During the last World Cup in Brazil, a Muslim cleric in Malaysia asked women not to watch the games or at least to be mindful that, should they do so, they might be committing what he termed “visual fornication.” This man, Datuk Daud Che Ngah, warned that the sight of men wearing shorts might arouse poor, helpless women.
What I found most galling about his statement was that he completely ignored the arousal of poor, helpless gay men. I mean, really.
My name is Rabih, and I’m a visual fornicator.
I have practiced visual fornication (VF for short) since I was 10, during the 1970 World Cup: Pelé was my idol not just because of his soccer skills. I couldn’t help it. Men in shorts, sweat and muscles, butts galore, hormones in motion—yes, I was hooked. I have been batting my eyelashes at television screens for every major tournament since.
Of course, I love the game, I enjoy everything about it, but Datuk is right. I’m in trouble. I confess, I am a chronic visual fornicator. I’d be watching a game, maybe my favorite team, when all of a sudden Satan whispers in my ear:
Is this a bulge which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand?
Come, let me clutch thee.
Now, visual fornication is practiced differently by people. I remember watching a Euro Cup with my family. Before every game, my father and I would analyze the teams, pick sides depending on different factors. My sister, 16 at the time, would wait until the national anthems were played, when the camera panned across the faces of all the players, and she would pick the team with the hottest men. Even though she cared little for soccer, she had an uncanny ability of picking the winning side.
I am so bad. I have visually fornicated with many sports—after all, what are the Olympic games if not a feast of VF. (Can someone please tell NBC that those horrifically sappy personal stories of athletes are anathema to visual fornicators?) I have friends who have chosen to practice VF with baseball, women’s basketball, cycling, swimming, whatever struck their fancy. Satan pours pestilence in many an ear.
I’m wondering how well-attended a meeting of Visual Fornicators Anonymous would be.
Unfortunately, this is not the World Cup, which offers a more stunning array than the Euros, but this tournament offers a plethora of eye-candy, and wait, we also have Copa America. Alexis Sánchez, yum. Higuain, mmm. Chicharito, sí se puede.
I won’t list all of the guys I will visually fornicate with during these Euros because everyone has different tastes. Even though most of the world agrees with Ronaldo that he is the hottest soccer player in the world (he made sure the Ronaldo statue that stands at his museum in Portugal was well-endowed), he’s not my type.
Photo by GREGORIO CUNHA/AFP/Getty Images
I will say that I have a special fondness for Eden Hazard’s butt and it seems I’m by no means the only one. There is a twitter account for that masterpiece, @EdenHazardsAss. I don’t particularly care about Hazard as a player but that is not a hindrance for the practiced visual fornicator, not even a hump.
I can even practice VF with players from teams that I abhor. Dele Alli, yes; Harry Kane, fuck no.
Unfortunately this tournament is missing two of the great icons of VF: the magnificent Andrea Pirlo, since he now plays in a semi-amateur league, and Karim Benzema, the alleged blackmailer. Both are a great loss, particularly Benzema, who has scored the highest VF score ever in my book. So he may have blackmailed Valbuena with a sex tape, but really, not one of us have seen that tape. If I can’t get to visually fornicate with Benzema, I should be allowed to watch the Valbuena sex tape. Donald Trump should release his taxes, Hillary Clinton should release the emails, and Benzema should release the tape.
I admit that I am powerless against visual fornication, which is a first step, and a fine step too, but that’s about as far as I’m going to go. Sorry, Datuk.
Read more Slate coverage of Euro 2016 and Copa America.
