Boy Meets Boy
A year ago, a buddy I was writing combat stories with via e-mail said I wrote about fights like they were porn. Lately, I've noticed a tendency to write about them like they were paperback romances, with the characters, all flawless specimens of physical perfection, ripping singlets and briefs instead of bodices. What can I say? Purple prose comes easily to me. To prove my point, here's what I just sent off to my pal Heath (with some minor changes), the most recent installment of a tale we've been amusing ourselves with over the holidays, the simple tale of boy meets boy, boy challenges boy to a private basement match, and boy strips the cottons off boy in the frenzy of the moment.
Ryan was pissed, but it was a sort of pissed that pumped him up. His feelings towards Taylor weren’t murderous. He wanted to hurt him, sure, but only because hurting him would show Taylor who’s still the boss. Recovering now from Taylor’s ball-smashing hip thrusts, Ryan’s cock firmed up and thickened. Ryan had a deep need to be the boss of Taylor, now more than ever before, now that Taylor had proved himself a man—and a studly man at that.
His hard cock was practically numb, but his balls ached. The naked cock weighed heavy in front of him, burning for something to smash into. The balls throbbed like warning lights flashing on and off. The pressure was almost painful when he saw the size of Taylor’s fat hard-on slipping through the dark blue shreds of his bikini. Just the sight of Taylor’s glimmering wet body, sweat rolling over and around the smooth coils of muscle, charged Ryan up with a force that rolled through his sinews like thunder.
Ryan rushed in and grabbed Taylor’s head roughly in his arm and tossed him in a high arch before smashing his back down to the mat. Taylor’s heels smashed the low basement ceiling, but the real hurt came when, flat on his back, he felt the force of Ryan’s elbow on his ribs. Ryan then kneeled, one knee on the mat, the other knee on Taylor’s stomach, and shot five right jabs to Taylor’s mouth in rapid succession.
Taylor tasted metal—no, it was blood—on the inside of his lower lip. His ears were ringing—and the fight had just entered that weird phase where everything happens super fast but feels like slow motion.
“Taking it too easy on you? Want more? Want more?” Ryan’s voice rose to a frenzied pitch. He was feeling the rhythm of combat in his bones. Aggression rolled in waves through his veins. His mind was white-hot with adrenalin.
It took a few seconds for Taylor to realize the tide had turned. He was on defense now. He’d taken five hard hits before he got his fists high enough to block another three and land a solid left on Ryan’s nose, which burst like a water balloon, splattering blood on both fighters’ chests.
The pain and loss of blood did not slow Ryan down, though. He grabbed Taylor by the hair and smashed his head to the mat. Working on well-trained responses, Taylor wrapped his powerful thighs round Ryan’s waist and squeezed. The pressure was immediate and intense, full force, and the hold made Ryan gasp. He tried to punch his way out of this fix, aiming for the sides of Taylor’s head, his temples and his jawline.
Taylor started to roll Ryan over to his side, but the older boy’s knees were widely planted on the mat. In fact, Ryan had the leverage to lift Taylor’s body entirely off the mat and smash it down, using his body weight as a bludgeon, and he did this several times, effectively weakening Taylor’s hold on his waist, even if only slightly. Ryan’s soaked naked body, bright orange-pink in the yellow overhead lights, bore down on Taylor like an iron maul.