Watching the (Women’s) World Cup (Again)

I’m at the supermarket, and in a hurry. A hurry, because today is my day off, and the only day I can get my housemate’s car from him to do my shopping, and doing it is a lot easier with a car. But today is also the day that an important game is on in the world cup, and that game is on right now. Unfortunately. So I’m wandering around the supermarket, trying to get everything I need, but also checking status-updates and tweets on my phone, so I can see how the match is going.

I’m anxiously watching for updates about one team’s attempts at goal, and desperately hoping as I watch updates about the other, basically. That, while standing still, pretending to be thinking about which tinned tomatoes to buy, while people squeeze past me. And yes, I’m actually pretending to stare at the shelves. Um, seriously. Whenever something happens in the game I stop and face the shelves like I’m deep in thought, but I peer down at my phone, in my hand, waiting for the next update.

I pretend, because I feel a bit silly doing this, and caring so much about the game. I feel silly, but obviously I’m doing it anyway.

So basically, I get in the way, and am probably a nuisance, and I take far longer than usual to do my shop.

After one such anxious pause, waiting for the next message, it appears, saying a kick at the Australian goal has been saved. Relieved, I start walking again, but I do it without looking, and still staring at the phone’s screen as I move, and so, probably predictably, I bump into someone almost right away.

I bump, and quickly say, “Oh sorry,” and she says something back that sounds like a frustrated swear-word, under her breath. It sounds like it, but I’m not sure, because it’s in another language. Spanish, maybe.

I look up, expecting some irritated person who’s sick of being walked into by compulsive texters, but instead I see someone who looks like she’s in just as much of a hurry as me.

She’s still muttering in Spanish or whatever it is, as I look at her.

Spanish, which is probably actually Portuguese, I realize, since she’s wearing a Brazil team shirt, and has her hair tied back with a yellow-and-green tie, and she has yellow shoes on too.

I look at her, and she doesn’t actually seem to notice me, at first. She’s looking around like she’s trying to find something, and she actually looks a bit frantic. And not just frantic with worry because the game is still nil-all, like I probably look, but frantic like she’s trying to pick up things and get somewhere in a rush and she knows she’s already late.

Which she is. Late, I mean. At least, if she’s going somewhere to watch the game, which, given what she’s wearing, I assume she is, then she’s very late, since it started twenty minutes ago.

“Sorry,” she says, and seems about to say something more. Like, get out of her way, stupid, I suspect.

She seems about to, but then she doesn’t, I think because she sees my phone in my hand. She can probably see the screen from where she is, I think, at the angle it’s on. She can see the screen, and suddenly she’s staring, curious.

I look at her shirt. And then the phone in my hand.

“Hey,” I say. “Um, do you care about the soccer?”

“Football,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say. “Whatever. But do you care?”

She looks at me, and then nods.

“Here,” I say, and hold my phone out towards her, so she can see the screen, too. We stand there, in the tinned foods aisle, both bending over it, staring. We watch as updates scroll into the screen for several minutes. The match stays nil-all.

“Were you going somewhere to watch this?” I say.

“Just home,” she says. “With friends.” She holds up what she’s carrying. A cardboard carton of beer bottles, and a bag of crisps.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

“I got sent to buy stuff because it’s my place and I have the key,” she says.

I look at her. That seems a bit unfair. “That doesn’t quite make sense…” I say.

“I know. It was an excuse. My friends are kind of assholes.”

I grin. I get that. A lot of mine are too. “Um,” I say. “How far to you have to go? To get back?”

“Twenty minutes. More.”

I nod again. I think. “You’ll miss a lot of the game.”

“I know,” she says. Then she shrugs.

“Um,” I say. “This is a bit weird, but I live five minutes away. You can come and watch with me, if you want to. If that would be better than rushing home and missing most of it anyway.

She looks at me, and seems really grateful. “That would be wonderful,” she says.

“Your friends will be okay on their own?”

“They’ll eat all my food and spill crumbs on the carpet…”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, if you need to go, that’s fine…”

“I don’t care about my carpet,” she says.

I grin again. “So you want to come?” I say.

She nods. “I do.”

“Okay,” I say. “Yay. I’ll just get this stuff and then we can go.” I was pretty much done, anyway.

“Go,” she says, glancing at my phone again. “Hurry. Um, please?”

I do. I start walking, pushing the trolley.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m Luiza.”

I tell her my name, as we walk.

