You have your man down on the mat, your arm around his head, your country ham of a bicep smashing his sweaty neck. The man squirms, resisting, kicking his boots in the air and slamming them on the canvas-covered plywood. You feel the damp heat rising off this guy like a Louisiana swamp in July. Then, with a sudden surge of resolve, he rolls you over on your shoulders, pinning you for one half of a second, but you right the situation and put him back where you want him. Under you. Your heart beats faster, knowing the man's got some fight in him, and you tighten your hold, just enough to make him grunt. Ah, satisfying, that sound! The power and dominance. Right now his chest has got a fairly clear idea of how much you weigh and his neck knows well how solid that upper arm of yours is. Still the guy thrashes and struggles, and you need to put an end to that. So you get up on your feet, hauling him up groaning with you. On his feet he's plotting escape, and he tries to pull his wet, stringy-haired head out of your armpit. The sorry SOB reaches up and grabs a fistful of your hair to pull. A neat toss and a body slam put everything back in perspective. For him and for you. Sweat streaks off your pecs and smacks him in the eyeballs as his butt reacquaints itself with the mat, where it belongs, where it's going to stay until you choke him out or else until the dirty so-and-so figures out a way to wriggle loose.