Saturday, December 27, 2008

Try and Take Me

You know what Jack White looks like? Guy in the White Stripes? Raconteurs? The band? This guy looked exactly like him. Spitting image. White skin, jet-black hair, pointy Ming-the-Merciless eyebrows, bright but sleepless eyes, about six-three. Shit, he may have even been Jack White. You know what I mean?

It was only by chance I was there at all. Robert knew somebody who knew Omar and could get us over to Omar’s place and into Omar’s New Year’s party. This isolated place about twenty miles out of town, in the woods—you take a gravel road to get to it, shrubbery thrashing the sides of your car all the way in. Robert drove. I couldn’t find the place again to save my life.

Tall one-room marble building in the middle of nowhere. Four ornate archways opened north, east, south, and west. Painted ceiling—gods or shit like that floating on clouds. Gauzy curtains caught the late December breeze. Italian tile floor. Pool of albino carp in the center. It was Omar’s custom-built party sanctuary. It had like no address. Totally off the grid.

The place itself was lit up like a football stadium, but all around it, for hundreds of feet, just torches and kerosene blast heaters. A string quartet playing on the lawn. And guys carrying trays full of champagne, martinis, berries, crabcakes, chocolate truffles, and little quiches with shrimp and sausage in them. Maybe two hundred guests, mostly men, informally yet trendily dressed.

And there, in the center of it all, was this guy. In a plain white tee, skin tight across the chest and shoulders, and blue jeans. A bottle of Coke in his hand.

He introduced himself as John. He knew Omar. “Like everybody,” he said, not suspecting that I, for one, did not know Omar.

The two of us stood out. Taller than everybody else. Standing in one of the archways, talking, kind of looking down at the others, laughing conspiratorially. This guy John looked so fantastic, so surreally beautiful and strong, my head felt a little light in his presence.

It was nearly dawn when we left the party. Robert was still around someplace, but I couldn’t find him to say goodbye. John borrowed Omar’s limo to take us back to town, to his place. We snaked an ice-cold bottle of Bruno Paillard and sprawled together in the back of the car, trading swigs straight from the bottle. The driver knew where to take us, so I figured John must be in fairly tight with Omar.

John had a loft in the warehouse district. Very eighties Hollywood bohemian. Six giant canvases on easels—acrylic Lescaux-looking horses—crumpled sheets of plastic everywhere. Huge leather sofa and Moroccan rugs. Two-thousand white holiday lights crisscrossing the ceiling beams.

We smoked a joint and fucked, then fell asleep entangled on a king-size futon in the corner. It was mid-afternoon when I awoke.

John was already up. Bright white light shone through rows of skylights, making his body glow and blur in my slow-to-focus eyes. He was in white briefs, practicing tai chi chuan, parting the wild horse’s mane. I studied the paleness of his skin, the deep purple of his lips and nipples, the baby-blue shadow round his mouth and halfway up his jawline.

When he saw I was awake, he pulled me up on my feet and guided me to a 10x10 gym mat at the other end of the loft.

“Let’s fight,” he said.

I’d wrestled a little in high school phys ed, like anybody, but that was it. “Fight?”

“Uh hm. We’re an even match. Mostly I get little guys in here, short or thin, emaciated.” He rubbed his chin against his right shoulder and looked me up and down. “Come at me. Try and take me.”

He was limber and bright, and I was still groggy—just slightly hungover, not much, since I usually don’t suffer much the mornings after. He slapped me, playfully but hard, across the mouth. That cleared the cobwebs.

“Shit, um, John, really I don’t …”

Before I could finish, he swooped into me, flipped me off my feet, knelt on my chest, and twisted my arm upright, through his right pit, his left hand pressing my face to the mat.

Pain shot through the length of my body. I groaned.

“Louder, goddammit. Make some noise, boy,” he said. “I wanna hear you hurt.”

I groaned louder. He twisted my wrist. My prolonged owww had a girlish whimper in it.

“That’s how I like it,” he said. “I want noise. Every action needs reaction. Got me?”

This guy didn’t know how strong he was. Sure, we were about the same build, but damn.

He wedged my arm between his thighs and dropped to his butt, walloping my chest and chin with his long, burly legs.

Something cracked. Tears were in my eyes, I kid you not. We both bounced about an inch off the mat on impact. I let out a screech, only partly to make him happy.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

“Sorry, bro. I mean it, really, sorry.” He released my arm and jumped to his feet. He pulled me up gently to a standing position, a big, boyish grin on his face. He stepped back and held up his arms to flex his remarkable biceps, his eyebrows raised in gleeful self-admiration. “Hit me back. Gimme your best shot, bro. Here.” He slapped his smooth white belly. “Hard as you like.” He grabbed my right hand, rolled it into a fist—Jesus, he had big hands!—and pressed it up to his diaphragm. His skin was cool on my knuckles.

I struck. Hard. He howled and bent over, but even as hard as I had hit him, he was overacting—the punch gave me a good sense of just how hard his abs were, like punching a chunk of oak with a quilt around it. I’d barely made a dent.

