Somewhere on the Eastern shore of Japan It was two years ago when Psycho Lady Hockey moved from Blogger and became a “mainstream” website as one of my piggish anti-fans had cried in terror in an effort to rally minions for her assault. Honestly, I feel like my very existence was the biggest terrorist attack the hockey community had ever experienced. I wonder if there are any other female bloggers that have had to put up with the shit that I have especially in those earlier years. The biggest threat that I posed was that I was an obvious puck bunny, and poisoning (or spreading cancer, I believe the wording was) the hockey community with all the shit that I wrote about. Now, I know I say some outrageous things today, but for those of you that were actually around back then, you’ll remember that I was very, VERY secretive about anything pertaining to me and zee fucking of zee hockey players. So, I can really only imagine what they think of the site now.
Anyway, the puck bunny identity has never been one that I’ve accepted, but I haven’t denied it either. The truth of the matter is, I love hockey. I have since I was a kid. So, I can’t see how a scandal with a hockey player changes that fact. But I also know that I haven’t been totally innocent and lived up to the standards all you “real” fans have of the non-puck bunny, as a true female hockey fan would never, ever get down to it with a sacred player of their favourite sport. So, I don’t really know what I am (who I am), but I’ve nevertheless decided to give you the real confession. Who knows; maybe this is the first step in admitting I have a problem.
There were several instances, you remember, when the she-pigs left novel length comments on here basically telling me everything they knew I was doing behind the closed doors of NHL hotels, but also how it made me, the misguided, insecure, ugly duckling, feel on the inside. My “bitterness was obvious” from being used by the hockey player… apparently. Here’s confession the first from the fucked up depths of my seemingly shallow moral pool:
First of all, before I begin my story, I want to say that I don’t really know what happens between ALL hockey players and puck bunnies behind closed doors. All I have is my own confession, and the creepy stories I’ve heard about others over the years, that you have no doubt heard as well. I’m sure you assume terrible things. Puck bunnies do whatever a hockey player wants. They do strange, bizarre things that you’re almost certain no one else is doing in bed. You probably imagine the craziest things your vanilla brain has absorbed from the pages of Cosmo, and know that any girl with any self-respect would just simply say no. But until you experience it for yourself, you can only guess. For example, one night when “one of mine” got into town the night before his game, I went to meet him at the hotel. It wasn’t the first time, but he did have a girlfriend that he had been (is still) living with for years. She’s the type of girl the angry masses had said I didn’t measure up to. She’s famous-ish in her own right, plastic, hockey wife material, so why was I, with my pale skin and brown eyes, the one he runs to, stares at intensely (longingly?) from the bench between shifts, and not some other barbie doll in the crowd?
So, what happened at the hotel that particular night? Well, I got up to the room, and he had already ordered some wine. We didn’t paw at each other the very moment we saw each other. In fact we just chilled out on the bed, fully clothed, and hands occupied on the stems of our wine glasses. We just talked for hours and hours. We laughed about people we knew, and things from our history. We argued about which conference was better the East or West. I took East just to piss him off because he was in the West at the time. He also got very serious, and told me about all the things he wished he had changed in his life. By his own standards he was struggling as a player, and it was consuming him. He was already wondering what life would have been like if he went to university instead of playing the game. I had never seen him like that, and I wondered if I was there because having me around made him feel important or successful as a player in some way. I didn’t know what to say to make him feel better, but it didn’t matter, he reached over and kissed me anyway. And that’s just something for you to consider before you let your imagination run away with you when you read the rest of my story.
When all of “this” began, and by this I mean when hockey players entered my personal life, I was about sixteen years old. The hockey players in this story were obviously playing in the O. As a teenager, I regarded hockey players as human, and compared to NHL players that, judging by their tweets, do nothing more than shop like a broad, and buy cars and boats, they seemed more blue collar than most guys. They talked funny. They had strange accents that I think they actually started putting on when they began playing AAA as a tween. The “hockey player accent,” as I think of it, but American hockey fans probably think it’s just a Canadian accent. They only seemed to do five things: eat, sleep, play hockey, drink, and fuck like rabbits. They were intimidating to a virgin such as I was because they pursued intensely, and no innocent little Catholic school girl was going to live up to the orgies, and other terrifying things hockey players did with girls that everyone whispered about.
If I was ever bitter about “being used” then it was hockey player #2 that gets the credit for that. The situation with him was different than the first one. In the typical intense fashion, he pursued me with everything he had in him. He was crafty, that one. I’m not sure if I believed the bullshitty facade that he was trying to maintain so much as I thought it was fatally adorable that he tried to make himself seem like such an angel. Of course, it was just a bullshitty facade, and to add insult to the injurious nature of the thing, he proceeded to use more lies in his exit strategy, which inevitably made me feel far worse. The truth of the matter was he had a girlfriend – for years at that point even. I had heard rumours about it before, but he always denied them. So, when things got too intense, he pulled out (literally and figuratively), and made some excuse that he had “just met” someone else. Had the asshole told me the truth, I probably would have found some solace in being the ex-other woman rather than the rejectee, and, who knows, maybe I’d be a normal person today, if it were not for the ramifications of this lie. It took me years to actually find out the truth, so don’t think it was one of those, “Aha! I knew it all along” moments. And he did EVENTUALLY marry that poor, poor girl, I should add. The thing was, at that moment, I stopped seeing hockey players as people, and started to view them as things, monstrous machines with no sense of decency, and no regard for anyone that they didn’t think had a purpose. They were just sources of entertainment and amusement both on and off the ice. I hated them all, but somehow, I grew up to become their female embodiment.
