I’m a red-blooded American male: I like action. I like people jumping high. I constantly need sexual breadcrumbs to keep my interest. The NBA gives me all those things. I read countless articles describing how “long” Giannis Antetokounmpo is, or how “thicc” Zion Williamson is. I watch League Pass and instead of commercials, I get dancers shaking everything and sexy 5’8 men bouncing on trampolines. It’s a buffet of high flying sex, but everyone gets uncomfortable when I want to talk about the sexual lava flow that is Kevin Huerter?
I remember where I was when I saw Kevin get drafted. I was towards the end of my allowable time on the Rancho Bernardo Public Library computers. I had the sound on full blast, no headphones. I can’t wear headphones. Doesn’t matter why.
Nineteenth pick. By now I already finished my tuna sandwich so to me the NBA Draft was over. I start to pack up my newspapers.
Wait. Atlanta takes Kevin. I see Kevin’s face pop up. I didn’t know much about him, but I knew I wanted more. I roll my eyes back into my head and start screaming and farting. It’s my way of saying “I want more time on the computer.” Permission granted.
I go into a Kevin Huerter deep dive. Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever resurfaced. What I do know? Every article that mentions him, every YouTube video that highlights him, has a fucking musk.
I like to explain every video I watched at the library to the bus driver. Normally he is fine with it. He loves talking about Dwight Howard’s shoulders. This guy — this fucking guy — knows LeBron James’ weight to the pound. But when I talk about how I rewound the moment on ESPN’s “Year One” when Kevin Huerter falls on his bed after a big long road trip multiple times, I’m not allowed to ride the bus anymore? Fuck off.
I don’t know how Kevin is doing in basketball. What’s a good number for shooting? Seven? He’s shooting a seven. I don’t give a fuck. Who’s a big movie star right now? Timothy Dalton. Do you watch Timothy Dalton movies for how many “good actings” he does? No! People shell out their hard earned cash to watch Timothy Dalton open all your chakras.
I clearly won this argument. So here is my Kevin Huerter sexual fantasy:
I’m in my brownstone waiting for Kevin to come back from lacrosse practice. In my fantasy he plays lacrosse. He says something like “I’m tired from all the lacrosse I just played” — it doesn’t matter what he says — and then he plops down on the bed. ESPN Year One-style. I say something like, “Kevin I just washed the bed,” and we giggle. I run my finger along that little part that barbers shave into people’s heads. He purrs. Then I stretch him out. I comment on his wingspan — huge — and he says, “you know, your wingspan isn’t so bad either.” I climax. I go into the bathroom and say that I’m too embarrassed to come out. Kevin rests his head on the door and tells me a story about a time he climaxed too early. I feel safe. I come out and he is waiting for me on the couch. He shows me what his favorite book is and I fall asleep.
But, yeah, make me read 1000 words about Anthony Davis’ muscle growth, and then tell me I’m the bad guy.