Jacobs vs. Weaver: The Second Fall, in which the men really rough each other up.


Jacobs rings the bell, and it echoes from the rafters to the dark dressing rooms of the old gym.

The wrestlers circle the center of the ring, pause, and lock up.

Weaver quickly pulls Jacobs into a side headlock.

"Ahhh," Jacobs grunts. He puts his right arm around Weaver's waist.

Weaver feels the heat of Jacobs's hand on his naked flesh. He cinches the headlock tighter, crushing Jacobs's head between his forearm and bicep and his chest. He bends at his knees and rises slowly, grinding the headlock.

"Oohh," Jacobs cries through gritted teeth. His right hand spasm‑grips Weaver's lovehandles, his left hand rises into the air, pleading.

Weaver smiles and cinches the hold tighter still.

Jacobs moves his right hand to Weaver's right shoulder and presses his left against Weaver's belly.

Weaver smiles again at these pleading touches, cinches the headlock tighter, and then flips Jacobs across his hip to the mat, coming down hard on top of him and still maintaining the hold.

"Uhh," Jacobs grunts as part of his wind is lost.

Weaver lies with his naked side against Jacobs's pecs. Again, with all the weight of his torso on Jacobs's chest, he grinds the headlock tighter. He leans in close and can see the shining moisture in Jacobs's eyes, the gleam of sweat popping out on his forehead.

Jacobs grabs Weaver's wrist and with a muffled grunt, pulls on it.

But Weaver holds on and continues to squeeze Jacobs's head.

"Ohhh," Jacobs gasps. He puts his left hand to Weaver's chin and pushes. He gets his right hand across Weaver's bicep and pushes the chin with it too.

"Umph." The sound escapes through Weaver's nose as Jacobs pushes hard. Weaver begins to lose the powerful leverage he had on the hold as his head goes back. The headlock finally slips until he has it locked only by the tips of his fingers.

Jacobs slides his sweaty head out and rolls away.

Weaver rises to his knees and slaps the mat with both hands. He watches Jacobs get to his feet and shake his head. He wipes the sweat from his face and stands up.

They lock up again, but this time it is Jacobs who takes the quick hold, slipping behind Weaver and applying a full nelson.

"Aahh," Weaver yells, his eyes slammed shut and his chin being forced down onto his chest as Jacobs stretches out his neck. "Damn!" he says through gritted teeth.

Jacobs leans his chest against Weaver's back, his forehead against Weaver's left shoulder.

Weaver strains to pull his arms down in an attempt to break the hold.

"Oh, my neck!" he grunts, still pulling against Jacobs's full nelson. He feels Jacobs's laced fingers at the back of his neck, feels them slip a fraction. He pushes his hips forward and then thrusts his naked rump backward into Jacobs's round belly.

Jacobs loses the hold and backs away.

Both wrestlers are sweating heavily in the midnight heat of the old gym. Both are breathing hard, their bellies ballooning and then shrinking rapidly.

They lock up again and sweat flies in the amberwhite light. They feel each other out, pushing and pulling, looking for leverage. Jacobs's hands slip a little in the sweat on Weaver's body, and Weaver yanks him back into the side headlock.

"Nooo," Jacobs moans as Weaver cinches the headlock tight. "Not again."

But this time Jacobs moves quickly to free himself from the vise‑like hold. He maneuvers his bent body in close to Weaver's and drops his right hand to the outside of Weaver's right thigh.
Then he threads his left hand between Weaver's legs. His hands lock on Weaver's thigh, his left wrist is against Weaver's dangling basket, his shoulder is pressed against the top of Weaver's naked buttocks.

Weaver is leaning back, working Jacobs's neck muscles when he feels his bare feet leave the mat.

"Whaa?" he gasps in surprise, just as Jacobs, with great effort, continues to lift him and falls back in a suplex.

"Ooohh," Weaver says as he squirms on the mat with his hands to the back of his head.

Jacobs rolls quickly back to his feet, slapping his pecs and waiting. But waiting only for a moment.

Weaver rolls slowly to his side and gets up to his knees.

Jacobs moves behind him, and his fingers pinch deep into the muscles at the meeting of Weaver's neck and shoulder.

"Aahhh," Weaver screams, his hands flying up in the air, his face folding into a sweaty red grimace of pain.