He straightened. “Again,” he said.

This time I feinted with my right and swung a wide left to the side of his nose.

He wailed and clapped his hands over his nose. When he pulled them back, I expected to see a spot of blood, but nothing—except that his nostrils looked flared and raw pink.

“That make you feel good, hot shot?” He managed a crooked smile, his eyes glistening. “One more time?”

“Look, John,” I stammered. “This isn’t really my idea ….”

“Bullshit. Hit me again. I dare ya.”

I squeezed my fists together in front of my chest. Took a few deep breaths and bounced twice between my right foot and left foot. This cracked me up. I couldn’t be serious. I covered my face and shook my head no.

John smirked, grabbed my hands again, and replaced them above my chest, letting his thumbnails trace the outline of my pecs, as he did.

“Your best shot,” he said.

I inhaled deeply and counted to five; then I drove my right fist solidly to his gut, maybe one, maybe two inches over his navel.

I’d barely landed the jab when he lunged and locked my head in his right arm, grabbed the band of my new melon-glo AussieBum, and in one breathless move flipped me over his head. I landed with a whack on the mat.

He fell back on me, driving his elbow right below my sternum, knocking the wind out of me. I was unconscious for three-quarters of a second.

I came to, looking straight up at John, his knee on my chest, his big guns bulging to the left and the right, and his hard cock stretching his snow-white underpants. He looked straight out of Tom of Finland. Once again, my breath was taken away.

His skin smelled like lemon, salt, and cornflakes. The exertion had given it a nice, even shine. He squatted down on me and kissed my mouth, his knees now bracing my ribs.

“You’re learning.” He blew on my eyelids, and when I blinked he ran his tongue over them. Stale marijuana and champagne on his breath.

He rested his body on mine, chest to chest, belly to belly, hard-on to hard-on.

“Resist me,” he murmured. “Try and break free.”

I thrust my hips up two or three times, and he smiled smugly. I felt his penis stir against mine. I felt something like a sharp intake of breath, only it was in my asshole. This guy was hot, and every ounce of his attention was fixed on me. I could feel the pulses in our veins, both of us.

Then he grunted deep in his chest. He grabbed me by the wrists and pinned them firmly to the mat over my head. I struggled, but he subdued me. He bumped his crotch to mine. Snorted like a pig. Smirked. His front teeth looked ready to plunge into my throat. His cock ground upon me in circles. Our tight nipples scraped each other, too.

I managed to free my right hand and grabbed the hair at the back of his head. I tugged at it mischievously. He grunted and thrust harder.

“Rough me up,” I whispered.

He butted his forehead against mine, pushed my head to the mat. He said, “Bud, I’m gonna knock you out.”

He was rock hard. Thick and big and brutal and hard. My balls felt heavy, and my cock surged up, free of my briefs, and slid across his skin.

“C’mon, man.” His eyes flashed, and he sneered. His breath hissed through his gritted teeth. “C’mon.”

I understood. I rolled over on top, smashed my forearm against his nose, felt his belly heave up to mine.

I pushed myself up to a squat, straddling his thighs. I peeled his briefs down his legs and off his feet. Then pulled down my own, letting my hard tool collide with his.

I rolled my cock over his. They locked together, and I pressed my belly down on his lower abdomen. Cool sweat covered every inch of us.

John let loose a mighty Aargh, a warrior’s roar. He bucked and threw me off to his side. He thrust his left leg through my thighs. I grabbed the back of his moist neck. He pushed his glistening chest on mine. Our cocks crossed like sabers between us.

Titanium hard, now. We stabbed ourselves into each other. We locked arms and let our chests and bellies chafe against each other. We rolled on the mat, him on top, then me, then him again.

He pushed himself up with his arms so he could slam his chest down on mine. Our cocks whipped each other furiously as we ground our bodies, full force, against each other. We were two meteors slamming into each other in space. We locked our arms, our muscles bulging and straining, skin slipping on skin.

We rolled over side to side and pushed ourselves up to our knees. Hearts banging together, hands clasped, we pushed to unbalance the other. Our stiff rods arched, throbbing, thrusting, about to burst, corps-a-corps—deadlock.

We groaned. Satisfyingly loud groans, guttural, strong, big, male. Slick skin grinding us—the cores of our being—to a fine polish.

I wanted us to cum together. I wanted this to end with both of us triumphant. So, at the last possible moment, I pulled back my head and stared steadily into his eyes. Our gazes locked into each other, guiding us like heat-seeking missiles.

Our bodies surged, flared red hot, and we exploded simultaneously. Like fireworks, the jizz shot up to our necks. We collapsed back into each other’s arms, dug deep into each other, rolled and thrust and slid and grunted and groaned and pressed and heaved, until both of us were screaming at the top of our lungs, howling ourselves hoarse.

We kind of melted into each other then. You know what I mean? Two big, burly guys, so unlike the svelte fashionistas back at Omar’s party.

For a long time, we lay there side by side, massaging each other’s well-lubed dicks with the tips of our fingers, playing on each other’s skin, training ourselves to breathe as one, seeing ourselves in each other’s gaze. We licked the cum and sweat off each other’s stomachs, chest, and neck. We kissed and breathed inside each other.

