In the offseason before my final year in the NFL, at least final year I played regular season games, I met this group of people at a fair. I’m not sure what it was, but everything about them was perfect. A little naughty, a little wholesome, a lot of sexy. We partied and it was good, so I kept things going. At some point after the trolls left with their magic yeast, a wiccan priestess arrived and we all participated in a harvest-bond marriage ceremony. It was a wild, sex-fueled set of months.
And then the regular season arrived. You should have seen the look on my teammates’ faces when I had my wives decorate the locker room. It quickly evolved into a body-paint fusion tribal rave. Picture it: dozens of 350-pound naked linemen covered in pink and purple glow. The glitter. The scent. Flashing lights. Champagne and shower water. Even Bacchus blushed.
And then something happened.
It all ended.
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