I’m not sure if “used” is the way I felt with him either. Maybe deceived is a better word. There was another one, maybe, that made me feel that way. Things got really intense with him, really quickly, and really frequently. All the time. Daily, in fact. On one of the days I was free from his clutches (the team was on the road), I was OBVIOUSLY having one of my guy friends give me the low down on why this was happening all the time. Besides he was a fan of the team, and so I had to explain to him why the guy was unfit to come off his injury even though he was supposed to play a couple days after he started with me – HAHA! Too many sleepless nights. Anyway, the guy was really into it. Like, REALLY into it. He kept saying, “I don’t want this to ennnnnddddd!” My friend gave me props for that, “Wow, that’s a compliment. Think about it. He plays in the NHL. He’s been around. He’s probably seen it all. You must be doing something right.” I wasn’t convinced. I figured maybe he was just desperate. You know, having a drought on account of the injury, maybe. But then I started to see it for myself. He was addicted, and addicts quickly become careless with masking the ugly face of the addiction itself. I started to feel like a sex toy, a tailor-made sensation he couldn’t get enough of, and for some reason it really disturbed me. You know, like those guys that go out and drop ten grand on a Real Doll instead of getting a girlfriend. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time I was thought of as a meaningless object, but it was the first time I really felt like I was. It eventually got to the point where I didn’t even want to see him. Then I told him I was moving to Japan in a matter of days, and he made a nice point to promptly stop talking to me. Cold turkey.
Anyway, I was sure I had learned my lesson with #2. One of my friends said she was proud of me for not typecasting all hockey players after the first one, so I could give this guy a chance, but now I knew what they were really like, and it was time to move on. So, I swore off hockey players, and decided to swear off the sex, too. You know, preserve the goods for someone that would actually appreciate them. I didn’t realize that I’d be out of the game for nearly four years, and I can’t believe I actually made it that long. Some of my guy friends used to make bets about when I’d finally cave. Like I said, since I no longer saw hockey players as people, there were two types of guys out there: hockey players, and non-hockey players. Non-hockey players were awarded human status, which made them very scary in my books. Non-hockey players were serious. They followed social codes. They opened car doors. They’d hang out with you and not even try to put their hand on your thigh, or your hand on their… But if you got too involved they’d spring all those horrible C-words on you: commitment, compromise, couple, all the things that scare the shit out of me, but also that I’m scared I’ll never have – especially as I get older. I mean how much longer do I have left? I won’t be young forever, and eventually the fountain of noncommittal penis is going to dry up.
Four years dragged on simply because I was scared of getting entrapped by a non-hockey player. There’s no fear with a hockey player because I know that no matter what we have, I’m not gonna be put in the hockey wife passenger seat. As my anti-fan club put it, I was too fat and ugly to be a hockey wife. Over those four years I had mulled over all types of ridiculous situations, which basically made my self-worth about a zero. How come hockey players do all kinds of kinky weird shit with puck bunnies, but they’ve never thought to ask me for it? Why were some puck bunnies infamous and getting talked about all over the internet, but they kept me a secret? Seriously, how fucked up is that? It’s not that I wanted to be exploited in either of those situations, but I really had convinced myself that I was an embarrassment or guilty pleasure that didn’t even warrant a high five. Ouch. I was young, like I said, and I didn’t learn the truth about what happened after the infamous New Years Eve of 2002-03 until THIS season. I think part of me was scared that if I dated a non-hockey player and liked him, and took it to the next level, he’d be out of my life before the sun came up. One of my concentrations in university was Sexual Diversity, and the first thing we learned on the first day of the random elective I took, which I would end up getting a degree in, was that sex is power, but for me, up to this point sex always resulted in me losing mine.
Even though I was celibate, hockey players were really the only guys (things) giving me the time of day, and, tragically, that’s the way it’s always been. One of my girl friends always says, “I’m so jealous of you. You have all these pro hockey players all over you! Why can’t I get guys like that?” That always hits me like a punch in the face. It’s not something to be admired, it’s something to be pitied. Think about it. The only guys that are all over me, would never dream of “putting a ring on it” as the kids say. All hockey wives look the same, act the same, are the same. Theo Fleury says it pretty well in his book, Playing With Fire, “Wrong as it it, hockey players view women like cars. You have your own car and you love your car and you want to take care of your car, and you want to take your car to every important meeting you have, and you want it to be beautiful and shiny and sometimes with new headlights. But you love other guys’ cars. You love looking at their cars. You don’t want to have their cars, but you would love to take them for a drive once in a while, and it’s a horrible premise for a relationship.” So, I suppose I’m just a demo car, a hybrid maybe, that they can feel good about for a while, but when it comes down to it, they put up the cash for the gas guzzling luxury model to keep up appearances in front of the guys and the cameras.