Jacobs lifts his face toward the light, which shines on his sweat‑wet face and his bared and gritted teeth. His biceps and forearms bulge as he squeezes Weaver's muscle, digging the hold
deeper and pushing down with the grip.

"Ohh," Weaver groans and falls to his knees. His hands clench and unclench in the air. He is almost sobbing from the pain.

Jacobs stands over him now, dominating. He shakes his head and the sweat flies. He bears down hard with strength and weight.

"Ahhhhh! Please, Jacobs!" Weaver cries. His eyes open for a second and then squeeze shut again. His hands are clasped in the air in front of his face. In supplication.

"Do you wanna give?" Jacobs says through the strain of the pressure he is focusing on Weaver's shoulder.

"No!" Weaver shouts and with an impulse of panic, rises to one knee.

"Didn't think so," Jacobs says and squeezes the hold tighter, leaning even more of his weight into it now that Weaver is up on one knee. Then he feels the first sign of cramping in his fingers.

Weaver feels the weight behind the hold increase, but he senses a weakening in the hold itself. He pushes up suddenly, almost standing, and plants his left elbow in Jacobs's abs.

"Ooooff." The sound explodes from Jacobs as he releases the hold and backs away bent over. He rests his hands on his thigh to recapture his wind and then shakes the cramps out of his fingers.

Weaver rises to his feet, his neck stinging, but he doesn't wait for Jacobs. With Jacobs still bent over and trying to catch his breath, Weaver moves in on him and takes him in a front facelock. He feels the sweat of Jacobs's head between his left arm and side. He leans his belly over Jacobs's shoulders, still holding the facelock and easing his weight down onto Jacobs's broad
back. He pulls the hold tight.

"Aahh." Jacobs drops to one knee, Weaver standing over him, standing in front of him. Jacobs's neck aches as the pain from the two previous headlocks returns. He feels Weaver's weight still
leaning heavily down on his shoulder.

Then suddenly the weight is gone. The hold is gone. Weaver is gone.

Jacobs is on his knees in the ring, blinking at the darkness outside the ring. Then he sees the Weaver's left arm snaking down over his chin and up the right side of his face. He feels the
powerful reverse chinlock being cinched tight, feels Weaver's weight now from behind.

"Uugh," he grunts and his hands rise into the air, pleading.

Weaver leans into him, cinching the chinlock tight and putting pressure on Jacobs's back with his weight.

Jacobs reaches back and grabs the nape of Weaver's neck with both hands.

Weaver tries to shake him off.

Jacobs rises partway to his feet, moves his hand to the back of Weaver's head and Weaver's chin to the top of his. He drops quickly to both knees, jarring Weaver's jaw and teeth on the top of
his head.

Weaver's howl of pain sounds more like a gurgle as he clamps his hands over his mouth and stumbles across the ring.

Jacobs stumbles forward and then steadies himself on his feet.

Both wrestlers are tired and weaving, soaked with sweat from hair to bare feet, breathing hard. Weaver holds onto the ropes, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. Jacobs stands a few
feet away, rubbing his neck. They eye each other for a moment then simultaneously grin and extend their right hands and shake.

They circle, slowly and warily, tiredly. Then they lock up and the sweat flies in all directions as they jerk each other, struggling for leverage.

Jacobs begins to reach around Weaver's shoulder and moves in a bit too close.

Weaver pulls him into the third side headlock of the match.

"Nooo!" Jacobs screams, his left hand to the side of his neck.

Weaver bends into the hold, every moment cinching it tighter around Jacobs's head.

Jacobs reaches both hands around Weaver's waist and holds on tightly against the pain in his neck and ears.

"Ahhhh," Jacobs yells and begins desperately to push Weaver toward the ropes.

Weaver's side touches the ropes. He feels Jacobs leaning heavily into him, his breath lifting his shoulders up and down. Weaver releases the hold and raises his hands.

Jacobs straightens up and slowly backs away.

But Weaver jumps, returning to the headlock.

"Ahhh," Jacobs cries, a whimper of frustration.

Weaver works the headlock up and down on Jacobs's red ears.

Jacobs grabs Weaver's wrists, twists his body, and pushes up into a top wristlock.

"Ummppht," Weaver grunts, straining against his opponent and friend. He spreads his legs for balance.

The wrestlers arms are over their heads. Sweat pours into their eyes and down their arms and armpits and sides. They are almost face to face, their arms locked together, muscle against
muscle.

