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.