One thing I think I think this week is that, if I see Tony Romo, I’m gonna walk up to him and greet him with open arms. I’m gonna tell him, “Young man, you are the future of this franchise. Don’t let one little mistake drag you down. You’ve got a lot of football left in you. You should listen to me, because I am a reporter and what I say is important.”
Than I’m gonna give the guy a nice, big hug. I think everyone needs a hug every now and then. I know I do. I’m going to hug him long and hard. I’m gonna wrap my arms around his sturdy frame, caress his broad shoulders, and embrace him tightly. I’m going to feel his rippling muscles on the tips of my fingers. Then I’m going to bury my nose into the nape of his neck and take in his scent. I imagine him smelling faintly of cedar, with just a hint of Kiehl’s cucumber lotion. I’m gonna take a long, deep draw of Romo’s heavy musk, then close my eyes and imagine us swaying on a hammock together in open fields of Latrobe, Pennsylvania.
Then I’ll nibble his ear just a little. He’ll pull back just a bit, and I’ll say, “Did I hurt you baby? I’m so sorry.” He’ll laugh. Then I’ll nibble again, softly and gently. Then I’ll whisper to him:
Fuck me like you own me.
Then I’m going to take off my pants and turn around. Then I’m going to let Throwmo dock himself in my port. At first, he’ll seem too big, like a summer sausage. But as I relax my bowels, I’ll let him go deeper. People will see us in the locker room, but I won’t care. I’ll lose myself in the rapture of his mighty cock bobbing in and out of me. I’ll reach down between my legs and grab his balls and give them a little squeeze and tell him:
Show me some of that Mexican fire, big boy.
Then he’ll just lose it and start plunging me like a clogged toilet. The smell of sweat and sex will become hopelessly intermingled as he fucks me deeper, harder. God, it’s just gonna be so fucking intense.
You almost there, hot rod?
He’ll barely nod, at which point I’ll turn around and gobble his cock like a starving orphan. Then he’ll let out a savage groan and spray a gallon of Romo lotion all over my hair. And I’ll tell him he’s more like Favre than he’ll ever know.
You know, if I see him.