Back in January of 2007, I blogged about a match I'd wrestled with Rick in late summer 1996. As I wrote then, various circumstances left me disappointed with this meeting. For one, I had ridiculously high expectations. After that summer, R and I remained in touch, and sometime later, we met again.

It was winter, and I'm thinking that it was, perhaps, January 1998. Both of us slipped away from our daily routines and drove a couple of hours to meet in the middle between where he lived and where I was in school. I was still new enough at wrestling that every match involved some new experience. The new thing when R and I met this time was that it was the middle of the day, so we had to get a motel room in which to wrestle.

We met in a parking lot, talked between our open windows for a few minutes and then picked out a motel. R had to go up to the desk and register for a room, and then he had to let me know where it was. This was long before I considered having a mobile telephone, so I sat in my car and watched him register. (I don't remember asking if he'd used his real name, if he'd paid cash or credit. I wonder about these things.) Then when he came out, I simply followed him around to the back side of the motel. I remember as I pulled out of the parking space that I could feel the desk clerk watching me pull out and follow R. I wondered what he thought was going on and what he might do about what he thought was going on. This stayed in the back of my mind the entire time and kept me somewhat on edge with the expectation of somebody coming to the door, perhaps especially of some law enforcement officer coming to the door.

Inside the room, we did the usual moving of furniture and spreading of the "mat." Then we changed. I'm sure I wore a pair of lowrise briefs, but I don't remember the color. R wore regular briefs.

This time R as he was without expecting him to be "Luke," the online persona I initially knew him as. And there in that room with R, I enjoyed the wrestling we did. My best recall--probably seriously flawed after more than 10 years--is that we wrestled about 10 falls and that I won six or seven of them. R might remember different results. For a long time, this match stayed so fresh in my memory that I could remember every submission hold, mine on him and his on me. But all that's gone now. The one thing about the wrestling that I remember with any clarity was one submission where I got R in what I think is called an "Iron Cross." That was cool.

The main good thing I remember about the day is that I felt our previous meeting had been redeemed. R and I could get together and wrestle as who we were, and "Luke" wasn't around. I felt that we reestablished something that day, even though we've fallen way way out of touch since then.

I'm glad to say that I'd like to wrestle him again one of these days. We live in the same basic region, so it's possible.

A couple of days ago I traveled to the house of a friend who lives less than two hours away. This was, I believe, our fourth wrestling meeting in the last year. But we hadn't wrestled since back in January, when he moved to a new place--out of the old apartment where we had a couple of good wrestling bouts and into a house located on some acreage. Our plan was to find a concealed spot not far from the house and wrestle outdoors. I haven't wrestled completely outdoors since I was a kid, so something about this prospect was really exciting.



Part of this excitement dates back to my days in elementary school. Remember National Geographic, the good boy's Playboy? My school library carried NG, and I looked at it often. But really, my reasons had little to do with the easy availability of beautiful photographs that sometimes included the bare breasts of women living in remote Third-World villages. I saw those pictures, sure, but for a boy with a mind like mine, the places the magazine could take me--be bare breasts there or not--drew me to its place on the shelf time and time again.



Even then, wrestling was a particular fascination, already eroticized in my prepubescent brain and body. Thus, one issue that drew me to itself again and again featured a story on Alexander the Great. Most of the photography connected to the article focused on landscapes through which Alexander moved to create his empire, but a couple of photographs were sort of reenactments of the man's life. One photo in particular showed Alexander wrestling with another man in lush green grass. Both men's bodies were taut and their sun-bronzed skin shiny with sweat, and, as I remember, both wore black briefs intended, I suppose, to suggest loincloths (although most like the real Alexander and his opponent would have wrestled naked).



This image is framed and hanging in a back gallery of my mind to this day.



Now, be assured that, while we wrestled in black briefs, my friend and I own no taut bodies, and the only portions of our skin that could be considered sun-bronzed are our arms and heads. We found a spot in tall clover and weeds, not lush green grass, and spread out three fairly small pieces of cloth for a mat. (Alexander and his man wrestled on no mat.) But we wrestled outdoors, two heavy white bodies against the blue and brown of the mat cloths and the not-so-brilliant green of the clover and weeds, beneath the mid-morning sun, an outbuilding a few feet away on one side, a thickly wooded hillside rising a few feet away on the other, our cast-off clothes hanging in a group of nearby saplings.



Not the perfect recreation of that old NG photo but a great experience--except for the fact that my skin is sensative to the grass, and that evening I noticed that my back was a swirl of red welts that were a reaction to a wonderful morning of splendid wrestling in the grass!