He rolled over on top of me, then, and just lay there, with his head tucked down on my shoulder. His full weight relaxed on me.

We were silent all this time. Then he said, “Told you I’d knock you out.”

It was like that. Everything had changed. I was never the same.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Rusty and Max

Max? Sure, I can still take him. Have half a mind to rough him up right now.

Max wraps a towel around his waist and steps out of the shower, dripping wet, scratching his left ear. He’s thirty-eight, five-ten, one-hundred-eighty, olive skin, dark curly hair cut short, a full messianic beard, thick chest hair that narrows to a line pointing down to his vertical belly button, hairy thighs and calves that look firm, heavy, and impressive. A self-professed “tough Jew.” He has a breathtaking natural body built on little more than swimming, yard work, and Wild Turkey.

Known him all my life.

I’ve two inches and almost fifteen pounds on him. I’m Rusty. It’s my name, hair color, and overall skin tone, a mass of freckles and one fading tattoo that reads “No Problemo” in Gothic letters arching over my shoulder blades. Corrugated gym-toned abs. A trapezoid of auburn hair over my heart, between two studiously round pecs. I’m forty, but guys tell me I look no more than thirty. Most guess late twenties.

I feint a few jabs to his belly. He tells me to knock it off. He’s had his twenty laps. Time to head back to the wife and kids.

Not so fast, Max. Not so fast. I think you might be forgetting something.

He unhitches the towel, winds it up, and snaps it in my direction, a half-smile on his lips, showing a little teeth, white carnivorous teeth.

He fiddles with the combination lock, distracted, forgets his numbers, then quits halfway through. Light bulb lights over his head. Oh, yeah.

Oh, yeah, I say, dragging the word out for comic effect. The bet.

The bet, sure.

Last Sunday night watching widescreen football, I challenged him. For weeks we’d talked about fighting, hand to hand, what a charge it gives. Instant hard-on every time. The hard-to-speak-of eroticism of manly combat.

He confided that Becca and he used to wrestle in the bedroom, foreplay and just horsing around both, but she could never beat him. Sexy as hell, but not even enough action to work up a sweat. No competition, but a lot of fun. Gave it up after the twins.

I told him I still liked to wrestle—missed the old days at Waterville Academy when he and I would meet up at the gym and fight to submission in the mat room—guiltily beating off afterwards. Might he be interested in a wager, say, fifty bucks? A hundred, he said … next Thursday at HealthWorks. We shook on it.

Still on? I ask.

It’s on, chief. And I don’t take personal checks.

I pick up keys at the front desk and unlock the back room where the manager teaches Taekwondo to boys on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Switch on the overheads and do some stretches on the mats to limber up. Room smells of preteen angst and stale jockstraps. Max struts in a minute later, his damp navy-white Speedo back on, with towel round his neck.

I’m ready to pack some action, he says. Tingle some spine. Hope you like looking at the ceiling, Rusty.

Under his swagger I detect some shyness and nerves—it’s been more than twenty years since boarding school. It’s a tell the way he strokes his beard just now.

He shakes his arms and legs loose like a diving champ, then hunches down to a semi-squat.

Up or down? I ask. He chooses top, so I get down on all fours, huffing deeply, more for psychological effect than respiration. He kneels down beside me, grips my left forearm in his left hand, wraps the other arm around my back, resting his right hand gently on my abs. For several seconds neither of us moves. We synchronize our breathing. Then Max thumps my solar plexus with his fingertips.

Max tries to shove me down, but I pull in my knees and land on my butt, grab Max’s left arm and twist, driving his forehead down to the mat. I straddle his back with my knees pressed to his lats.

With unexpected agility, he rolls forward, springs to his feet, and reverses the armlock.

Pain shoots out my shoulder joint, jangling every nerve in my body.

Max maintains the hold, staring down at my kinked shoulder like I am a difficult math problem he needs to solve. We both breathe heavily, the first shine of sweat lighting our bodies.

Like him, I tumble forward. He tries to intercept, but I slide through his hands. Both on our feet now, we lock up, hands roving each other’s gaps and muscles, searching for a weak spot. Our left ears are pressed against each other, and I feel his beard scrape against my neck. Heat radiates off our skin.

He grabs my upper thigh and yanks it up. I hop on one foot, which he tries to kick out from under me. One strong push and he has me down on the mat. Our arms and legs knotted together.

Used to be, when we wrestled in high school, we could almost read each other’s thoughts, making each match a bigger challenge than the last. The physical closeness tuned us in to details we were not conscious of and, even if we had been, could not have found the words to express—changes in body temperature, smell, subtle shifts in eye direction, the sound of our pulses—we registered and decoded them, in a silent language of proximity, pressure, and motion.

Our hands clasp over our heads. I lock my thighs round his midsection. He bears down on me. I try to steer his body with my knees. I snap my hands from his and curl my right arm round his neck. His nose and beard scrape the skin under my armpit. I lean back, pushing his face to the mat while stretching my legs to jerk his trunk in the opposite direction.