But after an attack made up completely of various arm‑oriented holds, Weaver weakens first. Jacobs's strength forces him to stumble back, but he awkwardly pulls Jacobs with him into a clumsy arm drag.

Jacobs pulls against it, but Weaver's weight is in free fall now, and he goes over with him to the mat, flipping over Weaver's hip and landing hard on the flat of his back.

Weaver is quickly to his feet. He grabs Jacobs's red ears and lifts him to sitting.

"Aahh," Jacobs screams.

Weaver moves his right hand to the top of Jacobs's head and his left cups Jacobs's chin. He throws his right leg over Jacobs's right shoulder and falls back into a straight head scissors from
behind.

"Aahhhh," Jacobs cries.

Weaver leans back on his hands and cinches the scissors tight.

"Ooohh noooo," Jacobs yells through gritted teeth, his face already reddening. He pulls frantically at the thighs squeezing his head.

Weaver plants his right heel into Jacobs's fleshy belly, and, leaning back on his hands, lifts his buttocks off the mat. His jaw clamps shut and he cinches the scissors tighter.

"Uuhhhhh," Jacobs grunts. His hands fly off Weaver's thighs and into the air as Weaver cinches the scissors again. "Ohhh, Weaver! Please!"

Weaver knows this will eventually be it if he handles himself and his opponent right. He looks down and sees his erection blooming from behind Jacobs's head. He feels Jacobs's short hair
scratching at the blood‑tightened skin.

His thighs tighten to stone, and he breathes hard through clenched teeth.

Jacobs grabs Weaver's ankles and pulls as hard as he can, but his arms are weak from trying to escape the headlocks, from own his full nelson, suplex, and extended nerve pinch.

Weaver's legs are practically fresh, and the ankles do not budge.

Jacobs tries to roll over.

"Uuughh." He grunts with the effort.

Weaver feels the pressure to roll with him, but he is desperate to maintain this hold. He cinches the scissors tighter yet.

"Ohhh, Weaver, nooooo!" Jacobs wheezes.

Weaver thumps a heel hard into Jacobs's heaving belly to stop his attempt to roll. Again the scissors tightens.

Jacobs stamps his heels repeatedly on the mat. He slaps Weaver's thighs frantically.

His own erection jolts from side to side.

Weaver leans back on his right hand, and places his left hand on top of Jacobs's sweaty head as more leverage to prevent another attempt to roll‑‑and for another reason.

Jacobs feels light‑headed, but he feels the hardness of Weaver's basket at the back of his head.

Weaver squeezes again, slowly and steadily building the pressure on the sides of Jacobs's head.

"Ooooohhhhhhhhhhh!" Jacobs howls in a raspy voice.

With his fingers locked in Jacobs's hair to hold his head in place, Weaver gives one hard quick squeeze to the straight head scissors to divert Jacobs's attention while he makes the split‑
second switch to a figure‑4 head scissors.

"Please!" Jacobs cries.

Weaver, breathing heavily but otherwise silent, leans to his right and begins bending his left leg, the hook leg, back under himself. The further he gets it under, the greater the pressure with which his right calf crushes into Jacobs's chin and jaw.

Jacobs knows he can't take much more.

"Please, Weaver," he sobs one last time, his voice muffled by the hold.

Weaver leans to the right again, moves his left hand from Jacobs's head grabs his own left ankle, and draws his hook leg even further back.

"Aaahhh!" Jacobs scream-mumbles with his last ounce of energy. His hands fly up in the air and shake. "I give! Weaver, I give!"

Weaver untangles the hold and falls back on the mat, exhausted.

Jacobs, his cheek pillowed against the inside of Weaver's right thigh, grabs his head.

"What a headache," he says.

Both wrestlers lie there under the ring light until the heavy breathing has stopped and the sweat is dried and the erections have subsided.

Back in the mid 1990s, when I first entered cyberspace and discovered wrestlers there, I did a good bit of cyberwrestling with various men and women on AOL. Luke, mentioned long ago on this blog, was my favorite. After I began meeting men and wrestling for real, I quit cyberwrestling, but before I used the text of those cybermatches with Luke to create a three-fall wrestling story. I named my characters Jacobs and Weaver, after two of my favorite wrestlers from back in the day. Although I don't remember clearly now, I think I must have posted these somewhere, after which they floated around the Internet. They might still be found in various places, but I know they're still advertised on www.wrestlemen.com.

