Friday, November 14, 2008

Backyard Rumpus

Dad sets up the ring for us boys. Four pine four-by-fours driven into the ground behind the garage, each three body-lengths from the next. Three thick ropes strung from post to post, the highest five feet off the ground, the lowest fifteen inches. Brown dirt floor.

“I want you boys to kick the shit out of each other,” Dad says. “Save me the trouble.”

Terry mimes some karate kicks to the air. Kiai! His shoulder muscles ripple, a motion carried down to his waist by his lats.

Terry’s my cousin and I hate his guts. His folks and little sister died in a highway accident 18 months ago, so he’s been living with us. Not adopted, so not my brother in any sense. Adoption would cost him some college scholarships down the line; his father (my father’s brother) was a cop. and the state provides for the kids of dead cops.

At first, I felt kinda sorry for him, but after a couple of weeks, he was just a scowling zombie I had to share a room with. Nothing at all like having the big brother I’d always dreamed of, which is sort of what my folks had promised me.

The trouble began when we would run into each other in the hall or in doorways—Terry wouldn’t budge, would even intentionally block my way, or bump up against me when we passed.

Then he started taking jabs at me, playful, sort of, except he wouldn’t smile. In time, the punches got punchier, and I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t trying to be funny or cute.

He’s popular at school—junior varsity football, track, debate—but at home he just stares at stuff, lost in his thoughts, lifts weights, and writes in a black spiral notebook he locks away in an old combination briefcase.

Polite to Mom and Dad, but acts like a jerk around me.

Without Terry, I’d be an only child again. Worse for me, I can see in my parents’ eyes that Terry is the kind of son they wish I was—square-jawed, curly-haired, athletic, polite, to a point—but never what you’d call friendly. Always something sad and brooding behind his eyes.

Me, I’m the overachiever who’s good at algebra and reads joke books and plays World of Warcraft. Kids pick on me at school, challenge me to fights behind the gym (I dodge them and run for home)—you’d think that Terry, being older, stronger, and related, would stick up for me. Instead, at home he punches me—punches hard—on my shoulder.

Ten days ago, I punched back, and he kinda livened up, bouncing around me on the balls of his feet, and started to jab … at my face! Finally, I just dove into him, but he grabbed me by the neck and flipped me on my back, sat on my chest, knees jammed into my armpits, held my wrists and made me slap myself with my own hands. Humiliating.

In the ruckus we busted a closet door and knocked down a framed photo of Gram, when she was young and rosy-cheeked, shattering it.

That’s the day Dad drove some stakes in the ground to build us a place to “have at it”: his words. Bought us each a pair of cheap boxing gloves—yellow for Terry, blue for me. Terry kinda perked up over the prospect. Made me feel kinda sick inside my gut.

Terry’s in plaid shorts and tennis shoes, no shirt. I’m wearing black swim trunks, sneakers, and a light-blue T-shirt with a rollerskating bunny on it. Both of us the same weight, 155 pounds, him all lean muscle and freckled tan, me big-boned and lumpy.

Even though I hate him, I admire the way his abdomen narrows at his waist, curving inward to an invisible point somewhere under his belt loops.

“Just don’t kill each other,” Dad says, wiping his hands on his pants legs, walking back to the house for a cigarette. “Mom wouldn’t like it.”

He doesn’t even hang around to teach us some moves, except to say we should probably shake hands first.

Terry flips over the top rope and lands on his feet, strutting around the ring, his arms upraised, making nasal imaginary-crowd noises.

“Get in,” he hollers, unusually good-natured. “This’ll be fun. C’mon.”

I crawl through the ropes and nervously bump my gloves against each other. Terry feints two or three jabs in my direction. The gloves whoosh in the air.

“Don’t act so scared, BJ. I won’t hurt you … not much.”

We touch gloves in the center of the ring like guys do on HBO. In less than a second he punches me square in the nose. My nose throbs and I smell blood, but there’s no wetness. Already this is rougher than I’m comfortable with.