I want him to tap out, but he just takes it, groaning. I raise my crossed ankles and drive them down hard on the small of his back. He grunts. I tell him to submit. He won’t.

I flex my biceps and squeeze his head tighter. The sweat on the back of his neck glistens under my armpit. I smash the heels of my feet to his ass. It pisses me off when a fighter doesn’t know he’s beat.

Then in one deft movement, Max slips his head free of my grip, lurches up higher on my body, escaping my thighs, and returns the favor, his hard bicep jamming my jaw, bending my neck back down to the mat.

He and I breathe heavily. His back rises and falls. Our bellies bump and slip on each other’s sweat. My legs thrash on the mat.

Not what you expected, eh?

He gives my head a slight twist. He slides off me and rises to his knees, still clamping my head tight to his ribcage. My left hand reaches up to his head, hunting for something to grab. He turns his head to evade my grasp.

He manages to stand and pull me up to my feet. He breaks his hold on my head and slips me into a half nelson. My right arm locked at a dire angle. His sweating hairy chest warms my shoulder blades. The pressure of his hand against the back of my neck is firm and punishing.

I’m getting hard now and wonder whether Max is, too. The friction of flesh on flesh makes the heart thump harder and tightens the scrotum. With no timidity, he lets me know he’s hard, too, mashing his wood against my butt.

I ball my right hand into a fist and twist suddenly to the left. Max follows but trips on the heels of my feet. I pull him down to the mat and drop on top of him with my full weight. I smash his chest with my elbow for good measure.

Max grunts and rolls over on his stomach. I straddle his waist and hook my forearm under his chin, resisting the urge to torture his beard. My cock nests comfortably in the crack between his tight glutes. His sinewy back slides under my chest and abs. I pin his knees to the mat with mine.

He moans. I give his head a chastising jerk backward. I slip up a little higher on him so I can grind my chin into the back of his head, a favored torment from our teenage years.

He reaches back and slaps my face. Hard. I taste blood. And all of a sudden the insides of my nostrils feel rusted.

I yank the back of his head against my breastbone.

Submit. I hiss the word.

Max groans but refuses to give up.

I maintain the hold, hoping the strain on his neck and shoulder muscles will wear him down. I rock him back and forth like a toy pony. For almost a minute here, we are frozen together, paralyzed in the elegant knot we have made of our bodies. The sound of our breathing fills the room. Max grunts and whimpers in a deep register, almost a lion’s purr.

I don’t mean to but I relax my grip, just enough for Max to slide down, thrust up his hips, flip me over, and land on top. His weight on my belly knocks the wind out of me.

I twist and buck him off me. Side by side, we seize each other’s arms and legs, shove and pull. Rapid negotiations, flashing muscle. Our necks locked together. Hot exhalations and muttered curses. I grab his Speedo in my fist, but he squirms loose. He grabs the back of my knee, but I pull back, and his body tumbles over mine. We roll over the mat and trap ourselves against the wall.

Without breaking our grip on each other, we propel ourselves away from the wall and roll back to the center of the mat.

Both of us are tired now, having started the match after a full workout. I grab Max’s wrists and cross his arms on his chest. He resists, of course, but I manage to overpower him. I nail his forearms to his chest with my left knee. He’s pinned. I reach back and hook his legs together and cradle them at the ankles in my armpit. I lean forward, over his head. He’s locked in a tight knot.

His face is wet, red, and veiny. I slap my hands three times on the mat right next to his left ear. I make it a slow count, adding insult to injury.

Max roars through gritted teeth. I hop off him, and he stretches out his arms and legs, breathing deep, staring at the overhead lights. I’m kneeling next to him, my hands palms down on my quads. We both drip sweat.

We both have throbbing and decidedly unsubtle erections to contend with.

As victor, I have right to firsts. I rub my fingers over the Lycra sheathing but not hiding my erection. As if hypnotized, Max turns his head to watch. My stiff cock pokes through the top of my briefs. I slide my fingers in the gap created between elastic and skin, letting my knuckles nudge the waistline down.

Max fondles the line of hair under his well-cut navel. His fingers working down to his Speedo.

I spit into my hand and massage the saliva onto my cock. Max rolls on his side, props his head up on his right hand, uses his left hand to stroke.

I’m not thinking of women. I’m thinking of Max. I’m not thinking of sex. I’m thinking of wrestling Max. I can’t speak for what Max is thinking about.

I roll my sensitive glans between my thumb and forefinger. I breathe through my mouth and lick my lips. The latticed veins fatten and stiffen.

Max strokes his penis languorously in the palm of his hand.

My dick is at the bursting point. I crawl over to Max on all fours, spread my knees wide, and lean back at the waist.

Do it, bro, I say.

I fondle the skin at the base of my rod. First, Max puts his fingers around my fingers as if to guide them. He matches the liquid rhythm of my stroke, and I pull my hand away.

His fingertips roll my sweaty nads to the same rhythm. He pulls the loose skin away from the tightening balls and works it between his middle finger and forefinger.

