Seen from Lebanon: a World Cup with exquisite erotic scents!

After reading this text, you will never look like before a football match again!

“There is no eroticism without the art of ambiguity: the more powerful the ambiguity, the greater the excitement.” (Mr. Kundera- Immortality}

What a wonderful human invention the World Cup! Allegory of substitute products offered by societies looking out for the well-being of their peoples, the World Cup creates a formidable illusion (from the Latin illudere: to play with) thanks to which millions of human beings commune in a cosmic passion. Celebration of a high mass whose final reward, in the form of a feminine-looking cup, with a wide ovulated slit, is b…, let’s say kissed by the winners. Should we see in this sculpture a tribute paid to the female sex or the adoration of an eroticized fetish, of a sexuality that has become so fluid that all variants find their place there?

The benefits that this phenomenon brings to the eight billion people are innumerable. I will content myself with citing a few of them.

Imagine: For thirty long days, humanity experiences moments of eroticized ritual in which men and women exceptionally blend together, to the rhythm of thrilling blows. For a long month, the Mondial offers us the longest period of enjoyment known to date, with moments of intense pleasure and others of distressing disappointment, as in all reports. This amorous passion is experienced at its peak: we replay love and hate, attraction and repulsion, expectation and disappointment, each running after the object of all lusts. The players are nice to each other in the preliminary to better release their aggressiveness and their violence during the act. Not to mention the aficionados, made up of rival tribes who are sure to tear each other apart, if not shoot each other, after the victory or failure of opposing clans. There would even be within the same family enmities that the liberated impulses of hatred trigger violently.

Every four years, the Lebanese, of all sexes combined, merge with the other citizens of the world to live a breathless suspense, dressing in jerseys in the colors of all countries except their own, becoming by proxy the player who passes, dribble, tackle, trying with his well-tended lower limb to orient himself towards a cavity which he peeks at with a lustful eye. For thirty days, players rake a field divided into exciting erogenous zones from which they fire a shot wherever they see an opening, preferably between the legs, to tease their opponent, just to titillate him. They bravely run after this thing with rounded shapes which tries – poor thing – to escape them, this object of all desires, both adored and hated, always fleeing, refusing itself, escaping, object subjected to the violence of the blows worn by players with exacerbated impulses. This unfortunate balloon moves zigzagging, like a sperm attracted by the breach to fertilize it. And when finally, after a long and hard work, the most vigorous enters the holy of holies, an ecstatic howl, deeply enjoyable, springs from all breasts: GOOOOAAAAL, cry repeated ad infinitum: again…again, demand- does it! Football is not stingy with moments of such disturbing excitement: it generously offers exhilarated spectators the thrilling invention of penalty kicks. The killjoys affirm that it is an imposed punishment, whereas they know well, they, the followers of SM practices, that there is nothing more jubilant than to be delivered to the pangs of pleasure / displeasure alternating, while the acrobats, panting, tormented, try their hand at length in order to penetrate the forbidden lair!

The Mondial also succeeds in the challenge of reconciling all the rhetoricians who debate around the discoveries of new sexualities that poor Darwin was unable to foresee. At a time when we are tearing ourselves apart to impose the existence of a third sex, sexual differences vanish, all anathemas are appeased before the sole imperial sex, applauded or condemned to loathing. Straight, homo, bi, neutral, trans, queer, +, etc. coalesce around a collective sex, with which all identify, that of the male who frantically shakes his stiffened lower limb to shoot straight at the target. What is eroticism if not the fusion of beings who dream of reliving the languorous passion of a common ecstatic fusion?

Identification, repression and sublimation are the breasts that nourish the defenses of our psyche in order to help us support our harsh daily existence. And they do their job perfectly day and night for thirty days, to the immense satisfaction of the mafiosos and scavengers who tear up this country! What an extraordinary service rendered to them, they who toil regularly to fabricate idiotic events from scratch in order to distract citizens from the misfortunes for which they are responsible. The World thus arrives at the right time: the Lebanese, slumped in his armchair, surrounded by food, drinks and mkassarat, forgets his daily misery. Hay of the dollar which continues its rise by beating all the records. There is no electricity? Never mind, he does not hesitate to put his hand in his pierced pocket to participate in the collective orgy offered by public places. His identity is fading. Did he lack identifying figures? No matter! If he is an admirer of German discipline and rigor, he becomes a Berliner. Is it closely or distantly related to the country with the emblem of coffee? He becomes Brazilian. Is he a fan of the immense beauty and immeasurable artistic treasure of Bella Italia? He becomes Roman or Neapolitan. Does he feel oppressed by Western countries who eye him with condescension and contempt? He becomes Moroccan, Qatari, Saudi. And Spanish, Croatian and Argentinian, the choice is endless… Driving his car, he becomes an ambassador of his adopted country, never of his own. He can even metamorphose into Neymar, Messi, Ronaldo or any other idealized foreign player, he even sees the reincarnation of a Pelé (the King himself) and a Tondu (Zidane, whose self-scuttling remains a great historical enigma)!

It is the World of the rich and the poor, of the good and the bad, of the psychopaths and the “normal”, the World of momentary and salutary general repression: forgotten poverty, violence, anxieties, the interminable dark tunnel , the Depression. Instead of antidepressants, we shoot at the Mondial which immerses the spectators in the first oceanic universe: “There, all is order and beauty, luxury, calm and voluptuousness“. (Baudelaire). To return in a few days to an otherwise bitter reality.

“Only football unites love and violence to such an extent,” remarks Freud. Isn’t that what it’s all about in amorous passion?

Before ending, let’s open a slightly more serious parenthesis. Should we wonder about the sense of belonging of the Lebanese to their country? While elsewhere, the population supports its national team during matches, faced with the absence of Lebanese players at the World Cup, they are left with no choice but to support a substitute team. Should this be seen as a wavering of their sense of national identity? Their enthusiasm for the success of the Lebanese basketball teams, for example, or of the Mayyas troupe in the USA makes it doubtful. The Lebanese are proud of their rural or urban roots. Abroad, nostalgia for his country often grips him. However, he currently finds himself faced with a deep doubt about his identity, a harbinger of serious future dangers. The fanaticism at work in recent years has set in motion its strategic forces so that the Lebanese, bloodless, can no longer live decently in his country and lose the pride of his national belonging, his country being ostracized almost everywhere. Some even come to curse it. It is with resignation that he finds himself obliged to apply for more advantageous foreign passports or to emigrate to more tolerant and more welcoming countries, sometimes at the risk of his life. In the meantime, he is right to take advantage of the opportunity that the World Cup offers him to partially put aside, for a few days, his obsessive apprehensions and to be enthusiastic about foreign teams, failing to do so for nationals. And to feel, with the other spectators, the subtle erotic thrill!