Terry backs off and sort of dances with his back against the ropes.

I charge after him but he makes me chase him. Then he pulls up to me and we take some wild swings at each other, basically just skimming off each other’s body.

Terry’s got the build for boxing, but neither one of us knows what we’re doing. Good thing nobody can see us, what with the garage on one side and a high fence on the other.

He taps both sides of my head at once. Doesn’t actually hurt, but it does piss me off.

I punch him in the chest a couple of times. Once in the shoulder. He punches my shoulder in return. Then socks me in the gut.

Again we let fly some scrambled roundhouses and pokes and wind up entangled in each other’s arms, hitting the back of each other’s head and reaching round for the occasional light kidney punch to the small of the back. I smell the salty must of Terry’s sweat, the mustard on his breath from lunch.

We slow-dance in circles, chest to chest, until he shoves me back into one of the posts.

Then at half an arm’s length he slugs me in the jaw. Backs up a little. Comes back at me with another right to the jaw. Same place.

I feel stinging pain. My head feels heavy and unwieldy like a cast-iron fry pan.

My knees buckle. I hold myself up on the ropes. The cheap Wal-Mart gloves have unlaced themselves.

“Rat bastard,” I hiss through my teeth.

He gnaws at the end of his yellow glove, manages to pull it free of his right hand, and then pulls the other glove off.

I try to slip through the ropes to run back to the house. Terry grabs my trunks and pounds my belly with his fist. Too winded to call out, I try to kick him and fall on my ass instead.

The glove falls off my left hand, and I throw the other one off, too. Terry wraps his arms around my upper back, hands clenched under my sternum, his chin digging into my spine, and pulls me clear of the pine post. Hoists me up off my feet and drops me on my back on the ground. Covers my upper body with his torso for a pin, which he counts down by slapping the dirt.

I play possum.

He gets up and stands right over my head. I look up at him towering over me, his dark hair flashing in sunlight. Closer, the muscles in his hairy legs tense and relax. He reaches down and pulls my T-shirt over my head, whacks the side of my head with his forearm.

“Get up, girly.” He snarls. “Fight me. Or I will fuck you up.”

He strips the shirt off my head and tosses it aside. Backs off so I can get up on my feet, which I do, slowly.

He draws closer, circling me, his fists up.

I raise my fists, and he smirks.

We trade second-rate blows. His much more convincing than mine, though. His chest is taut and glistening with the first sheen of sweat.

Neither of us fights worth shit, but it occurs to me that we’re teaching each other as we go.

What the hell—I throw myself at him, and we swing fast and wild, missing and landing blows, pink contact-marks spotting our upper bodies. He drives his knuckles into my nose and upper lip. Desperate, I start to kick at his shins, which really pisses him off.

Thrusting his chest out and sucking his stomach in, Terry rushes me, making an ineffectual swoop with his left arm, followed with a tight, spring-like shot to my left eye with his right.

I hear humming and the next thing I know I’m on my back on the ground. Terry delivers a payback kick to my thigh and pulls back.

I get back on my feet. Terry’s eyes are blazing—like he’d like nothing more right now than to rip me apart, literally.

I feel punished already, hurt that my cousin should bear such an irrational grudge against me, but Terry makes good on it with a couple of punishing body blows.

Then he wraps his left arm around my head and throws me over his hip to the ground. Hops up and down on me a few times. Straddles my chest, grabs a handful of my hair in his left fist, and pounds his right fist to my face a good 5 or 6 times.

I must have passed out or something. I come to on the ground, feeling cold. The earth feels wobbly, and the scattered clouds overhead seem to tilt and whirl slowly.

Terry’s in the corner, arms propped on the top ropes.

“Let’s see who’s boss,” he says.

“You are,” I say, vaguely. Force myself to stand. Wobbly.

“No. We fight to the finish, till one of us cries uncle. It’s how it’s done.”

“Don’t want to,” I say, and turn to walk away.

