Part two of our “How To Make Love To A ______” series: Holly from Ladies Dot Dot Dot brings the beta on how to properly make love to a Tennessee fan. Two words: “doe urine.”

Be sure to check out Lady Andrea’s guide on making love to a St. Louis Cardinals’ fan. We don’t know what sport this refers to, but guess it’s an Arena League Football team of some sort.

How to Make Love to a Tennessee Vols Fan

Hey there, Tennessee Volunteer. In the gleam of the table lantern at the neighborhood Cracker Barrel, I can see that special look in your good eye. I’ve been holdin’ out longer’n Davy Crockett at the Alamo, but I just can’t fight this feelin’ anymore. Tell the waitress to keep the change, high roller, and let’s hit that dusty road. Time for us to get on home and get on down to some four-wheelin’ of an entirely different sort.


The camera adds 250 pounds: Phil Fulmer in real life will sex your mind off.

I’ll even sit in the middle seat on the way home so you can sling one arm around my shoulders. Is that a Slim Jim in your pocket or are you just…oh. A Slim Jim! Awww, baby, you didn’t have to buy me dessert. But speaking of…you know you want a piece of this sweet potato pie. I put lots of marshmallows on extra. Oh, I can see it in your eyes. You couldn’t be hotter for me if I was doused in doe urine.

You know what I like about staying at your place, baby? Lookin’ up at the stars through the holes in the tin roof. Now let’s you and me turn up the Charlie Daniels and zip our sleeping bags together to make a double. In more ways than one. Like the tube top? I went to the tanning booth special for you. And let’s just say I’ve got a few Big Oranges ripe for the plucking you might be interested in. I’ll sweat Boone’s Farm for you if you’ll bleed Jack Daniels for me.

You wanna walk on the wild side tonight, baby? Get in touch with our primal urges and shit? You don’t have to say anything else, sugar. I’m a nature lover. I know where you’re goin’ with this. You wanna do it in the deep freezer in the basement, don’t you? On the stacks of frozen venison. That’s right. Let’s you and me crack open a cold one. Yeah….leave the coonskin cap on.

(What’s that? No, honey, the bait shop was closed. Yes, the one in back of the tanning salon. Yes, I returned your videos while I was there. Now, c’mere…I’ma make you wiggle like a nightcrawler.)

Ooooh…that’s right. Run it right up the middle, darlin’. I’m old fashioned like that. D-I defenses may not be fooled, but I guaran-damn-tee I’ll gasp every time, as often and loud as our beloved fight song resonates in Neyland.

Tell me this is our year, baby. Tell me Cutcliffe molded the Mannings and that this is Erik Ainge’s time. Tell me Florida, Georgia, and Ala-god-damn-bama will be left broken when the clock runs out, and mewling like those kittens in the cardboard box on the back porch. Tell me I’m just as beautiful as the night we met, that third Saturday in October down in Tuscaloosa. Recite a list of Charles Woodson’s injuries and Peyton Manning’s pass completions in my ear until I scream,”Keep your fucking trophy!” and you’re howlin’ like Smokey. Baby, we haven’t pounded the Rock like this since Travis Stephens declared for the draft.

Are you All Vol?
say it…
louder…..
TOUCHDOWN!!

Lordy, honey, when you said you were gonna give me six? You weren’t lyin’.

Tell me something, darlin’. Are you feelin’ a little like a stranger lookin’ for a moonshine still? Well, you should. ‘Cause you’ve just been Rocky Topped. (WOO!)