What follows is the first fall:

The gym stands abandoned in the middle of a block of buildings built in the '20s, not far from what is now downtown Cyber City. Its brick face is pale with age, and the paint peels from the woodtrim around its one large front window and the glass door. "Blond Tiger Boxing" is painted in yellow on both the door and window, but the telephone number below it has been scraped off with a razor blade.

Inside, the cavernous main room, with its cold brick walls and concrete floor, echoes the thunder slap of flesh against flesh, the sharp breaths caught and released in grunts, the muffled rumble of
footwork and bodywork on the sweat-stained canvas that covers the wood floor of the ring.

Motes of dust ride the air and play in the nostrils, tickling. The close atmosphere is laden with the familiar smells of old sweat and old leather, the shrill fragrance of balms and salves for muscles, the yellow pungency of urine and the dull brown odor of spiders.

Darkness crowds ringside, shouldering its way into the brassy coronet of light that vibrates around the wrestle of wrestlers. The two are naked and beautiful. If not for the ring and the
building you might think yourself a month past some ancient summer solstice and come to Olympia for the Games.

That is what we know of how those people looked--starkly white and naked and beautiful.

No. You can see the truth.

These are not beautiful. They are not at all the pale and perfectly proportioned youths we see cut from Parian marble. They are men in their 40s, unevenly tanned, and clinically overweight. But their girth and age only adds a level of power and hard-won ability not seen in the contests between younger and smaller men. Their faces are not cool and impassive studies of effortless grace but are twisted and red and slavering.

In spite of this appearance, they are only beginning this submission-only contest. They have wrestled stop-and-go for half an hour already, warming up, each getting to know the feel, the
strength, the weakness of the other's body and mind tonight.

With smiles of recognition that the time has come to get serious and begin the match, the two break off and go to opposite corners. They stand with their backs to each other and wipe their
faces with towels and drink deeply from plastic bottles of water. Then they turn and face each other.

Jacobs is the younger of the two and slightly larger. His hair is light brown and short, and his eyes are a bright silver blue. He is less than an inch taller and barely five pounds heavier, but his upper body--his broad shoulders and back, his massive pectoral muscles, the paunch that is not flabby but tight as a drum--gives the impression that he the larger by more height and weight than he actually is. He is clean shaven but burley, with wiry dark brown hair that spreads across his pecs and down across his belly to his basket. His buttocks and thighs are thick and powerful.

Weaver is darker, not of skin but of aspect. His hair is darker brown, his eyes are brown with hints of green, and on his chin he wears a beard that is a mixture of black, brown, red, and white. He is large in a way that does not seem obvious. He has no great breadth of shoulder or definition of chest as does Jacobs, but he is thick and powerful all over, in the way of the mountain stock from which he comes.

"Ready, buddy?" Jacobs says.

"Ring it," Weaver says.

Jacobs leans between the ropes and clangs a bell mounted there.

The two men walk to the center of the ring, smiling at each other. They are anxious to wrestle, and now that the warm-up period is over and the match not yet begun, both have throbbing
erections. They shake hands.

"Good luck, buddy," Jacobs says.

"Good match to you, Jacobs," Weaver says.

"Let's do it."

They begin to circle the center of the ring, now trotting forward counterclockwise, now continuing in the same direction but turning and backpedaling.

Jacobs slaps his biceps and pecs.

Weaver throws his arms across his chest.

They slow and stop, hands raised, looking into each other's eyes. Then with the loud slap of large fleshy bodies coming together, they lock up collar and elbow.

"Uhhh," Jacobs grunts, bending deep at the waist and leaning into his opponent.

They struggle, their hands moving quickly by inches, searching for some kind of leverage, some kind of grip.

Weaver's left hand grasps at the nape of Jacobs's neck. His right forearm and wrist stretch across the crook of Jacobs's elbow, the palm of his hand hovers over Jacobs's bulging left bicep, his fingers press lightly against Jacobs's clean shaven left cheek. Jacobs's left hand is pulling at the back of Weaver's neck, and the palm of his right hand is pressed against Weaver's left
shoulder.