* * *

As I finished this entry, I decided to query the amazing Google for an image of "Alexander" "wrestling." Lo and behold, the old NG photo showed up on the 6th page of results from the image search. It was also used as part of a blog, and here is what the writer wrote about it: "The final photo is from an article from 1968, 'In the Footsteps of Alexander the Great'. A Turkish oil wrestling contest takes place amid the ruins of Ephesus. Here, back in the Western end of Eurasia, Turks act out the roles of ancient Greeks and Macedonians in the imagination of the reporter. "

Time clouds the memory. I'm trying to reach back and pick up this blog's early thread about the matches I've had over the past 12+ years. I know which match I wrote about last, but now I'm having difficulty coming up with who and what came next. That match with K in Ohio took place, I believe, in March 1997. I wrestled him again in the summer, although I'm having trouble remembering if it was summer of 1997 or 1998. Rather than let this freeze me up, I'm going to say that it was only a few months between the two matches with K.

I wrestled K again at a different motel near Kent, OH, in the summer of 1997. This time Dr. J, the AOL friend who introduced me to K, was in town, so I got together with him too. I met one on the first day of my stay and one on the second. Seems as if we were trying to get all three of us together for a third day of wrestling, but that didn't work out.

After I'd met him in real life, I always felt bad about Dr. J. Not that our online friendship didn't translate to the real world. That wasn't it. We got along just fine, I think. But I have my particulars about the kind of man I like to wrestle, which to some extent makes my matches too much about me. Dr. J was a really fine wrestler with a head scissors that felt as if it could pop the top of my head off. But just as K, a big and burly bear, was just the kind of wrestler I like to get my hands on, Dr. J weighed only 175 or so--the lightest man I've ever wrestled. While K had the kind of body you could easily roll around on the mat with, Dr. J was all hard muscles and sharp points. If I were deeply into wrestling in and of itself, I should've enjoyed this. But with Dr. J the erotic component was missing. I tried not to hurt his feelings, but I'm afraid I did. For that I'm sorry.

My second match with K went much like the first one, except that he didn't have a headcold this time. From time to time I got him in a good hold, but it wasn't good enough. As much as he enjoyed the punishment of a head scissors or an arm stretch, he always escaped and in a little while, I'd be submitting to some head scissors variation he'd worked me into.

The clearest memory of this encounter with K is a bit of conversation we had either before or after the match. We were talking about wrestling and sexuality, and he made the comment that it was through wrestling that he learned--or recognized--that he was gay. He told me a little story about the last--perhaps one of the last--girlfriends he had. He was going through the motions with her without realizing it. But she had a couple of brothers. And apparently during his visits to his girlfriend he became friends with her brothers. This friendship led to some friendly wrestling matches in the back yard at her house. K told me that these matches with her brothers really got him hot and bothered in more ways than one, and the contrast between those feelings and those he felt for their sister was a stark one. He loved the wrestling and the feeling of wrestling, and in this he realized that his passions and emotions were clearly more invested in the homoerotic and homosexual than in the opposite of these, the hetero versions.

This time we met, K was in a relationship, and when we wrestled, he didn't wear the no-fly briefs of our first encounter but a pair of shorts. I was disappointed in that look but not in the wrestling.

K is a man I'd like to wrestle again someday. Dr. J is a man I'd like to be friends with some day. Doesn't that sound like the selections some of us make for our lovers. One man is thrilled with the friendship of this one "other," perhaps even more so than with the friendship of this other "other." But the physical relationship with the other "other" is more to his liking and so he commits to the structure of that desire and lives with the loss of the better friend.

Come, O thou Traveler unknown,
whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
and I am left alone with thee.
With thee all night I mean to stay,
and wrestle till the break of day;
with thee all night I mean to stay
and wrestle till the break of day.


Text: Charles Wesley, 1742 (Gen. 32:24-32)

I could be wrestling today. I intended to be wrestling today. My good friend nearby was expecting me to be wrestling today.

But life gets in the way. I can't walk away from family or from parenting obligations to indulge my wrestling interest. I can't even walk away from these to spend time with a good friend.

I can, however, reschedule!

Here are some great matches I found on YouTube:

Horst Hoffman vs. The Destroyer
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_AWtOkrvP40
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0XVi8PGgaRw

Nobuhiko Takada vs. Marty Jones
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qib1GRkuxT8
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-nETTfbqMo
One thing I love about these is that they have no commentary, and you can hear the wrestlers and the wrestling.

Jacobs vs. Weaver: The Third and Final Fall. Each has scored a victory in the two preceding. Which man will take two out of three, or will it be a draw?



