When the magazine arrived in the mail, my pulse quickened.
Right there on the cover for anyone to see was the honey of the month. Tall, lean and just begging for action.
My heart rate jumped about 20 points. There she was, just waiting for the right guy to come along and show her how it’s done.
Good Lord, why don’t they wrap these things in brown covers? Anyone can see this. Is there no privacy since the Internet came along.
“Find the One to Raise Your Game,” it beckoned. As if.
Like the endless cakes on the conveyor belt in the old “I Love Lucy” episode, the magazines arrived in rapid succession the last few weeks. Some I had not even ordered but once the sellers of these things know you are an afficionado of such commodities, they continue to throw their top of the line material at you, hoping you bite on something.
What would my mail carrier, a woman, think? Should I stop her and explain that around this time of year, I am not the only one? Surely she knows. It’s been dark and cold and with spring just around the corner, who could blame a guy.
It’s that time of year.
These days, you can’t turn on a game, open a mailbox or pass a sports equipment store without the panorama of the entire golf regalia assaulting ever sensory nerve left in your head. You are helpless, a virtual flesh pod that has been incubating since November. Come on, Frank. Just try one. It’s easy. Nobody will know.
When people ask what is golf porn, just refer them to former U.S. Supreme court justice Potter Stewart’s classic line when trying to describe hard-core pornography: “I know it when I see it.”
Well, let me tell you, I have seen it this year.
Late February really is the breaking point for most of us hackers. Even though this has not exactly been the season of the tundra like last winter, biologically, it’s the time of year when a young (and a mature) man’s fancy turns to such dalliances.
It all started really on Jan. 5, a Thursday, when the purveyors of such sin unleashed Kapalua, Hawaii,on us for the Hyundai Tournament of Champions. I have no idea who played in that PGA kickoff event. It could have been midgets and gnomes in golf carts for all I cared.
Because when that cameraman panned the blue ocean crashing against the shore and the sun just washed the world in gold and that guy with the British voice started whispering things in that voice that made my dog start to purr, well, that is just wrong on so many levels.