I pull myself up and reach over to reciprocate. His cock is straight and firmly set against his lower abdomen. I reach under his scrotum and massage the perineum, daring to reach as far as the edge of the anus.

Relax, I say. This is sweet.

His cock is shiny and pink. His pubes are silky black, unlike mine, which are coarse and orange. As I stroke his balls, his cock stretches up to his belly button and slaps against his taut skin. I press his penis against his treasure trail, warm it between my hand and his skin. Mine is stiff, pointing to the ceiling, balancing in midair—a teardrop of pre-cum at the tip.

Max and I look directly into each other’s eyes. We make soft grunting noises as the strokes accelerate, intensify. The slapping of flesh sounds nearly combative.

I shoot first. It’s like something silently pops in the brain when this happens. Then Max shoots … an agile streamer that seems to land on his abs in slow motion.

He relaxes and rests his head back down on the mat. I lie down next to him, our knuckles barely touching. We listen to our own breathing. Then, gradually, we hear the sounds of the world outside this room, distant and indifferent to us.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

Rumble in the Bungalow

Dan, buddy of mine, calls me at ten o’clock at night: “Help me, Ackerman. I’m feeling antsy—restless, ready to bounce off the walls. Wanna come over and fight?”

“You drinking?”

“Yeah, a little. All of a sudden I feel like bustin stuff up. Innarested?”

I’ve known Dan since ninth grade, always sat behind me on the school bus. His dad was a psychologist, and Dan used to tell me all the weirdo shit the pervs his dad treated did for kicks and chuckles—about half of it was shit Dan made up.

We became fast friends the day he said, “You got just the sort of face I wanna punch.”

“It’s a weekend,” I say. “Give me ten minutes.”

Dan lives across the bridge in a bungalow close to the beach. Here’s what he looks like, if you’re interested: five-eight, 135, blond, black eyes, smooth and sinewy, foxy-looking face like Kurt Cobain, heroin zombie pale, black scorpion tattoo on his lower back, and a black Celtic cross on his left shoulder.

(Sorry, you’ll have to make up what I look like for yourself. No good at describing me.)

Twenty minutes later I’m at Dan’s place. He’s bouncing on the sofa, shadow boxing, wearing metallic silver bikini briefs—stereo blasting Godsmack.

“Don’t come any closer, man,” he shouts. “I’ll hurt ya, Ackerman. I’m serious.”

I shed my civvies at the door. Except for the gray jockstrap and tube socks.

I make a wide arc around the sofa to the bar and pour an inch of Cuervo in a glass and bolt it.

Dan bounces and thrashes in mid air.

“Somebody here order an ass-kickin with the works?” I ask, rhetorically.

Dan kicks over a ceramic table lamp, does a clumsy backflip, but recovers his balance on the throw rug in front of the fireplace.

I put up my fists and charge in.

Dan doesn’t even pretend to back off, but comes right at me, punching the air. He’s been at this an hour, it looks like, already glistening with a fine coat of sweat.

I jab right at his nose. No point in being coy. I connect twice before he manages to land a solid left to my ribs. A heart-shaped splatter of blood blooms over his nostrils.

We both hop backwards a step and then spring back in a flurry of roundhouse punches. Even the blows that don’t land solid are good enough to take your breath away. We look like a diagram of an atom—or one of those tornados of fists, stars, and boots in a Popeye cartoon.

Then Dan jabs me straight-on to the face and knocks me over the back of the sofa. I roll over to the floor, taking a cushion with me, but in a flash Dan is on top of me, flailing away at my face again.

I jab my knee into his right thigh, and he loses his balance, crashes onto the solid-oak coffee table, displacing a glass ashtray and a stack of magazines.

I grab his leg and twist. He curses and slides off the table onto the floor.

I kneel down hard on his inner thigh. Palm of my left hand over his face mashing his head to the floor, right arm crooked under his knee, pulling up and over.

“I’m gonna kill you, Ackerman. Fuck. I’m gonna bust you open, man.”

“You’re not even up yet, loser,” I hiss.

He bucks and groans, and the friction and thrusting get me hard. Always does.

Sweat rolls out my armpits and down my ribs to my waist. My belly is heaving in and out as I gulp the salty air wafting in from outside. Blood drop bubbles up at my nose, and I wipe it against my shoulder.

Dan punches me in the ribs, but, wedged between the table and a chair and crushed under my weight, he isn’t in a position to load the shot with much force.

I bounce a little, to add pressure, punishment.

Dan’s red in the face, grimacing, with panic splotches up and down his chest and abdomen. He’s breathing rapidly, thrusting up with his hips.

I smile crookedly: “Looks like you lost some of your fight, stud. Submit now and I’ll fuck you sweet. Later I won’t be so easy on ya.”

“I ain’t beat, Faggerman.”

“Look beat to me, punk.”

My cock’s peering up now over my waistband, looking eager.

Dan thrashes and lunges up, grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head hard against the coffee table. I slip off him, and he slaps me across the face. Grabs my cock in his left fist and twists. I howl.

