The Olympics crush is a very special relationship.
It’s a beautiful, oh-so-brief phenomenon, an enthusiastic fling brought on by the rare combination of patriotism and abject horniness. It is both obvious—would you believe the best athletes in the world have rockin’ bods?—and profound: The superficiality of it all is wrapped in awe over their talent. It’s like swooning over a superhero. No mortal should be capable of what they accomplish; and also, goddamn are they hot.
There’s a trueness, a nobility, that we project on Olympians by virtue of the fact that they are Olympians. I don’t presume to know whether or not these people are truly good. The assumption is part of the fantasy. Yet what’s also unique about the Olympic crush is that, earnest as that assumption may be, the infatuation is by no means puritanical. As important as the moral upstanding we assign these athletes is the certainty that they fuck.
