We’ve engaged in a joint venture with not one, but all of the LadiesDotDotDot crew. Better still, it’s an act of congress with six women our wife approved: a creation of an internet phenomenon involving no penetration or actual infidelity. We’re just that gangsta, ’scro.

The Ladies crew in conjunction with EDSBS have created the ultimate in playbook science: how to make love to a specific kind of sports fan. Since we’re all a little different, you need to know how to turn the corner on a toss sweep of a Volunteer fan’s panties, or turn a routine swipe of the bat into an inning-ending double play with a Red Sox fan. It’s knowledge the world needs, and we’re giving it to you cheap as free, internets dwellers.

The first installment? Our own unveiling of the intimate secrets of: HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO A FLORIDA FAN, written by EDSBS Senior Gator Copulation Tactics Correspondent Orson Swindle. Holly and Texas Gal’s guides on how to make love to Texas and Tennessee fans will follow. That’s actual women writing about sex, and not the “women” you chat with on AOL who turn out to be state troopers.


How to make love to a Florida fan. Start by being Good Chris Leak, not Evil Chris.

Again, how you lived without this we’ll never know. Warning: contains sexual language of such a frank and unbridled nature that it would make Trick Daddy blush.

HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO A FLORIDA FAN

Oh, Florida fan. You love scoring, and tonight I will hang fifty on you by halftime and have you begging for more. And that, Gator, will just be the start.

You cannot be prepared for fun, or the gun, that this bull gator is bringing to your wallow tonight. Both are unprecedentedly awesome. I can honestly say that you are not prepared. Like Fred Taylor, you will be perpetually injured after I freak you like I’m gonna. Like Chris Leak, you will go down in a beautiful crushed heap again and again. Like Steve Spurrier, I’m going deep on you tonight. Like Ohio State’s offensive line, you will be penetrated deeply, frequently, and completely.

And in the end, there will be no need for overtime, because you are about to be Swamped. Brace yourself, Gator fan.

I’m about to show you my Tim Tebow stiffarm without using my arms. Consider yourself warned.

The pants? Thigh-high jorts of the finest quality. I wear a shirt both tantalizing enough to tan my ripped, tattoed arms, but subtle enough to let you know that when I read the sign that says “No shirt, no shoes, no service,” I am a gentleman who can push the rules, but live among the brotherhood of men with a unique mix of panache and respect.

The shirt I am talking about is a sleeveless shirt with extra-wide vents. Because heat like this could kill a man if I don’t let some of it into the surrounding environment. It is a real danger–you will understand this when I take it off and extend a glass of fine Franzia to you, my sun-roasted flesh exuding the look of melanoma and pure raw male sexuality.

“Thunderstruck” by AC/DC will play in the background. I will pump my fists in the air and bang my head, and watching me rock you will want me so badly that you will shed your tube top and jean shorts and begin begging me to run the spread option on you without delay.

And I will, Gator fan. I will make you earn the Miller High Lifes we will consume in between bouts of love-making as intense as Urban Meyer mat drills. I will make you so hot that Sister Hazel will sound like pleasure to you afterwards because of the association of it with my Ol’ Ball Coach-like strategy and Urban Meyer-esque intensity in my lovemaking. That is just how talented I truly am, Gator fan: complete and utter sonic shit will sound like spun audio gold after I am through with you.

You will never smell Speed Stick Sport the same way again, or pass a Comfort Inn without thinking of the sweet, scaly humping you once received in one of their 2000 worldwide locations. The mere sight of the ice bucket and its lonely plastic wrapper will remind you of the pleasures we shared together while watching Bloodsport and banging babyblocks one exquisite Saturday night.

Oh, and we’ll do it in the butt, too–because we’re about the future at the University of Florida, and the ass is the pussy of the future. We totally have to do that. And you’ll like it, because I’ll be wearing my Oakleys and telling you to take it like a Bulldog in Jacksonville.

This is how sensual and loving I can be, Gator lady.

Room 214, Comfort Inn, Williston. I’ll be waiting. Just listen for the Molly Hatchet–because missing this opportunity would truly be flirting with disaster, baby.

Ciao,

Orson