Both lean in and grunt with the effort, pulling and pushing powerfully, trying to get an advantage. They lean into each other and their sweaty foreheads touch. Both blink hard as their mingled sweat runs down into their eyes. Their faces grimace with the effort. Their bodies glisten with new sweat, displacing the old sweat of their warm-up so that it runs in streaks down their faces, out of their hair, down their backs and chests, and flies from their arms and baskets and legs.

Jacobs decreases the pressure at the back of Weaver's neck and with his right hand pushes Weaver slightly upright, gaining leverage and forcing him back toward the ropes.

With his back against the worn oil-darkened ropes, Weaver untangles his arms and lightly slaps his palms twice on Jacobs's shoulders. His feet are forward, and his body curved upward.

Jacobs presses against him.

They are torso to torso in the ropes. Their bellies heave into each other. Their baskets, now loose with the struggle, swing and tap lightly against each other. Each feels the heat of the other's body on his face.

Jacobs's eyes glaze with thought as he wonders whether to break completely or just enough to pull Weaver into a headlock. After a few seconds, he brings both hands flat against Weaver's
pecs and pushes himself away.

Weaver quickly steps to his right so that his back is away from the ropes and stops, eying Jacobs.

Jacobs raises his hands, ready.

They lock up again near the ropes.

For a moment, they push and pull as before, but then Weaver coils his right arm around Jacobs's left, straightening it and preparing to bring intense pressure to bear on the elbow. He brings his left hand from behind Jacobs's neck and plants it against his left shoulder and locks in an arm bar.

"Aahhhhhh," Jacobs cries. He raises his head, and his face is a shiny grimacing red mask.

Weaver grunts and cinches the hold deeper. The crook of his right arm comes under Jacobs's elbow and then pulls up, straightening it painfully. His right hand grips his left forearm for the lock and the leverage. The palm of his left hand is pressed deep into Jacobs's left breast.

Jacobs squares his body to Weaver's. His head and torso bow toward Weaver in an effort to relieve the pressure on the arm bar. He raises his right hand and slaps lightly at Weaver's chest, just below the base of his neck.

Weaver raises himself on his tiptoes and cinches more pressure into the arm bar.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh," Jacobs moans. He wiggles the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to keep the circulation from being cut off.

Weaver bends at the knees and slowly raises himself to tiptoes again, straightening Jacobs's left elbow until it almost begins to bend backward.

"Aahhhhh!" Jacobs yells. He slaps Weaver's right breast twice with his free hand and tries to push.

But Weaver has the leverage. He plants his right foot behind himself and stands his ground. At the same time he slips the thumb of his left hand into Jacobs's armpit and begins squeezing a claw into Jacobs's left pec.

"Oooowww," Jacobs cries. He stops pushing and raises his right hand with the palm turned toward Weaver. He pleads.

"Please, Weaver. Oh, please."

"You want to give, Jacobs?" Weaver says.

Jacobs does not answer.

Weaver cinches the arm bar deeper into his armpit and closes down tighter on the pec claw, feeling against his palm the wiry hair and slick sweat on Jacobs's chest.

"Uhh," Jacobs gasps. He can feel the sweat-drenched hair of Weaver's armpit on his forearm. But he cannot feel much of that arm beyond that. The fingers and the wrist are numbing fast. He
puts the palm of his right hand against Weaver's forehead, stretching his fingers back through Weaver's sweaty hair. He begins to push.

"Mmmph," Weaver says, feeling his head going back and his holds losing power.

Jacobs pushes harder on Weaver's forehead.

Weaver feels his holds becoming nothing more than a holding on to keep himself from stumbling backward. His leverage is lost.

Jacobs senses the weakness of Weaver's position and switches his right hand downward to push on Weaver's chin and mouth.

"Mmmph," Weaver gasps again. The pec claw comes loose and the bar is sliding off toward Jacobs's numbed hand.

Jacobs drops his right hand again, this time to Weaver's chest, and pushes hard, freeing himself as Weaver stumbles backward. He steps away from his opponent, shaking his left arm, trying to return the circulation to his fingers.

Weaver does not hesitate but moves toward Jacobs quickly, hands raised for another lockup.

Jacobs tries to shield his left arm. He locks up with Weaver, using just his right arm for the initial contact. But then he raises his left arm to Weaver's side and quickly drops both hands to the backs of Weaver's thighs, lowering his head at the same time. He pulls up on Weaver's legs and rams him in the chest with his head.

