FIFA World Cup. World Cup. Football. Soccer.

No matter what it was called, it meant the same thing to me: no sex.

We'd been married for a year, together for three, so I'd never experienced the World Cup during our time as a couple. I'd heard about it and knew it was a big soccer match; or football match if you lived outside the US.

It was May thirtieth when he casually remarked, much as if he was discussing the weather and not his number one, recently rekindled obsession, "Oh, I forgot to tell you, the World Cup starts tomorrow."

I envisioned something like the Super Bowl: two teams, one big game, it's over. Or else the World Series - World Cup, World Series -- I saw a connection: seven games, best of four wins, fini. How wrong I was.

Three to four matches a day, fourteen days straight, shown at late (or early, depending on how you look at it) hours only night owls, drunks and obsessed soccer fans would be likely to keep. If he didn't stay up and watch the games, then he taped them to watch after work. He'd get home, wolf down whatever I'd made for supper, then plant himself in front of the TV, remote clutched in his hand like a talisman. I heard "GOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!" so many times during those first few days I started hearing it in my sleep. Or maybe that was just him shouting it during the 2 A.M. matches.

For the first four days it wasn't so bad. I actually liked watching Germany beat Saudi Arabia 8-0. It was heady to yell "Kick it! Kick it!" and watch goalies do feats I'd only seen accomplished before by ballerinas.

After day seven, the newness wore off and I stopped worrying about who would beat whom. I started worrying about my sex life; or should I say, lack of one. Going without had never bothered me before, but there were always good reasons: I was between boyfriends, boyfriend was out of town, I was out of town, etc. I'd never gone seven straight days in a relationship before without getting laid.

Nine days into the tournament and still no sex. Not even oral. Nothing remotely approaching a sexual act. I didn't count the peck on the lips I got as he rushed off to work, or the slightly-longer-but-not-by-much kiss I got before going to bed.

Day ten dawned and I knew I had to take matters into my own hands, so to speak. The batteries in my vibrator were little more than a month old and already they were starting to go dead. And I had a sneaking suspicion I was developing carpel tunnel syndrome in my right wrist. Definitely time for action.

I tried bribery first. "Honey, I'll buy you that expensive ale you like, if you come to bed early?" No dice; he could buy the ale himself. "Honey, I'll rub your back during the whole game, if you come to bed afterward?" A grunt and a shake of the head. Evidently he didn't like to have his back rubbed as much as I thought he did. I offered to blow him, in the hopes he'd return the favor after the game was over. I could see him trying to decide whether or not my head movements would block his view of the television. He patted me on the rear and thanked me for the offer.

World Cup: 3
Wife: 0

I tried fixing his favorite foods in hopes he'd be so appreciative he'd give up a game and give me sex instead. I tried meeting him at the door wearing nothing but a push up bra, high cut panties and a smile. All he said was, "Did you hear who won?"

By the time the first round games were over, I was almost ready to throw the television out the window. I had never been so frustrated, or so horny, in my life. They say a woman reaches her sexual peak at the age of thirty-two; I was peaking, and then some.