It’s just one of those things that can be called a “uniquely hetero” experience.

Now, I have positively zero history with or inclination toward professional athletics — specifically, as a viewer — and I always will. However, from what I can gather, there are big events held in stadiums and such — often televised — wherein actual adults lose their collective shit by watching men hit projectiles with sticks or place a ball through a net.

This is not a form of passive spectatorship by any means; fans will don team jerseys, disport garishly elaborate head gear, and paint their bodies in fetishistic tribal colors while boisterously alleging that a hated player on a rival team is performing a sex act on another man. There’s also likely to be no shortage of surly lamenting about how many foreigners have entered into the sport and/or how few white participants there are left, all capped off with grumbling about the cost of the whole event. Charred meat is consumed from grills situated around the trunk areas of cars. Essentially, it’s like a Teabagger rally, only with fewer fire arms, a broader age bracket, and less misspelled signs.

With Reality TV in search of the next horrible ethnic stereotype to mine once Guidos have become passé, I have to wonder if aggressive sports adherence is the next new frontier, with Slate.com suggesting Massholes — the sobriquet applied to the substratum of Massachusetts residents who possess a rabid religious devotion to local teams — as the next logical step in class conscious douchedom.

I can’t really imagine ever willingly placing myself in this type of venue, and I think the form of personal contamination that I would experience from being exposed to so many behaviors that are anathema to me would be akin to being a heroine in one of those schlocky ’70s Italian cannibal movies. Invariably, the leading lady is captured, swathed in ceremonial paint, forced to eat something disgustingly symbolic (if given the choice between human flesh and a hot dog, I’d really have to think about it), but ultimately survives thanks to a plot-contrived escape that centers around her being mistaken for a water goddess or shagging her ass off to reach a departing helicopter so she can complete her anthropology thesis.

Ranting at on-field athletes and hurling epithets from stands seems rather like the equivalent of yelling directives at characters in TV or films — it can’t possibly have any real influence on what’s taking place, but people apparently derive some form of vicarious catharsis from witnessing modern-day gladiators enact bloodless conflict, so much so that drunken brawling and looting will ensue after especially contentious matches to compensate for the lack of slaughter.

So cue my dash for the chopper because tribal relations have officially broken down.

Still, like other straight male-slanted practices/settings — fraternities, rodeos, pro wrestling — the inherent aggression factor lends a certain hotness to the proceedings, and I find myself curiously aroused in particular by the body painting ritual. Taken out of context, images of men flexing bellicosely while looking like giant Smurfs or actually dabbing away at each other’s stripped-to-the-waist bodies with primary color schemes seem pretty gay but intrinsically aren’t (or aren’t meant to be).

This must be the straight male version of our Rocky Horror Picture Show midnight screenings or Lady Gaga concerts: an interactive means for men to connect with beloved idols from afar while enacting group formation fandom through shared body artistry (by contrast, the plethora of images found via the Net depicting hot chicks in painted-on sports attire is clearly meant as lowbrow cheesecake and Sports Illustrated cover fodder). If it weren’t for all the gay-baiting and fat guys, I could almost envy the group dynamic a little.

But I don’t, so screw it.

I’m guessing my childhood love for Lou Ferrigno as The Incredible Hulk likely plays a role in my reflexive attraction toward body-painted brick houses with inhibition deficiencies and pack mentalities. The idea of being in a relationship with a monochrome-fleshed Monster From The Id who can work the sleeveless torn vest look and whose “Crush! Smash! Roar!” rage I can channel for good is a major turn-on, and no matter how infantile I find the notion of sports-fueled mania to be, if the camera can pan to a beefy slab with great tits and cut-offs, I think “Now I get it!” with sufficient enthusiasm. Maybe not the intended meaning, but I’m with him in spirit.

And yes, guys, for once, I’d be willing to go with the flow and take one for the team.

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