Page 32 of Every Move You Make

“Coming right up.” I clear my throat. “Me me me me meme meeee,” I sing as loud as I can, pretending to warm up my vocals as I stand in a sea of ruggers.

Every single person shuts the fuck up. It’s like, rugby law: you hear the tune, and you sing along.

I’ve sung this song a few times solo now, so I’m confident even while five beers deep. “Gimme gimme gimme gimme number one. When I see titties, I wanna have some fun! ‘Cuz they’re round—”

“Oh yeah!” the crowd barks.

“And they’re firm—”

“Oh yeah!”

“When I see titties—”

“Oh yeah!”

“I wanna sperm!”

“Oh yeah!”

Ruggers everywhere proceed to dip their hands in their beer and fling the droplets over everyone’s heads while slowly turning three hundred and sixty degrees, singing, “Titties titties titties!” on repeat.

Nine more rounds are done. Everyone has spun their last spin, flicked the beer from their cups, and waited with bated breath to see if I fucked up the lyrics—to which I’m happy to announce, I did not.

Everyone drinks the remainder of their beer, and the din of the crowd starts back up. Except a tall girl with arresting hazel eyes steps forward and stands in the middle, where a small space is clear—right in front of me.

She holds her cup in one hand and pours more beer from a pitcher with the other, setting the pitcher down before hollering, “Hold on. I know at least half of us ladies love to sing about titties, but I think it’s time the underrepresented straights have a turn.”

I laugh because I can see her point. Women’s rugby teams are stacked with lesbians.

Without any further ado, this girl launches into a songI’ve never heard. It’s a version of the titties song.

“Gimme gimme gimme gimme number one! When I see penis I wanna have some fun! ‘Cuz they’re long—”

All the ladies shout, “Oh yeah!”

“And they’re thick—”

“Oh yeah!”

“When I see penis—”

“Oh yeah!”

“I wanna lick!”

“Oh yeah!”

All our guys start laughing because, one, this song is hilarious we’re all immature, and two, the fucking balls on this girl are commendable. She’s owning it. She has dried mud all over her legs, a black eye forming from the game earlier, and a sunburn across her cheeks.

And she’s fucking fearless.

Her team is laughing right along with us, but soon everyone has joined in.

When the drunken chorus ends and the cups have been raised, there’s a small ovation of cheers for this woman.

“Well done,” I nod, softly clinking my plastic cup against hers.

“Thank you,” she smiles brightly.

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