Voyeur

It is strange to watch a recording of oneself wrestling ; at least it is for me. I don’t watch myself often; I am much too critical of myself to endure this more than once in a great while. I look at myself on-screen and my eyes immediately go to every flaw; the slight pouch of flesh here, the-not-quite-as-defined-as-I-would-like muscles there, until the entire thing becomes an exercise in self-loathing neuroses. I wrestled for years before going in front of the cameras, so having a record of some of my matches, while lovely to have, is also…strange.

I tried writing about how surreal that is in a short story; I don’t remember which one, there are quite a few, but I don’t think I was able to really capture how disconcerting and weird it is to see yourself on your big screen TV in wrestling gear, fighting with another guy. I’ve taped some of my private matches, but as a general rule, I don’t watch them; they’re more of a memento of the match more than anything else.

It was quite strange watching the match with Mitch; what was even stranger about the match was I remembered so much of it wrong. I would have been willing to bet money that the match opened with him coming after me and tying me up in my T-shirt…but I wasn’t wearing one. And watching it…I also found myself wondering about missed opportunities; chances that I would have never passed up if I were wearing my mask. “Why didn’t I knee him in the side there? Why didn’t I choke him with my shorts after he smacked me with them? Why? Why? Why?”

I remember being a bit intimidated by his size; I remember thinking he was a good wrestler as we fought. I also remember that as the match wore on, it began to shift away from being about who could beat who and more about touch, and touching each other. It was kind of hard not to notice his muscularity, since he took every opportunity to flex his arms and back and chest and legs for me, as though daring me, willing me, to touch the hard muscle beneath the smooth, tanned skin.

And you know what? Who am I to say no to a feast of muscles put in my face?

And the wrestling became more erotic, more about touch and feel and pressing our bodies together and rubbing them against each other, all thoughts of winning and losing leaving our minds as the mattress, a former wrestling arena, became a playground for us…two wrestlers with new goals in mind.

And what a beautiful body I had to explore, right there at my fingertips.

And the camera faded to black…and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I do wish, though, we’d also done a match in the ring.

A Question of Lust

Once after a spectacularly fun, sweaty and erotic hour or so of wrestling with a wrestler buddy, as we lie naked together on his mats, drained and drenched in sweat, my head resting on his pecs, he said to me, with a bit of a laugh, “You know, wrestling is just another form of rough sex.”

And I realized it was true in many ways; wrestling videos certainly had long replaced pornographic ones for my viewing and masturbatory pleasure. My embrace of the erotic side of wrestling, and its place in my nature and desires, was deep and intrinsic. I often had to warn opponents, before hand, that I would get hard while we wrestled; the contact, the testosterone, the competition and struggle, would be a turn-on for me, but I also never expected anything sexual to come from the wrestling. It was a nice bonus, but wasn’t necessary.

So, there I was, on top of Mitch Colby in a hotel room in Vegas, listening to him breathe laboriously, struggling to get away, to get out from under the hold he was trapped inside, as I tweaked it ever so slightly in order to make it even more painful for him to continue resisting.

Wrestling Mitch, despite the fact it was a tough fight, was also turning me on. Maybe it was the fact the fight was so tough that it was a turn on? Was it an overpowering attraction I felt for him? This match was him at perhaps the physical peak of his body; this was arguably the hottest he ever looked.

He was bigger than me, he was stronger than me. Those shiny trunks hugged his pouch and ass beautifully. And even when I got control of the match and was able to dominate him for a while…he was able to take control back almost ridiculously easily.

And then he would flex  at me, posing, taunting me with his beautifully shaped and defined muscles.

And with his crotch in my face, his muscles flexing and his veins popping, winning the match became less of a concern…but I still wanted to get some punishment in.

But he ultimately proved to be too strong.

Are You Man Enough?

It was strange wrestling without the mask. I’d gotten so used to wearing it, and there was a strange sense of power connected with it; I like to think I’m a fairly nice guy in my day-to-day life, but once that mask went on I turned into someone else. I’d never seen myself as a heel, to be honest…but the Boss was smart enough to know that with a mask on, I’d bring out the nasty, sadistic son-of-a-bitch just below the surface.

I mean, you can see the difference:

 

Totally different in attitude, look, everything.

So there I was in a Las Vegas hotel room, no mask, getting my ass handed to me by Mitch Colby. He’d gotten two quick submissions out of me, and this match was definitely not going to the way I wanted it to, the way I’d pictured it, the way I’d thought about it.

Then he dragged my workout shorts off me and slapped me with them a couple of times, laughing.

Laughing. At me.

Nobody laughs at Cage Thunder.

Time for a little turnabout is fair play.

Submit, bitch.

Viva Las Vegas

It finally happened when I was in Las Vegas. I couldn’t believe it. After he emailed and set up the match–what were the odds, really, that we would both be in Las Vegas at the same time? I mean, really–I wasn’t entirely convinced it was actually going to happen. So many near misses, so many missed chances, and now, in Las Vegas, no mask?

 

I got the room set up, and then it was time to wait. And wait. And wait.

I fucking hate waiting.

And then came the knock on the door. I got up, opened the door, and there he was. My heat was pounding. He was wearing shorts, sunglasses (at night, of course), and a black wife beater. He gave me that smirk from that day at the photo shoot, and sneered at me as he took the sunglasses off, “are you ready for me?”

I was. We bumped chests, and then he sent me flying with a shove, backwards onto the mattress I’d set up as our wrestling arena, and as I got back to my feet, he took off his shorts and started taking off his shirt.

He’d gotten under my skin yet again, and I went after him before he had the shirt off.

Yup. I played right into his hands. He was ready for me, expecting it, and was able to use my anger and frustration against me.

Before I knew what was happening, I’d already submitted twice. And I was still wearing my fucking workout shorts.

Mother fuck.

And as you can see from the pictures, he was clearly enjoying making me eat some of the shit I’d been talking on social media…

And you know how good he looks in pictures and on video?

He actually looks better in person.

 

to be continued….