He pounces on my back and pulls me back to him and we crash together to the ground. He’s like the Tasmanian Devil or something, tearing into me every which way he can. His flesh is hot against me. I’m confused and hurt—my eyes well up with tears, but I manage blindly to strike out at him with my fists.

He grabs me by the wrists and we test our strength. I surprise myself in holding out as long as I do, but eventually he drives my knuckles down to the dirt on either side of head.

He wraps his legs around mine and splays me out. His chest and stomach heaving atop mine. Again I smell lunch on his hot breath.

Then I feel his cock prodding my appendectomy scar.

I’m aroused too. We freeze in place. He stares into my eyes—with a dead expression on his face. All at once, we are breathing in time with each other.

I struggle, half-heartedly, but he holds on tight.

“I’m the boss,” he whispers hoarsely. “You are the slave.”

At the word “slave” his erection swells as it lurches up to twelve o’clock, between our lower abdomens and against my own hard rod.

With the cotton curtain of our shorts between them, the two cocks knead each other roughly. His hips dip deep into mine. He squeezes my wrists and moves them closer to my ears.

The point of his erect nipple scrapes mine.

Terry’s body undulates in a slow, swimming motion over me. He buries his face against my neck, and I smell the sour odor of his hair.

“You’re the boss, Terry,” I whisper.

“Shut up.”

I resist, try to shake my arms loose from his grip, try to writhe free of his legs. He tenses and bears down on me even harder.

He breathes heavily into my ear.

“Uncle,” I say.

“I said, ‘Shut up.’”

He drives himself more heavily into me, sometimes adding an aggressive thrust to his rhythmic churning, to legitimize the idea that we’re still fighting. Then his body shivers and he rests atop me, a dead weight.

We lie there breathing. I grind against his weight. Lukewarm sweat drips out of his armpit onto my shoulder. I crunch up into him, absorb his heat, feel my own cock quiver and then the loosening waves glide up over my body.

He puts his lips close to my ear and murmurs, with no particular inflection, almost like a memorized prayer:

“I ought to beat you up for that. I ought to kick your ass.”

Monday, November 10, 2008

Late Monday Afternoon

Loki comes out of the shower with hard-on bouncing up to his belly button. Smells of city tapwater and Dial soap, and stray, untoweled drops dribble off honey-colored hair and down his shoulders.

He smiles like he has just figured out some new rudeness to try out on me.

I am on the couch with Darcy the cat, grading student essay exams, in baggy cotton shorts, the stereo playing Eurythmics way low.

Loki plops down beside me, warm and clean, and Darcy hightails it upstairs.

After classes he’d headed to Tybee to catch some waves. Disappointed in the choppy water, he cleared out early and strayed to my house, unannounced. Parked his board in the corner of the living room, next to a painting he works on weekends, when he usually pays his visits.

Hard to ignore the upraised pork-sword and tight furry goolies underneath. His bright, unblinking eyes spell h-o-r-n-y as much as his cock does. My interest mounts. I put the folder and red ballpoint aside.

For several seconds we just stare at each other’s eyes, a quiet, ready-for-anything staredown.

“Let me undress you.”

He crawls over on top of me and unbuttons my shirt with his teeth and tongue. A slow process, but satisfyingly lewd. Finished, he brushes his nose up against my throat. The underside of his cock skims my stomach. He peels the open shirt off my shoulders and arms, hangs it around his neck, and then he unbuttons my shorts. He stands up to tug them off, tosses them and the shirt towards the cold fireplace.

Then he straddles my waist with his slim but sinewy legs, nutbrown and lightly furred. Flexes one bicep, then proves how perfectly matched its twin is. Sucks in to show off his well-defined abs. His dick rubs up on mine.

Leans down and puts his thumbs against my adam’s apple. I stiffen. He smiles, showing his teeth. My asshole tightens.

His penis tries to subdue my penis. We cross sabers and cock fight. Each stroke firms up our rods a bit more. He lunges low to jab at my balls.

I feel his triceps with my fingertips. Ouch. His nipples rise like Vietnamese paddy hats.

