"It's Connecticut." At least they don't have to talk about anything. There's always work, even when it's not really work, and there are two more weeks of it.
Michael blinks, and levelly says, "I don't understand anything about this country. Your country."
"We're matched, then." Alexi is not really sure to what he is referring, but Michael blinks again and doesn't seem inclined to ask very many questions.
He moves off the edge of the bed and stands. "Do you know where my necktie is --" Before Michael has finished asking, Alexi holds it up. The silk is hopelessly wrinkled, long creases where Alexi had held it so tightly. Michael takes it uncomplainingly, and runs it between his fingers. He pulls at his collar, and swings the tie around. With quick fingers, Michael buttons his short back up, and makes a neat knot. "Thank you."
It is not just about the tie, and Alexi stares, unsure of what to say. It was nothing? The viewers at home are probably terrified of us all? Anytime? "You've been good."
"See you for the Czechs and Portugal, yes." Michael buttons his trousers, and reaches for his jacket, laying it over one arm. The light in the room is suddenly very dim, graying out like a lemon pie, heavy with sugar. The shadows seem very tall, and extravagantly painted. This room is really too big for one person, which Michael knows; he has a similar one of his own, most likely somewhere on this floor. Potentially, it could be useful to know; they could argue about Bob Ley, and do the kind of things that players aging into mediocre do. But Alexi doesn't say anything when Michael leaves.
He sits on his bed for a long moment, once the door is shut. He does not look at the two tumblers of scotch. He kicks the mess of a comforter off the bed. He thinks about being lazy, and stands up to brush his teeth.
Because, yes, hey look Euros it's an exciting opportunity to talk about new places -- no no let's go to a state that looks like a wet stamp. Fucking thrilling stuff, it's like I don't even want people to read these stories.