He leans in close to my face: “Still feelin sexy, gayboy?”

Oh, shit, I forget to mention—Dan’s straight, sort of. Not really a homophobe, but he likes to imitate one when we fight. Our usual deal is, he wins, I suck him off; I win, I ride to Hershey town. For me it’s win-win, but I can’t say what it is for Dan. Mostly, for both of us, the thrills are in the rumble.

And while I cringe in agony, hard-on snapping in my best friend’s grip, I may as well fill you in on some more background information I failed to bring up earlier. Namely, about two months ago Dan became friends with a straight surfer guy—a real homophobe this one, who could not get his head around how Dan and I could be such tight, affectionate buds, what with our different ideas on where to park our cocks. Dan really liked the guy, Christian, his name was, but obviously it was hard on him having two best friends who basically hated each other’s guts.

So, on my own, mentioning nothing to Dan, I found this bar where Christian and his fellow surfers hung out, and one night I followed Christian out to his car, explained the situation, sorta opened up to him about Dan’s dilemma and the painful situation for all of us, owing to Christian’s irrational prejudice, and proceeded to kick the living shit out of him, right there in the parking lot. Dan hasn’t seen Christian since, but he, knowing me as he does, has got to suspect something.

Anyway, back to the present, Dan’s boozy breath is hitting me in the face, and I’m folded up in pain, while he tugs at my pipe.

I roll into him, and we both tumble clear of the coffee table and other furnishings. Dan releases his hold, and we squat there, hunched over, glaring at each other’s eyes, in the clearing between the bar and the entryway to the kitchen.

Dan holds out both his hands, fingers splayed, for a test of strength. I lock my hands to his, and we push in, knee to knee. Pain’s still shooting through my sore groin, and my ears still hum after the late ordeal. Tests of strength usually mark the half-times of our brawls. Dan usually wins these things, which is why he usually initiates them.

I stretch my arms to get leverage, but Dan has about a half-inch advantage on me in grasp. Our foreheads butt together. Our biceps and back muscles flex. Our arms descend to stretch out horizontally, our sweaty chests press together, Dan’s face contorts, a pinched frown, as he concentrates on pushing my arms back. I feel the strain on my triceps and elbows. Dan shoves, and I lose my balance, my knees unbend, and he’s got my back on the floor.

He struggles to get up on my chest. I wrap my legs around his waist and try to pull him down. We’re both slick with sweat, no traction.

“Guess I should have phoned my girlfriend if I wanted some real competition.”

My head’s throbbing. I try to twist to shift Dan’s body off me, but he stays put, driving his weight down on me. Our bodies slide on the bare terrazzo floor. He arches his pelvis, clinched in my thighs, and shoves down—splat!—against the floor. He repeats the squashing thrust two more times, knocking a bit more wind out of me each time.

He grinds my knuckles to the hard mortar. His wet hair hangs limp across his forehead, dripping sweat in my eyes.

“Maybe I’m too tough for you, Ackerman. I’m no pushover like Christian.”

So, he knows.

“You beat my new friend up, old friend. Now he won’t even speak to me. I think the time has come for some payback.”

I squirm, trying to free myself, but he jams his forearm against the bridge of my nose and drives the back of my skull, hard, against the floor.

I unlock my legs and roll partly free of him, but he yanks me back by the hair and delivers a clear, heartfelt punch to my nose.

Now we’re both bleeding from the nose and mouth. And gleaming with sweat, and radiating fierce, animal heat. And once again we blindly exchange blows to the face.

I struggle up to my feet, but Dan latches on and pulls himself up with me.

He grips the back of my thigh and throws me down against a small side table, which smashes under our combined weight.

“Son of fucking bitch, Dan,” I’m gasping, breathless. “I’ve had it.” I try to push him off me.

He slugs me across the jaw.

“Not till I totally fuck you up, faggot.”

I roll over and once again try to get up on my feet. Dan grabs the back of my jockstrap and pulls me backward on and over his body. Gets up on his knees and tugs the strap down my legs and off. I get up on all fours, but he kicks my legs out from under me. Pulls down his silvery briefs, and his red cock springs loose, bobbing like an eager retriever.

“Let’s try something new,” he says.

He drops his elbow against my shoulder blades, and I collapse facedown to the floor. I thrust out my legs, kicking at his knees with my feet. I connect and hear the painful pop of his joints. I roll over and lock his head under my left arm. I pull his body down to the floor.

I let my wrist press against his throat in a punishing choke. He shoves his hands against my face. I loosen my hold, and he slides up my body. Our hard cocks cross as we grapple for top position.

Dan grabs my left arm and bends it behind my head. Pulls me up to my knees and slams me back down to the floor.

He locks both fists over his head and smashes them against the small of my back. I howl in pain. Spits into the palm of his right hand and rubs it between my butt cheeks.

“No, please, no,” I plead.

He dips his pulsing glans, glistening with pre-cum, into me. “Relax,” he says. “This will be good for both of us.”

His rod glides easily into me. “Damn, Ackmerman, you feel sweet inside.” I groan in pleasurable agony.

