A significant part of my wrestling obsession is an accompanying obsession with heavyset men with bellies.
Not grossly obese men. Not men with fat tires around their waists. Not men with hanging bellies that make them look for all the world as if they’re pregnant. Not men with flabby breasts that lay flaccid atop their bellies. Not men whose breasts seem only the wall of their chests with nipples painted on them.
No, some apparent muscle in the breasts seems necessary. Some apparent muscle in the belly—“table muscle”—seems necessary as well. The belly must have some contour and not appear carried like a bag.
Whence this obsession? This desire even?
One of the oldest images in my mind is of a morning in my grandparents’ house. The dining room table is covered with breakfast—plates of biscuits and bacon, bowls of gravy, cups of coffee, dishes of butter and jelly. I’m under ten years old, but I can’t be more accurate than that. I walk into the dining room, perhaps having just gotten out of bed. I come to the edge of the table, closest to where my uncle Bill sits. He has wavy red hair on a round head, a clean-shaven face often red from laughter. He is shirtless, and for whatever reason, his nipples are hard and large. Beneath them, his strong belly balloons partway out over his thighs. Maybe he’s wearing khaki trousers and is barefooted. Again, I’m not big, but I must stand tall enough that I’m at least a head above his shoulders as he’s seated, maybe even a head (or almost a head) above his head. Whichever the case, I’m able to look down at the table and move my gaze back and forth from the delicious food on the table to his naked upper body without having to move my neck or change the position of my head.
I can’t recall seeing my father or other uncles without at least their undershirts on. Was Uncle Bill’s the first naked man’s body—partially naked, at least—that I’d been close to and able to observe closely, if covertly, in my life? I have little or no interest in men’s genitals, but their shoulders and breasts and bellies captivate my attention—if they have the look.
Did this moment next to Uncle Bill contribute to my obsession with wrestling—pro wrestling in particular? I don’t like all the clothes that amateur wrestlers wear. I don’t like when pro wrestlers wear anything on their upper bodies, even if it’s just a singlet with a single shoulder strap. I don’t care for wrestlers who have thin physiques (think Greg Gagne). I don’t care for wrestlers who are heavily muscled (think Lex Luger or Randy Savage) and seem more like bodybuilders—unless they also have a belly I like.
Now and then, Uncle Bill’s nipple pops into my mind, and I wonder if it—and that moment of seeing it—have had some influence on my erotic personality and interests.