I take my trolley through the self-checkout, because that’s usually quicker, except I do it while staring at my phone’s screen as I scan things, which slows me down a bit. I don’t have that much stuff, just the heavy things like tins and rice, but the staring gets in the way enough to slow me down, even though I’m trying to be as quick as I can. Luiza is waiting on the other side of the checkouts when I get through, anyway, and I say, “Nothing’s happened,” and she looks relieved. We walk quickly out to my car. My housemate’s car, I mean. The supermarket isn’t very busy, so I was parked quite close. Walking doesn’t take very long, even though we walk side-by-side, pressed together, both staring at the phone’s screen.

I press against her arm, and quite like the feeling of warm skin. I like it, but I tell myself to behave. I should be thinking things like that about random people I’m just trying to help out.

We get to the car, and get in, and I drive off as fast as I can. Luiza holds my phone, and tells me what’s happening as I drive. Fortunately, not very much happens. Fortunately, because I wouldn’t want to get in a crash while I was anxiously leaning over to stare at the screen, instead of watching the road.

We get home, and go inside, and I shout, “It’s me. Is anyone here?”

No-one answers, so I assume no. Luiza is watching me, though. “You live with someone?” she says.

“A housemate,” I say. “He’s at work.”

For some reason Luiza grins.

I put on the TV, and fiddle with remotes for a moment. My housemate has this horribly complicated thing with universal remotes that’s meant to make everything easier, but actually doesn’t, so I just find the TV remote, and switch on the TV by itself, and ignore everything else. That works better, for me.

We watch. We sit on the couch. The game is quite a long way through by now. The second half has started.

Luiza takes a beer out of her carton, and opens it, and holds it out to me. “Beer?” she says.

I shake my head.

“Are you sure?” she says.

I nod. She shrugs, and sips it herself. Then she holds out the bag of crisps. “Then these instead?” she says.

I open the bag and take a handful. I eat them as we watch.

It’s a bit odd, watching like this, with her being a stranger, and I suppose a rival too. It’s odd us watching together, side by side, when we both want different things to happen today, I mean.

The game is quite slow now, too. Everyone seems tired, and the weather is pretty awful, and not much is happening.

We watch, and get anxious, and excited, and happy, and angry. We both shout at the referee. Kind of, at different times. At the opposite times to each other.

That’s odd too.

We watch, and shout, and get excited, and then Luiza leans over and kisses me.

“Fuck,” I say, and jump, startled.

“Oh,” Luiza says. “Sorry. I misunderstood.”

“No,” I say. “Um, no not at all.” I mean, she’s hot, and sexy, and into sports, and I want her. I actually do. Just not right now. “You didn’t misunderstand,” I say.

Luiza shrugs. She seems a bit embarrassed.

“I promise you didn’t,” I say. “Um, I’ll fuck you if you want to, like, right after this. But after this, not now.”

Luiza grins, and leans back towards me, and kisses me again.

“Hey,” I say.

“Kiss me,” she says.

“What about the game,” I say.

“Use your ears,” she says.


“Listen,” she says. “You’ll know what’s happening.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah, I see.”

She grins, and kisses me again, and this time we keep kissing.

We kiss, and listen to the TV, and every time there’s cheering or shouting on it, we both stop kissing and look sideways at it. We both keep stopping, but neither of us seems offended. Because we’re both doing it, I suppose. And kissing in the boring bits of the game is nice. It gives us something to do.

We kiss, and we touch, and after a while I slide my hands underneath her shirt. I pull at it, trying to take it off her.

“No,” she says, stopping me. “I can’t take it off. That’s bad luck.”

“Um,” I say, being a smartass, “Well then I kind of want you to take it off…”

She glares.

“Fine,” I say. “The shirt stays on.”

She looks at me for a moment, then takes off her bra underneath it.

“Oh,” I say. “Okay.”

We kiss some more, and I stroke her underneath her shirt, and she takes mine off me. We kiss, and touch, and soon we start touching lower. Touching legs, and tummies, and between each other’s legs, too. I bend over, and kiss the strip of bare skin where her shirt is pulled up by my hand. I kiss, and fumble at her jeans, trying to open them, wanting her. I was going to pull them off her, and lick her, as we watched. I was going to, but suddenly I realize I won’t be able to hear the TV if her legs are pressed against my ears. And if she’s moaning. And I won’t be able to turn and see the screen as easily when something happens, either.

And yes, I know that’s stupid, but it’s a big deal right at that moment.

“Oh shit,” I say. “Um…”

She nods. “I get it.”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“I understand. So don’t.”

I’m relieved.

We kiss some more, and I slide my hand down inside her jeans, and touch her, and she does the same to me. I sigh, feeling her all hot and wet against my fingers, and feeling her hand against me, too, all pleasure and rubbing.