My dick is nightstick hard, and I jam it up to his crotch.

Almost imperceptibly Loki tightens his grip on my throat.

The game is to make the opponent cum first, then triumphantly force yourself into him.

Now the two fighters are planted firmly against each other. Concentration and lust try to drive the foe down. As much as possible we try not to move the rest of our bodies now. A subtle shift in my hip, though, and my cock rises to his glans, moist with precum, gaining leverage, like a toproll in arm wrestling.

Veiny and full up, the two rods level on one another. His balls mashing mine. He presses his whole body down on me, loosening the grip on my adam’s apple. His skin feels rubbery, taut, feverish. Chest to chest, belly to belly, we thrust into each other. His legs grapevine mine.

I realize my disadvantage and try to roll him over onto the carpet. He successfully resists. I raise my right leg, slightly, trying to ram his ballsack. He counters, pulling himself higher on me, locking his forearms behind my head, and mashing my face into his chest. My heart is beating against his cock, while my cock wags freely between his thighs.

His rhythm accelerates. I wrap my arms around his lower back and pull him in to me. A climactic spasm seizes him. He shoots into my hairy chest.

I tighten my hug, manage to turn him over, off the couch, and I crawl down, in semi-slow-motion, on top of him. For a minute he heaves under me, moaning, a sly satisfied smile on his lips. The starchy smell of Loki’s jizz surrounds us.

He grunts softly, under his breath. He makes a pretend struggle against me, muscles twist on muscles, which only serves to put him stomach down to the carpet, with my cock between his butt cheeks.

He pushes himself up on his hands and knees. Spreads his legs. I grab his still damp hair in my fist, and he groans. I don’t need spit to lubricate. The head of my cock presses into him.

“Relax,” I say.

“Uh-um,” he says.

I get in. He groans again, deep down inside himself, so deep I can feel it against the bottom of my rod. He pushes his ass up to me.

“Um,” I say. “Loki. My precious boy. You feel so nice inside. Nice.”

I fuck him for real now. His whole body, his skin, his viscera, his throbbing heart, open up for me. I pump into him—my upward thrusts are measured, firm, authoritative—like I am a steam engine, a drill, a hydraulic pump. My left arm hooks his throat and pulls him up to me in an arch.

“I’m cumming.”

His face reddens as I squeeze his windpipe shut. A small vein pops up at his temple. I pound harder, light-punching his gut with my right fist as I thrust. I start to howl, the noise fills my chest, and then escapes through my vocal cords, filling the whole house. I thrust again and again, slamming myself deeper and deeper and deeper into the wetness of him.

I release his neck. Stop. Breathe heavily, short gasps. Feel something almost electrical combing over the two of us. I pull my dick out of him. Lie down beside him, my left arm over his left shoulder.

He moans. Backs up to me. We listen to the music, knobbed down to almost mute: “These are my guns these are my furs this is my living room.” Darcy’s mewing at the top of the stairs. Then her loud motorized purring.

I lean in to him, blow playfully in Loki’s ear. He swats me away. After our hearts stop banging, after the sweat cools, after the room stops spinning, we rise, only to collapse again on the couch. Naked and entangled, victor and vanquished, man and man, solitary and together, whole worlds still spinning inside us.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Gilles Pinned

Gilles in Paris--Gilles is Webmaster of the valuable and labyrinthine pictorial resource Archives de Lutte/Wrestling Archives.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Payback for Buck Cutler

X grabs me by the hair, hooks his forearm in my crotch, hoists me over his head, and tosses me at the turnbuckle, where I stick, upside down. He charges me and knees me right in the navel.

Blood rushing to my head, sweat stinging my eyeballs, all the lights over the ring blurring—it is like I am in a murky fishbowl with this guy.

At first, I hadn’t thought he looked so tough. Seen him fight once or twice. Wasn’t impressed. Sure, he was hairy, over six feet, big and round on top, black mutton-chop sideburns, steely eyes. But, damn, I’m big too, and I know how to hurt guys twice his size.

