As a married man who lives vicariously through the sexual exploits of his single friends, I am growing continually dissatisfied with the baseball metaphor as being the standard for when your buddy shares how far he went with his most recent date.
This method of kissing-and-telling (you know, first base, second base, etc.) is about as informative as asking a Mormon which Las Vegas brothels serve the best coffee. I mean, sure, everyone knows that first base is French kissing. We know that second base is kissing with heavy petting. And a home run is obviously intercourse. But what happens at third base? Can one solitary bag really cover the remaining romantic possibilities between a double and a homer.
I guess the obvious answer would be oral sex, but what of the hand job? Dry humping? Toe sucking? Mutual masturbation? Interfemoral intercourse? Why are there no bases for these romantic interludes?
This is why I’m lobbying to designate football as the standard for vicarious sexual metaphors. The football method is far more informative and versatile. For instance, when telling a friend about your recent date, you can keep it simple by saying something like, “I got into the red zone, dude,” which means you were both half-naked on the couch. At that point, however, you can add as much information as you like.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get into the end zone [perform intercourse].”
“Oh no! Did you fumble the ball [whisper another girl’s name in her ear]?”
“Nah, the ref called pass interference [her roommate came home and cock-blocked me].”
The football sex metaphor starts with the premise that—as with football—the date begins at your own 20 yard line. Unless, of course, you had an awkward phone conversation or somebody told her you’re a womanizer, in which case you’ll likely have the ball on your own 5- or 10-yard line.
You could also begin the date with great field position, which could happen if you’re, say, rich, or yoked, or if you saved her puppy from getting hit by a train when you first met.
Then there’s the unlikely possibility that you receive the kickoff and run it all the way back for a touchdown, which is when you go to her house to pick her up but she drags you inside and macks you on the coffee table. Of course you need to be rich, yoked and a puppy saver in order for that to happen.
So, say the dinner date is going great. There’s lots of goofy eye-gazing and hand-touching and you’re saying all the right things (“I totally agree, Francesca—sharing one’s feelings is the best way to maintain a healthy relationship”). Well this is the 30-yard line. If, after dinner, she wants to continue the date, on the beach perhaps, that’s the 40-yard line. If the two of you embrace and kiss with open mouths, congratulations!
You’re on the 50 and entering her territory.
Getting to her 40-yard line is the equivalent of second base. The 30-yard line is breast play. The 25 is dry-humping along with such tender-sweet ear-whisperings as, “Oh, conquistador, Inquisition me! Inquisition me!
The 20 yard line—the red zone—is when all the clothes come off. Oral sex is at the 15. The 10-yard line is mutually beneficial oral sex. The five is when you THIS SENTENCE HAS BEEN CENSORED while licking peanut butter from THESE WORDS ARE INAPPROPRIATE FOR A FAMILY MAGAZINE And, finally—touchdown!—full-on vaginal penetration (with the extra point being post-coital cuddling). Ta-da!
Still not convinced that the football system is superior? Well let’s compare the two in action:
Baseball metaphor: “Hey, Joe, how’d it go last night?”
“I got to third base, man!”
“Wow, how fun. Excuse me while I yawn myself to a base on balls.”
Football metaphor: “Hey Joe, how’d it go last night?”
“Well, I started the date with bad field position [told Francesca I’d pick her up after my Dungeons and Dragons session], so I started by running a bunch of screen plays [was nervous and played it safe]. I soon found myself in a third-and-long situation [she kept checking her watch], so I threw a Hail Mary [lied and said I was a firefighting helicopter pilot], which was caught at the 42-yard line [went back to her house].
“I threw down field a few more times [told her I adore kids and, ‘Yes, yes, snuggling is the best part about making love!’], and the next thing you know, I was on her 18-yard-line [naked in bed].
“At that point, it was fourth and inches, so she brought out the measuring chains [retrieved her bondage toys]. On fourth down, I went for it [let her handcuff me to the bedposts], but she was called for roughing the passer [mangled my nipples with her teeth], which put me on the 7-yard line [she felt bad and made it up to me by CENSORED my CENSORED].
“I tried to punch it into the end zone but she put up a goal-line stance for three downs [said, ‘I’m a good Christian girl,’ ‘I barely know you’ and ‘Stop! Real Housewives is coming on’]. On fourth down I ran up the middle [said I never met a girl like her before], got to the goal line (told her, ‘I think I’m falling in love’), but fumbled before crossing the plane [blurted that her fat thighs didn’t bother me in the least].
“Francesca recovered the fumble, stiff-armed me and ran it back for a defensive touchdown as the game clock expired [slapped me in the face, kicked me out of her house and told me never to call her again].”