SMOKE: Email To Anna Kournikova
Originally published: 25 March 2004
I've always thought that Russian tennis beauty Anna Kournikova has a bad rap, with everyone concentrating more on how many times she wasn't winning than the amount of times she was.
The press never takes notice when Anna wins something - that wouldn't make good news. A far better story is the one in which yet again Anna has proved what a dumb bimbo she is and how she can't even win a tournament and how she may be great-looking but is not a tennis player's arse.
But I - unlike others - turn a blind eye to her ravishing good looks and her mistress-like breasts, preferring to concentrate instead on her talent as a sportswoman.
I said as much in an email to her, cc'd to that other young Russian chick (can't remember her name and couldn't be arsed with Google), Justine Henin-Hardenne and any other sex- I mean great female tennis players.
I'm not here to talk about your breasts, because I reckon you get that a lot.
I don't want to be just some Internet Loser who sends a star fanmail about her breasts, because that would make me no better than the millions and millions and millions and millions and millions of blokes who are too shallow to look beneath that fabulously tight, sweaty tennis top, underneath that flimsy brassiere which is just see-through enough to catch a glimpse of the forbidden dollar, and right down into your cavernous cleavage, burrowing under your magnificent orbs and right on down into your soul.
No - they just think about your breasts. But not me.
However - I thought it wouldn't be fair to me if I didn't at least make some mention of your gifted funsacks, because in case nobody has told you - they're absolutely magnificent. Excellent. Really top class. Special.
In moments of rare anonymity I will imagine myself tobogganing down them at speed, swerving amongst the valleys and ravines and ramping off the protruding tip before hitching a ride back to the top to start all over again.
I picture myself taking them out to dinner at an expensive restaurant, toasting them with fine champagne and no doubt "accidentally" spilling some upon them for later consumption.
I would pick up the tab for them and throw in a more than generous tip, then take them - drunk as they are - and have my way with them in the alley between the butcher's shop and Solly Kramer's.
And oh! - what teases they are. Covering themselves up like that during a hot afternoon of even hotter tennis, but occasionally peeping out to see if anyone is watching. And we are! We are. Peekaboo, my lovelies. Don't be shy. Come to Daddy.
Maybe they want me to be a gentleman, or maybe they prefer it a little rough; a little bad; a little dirty. No problem. I'll chain them to my bedpost and show them who Master is, if that's their sordid little game.
I've spanked a tit or two in my time, and although most of the time that tit is some skinny coke fiend who got on the wrong side of an important transfer in the park - well - let's just say that if your boobies want to be my slavegirls, then so be it.
By the same token - I am just as prepared to lie back and be submissive, although you need to warn them - I'm not a big fan of pain. But if the result of that pain is an hour in bed with your breasts then they can thrash me until I bleed, or nipple-clamp me until I scream like a baby, or just boil me in a pot and eat me.
I'm open to experimentation.
In bed I am bad, but out of it I promise to remain the perfect gentleman. I shall let them through the door ahead of me, I shall usher them into the car, I shall take them to movies, concerts, sporting events and political rallies, and I'll even take them to the beach.
Although if I did that I'd have to put a bikini top on them in case someone recognises them and comes to rob me. Crime is bad enough in South Africa without me having to defend my right to take your breasts to the beach. Let's not exacerbate the situation.
That's about it. I know I promised not to talk about your breasts and I wouldn't have if they hadn't hijacked my original train of thought, so you've really only got yourself and your mischievous, cunning, sly, high class, velvety breasts to blame.
But just so you won't think I'm shallow like all the millions and millions and millions and millions and millions of other blokes who also admire your tennis skills, here's a genuine question:
How would you describe the difference between the classic and western forehand styles with regard to grip, stance, swing path, method of generating swing speed and point of contact, and could you give some indication as to how each compares on the different surfaces you play on, particularly clay.
Oh - and how each is affected by whether you use synthetic or natural gut on an aluminium or graphite frame.
Many thanks for your breasts. And your time.
All my (real, genuine) love,
PS - do you think more people like you, or Enrique? I reckon you, because there are also lots of lesbians around. Well - that's what I read on the Internet, anyway.
I fired my mail off to Anna, and received the following reply:
Da! Da! Na vashe zdorovie!
Lost in translation, somewhat, but I think she wants me.
All Smoked Out,