He takes three steps back, folds his arms over his massive belly, and just stares at me, studying.

I pull myself up on my feet, strike the palm of my hand against my temple, trying to get the motor in my skull to stop sputtering.

Again, he charges me—roundhouse chop to the jaw bats me over the ring ropes, onto the cold concrete.

Crawl up on my hands and knees. In the roaring dark.

Hear X’s boots crisscross the plywood. Boom boom boom. Then hear him on the floor. Next to me.

Grabs the back of my tights and hikes me up to my feet, pulls my head back by my hair, with a snap. Kidney punch. Spin around, just in time to taste the salty granite of his knuckles in my mouth.

Then locks his right arm around my head and rams it into the ring post. Sparks and pink spots, spinning in my eyes.

Fighting this guy is like fighting a Jeep. He’s all hardware, tousled with wet curly hair.

Dizzily I try to escape, one hand against the mat for balance. But in five seconds he’s on top of me again, belly to belly, left hand wrenching my ear, right fist pounding my face.

Months ago I messed up his little buddy. Cute kid, blond curly hair, honey-colored skin. Fast, acrobatic, a flyer. In 15 minutes I turned him into a meat pie. So X wanted me bad—talked it up for weeks—but I wasn’t scared. Shoulda been, though. Shoulda been.

He shoves me under the ring ropes and rolls in behind me. The damp heat off our bodies collides in the air between us.

Grabs my left arm, yanks it up, squats on my ribs, his crotch nestled in my pit, and twists. I grunt. My arm cracks. Presses his gleaming dark belly against the inside of my elbow. His right leg crushing the nerves out of my right arm, tacked down flat and numb to the mat.

Pulls my wrist into his chest and arches back. My feet kick against the matted plywood.

Scoots back lower on my back. Slips me into a full nelson and rolls on his back, me on top, links his legs round my waist. His heels tucked hard into my balls. Can’t even squirm—like a bug caught in a web. Shoves my head forward. Slaps the back of my skull.

“You make this look too easy,” he growls in my ear.

His right boot snags the inside of my left leg. Jams my head down again, to the breaking point. See my stomach, pinched pink, heaving in and out, over his right leg, flexing like a horse’s flank.

I’m helpless, pitiful, unmanned. This guy owns me and enjoys prolonging the humiliation. Imagine the blond punk watching somewhere, in a neck brace, enjoying the evening of the score.

Releases and shoves off me. I tumble over on my belly. He grabs my boots and squats down on the small of my back, a wrenching Boston crab. I roar in pain. Every inch of me blushing bright red. Clutches my knees, my boots hooked into his pits.

Rocks back and forth while I groan through my clenched teeth.

Bounces his ass on mine. Grinds my balls to the mat. Arches back, glancing back at me over his shoulder, my tendons snapping. Crotch up off the mat now. He reaches down and wrings my cock in his fist.

My scream rises up out of my groin and ekes hoarsely through my vocal cords.

Leans back even further. My hands pound the mat, leaving spotty blood prints.

He rocks his hips up in the air and comes crashing back down on my lower back—one, two, three, four times. I groan like I’m shitting cement blocks.

Breaks the hold. Feel like I’m melting away, losing consciousness, my heart pounding up into my throat.

Puts the heel of his boot against the base of my skull. Strikes a pose. Flexes.

I begin to black out. Paid back. Punished. And, just as the lights go out on me, he casually flips me over like a decked fish and pins me, his hot hard cock plugging my carotid artery.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Pehlwani: Wrestling in Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India

Pehlwani is the modern Indian sport, combining 2500-year-old Hindi wrestling and Persian-style wrestling. A fighter is called a pehlwan, Persian for champion or warrior.

Wrestlers train 4-5 hours, beginning at 5:00 a.m., using techniques adapted from yoga and Western wrestling. To wrestle, pehlwans grease their bodies and wrestle in dust pits. Victory is determined by decision (by a panel of judges), submission, or knockout.

Sawari is one training technique, in which pehlwans use another person's body weight to build mass and agility.


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