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.

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.