Here’s the Jerry Jones/Chris Christie Fan Fiction You’ve Been Praying Nobody Would Write
When one speaks of the senses, there are inherent preferences to certain ones. The stunning sight of a beautiful person. The warmth of a familiar voice. The smell of a loved one’s distinctive scent. The taste of their lips.
Touch, however — touch always seems overlooked. I’ve always believed the sense of touch is the most compelling, the most salacious. The touch of someone’s hand on your own. The feel of someone’s bare shoulders. The deep caress of Chris Christie’s arms on both my front and back as he hugged me from the side following last night’s crucial playoff win over the Detroit Lions.
It was an accident that the world ever saw the moment we shared last night. It was a moment that reflected years of passion, neatly bottled like a fine champagne, exploding in a shower of uncontrollable ecstasy. The media may have mocked our celebration, but they haven’t seen what Chris and I have seen. Our embrace was about so much more than the persistence of the Cowboys defensive line, or Tony Romo’s unexpected consistency after Thanksgiving. It was about two men, expressing irrepressible affection and raw lust.
The moment the embrace happened, of course, I knew what damage had been done. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that there’s always someone watching, always a camera waiting. Chris and I had a tacit understanding that the outburst was essentially inevitable; the sexual tension between us all night was so taut that even the softest stomp of Ndamukong Suh’s cleats could have shattered it.
But what happened in the VIP box in the fourth quarter is only the prologue to a subsequent saga of unbridled passion.
I had just gone down to the field to celebrate with the players. I shook hands with Tony Romo, Dez Bryant, Demarco Murray, and the whole gang. It was a very exciting evening, naturally. But the — excitement — didn’t really ramp up on my end until afterwards, when I went back up to the VIP box to collect my things and leave.
Imagine my surprise when I walk in and see the majority of the VIP box window blocked by a silhouette. A silhouette I know well, one I recognize in an instant, seemingly before my nervous system can even signal to my brain who it is. A silhouette I feel like I’ve seen a million times, standing between pristine lace curtains, against the stark light of a lover’s moon.
He’s facing the field, but knows I’ve entered. I can feel it from the energy in the room. I can feel waves of desire crashing over my like cascading waterfalls. I want him.
The stadium lights go out. It’s just us now. No cameras, no observers.
I softly close the door and tiptoe over to him. I approach him from behind and wrap my arms around him, almost locking my fingers. I emit a quiet but deep sigh and he turns around, leaving us face-to-face.
“You’ve been a bad owner, Jerry,” he whispers sensually.
I can’t control it. I let out a low groan, my mind racing with intensity and arousal.
“You’ve been a really, really bad owner.”
He touches my hand, and I’m flooded with sensory pleasure. His scent overtakes me, that unimprovable concoction of sweat and cologne permeating his formless red sweater, returning me to every memory of New Jersey I can gather from even the most obscure and distant recesses of my mind. His stare penetrates me, its boyish smirk balancing its powerful fullness, like a handsome, hedonistic Roman emperor. I can barely stand up; my knees weaker than my starting quarterback’s, my hands trembling. The sound of his heavy breathing — not from a pulmonary condition, I’m pretty sure, but from a passion that has taken over his body the way it has taken over mine.
The taste. Oh, the taste.