True story: I met Jonny Firestorm for the first time. This was yesterday evening. Kid Leopard introduces me to everybody, explaining that I write a wrestling blog. Jonny corrects him, saying, "He writes the wrestling blog. Capital T-H-E." I feel flattered, but I try to be humble. Then Jonny says he's met me before. I say we haven't met until just now. Then the Kid reminds him that he's met Bard of neverland. Jonny thought I was Bard. Now I don't write T-H-E blog. ("Foot in mouth," as Jonny tells me later. If it makes Bard feel any better about this case of mistaken identity, I was standing in the shadows when we were introduced.) Jonny brightens when I tell him we have a friend in common - the often-mentioned Jim in Tennessee. Funny thing is that all these guys I'm meeting this past week - Jonny, Kid Leopard, Brad Rochelle, Kid Vicious - I feel like I already know them - and if they follow the blog, they feel like they know me.
Nine or ten minutes earlier, I was in my hotel room, skimming through the thousand or so stations on the TV mounted on the wall, happy that for years I haven't been paying for TV cable at home. I get a text from Kid Leopard, inviting me to come watch them shoot a match with Kirk Donahue and new hire Tiko. I say yes, of course. Seven minutes later, I'm saying hi to Brute Baynard in the parking area as if I know him and he should know me. He tells me KL is waiting for me inside. Inside, I meet and greet a few of the young guys - the "boy band" as I've called them - Ty Alexander, Kayden Keller, and so forth. I meet Kirk and Tiko, both sexy in their tiny trunks. The Kid and Jonny direct them off to one side, in preparation for shooting the video. Then shooting starts, and I'm being quiet, out of the way, observant.
It's an important match, character-defining for both Kirk and Tiko. I don't feel like I'm at liberty to say more than that. I probably shouldn't say that as they wrestle each other - experienced jobber vs jobber in training - I am secretly lusting after Kirk, especially as his body begins to shine with sweat, especially as I see the well-defined outline of his domed buttocks, almost as recognizable to me as his face. I figure I was forty or almost forty when he was born. There are breaks in the shooting. Then the wrestlers take their former positions and the match-story resumes. Continuity will be taken care of in the editing process. Kirk tells me later that they improvise their banter, based on a fairly broad and evidently flexible story line that evolves as I'm watching. He says he says the kind of stuff he hears the other wrestlers say. The story is carefully crafted to accommodate the two wrestlers' strong points - and, as I said before, their character arcs.
The night before, Thursday, I saw them in the ring before a live audience, Kirk vs Trevor Read, Tiko vs Ace Aarons - a fantastic show, as I said yesterday. A few of you have asked, so I asked, and, yes, the show was videotaped, so there's a good chance you BGE fans will be able to see what I saw. What you won't be able to see is what happened after the show. I'm writing this here so I don't forget it. I want to remember that the month before I turn 65 this happened to me. It's really none of your business - and if you respect my privacy - and there's no reason you should, since I'm writing this on a public site - you would stop reading now. The after-show party was at Johnsons, a stripper club across the street from the event venue. I get drunk on gin-and-tonic, repeated who knows how many times. Shitfaced drunk. The strippers - pretty much every one of them - are drop-dead gorgeous - well-built, handsome, friendly. I'm chatting with two guys who also attended the show. They tell me they read my blog (not T-H-E blog), and we're talking about wrestling. How I got from chatting with my new friends and into a small backroom with a stripper from Argentina is a bit fuzzy.
This happened. I'm mesmerized by the guy's pecs and perfect navel, his firm round buns. He's in a G-string. The room is about 7x7, not a lot of space, and he starts wrestling me on top of something like a psychoanalyst's couch. More like a combination of wrestling and body worship (that would be me worshiping his body, not the other way around). I wonder how he knows I'd like to wrestle him. Then I remember I'm wearing a wrestling T-shirt. Mystery solved. He's godlike. I'm an old satyr. In the face, he looks a little bit like Alex Waters at Rock Hard. His physique mostly resembles Cason's at Thunder's Arena. We're about the same height. Probably the same weight, though his pounds are much better assembled than mine. He knows his moves, and he manhandles me masterfully - a perfect balance of pain and cuddling. He knows his holds and roughs me up like a pro - scissors, arm bars (they really do hurt), schoolboy pins, cross body presses, boner squeezing. Oh so much better than a massage. I keep the battle going by tossing him twenty-dollar bills. His bulge convinces me that we're both getting something out of this - besides the money and besides, for me, a flashback to my golden youth.
I run out of money and go back to my hotel. But we wrestled for a good 30 minutes, at least. I fall asleep on top of the covers, fully dressed. I wake up to discover my body is covered in bruises and that stripper smell I have never identified. I love my bruises. I'm looking at them now. Though I washed off the perfume scent in the shower, I have a vivid memory of it. I'm lucky because I have many wonderful memories of the 25 years since I turned 40, but this one encounter is by far the best. Something I never expected to experience again in life - not at my age - and yet it just happened, suddenly, almost by accident. And I have a T-shirt and a small stack of twenties to thank for it. My character arc.