The Violent Femmes of Football
They paint their faces, they grunt and swear and down Jell-O shots before 10 A.M., and they never go a Sunday without their team jerseys. GQ’s Lauren Bans spends game day with one of the NFL’s fastest-growing fan bases—female superfans. Here’s an excerpt:

At the count of three, we all slam back tequila—Patrón, the good stuff—out of Dixie cups. I’m looking for a place to discard my empty when, by way of introduction, a Snooki-sized older woman wearing a huge Raiders jersey as a makeshift dress, plus shoulder pads and false eyelashes, jabs her finger directly into my left breast. This is Raider Gloria.
"What is going on here? I liiiike this.” She’s referring to my rather unremarkable gray crewneck T-shirt, not my left breast. “Only it should go”—and now she begins to make light-saber noises (“phhhshu! phhhshu! phhhshu!”) to indicate where she would make cuts in the fabric, which is basically from the neck down in a big swoop to the middle of my stomach.
Before I can respond, a man squeezes in between us and accidentally grazes Gloria’s chest in what can only be some kind of karmic molestation payback. Only, Gloria is delighted. She calls out to the man’s son, who’s leaning on the bumper of a Ford SUV and looking bored: “Hey, take a picture of your dad touching my titties!”
Read more here

The Violent Femmes of Football

They paint their faces, they grunt and swear and down Jell-O shots before 10 A.M., and they never go a Sunday without their team jerseys. GQ’s Lauren Bans spends game day with one of the NFL’s fastest-growing fan bases—female superfans. Here’s an excerpt:

At the count of three, we all slam back tequila—Patrón, the good stuff—out of Dixie cups. I’m looking for a place to discard my empty when, by way of introduction, a Snooki-sized older woman wearing a huge Raiders jersey as a makeshift dress, plus shoulder pads and false eyelashes, jabs her finger directly into my left breast. This is Raider Gloria.

"What is going on here? I liiiike this.” She’s referring to my rather unremarkable gray crewneck T-shirt, not my left breast. “Only it should go”—and now she begins to make light-saber noises (“phhhshu! phhhshu! phhhshu!”) to indicate where she would make cuts in the fabric, which is basically from the neck down in a big swoop to the middle of my stomach.

Before I can respond, a man squeezes in between us and accidentally grazes Gloria’s chest in what can only be some kind of karmic molestation payback. Only, Gloria is delighted. She calls out to the man’s son, who’s leaning on the bumper of a Ford SUV and looking bored: “Hey, take a picture of your dad touching my titties!”

Read more here

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