How To Make Love To A ______ Fan: The Boston Red Sox

Wrapping up (for now) our joint series on bangin’ the baller fans in your lives…it’s been a hell of a ride, y’all. We’d like to thank the incomparable Orson Swindle of Every Day Should Be Saturday for heading up this little operation; it’s been a filthy privilege, sir. Finally, inevitably, we give you Texas Gal at EDSBS with How To Make Love To A Texas Longhorns Fan, and below, we’re proud to present the Ladies… closer: J-Money in the house, lighting the way to the naughty bits of the Boston faithful.

How to Make Love to A Boston Red Sox Fan

Well hello, Red Sox Fan.

Of course I watched the game. Your pitching staff has really been—is that your hand on my breast? Dave Roberts didn’t steal second that fast. I see how you want to play. And I—he’s on the Giants now? No, I was not aware of that.

Would you like to go to your place? Because I want you to ram into me harder than a Dodge Caravan into Stephen King.

Mmm…what’s that I feel pressing against my leg? No, not your toy. I’m sorry, your Limited Edition Jason Varitek McFarlane Figurine. The other thing. No, that’s the key to your Volvo. Your erection. I was talking about your erection…looks like somebody’s got a runner in scoring position. So how ’bout you let me drive that runner home?

What I’m saying, Sox Fan, is that what I want to do to you is so hot, Al Gore will make a movie condemning it.

Baby, I hope those are Dockers with Stain Defender, because tonight’s going to get dirtier than Trot Nixon’s hat. Yes, I know he plays for Cleveland now. I was speaking figurat—what? I assumed Trot was a nickname, yes.

Sure, I’d love to hear some music. Want me to turn a light on? Wow, that’s a lot of IKEA. Is that the Fjelldal bed? I hope you assembled it correctly because we’re going to test it out tonight. How do you say “freaknasty” in Swedish? No, please don’t look it up.

Nice song selection. Ha ha, you do love that “Dirty Water”. That explains the fridge full of Michelob Ultra. No, I don’t care for one, thank you, but I like your can koozie.

Now why don’t you let me fjuck you in that Fjelldal? Like Grady Little, I’m going to leave you in until you’re incapable of performing. Now if we—right, Pedro was at 115 pitches. Uh-huh, and Alan Embree was in the pen. I’d forgotten about hi—no, I don’t read your blog. You can write the address down later. Please come to bed.

That’s better. I hope you’re ready for this, baby. You can call me Bill Buckner because I’m about to go between your legs. What? Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry! Sweetie, I know. He had bad knees. It’s OK. Shhh, stop crying. Do you have another of those Michelobs? Fuck, give me two.

What can I say to make you feel better? Sure, I’ll call you anything you’d like. Um…are you serious? Yeah, I’ll say it if you think it will help. Now touch me there.

Wait, hang on, hang on…sweetie, do you have any other Neil Diamond songs? “How can I hurt when holding you”? Because I’m going to punch you in the dick if you play “Sweet Caroline” again.

Thank you. Now where were we? Yes, I remember what to say. Back to touching me…mmm…oh…Sports Guy! Give it to me Sports Guy! DO ME SPORTS G… shit, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. No, I swear, I’m not laughing at you. I should probably leave.

No, I’ll take a cab. Well, I’ll see you, uh, around.

Oh, right. Your blog address. Thanks.

Night.