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.”


  1. Great wrestle/fight story. Loved the line describing action looking like an atom diagram or tornado of fists, stars and Popeye boots. I can see it now.

    1. Glad you liked the story, Jason. You must be working all alone back here in the musty archives section of the blog. I'm glad the stories are getting another reader at last.



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