He reaches around and squeezes my hard nipples. His wet abs slap against the small of my back. Our balls clap together in rhythm.

He shoots, and it’s like his splooge fires all the way up to my lungs.

He pushes his face against the back of my neck, lapping up the droplets of sweat behind my ears.

He whispers: “You are my bitch, Ackerman. Nobody will ever be a bigger bitch to me. Yours is the face I will always want to punch. Yours. Yours is the ass I will always want to own. Fighting you makes me strong. We make each other better men, and we gain our strength in each other in combat. Nobody, man or woman, can stand between. Our rage is our desire. We are fierce, merciless, cruel, true equals. Only you understand my passion and my drive. Only you have the strength and nerve to stand up to me. My brother, Ackerman. You’re my brother.”

He grips the back of my hand in his hand and clinches it tight into his.

“When we are eighty … old men, Ackerman … living on our social security” he says, still in a whisper, “I will still beat the shit out of you.”

Thursday, December 11, 2008


Back in the eighties Brandon and I hooked up at a basement bar in Savannah.

I was traveling through from Jacksonville to Atlanta, late autumn. The memory of fried clams at the Olde Pink House lured me off 95, and a good scotch sounded pretty great, too, right about then.

Brandon was at the Planters Tavern downstairs, and we struck up a conversation, which led to his place on Jones Street. Wrestling trophies and some framed team photos sparked a conversation about our university days—his in South Carolina and mine in Rhode Island. We tried out a few holds, grappled a little on the floor, and had hot, heaving sex in his bedroom.

We saw each other three or four times in the following year—once at my place in Atlanta, the rest of the times at his in Savannah. Then we lost touch.

We had our separate lives—his in city politics, mine in fashion photography—and without actually forgetting about him, I kind of disappeared off his schedule and he disappeared off mine, having never really been more than casual fuck buddies who happened to share a fondness for wrestling for top.

Then a couple of months ago I got a Facebook request from Brandon, asking whether I was the same first name/last name he had known decades earlier. I was teaching art in Durham now; he had a horse farm outside Augusta, semi-retired. In a matter of days we were caught up with each other’s histories and planning a weekend at my place—a veterans’ tourney, he called it.

First thing, as he steps out of his Jeep, I am struck with is how handsome he still is. Sure, he’s lost some hair, but high cheekbones and a hawk-like nose retain the brute handsomeness that caught my eye 25 years ago. He looks damned fit, too. We eye each other and chuckle. I mix us a couple of Friday afternoon screwdrivers, and we sprawl on the sofa to watch an Old Reliable wrestling vid on VHS.

I laid out some mats in the spare room off from my home theater. We strip down, stretch, and compliment each other’s physiques. Brandon wears yellow-gold fight trunks, and I wear a bright red Speedo. As in the old days, Brandon launches into some trash talk to get the juices flowing.

“I guess I better knock some of that rust off your pecker, son,” he says. “May have to bust you up some too.”

We circle each other on the mats, then he lunges into me, throwing me off balance. I am able to spin over to land on top of him, but he powers loose and reverses, riding my back and raking his forearm across the bridge of my nose.

I buck him off me, and we spring to our feet, agile and strong, as if the years between now and back when have melted away. Sensing that we are tough enough to take it and dish it out, we throw ourselves more aggressively into the fight. We lock up catch style, pulling and shoving to throw the other guy off balance.

“Son, I’m about to fuck you up and down,” he drawls, with considerable charm, truth be told.

Brandon stands about two inches taller, but we match in weight and experience. His short brown hair is graying, but the fur on his chest and belly is dark. The gold shorts show off the firm curve of his butt and the contours of his circumcised cock. He’s not massive, never was, but his pecs are hard and flat, punctuated by small, erect nipples. He’s got a soft gut, like me, but a round and well-defined navel. His shoulders and back look broader than they were back in the Reagan years. His arms are sinewy and freckled, hairy from wrist to elbow. They move with liquid grace, flashing, when loose, like nunchuku.

Our arms grip, tug, and squeeze tentatively, groping for leverage, an open, unprotected spot, and a weakness to exploit. Maybe he remembers how vulnerable I am to sexual attacks: get me hard and my strength shrinks down to my balls—a cinch to overpower, strip, and possess. He can be attacked in the knees, or used to; a little leg torture could make him tap out in a matter of seconds.

I rush him and grab his waist, heave him up on my shoulder, drop him under me to the mat. He grunts as he hits the mat on his back.

I try to lock my legs on him, but he bucks free twice. I slap his face to taunt him. He crooks his arms up protectively, but I manage to slip past and deliver some resounding smacks anyway, a little harder than “playful” calls for.

He thrashes wildly to escape, but I manage to mount him, my balls pressed hard against his lower belly. I feel his cock stiffen at the small of my back. I grab his wrists and pin them to the mat on either side of his head. Wedge my heels into his hips and use them to bounce him up so I can smack him back down under my full weight. I drive his body down like this maybe four times, each blow pushing the wind out of him. He gasps.

I ride him, but his cock nudges against me, and I start to get hard too.

