Heated

Note: This is adapted from an essay I read back in February 2026 at Funny Ha-Ha Chicago, a marvelous storytelling show. Content warning for strong language, descriptions of sexual acts, and excessive mentions of tuna fish. I decided to post this today because the first casting announcments for season 2 of “Heated Rivalry” were announced today and yes, people on my Threads timeline have all sorts of feelings about it already.

I was watching, for the fourth time, the fourth episode of “Heated Rivalry” when I cracked open a fresh Coca-Cola, took a bite of my tuna melt, and thought to myself “Maybe I have a problem.”

I don’t remember the exact moment, though I do recall that the tuna melt was quite good. It’s all about using the best bread you can find. I like a fresh baguette myself.

Was it when I had paused the television while Shane Hollander, one of the two professional hockey players in a secret affair with his rival, Ilya Rozanov, was riding Ilya like a prize jockey at the Kentucky Derby so I can skip forward to my tv and get a closer look at his stretchmarks?

Was it when I was messaging with my friend Suzanne about how sexy or not sexy it would be to do anal after your very hot very Russian fuck buddy has fed you a tuna melt for lunch?

It was probably while I paused, rewound, and played back the moment when Shane, post tuna melt, engaging in frott-age? frot-tage? asked “You gonna come for me, Rozanov?” and Ilya moaned “Fucking make me.”

Maybe it’s weird to ask these questions out loud in a room of people who are mostly strangers but I’ve hosted a monthly lady-centric live lit show for the last ten years. A show where we’ve had themes like BOOBS, CONSPIRACY THEORIES, and BOOTY CALLS.

Talking about this stuff is what I live for because I am middle aged, nosy, and horny.

I watch too much television.

I don’t seem to drink enough water.

My thirsts are real.

In a past life which wasn’t that long ago, I wrote 750,000 words of fan fiction about a guy I don’t even really like anymore.

So, given that, I feel like I am actually perfect for this show, so thank you to Jennon for having me here tonight. Apologies to those of you who were expecting Elizabeth Gomez, one of the many other hot Asian lady storytellers in Chicago, who I’m subbing in for.

Elizabeth is so great because she is hilarious and generous, but mainly because she has great hair and enormous cans. When my left leg was amputated below the knee in 2024, she crocheted a huge left foot out of yarn to cheer me up.

There are currently 14,015 works of fan fiction devoted to Heated Rivalry on the internet fan fiction repository Archive of Our Own.1 There’s no way for me to easily and quickly do a word count, but I’m pretty sure I’ve read at least half of those stories. And I don’t discriminate when it comes to the types of fiction produced by this fandom.

97,000 words of an mpreg fic where Shane retires from hockey and ghosts Ilya when he gets pregnant with their baby? Yeah, let me get a look at the fictional baby registry.

Or how about 48,000 words WITH ACCOMPANYING FAN ART, of an AU where Shane is the scion of a Yakuza empire inexplicably headquartered in Ottawa, Canada who falls in love with Ilya, the head of a faction of the Russian Bratva that’s been running guns, cigarettes, and maple syrup between Quebec and New Hampshire for years?

There are Shane and Ilya lookalike contests where shirtless young men get up on bars and make out for enthusiastic bar goers clad in bootleg merchandise for the show.

In fact, Chicago’s first such contest took place at Federales in Logan Square..

And there have been “raves”, where a bunch of mostly straight girls will flood into a gay bar like Scarlet or a warehouse in Humboldt Park to imbibe cocktails named after their favorite characters, dance to EDM remixes of songs that were featured on the show, and howl with glee whenever videos of Shane and ilya or, to a lesser extent, Scott and Kip, fucking or grinding or kissing or sometimes even playing hockey are projected onto huge video screens.

Multiple recent NHL team pride nights have featured team DJ’s playing those same songs. The Blackhawks’ mascot Tommy showed up at their pride night… AND HE MADE TUNA MELTS.

The show’s two young stars were invited to participate in the Olympic torch relay, and the video footage of them in Northern Italy, carrying the torch in turn, in front of crowds of young women capturing every moment on their huge smartphones, was sweet but also it reminded me of the first time someone gave my niece a sparkler to hold by herself when she was three.

And it was about that time that I knew that the initial flush and fervor was coming to an end. It wasn’t the torch relay that did it, but other things.

Things like reading everybody’s fan theories on the internet and realizing that people are incredibly dumb.

Look. I have attended very fancy private schools. I’m a devoted longtime viewer of “RuPaul’s Drag Race”. I am a total fucking snob, and I know stuff about queer things. If there is anybody who can tell you that reading is fundamental, it’s me.

Do you get my gist? Do you understand?

And I’m here to tell you that a lot of these fans are illiterate when it comes to reading and conducting analysis. But I don’t want to be their Levar Burton and shepherd them through the basics of romance novels, hockey, feminism (and all of its waves), the female gaze, the queer gaze, intersectionalism, Marshall McLuhan, and Judith Butler.

Am I gatekeeping? Yes, I am.

I don’t believe that the original source material is so precious that it has to be kept away from anybody who cares to consume it. But I don’t think I have to talk to every single person who shows up in my Threads stream to post some bullshit like “Yeah, so like, when it comes to Coach Wiebe, I really think he should be played by Joshua Jackson because he’s so cute when he was in The Mighty Ducks.”

I don’t want to get caught up in every single gossip column or magazine writer that posts ragebait about whether or not the actors who play Ilya and Scott are actually dating.

But for the record, I think they are. Not that it’s any of my business.

Look. If I looked like the two of them, and someone looked at me the way they look at each other… well, shit.

If they want a middle aged Asian lady with a fake leg as an occasional third, they can send me a DM on Threads.

It’s incredible how much enthusiasm I can muster for fake hockey players when there are actual real hockey players who are just as hot. Have you seen Sidney Crosby? I mean, he’s hot for real, not just hot for a Canadian!

If thirsting was an Olympic sport, I would get the gold. Every games, both the Olympics and the Paralympics. People wouldn’t dare come for me. They’d have to wait until I retired or somehow expired doing what I love — watching hot dudes doing hot things in slow motion on my Roku tv. The very Roku tv where I set my screensaver to suggestive photographs of the main actors from “Heated Rivalry”, of course.

But back to the Olympics. Congratulate me, Jasmine Davila, the gold medal champion in the fine art and illustrious sport of thirsting.

I’m nn a podium. I’ve wearing my medal. Tears stream down my gorgeous face, which is perfectly lit. A flag, not the American flag but a flag depicting Shane and Ilya making out, is hoisted up to the rafters of an arena. A disembodied voice brings us all to attention:

“Ladies and gentlemen, won’t you please rise, for the Heated Rivalry anthem”

Together, we all sing:

O say, can you stream, on TV’s pale blue light,
Over so loudly we squealed at the Canadian’s first blowjob?
Whose big cocks and hot butts through the steamiest night
⁠All the asscheeks we watched, were so gallantly clenching?
And the Russian’s hot stare, the cum splashing in air,
Gave proof through the night that their cocks were still bare;
O say does that ginger ale and tuna melt still taste,
Like the flavor of the free and the cottage of the laid?