"Whaa?" Weaver gasps as he goes down hard on his naked buttocks. "Ooofff." He sits on the mat, his legs spread in front of him, his body momentarily stunned with the jarring effect of
Jacobs's takedown. He looks up just as Jacobs jumps toward him, but Jacobs's movement is so quick that he can do nothing to get out of the way.

Jacobs settles down in front of Weaver, facing him, his naked butt on the mat between Weaver's thighs, his legs wrapping around Weaver's back and locking in the front body scissors.

"Nnnnoooooo!" Weaver screams.

Jacobs leans back on his hands, applying intense pressure to the scissors, his rock hard thighs squeezing Weaver's sides.

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" Weaver yells.

Jacobs knows he is in control. He feels Weaver's belly heaving against his basket where another erection is starting. He sees and feels the sweat pouring down Weaver's sides and chest and
pooling at the point where his python-like thighs grip Weaver's waist. He feels the heat of Weaver's basket and thighs beneath his own basket and buttocks.

Weaver leans back on his right arm and presses the heel of his left hand to his forehead. His face is one red grimace of pain and struggle. He leans to his right in an attempt to raise and turn Jacobs enough to work his right leg under Jacobs's buttocks, to a position where he can get his knees drawn up under himself. But Jacobs is positioned too well. His buttocks keep Weaver's
thighs spread apart, stopping all Weaver's attempts to get to his knees. To counter Weaver's attempt, Jacobs leans back on his own right hand and places his left hand against Weaver's belly to steady him. Then he takes a deep breath and flexes his powerful thighs.

"Aaaahh!" Weaver screams. He sits flat on his butt now, his thighs sprawled uselessly on either side of Jacobs's buttocks. He raises his hands in the air and pleads.

"Jacobs," he gasps. "Please let up."

"Do you want to give, Weaver?"

"No!" Weaver yells.

Jacobs wipes the sweat from his face and slings it away. Then he calmly plants both hands behind him, takes a deep breath that expands his chest and belly, and cinches the scissors tighter and squeezes.

Weaver's head snaps back and his hands go into his hair. "Uugghhhhh!" Weaver says, the sound escaping from him like air from a balloon.

Jacobs's face is turning dark red, but he is maintaining this final squeeze.

Weaver's hands flit around like dazed birds--now at the sides of his head, now bracing him from behind, now in the air pleading, now pressing without effect on Jacobs's rock hard thighs.

"I Give!" he yells hoarsely. "I give, Jacobs!"

Jacobs immediately loosens the hold and starts to unwrap his legs.

"Don't," Weaver says, putting a hand on Jacobs's right thigh.

"Not until I'm a little steadier."

Jacobs puts his hand on Weaver's shoulder and bends to look him in the eye.

"Okay. Are you all right?"

"Yes, just let me get my breath."

They sit like that for two minutes.

"I'm all right now," Weaver says.

Jacobs unwraps his legs from around Weaver's waist, and they both lie down on their backs. They talk for thirty minutes, get up and shake hands, and hit the showers.

These days I fall asleep more easily than I have at any point in my adult life. We're talking minutes, sometimes even seconds, I think. Fifteen years ago, I'd lie awake at night for an hour or more before falling asleep. Maybe it's my age. Maybe it's the work I do now. Maybe it's something else.

But the sleep pattern after that isn't ideal. When I initially fall asleep, I'll be out for two or three hours, and then I wake up. Sometimes I have to pee. Sometimes I have to take some heartburn meds. Sometimes I just wake up for no apparent reason. Usually I don't have much of a problem going back to sleep, but the remainder of the night I'll be up and down every hour or so, which gets annoying. Sometimes, however, I'm up for an hour or two in the deep watches of the night.

What do I do when I'm awake? Most times I just lie there and wait for the return of sleep. But sometimes I read or watch TV. I discovered recently that ESPN-Classic has AWA Wrestling on from 1:00-2:00 in the morning. These are television shows from the 1980s, and while they aren't as good as show from 10, 20 or 30 years earlier, they're far better than what's on these days.

I didn't mean to write about that kind of wrestling in this post.

I don't think that I'm particularly troubled by anything. But then again. . . . Love (and the absence thereof) and death (and the looming nature thereof) and sex (and the absence thereof) and sexuality (and the fluid nature thereof) and taxes (and the taxing nature thereof). Rock-and-roll and wrestling. Work. The mind that should write but won't or can't.