Mesut Ozil’s Sex Tape
via Squawka.com: “Mesut Ozil has created 20.4% of Arsenal’s chances in the Premier League this season. The highest % of any EPL player.”
With the scandalous release of that sex tape last week showing Mesut and a mystery woman, I felt compelled to come forward and say what I know to be true, first hand.
To my own astonishment, most of the scandal and headlines have not been about the sex tape itself, but his performance. And so I felt compelled to speak up.
Last night Mesut Ozil came to me in my room again. He slipped under the covers and set about seducing me effortlessly as he has done many times before. I have known other lovers but none like him.
None have understood how to explore space, my space, like him.
With Mesut it is his movement. So often he surprises me by moving away…as he glides his limbs effortlessly into space.
And there he is, moving to the erogenous zones. I start him in the middle but I cannot keep him there for long. He will seek out one side or the other, one inside of the thigh or the other, and back and forth, languidly searching for that spot from which to accelerate the tempo.
Honestly, it feels like I’m doing all the work. That is until I see it later on video, like the video that was leaked. And then I see what he has been doing all the time. And why I am rubbed raw.
More than anything, Mesut knows where the Spot is. And he can hit it from almost any position and any angle. Everything he does, moving into space, moving to the sides, dropping deep or getting in behind, is only in pursuit of opening up a gap at just the right moment so he can hit that spot. Unerringly. And when he hits it, you can have no defense, no resistance. You are lost.
His touch…it’s exquisite. Soft and deft. His first touch is sometimes the only touch it takes. And his timing. You give yourself over to him.
Whereas the others …how can I put this delicately? It’s all appendages and fumbling and wobble a girl’s tits.
A girlfriend of mine had an affair…No, that wouldn’t describe it accurately. A girlfriend of mine, Sharon, had sex with Phil Jones. She told me all about it, as girls do. It was all huffing, and puffing, and grunting, and faces. It did not sound appealing to me in the least.
And it was quick. He stampeded straight for the clitoris, breaking off to twist her nipples a few times, and then back to the clitoris…on, on inexorably to his climax. Very nice I suppose if you like that kind of thing. She said she now knew what Sir Alex had meant – his warning, you know – about Phil Jones not knowing his best position.
And apparently, this is what the internet expected to see from Mesut. Grunting and thrashing and flailing around. “Show some effort,” someone commented. It seems they don’t know what they are looking at. They have watched too much pornography perhaps. Or perhaps you can have had sex and still be ignorant of the secrets of lovemaking. It is sad to hear. I pity their girlfriends.
Well, none of that is for me.
And with Mesut, it is not like that. None of the stampeding or the tweaking or the grunting and face-pulling. No.
Mesut is not like the others. He wants you to finish. His pleasure is in giving. Although, sometimes even he gets ahead of himself and then he will polish it off, which is a little bit special for me. And that smile when he does. Like a little boy.
I have known other lovers. When I was young, too young perhaps, I knew Pirlo. As he got a little older he would insist on dropping back. He told me that he needed to see it all laid out in front of him or he couldn’t perform. But with all of it open in front of him, he was then primed to spray his balls to the left or right, or straight up the middle.
But, alas, his beard was scratchy, he smelled of Gitanes, and he was too old for me.
And so to Mesut…
If you have watched that video and said that you are underwhelmed, that he doesn’t do much, that he seems disinterested, then you do not know how to make love to a woman. And I pity you. Watch again. And again. Until you learn how a woman wants to be satisfied.
On a personal note, I am worried.
Mesut has given a name to various parts of my body. But his favourite is my Mound of Venus. He calls it his Emirates. He says that when the grass of the Emirates glistens, there is no better place on God’s green earth on which to perform. He laughs when I blush.
Alas, therein lies the seed of my worry. For when he last came to see me, he commented with the tiniest hint of distaste that I might want to get the groundsmen in as the grass was growing wild und unkept. I giggled girlishly to hide my embarrassment, then. But now, I pray he is not put off. For I would miss Mesut Ozil’s sweet, sweet balls.