As Chris kneeled, holding his balls, JJ spun, ramming a knee to the side of Chris’s skull. Chris was knocked sideways into the gravel, cutting his arm and shoulder badly. As Chris strained to push himself up, a kick in the ass sent him tumbling, slamming into the dumpster.
Chris’s world spun wildly around him as he clamored on his hands and knees, trying to figure which way was up. He saw John John approach and drove his fist into his belly. JJ doubled over groaning as Chris fell back to the gravel. Chris held onto the side of the greasy dumpster, trying to pull himself to his feet. He opened the sliding side door. The smell nearly made Chris heave again as the odor of rotten food and stale beer hit him.
Chris was bent over with his hands on his knees, struggling to keep from vomiting again as JJ pulled himself to standing. JJ grabbed Chris by the head, and the two young studs battled to slam the other into the filthy metal container.
Chris braced himself with his left hand on the dumpster as his right hand held JJ by the hair. JJ jerked Chris’s arm, causing him to fall against the dumpster, his left arm falling through the open door. JJ grabbed Chris’s left arm, slamming it down to the metal edge. Chris howled as his arm went numb with pain. JJ shoved Chris’s head into the opening and then pulled the sliding door closed, slamming Chris’s head in the gap.
JJ slipped on the gravel, crashing to the ground, as Chris hung caught in the doorway. Chris struggled to free himself, finally pulling his head free, only to drop backwards, slamming down on the gravel next to John John.
Both men, lying side by side, on the gravel bore on their bodies the record of every blow dealt in the fight. Their minds, though, were relatively clean of memory—and they were both drunk enough that, though keenly felt at the moment of impact, the pain was not sustained for long … not, at least, until they woke up tomorrow.
Chris barely managed to get his arm up so he could reach out and put his hand on John John’s shoulder.
“Good fight,” he mumbled. “The best.”
“Good fight,” JJ muttered in reply.
Both guys were halfway smiling, blood coating their teeth like sticky jam.
Chris concentrated on breathing, looking up at the stars, getting his bearings back. JJ rolled painfully to his side and placed the palm of his hands flat on Chris’s bruised chest. It then slid down to Chris’s abs, the fingers tracing squiggles through the blood and sweat.
Is this what I think it is? Chris wondered to himself.
JJ’s hand slipped under the elastic of Chris’s Batman briefs. At first it caressed the curlicues of Chris’s dark auburn pubes. Chris sighed and pushed himself up to John John’s hand. His cock was getting stiffer. Then, without warning, JJ gripped and twisted Chris’s balls and dick. Chris screamed out in panic and pain. JJ pulled himself up to his knees, scooped Chris up by his crotch and his head. In wobbly jerks, like a power weightlifter hefting his limit—JJ rose to his feet. Chris’s body shivered; tears welled up in his eyes. JJ hurled Chris into the open mouth of the dumpster and slammed the door shut behind him.
Face down in some brown lettuce leaves and cold leftover chili, Chris heaved up what was left of his dinner of nachos and beer. Chris’s metallic drumming shivered through his bones. Then the noise stopped—and he heard JJ’s voice, his mouth right next to a crack in the sliding door: “Excellent fight, my friend. If you ever want to party some more, you can always reach me on Faceoff. Oh, and by the way, bud, I’m leaving your number on the windshields of the vehicles we just busted up. Be sure and call your insurance company in the morning ….”
Chris groaned. John John’s crazy, drunken laughter faded into the newly breaking dawn. Chris inhaled the stench of his makeshift bedding and dropped off into a dead faint.
(End of story)