A RUGBY DREAM
Girls, I could just not believe what I was reading, but there it was in black and white in the newspaper. Two Children, two young girls, faced possible expulsion from their schools because they did not want to play the school game. And what was the recognised game at this small girl’s school? Why, nothing else but Rugby.
Now i have no objections to men and boys playing rugby. But I ask you, why should girls have to put up with this violent, physical game. I should hate to battle it out on a muddy pitch, in the wind and the rain, for the best part of two hours, wearing those brightly coloured jerseys and shorts and great big ugly boots, kicking an oval ball about, which might bounce in any direction, including my pretty face. To say nothing of the tackles and the fists and the kicking in the scrummage. What would happen to my carefully manicured fingernails? And what about the ugly bruises on my soft white arms and waxed legs? It would take a month of beauty treatments to put all that right again after just one game.
That is not to say that I never watch rugby. Well I never go to a live rugby match – I couldn’t face shivering on the terrace and I never did understand the complicated rules or how those high-sounding scores are calculated. Come to think of it, I don’t think I really want to know about these things anyway. And from what I have heard from friends, the things that go on in the showers afterwards and the songs that are sung in the pub bar by the rugby players are not the sort of thing a nice girl should know anything about.
But there are times when I have watched the game in the comfort of my own sitting room, on a Saturday afternoon in front of the television. Saturday afternoon is sacred. That is the time when I wash my hair and enjoy a scented bath, particularly in the winter months, and I relax in my negligee on the settee and do my nails. And to while away the time I switch on the television and if the film on the other channel is not very interesting, I have sometimes changed the channel showing the rugby match, league or union, I know not.
I love watching those great big hunks of men battling it out on the pitch, the sight of their strong firm thighs and bottoms as they knuckle down to the scrum, and hairy arms flying all over the place as they race for the line pushing away all who try to stop them. They are so strong and so ravishingly masculine, I wish one of them could come from the screen out into my sitting room, sweep me in his arms up to the bedroom, lay me down and make hot passionate love to me.
How I would gladly surrender to him, stroking his hair and pulling him against my breasts which are already standing out proud and firm for him, and feeling his strong firm tongue probing between my yielding lips.
But alas it cannot be other than a girlish dream.
Meanwhile those two young girls have my sympathy. I do hope they are not compelled to play this rough masculine game against all their innate feminine instincts. I am sure the rugby heroes would rather make love to really feminine girls than glorified tomboys, and when they grow up perhaps they will enjoy for real what has only been my dream.