In late June 1998, I wrestled in the strangest setting ever. Although I can now recall another that rivals it, no other comes close. I was passing through one southern town on my way to another, and I had arranged an afternoon match with J, a fellow I'd been corresponding with online for awhile prior to this. J was married, as I am, and our professions, while not the same, were similar. We're artsy guys.

I rolled into his town in the middle of a hot afternoon and pulled into the parking lot of the church to which he had directed me. Yes, that's right—a church. That was okay with me. I like churches and he worked at the church—not as a pastor or priest, mind you—as a musician. I knew this beforehand, of course.

I sat in my car in an out-of-the-way area of the parking lot, and in just a few minutes I saw him come out the door and head over my way. I don't remember specifically now, but I think I was expecting him to get in my car. We'd do the usual, I guessed, which was to drive to some little motel and get a room for a couple of hours.

But he surprised me. We would be wrestling in the church! More specifically, in the choir room!

My throat felt a little tight as we walked through the darkened hallways to the second-floor room where the choir rehearsed. J must have seen the tension on my face.

"Nobody's around in the afternoons during the summer," he said. "This'll be okay."

The choir room was about what you'd expect in a medium-sized suburban church. It was large, with flat floor space leading from the door to the raised seating where the choir members arranged themselves to sing. To the right was a room used for smaller rehearsals and for musical ensembles. Part of the open space near the entry was taken up by a grand piano. The other part was our space for wrestling.

Nervous and jumpy, I took off my clothes and lay them neatly on top of the piano. I don't remember where J put his clothes, but we were soon both decked out in our colored no-fly briefs and getting down on the floor to wrestle. Unfortunately, we then discovered a problem. The carpet, in order to be durable under the constant movement of many feet, was that chew-your-butt-up variety that we quickly learned would give us carpet burns way too easily.

We couldn't wrestle. Not really. So we settled for the next best thing (in my book). We took turns putting our favorite holds on each other. We did lots of scissors holds and headlocks and bear hugs. J had thing for holds like the camel clutch and the Boston crab, so I let him put those on me to his heart's content. He also badly wanted to wrestle naked, which I agreed to, even though it made me nervous again.

The image that still hangs with me after these 11 years in a head scissors he wanted to put me in. As you might expect from reading this blog, I was more than willing. I lay on my right side. He sat in front of me and wrapped his thighs around my head and leaned back on his hands to apply pressure. J is 5'10" and was at that time around 225 pounds. So, as I lay there being worked over by his head scissors, my ears stoppered by the pressure of his thick thighs, I faced directly into his basket, above which was a solid and heaving belly, good pecs and a grin of enjoyment. I also enjoyed the hold for several minutes, my left hand now on his right thigh, now on his full belly, no on his strong chest. Delicious!

The other moment I remember best is a sudden sound at which we sprung up from whatever hold we were in—naked by this time—grabbed our clothes and stepped quickly into the side room. A minute or so passed and nothing more happened. J stepped out in just his jeans and cautiously went to the door. There he discovered that the noise we'd heard was just some pigeons nesting in the eaves.

After we'd wrestled our fill—such as the wrestling was—we dressed and went back outside. At my car, we shook hands, and I drove out of town and made a few more hours down the road before I stopped for the night.