I grind him against the mat. He tries to squirm loose, and I use this effort to flip him over on his chest and apply a full nelson. I’ve got him now. Fists behind his head, I press his face down, smashing his nose and mouth into the blue polyfoam. My cock like a pistol to his back.

I hunch up on my knees, leaning into him, shoving his face harder to the mat, rocking forward to add to the humiliation and torment. He groans, more like a low growl.

I shove his face down again to gain some space to shift to a figure-four hold, attack his defenseless legs. His left calf behind his right knee, his right leg crooked on top of the left. I lie on my left side next to him, my left arm gripping him in a half nelson now, his face still smashed to the mat, my right leg riding his right. His right fist pounds the mat. Derisively, I backhand the base of his skull. My cock stiff against his shorts. His writhing and bucking massaging its veiny contours.

I relax the hold and shove his face back to the mat as I push myself up to my feet. He lies there, sweating, gasping for air, gathering his strength.

Just as he starts to push himself up, I drop down on the small of his back with my elbow. I roll over and jump to my feet, wait till he pushes up to all fours again, and slam back down on his back. He howls, tries to push back up, and I repeat the punishment.

I straddle his hips and squat down on his ass, bend his legs up under my pits in a Boston crab. His ankles twist over my hard quadriceps, and I lean back to stretch his torso. He groans.

“Submit,” I tell him, but he says, “Fuck no, shithead.” I snap him further back and then drop him.

He writhes under me, and I peel the gold shorts off his ass. Wrap them around his ankles and pull him back to the center of the mat. Then toss the glittering Lycra to the corner.

He paws the mat, struggling to get up. I jam my forearm up to his adam’s apple and pressure the carotid artery. Pull the back of his head against my breastbone. He claws at my elbows and bucks up against me. My biceps bulge at his neck. I look down at the veins swelling on his forehead. His sweat turns cold, and the struggling is now slow motion.

I let him go and push him down to his elbows. I spank his ass, leaving pink fingerprints against the firm white flesh. Experimentally I poke my right index finger into his anus, and it grasps the finger tight. I massage the moist interior in a circular motion, and he relaxes, permitting two, then three fingers to invade. His stiff cock slaps against his belly.

My left hand pushes his head down, as I pull my fingers free and flip him over to his back.

I shed my Speedo and hop on him, grinding my sweaty body down on his. I smother him, driving myself down on him in punishing thrusts. The smacking of flesh on flesh fills the gaps between our groaning. Our bodies writhe and flash. He pinches my nipples, and I grip his hands in mine.

He arches his back and prods my ass with his upright rod. He thrusts his pelvis up, and he enters me, momentarily, and then his muscular legs entwine mine and pull me down to him. I struggle to break free, but I lose my balance and his cock penetrates the darkness of my anus. His strong legs immobilizing me. The hot surge of desire incapacitating me. I collapse with my full weight to his chest, but too late.

He grabs the hair at the base of my skull and yanks my face towards his. His five-o’clock shadow scrapes my cheek. I taste the vodka and tobacco on his mouth. His cock drives harder into me, and he works his tongue into my mouth. His mouth is hard. It feels like I’m kissing a marble statue. Rhythmically, ridiculously, I break wind against his repeated stabbing.

My muscles go slack, and he works me like a marionette, licking my face, rolling me on my back, still impaled on good ten inches of tenacious cock, my legs straddling his taut freckled shoulders. He sucks at my nipples, while pulling my head back by my hair. My shoulders pinned to the mat—his cock pinning me to himself.

He shoots, and I feel his hot jizz fill me up.

He pulls himself out. He lifts me up to my knees, wraps his arms around me, and pushes his fingers into my loose and well-lubricated ass. My cock flops lazily against his, and he resumes sucking and licking my tit. His left hand massages the glans and veins of my cock. I am about to burst.

Then he stops. Every nerve in my body flashing, and he stops. He pulls himself away and hovers just inches from physical contact.

Then he wraps his legs around my waist from behind and rolls me on top of his chest. His feet prod my thighs apart, and he stretches me out. Grabs a fistful of my hair and wrenches my head painfully to his shoulder. Our hearts pounding, my torso and legs stretched out to their limits, sweat glimmering over every inch of us, I submit … totally, helplessly.

He chuckles with self-satisfaction and releases me. I collapse on my back like I’m made of rags.

Then he squats down on my face, his ballsack smothering me, and bends down and takes my cock in his mouth.

I cum, shivers shooting through both our bodies at once.


We rub off on each other—brainy as
chess, strenuous as sex—fingers locked in
to fingers, integrating groans and sweat.

Both wanting to dominate, to master
the other, to exert and exhaust, ride
the other man’s vigor like a bronco.

Heave and slide and grasp, stiffen and flex and
press, force towards force, tightening the knot of
flesh and pounding blood, bend and strain and grip.

We breathe more freely, inhaling the salt,
the musty heat radiating from skin
and Lycra and nylon, slippery cuts.

Man pins other man to the ground, exerts
the right to punish, command, and possess.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...