Melbourne is footy crazy. It is also the sport and fashion capital of Australia. Our club (we have no choice) is H or ‘the Harriers.’ The iconic MCG is where they are playing this afternoon, against another Melbourne rival team, ‘the magpies’. A2 reckons 50, 000 people will turn up for this mid-season game.
After untested sleep, I awoke this morning to a dreary winter’s day, punctuated by the hot sounds of lovemaking coming from the room next door. All I was in the mood for was coffee, quite frankly, and it was only at 9 am that a smiling Margaret emerged, freshly showered with the biggest, shyest, smile on her face. I have not seen her so happy in a long time.
Margaret and I sat by large picture windows overlooking the rain-swept city of Melbourne while A2 deftly worked the espresso machine. Hopeful waves of the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafted over us while Margaret told me how happy she was and how positive she felt about her decision to move Downunder.
I looked at her beautiful face. Her smooth skin made her 37 years of age seem much younger. Her high cheekbones were full of colour, despite having no make-up on them; her lips, too, were full and bright pink, despite her having applied no lipstick. But what shone through most was her optimism.
Margaret has always been an optimistic person. From the time we were little girls in the creche, I always marvelled at her confidence. She was always first to try something new; first on the high bars, first on the trampoline, to dive off the high board at the Empire Swimming Pool, and first to lose her virginity. I was the thinker, the over-thinker. She was carefree, I worried a great deal. She was intuitive, I weighed the odds, conservatively. She was not afraid of risk, I was risk-averse. After she decided, she had no regrets while I always held post-mortems.
I wished I could be her then, and I wished I could be her now. She was making a new life for herself and she was sure it was the right decision to go all-in with A2, fifteen thousand kilometres from home and family. J, her son with Gary was now nineteen years old and was living with fellow LSE students in a sharehouse off Russel Square, in London.
I looked back on my life. I had taken a very traditional route, the safe route. Everything had worked out perfectly. I had a wonderful husband, beautiful healthy children, a country home, a city home, two degrees from Oxford University and was working on my PhD.
And yet, I wanted to be like Margaret. What was wrong with me?
I was working on this conundrum when A2 broke through my reverie and said it was time to get ready for brunch at the member’s section of the MCG, where I would be meeting not only the club’s elite but also A’s wife and children.
The stadium is immense. It holds one hundred and ten thousand people. But the room we’re in is rich and elegant, with large windows overlooking the huge green oval below. It is more than two hours before kick-off, but already people are taking their seats. There is excitement in the room about the game and the magnificent spread of food. Alcohol is served by young stewards dressed in black and wearing white gloves.
Yet, I can’t focus on anything but the WAGS, wives and girlfriends of the players. They are all so tall and handsome. Their children are tall and handsome. It seems to me that everyone in Melbourne is tall and handsome and dressed mostly in black attire.
But there is one family I’m focussed on. There, on the other side of the room, is A with his gorgeous wife and children. She is tall, elegant, and from what I can tell from afar, is confident and outgoing. Why do men cheat, I wonder? Why did A cheat? Why did H?
I froze as A’s wife made eye contact with me. She smiled at me and waved me over to join them. I hesitated, then thought I had better be confident and strode over a little too eagerly.
“Hi,” Bronwyn welcomed me with air kisses on both sides of my cheeks. “Welcome to Melbourne. You must be exhausted! A has told me so much about you.”
I looked over at A. He smiled at me while taking a half-eaten cracker from his young daughter who was pulling an ‘I don’t like it face’.
“Exhausted,” I replied, “The things one does for your best friend! I just want the best for her.”
She took my hand and led me to a quieter part of the room and told me that A2 was an honourable person she’d known for over a decade. She said his ex-wife was a selfish person who enjoyed the fame and prestige that came with being the wife of a premier footy player, but that when A2 was injured into retirement, she moved on to another, leaving A2 devastated. Since his return from London, he was newly invigorated and in love. She told me that he came from a secure, established family and that Margaret will be loved and well taken care of.
Bronwyn was classic model material. She had long, tapering legs and a short upper body, her full breasts neither too big nor too small. She had naturally blonde hair and small facial features and a perfect complexion.
Our conversation was pleasant and friendly. But at five foot ten inches, she looked down at me, and I felt outclassed.
I hardly watched the game. The Hs lost by 4 points.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/vceug5/melbourne_is_footy_crazy