We touch each other, stroke each other, and also listen to the game. And stop kissing every so often to look at the TV. And it actually seems to be working, sex and football both, mostly because neither team is winning. We can concentrate on each other and not be too involved in the game.

We kiss, and touch, and soon, fairly soon, I’m feeling quite close. I’m very close, actually, when suddenly one of the TV’s bursts of worried shouting turns into an actual goal.

For Australia.

I stop moving my hand, and look at Luiza. Suddenly, I’m almost upset. Upset for her, I mean. Because it felt like there was a fairness about doing this while neither team was scoring, and that fairness has just been disrupted, and it’s somehow my fault, because it was my team which got a goal.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Shit.”

Luiza seems surprised. “Don’t be,” she says.

“I really am,” I say. “This must be awful for you. Australia wasn’t supposed to do well.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Luiza says. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Not yet?”

“We might still score.”

I look at her, and want to argue, but I have enough sense not to. “Are we okay?” I say. “Can we still…?”

She starts moving her hand against me again, touching inside me, fingering me, and I’m really quite relieved. I settle back against her side, where I can reach her too, and feel her fingers pressing against me.

She fingers me, and I half watch the TV as she does, and try to remember to rub her back. I try, but I’m lost in her touch, in her achy-good caress, and I really don’t think I do very well. It probably doesn’t matter, I suspect. She’s paying a lot more attention to the game now than I am. I half-watch, though, in a happy daze of pleasure, and I’m watching enough to know that Australia still seems to be one goal ahead. Australia is ahead, and it seems like the game is pretty close to ending, too. The commentators are doing their stupid bad-luck jinxy thing where they talk like the game is finished and won ten minutes before it actually is, anyway. I don’t care about that right now, though, even though it usually infuriates me. I really don’t care. I’m a little bit distracted.

“Um,” I say. “Don’t stop?”

Luiza smiles at me. “I won’t.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Please?” And then I come.

I come really well, really hot and squeezy oily-thick. It fills me and has me and makes me lean against Luiza and sigh. I hold her, breathing in the smell of her skin and hair, feeling my orgasm fill me.

It fills me, and then slowly it fades away.

I open my eyes, happily, and right then the final whistle of the game blows. I look at the score in the corner of the screen.

Australia won.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh shit.”

Luiza looks upset. She looks like she might be about to cry. On the field, the Brazilian players are looking the same way.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I really am. This must be awful for you.”

Luiza shrugs.

“I wish there was something I could do,” I say, and then I realize that there is.

I kiss her. I fumble around, and find the remote, and turn the sound off, because I think all the talking by commentators afterwards is just going to make things worse. I kiss her, pulling at her clothes, pushing her backwards onto the couch. I yank her jeans down a little, far enough I can reach her. Then I slide down her, tugging at her clothes, kissing her as I go. Kissing her football shirt as much as her skin, actually, I’m so frantic to taste her. I kiss, and lick, and pull her jeans right off one leg, but don’t bother with the other. And then I push her feet apart, and touch her, and bend over her, and lick her.

I lick her, and taste her, all hot and wet and her. I taste the wetness I’ve been touching for half the game, and want to taste her more. She holds my hair. I feel her hands, grabbing at me, and she sighs as I lick her, too. She sighs, and starts to breathe all soft and shallowly, so I lick her, and whisper, “I’m sorry,” every so often as I do.

I lick, and soon, very soon, as quickly as I did, she comes. She gasps and holds onto me and lifts herself up against my mouth.

She comes, and I keep sucking on her, and kissing her, very gently, until she’s completely done. Then, I sit up, and kiss her mouth, and say, “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. She doesn’t seem as sad any more.

“Are you okay?” I say.

“It happens. It’s only a game.”

I’m a bit shocked by that, but I decide not to argue. I get why she’d say it, is what I mean.

“Hey,” I say. “Um, this is just a thought. But you can watch the rest of the games here with me, if you want to. I mean, if you still want to see them, after this?”

Luiza looks at me, and seems to be thinking.

“Or,” I say, “You can come over and watch me watch them, anyway. And if you don’t want to actually watch, we can find something else for you to do…”

Luiza laughs. “All right,” she says. “I’ll watch with you.”

“You will?”

“Yep,” she says. “I’d love to. But now I’d better go. I’d better find my friends before they ruin my house.”

I nod, and get up, and go with her to the door. I kiss her there, kiss her properly, tasting her mouth, and breathing her air. I kiss her, then whisper, “Do come back, please?”

“I will,” she says.

“Do,” I say.

“I will,” she says again. “I promise.” And then she steps through the door and is gone.