A few weeks ago, one of my hockey player friends and I were shooting the shit about our recent escapades, and he weighed in on the whole matter as well. I said, “I don’t know what it is. I don’t look like a hockey wife, I don’t act like a hockey wife, so why is every guy I meet a damn hockey player?” What he said in response was a mouthful in its conciseness, “You have a certain indescribable characteristic. That’s how I met you, too.” We had met years ago at a bar in the offseason. I was out with a friend, and she was there to meet a boy off the Internet, so I was alone for the most part, and needed a friend. The evening ended with my new friend and I running down to the marina and trespassing on some fancy boat where things got heated, but not too heated – the celibacy, you know. I’m pretty sure the only reason we’re friends today is because I put the kibosh on the X-rating that night.
There has been a lot of speculation over the years about why the more exotic parts of my life are riddled with hockey players, and contrary to the theory put out there by the anti-fans, it has nothing to do with going to hockey games to pick up players. Some have said it has something to do with athletes and their high levels of Testosterone, and how I don’t look like I’d snap if (when) they bent me over, and therefore, subconsciously, they want to “breed” with me. OK… Whatever it is, I’m sure I’d find it depressing if I wasn’t already so far gone with the whole over-independence, perma-single thing.
Anyway, back to my story. Four years of refusing to compromise on my no hockey player rule, and four years of running from every decent guy that asked me on a second date dragged on, and on, and on. I was hurting. I was needy. And I started to wonder why I wasted pretty much my entire university career with my lack of whorishness and sticky sheets. I mean everyone but me was going wild in college, right?! Finally, I met the object of my surrender. And, wouldn’t you know it was a hockey player. Safety. Someone I could “use” to get my groove back with no fear of having to get serious, think about the future, all that grown up stuff. He wasn’t really a hockey player by my standards. Central League, which basically put him on the grey picket fence that divides the hockey players from the non. He was a babe-o-rama. One of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen. Maybe even the only 11 I’ve ever known. I was terrrrriiiiifffffffiiiiiiiiiiiiiieddddd. I had completely psyched myself out about sex – four years of celibacy will do that to anyone, I imagine. But I had to have him. We met at the tail end of the offseason a week before he was off to Texas. It didn’t happen then. Yeah, right. Like I would have gone home from a bar with a random guy. We kept in touch, though, so, when he came home 8 months later I was as ready as I was ever going to be, and it was a very memorable evening. Hockey player #2 and I were 18 at the time, in fact, I was probably his good luck charm the night before he left for the NHL Entry Draft ahem, so now I was nearly 22, and the last guy I had been with was an 18 year old. Yeah, I was prepared for Mr. 26 – NOT! He was more man than I could handle. He was all filled out unlike the super-lean OHL players I was previously accustomed to. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES!
So where do I go from this part of the story? After my Texas sized fling, I became much less strict about my rules, until eventually (Korea) I threw them all out the window. It’s weird, but it seems that I can only have a normal love life when I’m away from the real world as I know it. In Korea there were no hockey players (the easy option), and so I had to let my guard down with the non-hockey players lest I shrivel up and die. You don’t take your affairs seriously over here, so you leave yourself vulnerable for feelings to emerge and things to happen out of nowhere. That’s what happened with the American. He was supposed to be birthday sex, and look what a mess that turned into. And if anything that stung worse than anything any hockey player had ever done to me.
The American was probably what put me over the threshold to what I now worry is some sort of spinoff sex addiction. I decided I liked my life for the most part. I liked being in the driver’s seat. I liked going where I wanted, when I wanted. I liked not having to deal with difficult feelings. I liked having the freedom to fuck up my life and not have to worry about how it affects someone else. The only thing that keeps me from being totally independent is my dangerous dependency on the magic stick. If I wasn’t always so preoccupied with it, I’d probably be fine with not having any man at all. It’s the appendage I want, not the man it’s attached to.
I like to tell myself that I do things the right way. There’s Plan A and Plan B as I call them. Plan A is when I go out on a date with a guy, and he seems to be doing things the gentlemanly way. You know, getting to know me first, and such. Then there’s Plan B, when I end up on the date with said guy, and he drops hints at what he’s really after. Plan B gets the pass, if I’m up for it, obviously. It’s not like I just screw anything that moves – yet – talk to me after another 3 months of Japan and its unnecessarily long showers. It seems logical and reasonable, does it not? Sadly, I’d be lying if I said over that last couple years Plan B wasn’t really Plan A. Why get into a messy relationship, when there’s only one thing I need from him? Yes, it’s a problem. You should worry about me. Pray for me. Commit me. Sometimes I don’t know if I’m a lost cause or if I just haven’t met the right guy, hmm, no, if I just haven’t allowed the right guy to show me the way out of the dark red haze that clouds my eyes and stains everything like blood or wine.