Sex is the PE of adult life
And I’ve got a note from my mother
And when they enquire, for which team do I play
I reply, “whichever one is left over.”

The memory of countless school playing field sessions
Where the fit and the popular took charge
And the rest of the class would line up at their mercy
The Unusual Suspects picked last
Whittled down to the likes of just me and Fat Clive
Who finally got to feel Loved
When faced with choosing between him and myself
Clive now seemed more athletic by half
And the unlucky team captain forced to take me on board
Would whine and complain to Sir
“Not Dickon again!” We had him last time!
He’s useless.” And I’d happily concur.

But with mutual resentment and grumbling ignored
I was doomed to embarrass my classmates once more
Pathetically failing to throw, catch or kick
And even Sir wishing I’d skived off sick.

So physical games and competitive sports
Forever are branded and filed in my thoughts
As Things Other People Do, not me.
Things spoken of in pubs or As Seen On TV.
As it was with football, so shall it be with sex
One more physical game, where England Expects
One more opportunity for judgement and scores
One single short session spoken of evermore
The execution dread of pre-match undressing
My clothing taken down and used in evidence against me
From kit on to kit off, so with football goes orgasm
Where for me to Join In seems the height of sarcasm
Like all sport, it’s to talk of, to read of, to watch
Not attempted by those who would rather skive off

It’s too much like hard work, at the end of the night
So take heed if you’re selecting a lover
Sex is the PE of adult life
And I’ve got a note from my mother.

© 2004 Dickon Edwards