The gym is filled with heat tonight. High above the empty ring, the large old windows creak open at the squeaking turn of a crank on the wall.

Jacobs comes out of the darkness and climbs into the ring.

Weaver appears from the other side of the room and climbs into the opposite corner.

Both bodies already glisten with sweat.

"It's going to be a hot one," Weaver says.

"Lots of sweat," Jacobs says and smiles. "Are you ready?"

Weaver grins and nods. He turns into his corner and bends his knees, pulling on the ropes.

Jacobs leans between the ropes clangs the old bell mounted mounted on the side of the ring. Then he walks to the center of the mat.

Weaver springs out of his corner at the clanging and begins to circle, sees Jacobs moving to the center, and meets him there.

The two naked friends shake hands and grin with no hint of embarrassment over their pre‑match erections.

A moment of suspension hangs in the air, and then they move forward toward the collar and elbow lockup.

But Jacobs deflects Weaver's left arm with his right forearm. He grapevine's the arm in his own and locks up an arm bar with his left thumb in Weaver's left armpit, the palm of his left hand curling over Weaver's left shoulder.

"Aaaaaaaaah," Weaver yells in pain. His brown eyes shine for a moment with surprise at Jacobs's speed. But then they disappear in a grimace, and his right hand closes and uncloses in the air, pleading.

Jacobs concentrates the force of his hold on Weaver's shoulder, squeezing his thumb into the hairy sweat‑drenched armpit.

"Ooooowww," Weaver howls. His grimace deepens with the pain. "Please, Jacobs," he gasps.

Jacobs switches his focus to the arm now, pulling on it, but still gripping Weaver's shoulder and armpit tightly.

"Uuugghh." Weaver shakes his head against the pain, and sweat flies in the brassy pyramid of light descending from the dangling fixture above the center of the ring.

Jacobs feels the drops of sweat spatter his body. He purses his lips and squeezes his left hand harder into Weaver's shoulder and armpit.

"Mmmph," Weaver grunts. Still with his head down and shaking, he squares his body to Jacobs's and puts his right palm against Jacobs's chin and pushes. He can feel the sweaty stubble of Jacobs's beard in the hairless skin of his palm.

"Arrrgh," Jacobs says through gritted teeth as his head begins to give to the pressure of Weaver's right hand.

Weaver pushes Jacobs's head back. At the same time he flexes the fingers of his left hand, trying to restore the circulation Jacobs's arm bar has cut off. He feels the soft wet hair and the
heat of Jacobs's armpit against his forearm. In his mind's eye he sees his hand sticking out behind Jacobs's back, watches his pale fingers opening and closing shakily.

With Jacobs's head pushed upright, Weaver forces him back toward the ropes. And just at the moment when he feels Jacobs plant his feet to push back, he plants his own feet and pulls the
other way, using Jacobs's strength and weight against him.

Jacobs flips over Weaver's hip and lands on his bare butt in the center of the ring.

"Aaah," he says and presses the back of his right hand against
the small of his back.

Weaver stands up quickly, shaking his left arm and hand, feeling it tingle as the circulation returns.

Jacobs rolls up to his feet.

"Good hold, Jacobs," Weaver says between hard breaths.

"Thanks," Jacobs says, still pressing his hand to the small of his back.

The two begin a wary counterclockwise circling.

Weaver thumbs the sweat from his eyebrows and slings it into the darkness.

Jacobs stops and reaches out his right hand, offering a test of strength.

Weaver starts to meet Jacobs's right hand with his left but is reminded of its weakness by the continuing tingle.

"No way, Jacobs," he says and smiles.

Suddenly Jacobs dives in and grabs Weaver around the waist, cinching in a tight bear hug.

"Uuuuhh," Weaver grunts as he feels Jacobs's chest crush against his. Both of his hands rise into the air. A pleading gesture.

Jacobs cinches the hug tighter.

"Aaaahhhh," Weaver screams. "Jacobs, please!"

The two are locked together by Jacobs's powerful hold. Their sweaty chests and bellies heave into each other.

Weaver wraps both arms around Jacobs's head, seemingly trying to climb him like a tree in order to escape the painful pressure at his back.

"Uhhh," Jacobs grunts but maintains a tight hold.

Weaver's breath is coming in small gasped bursts. He unwraps his arms and leans back, pushing against Jacobs's chin with both hands.

"Aahhh," Jacobs says through gritted teeth as his neck is stretched back again.

The wrestlers' heads and upper torsos form a red and glistening Y. Their bellies still heave into each other, sliding on slick sweat. Their heat‑loosened baskets and tense thighs are pressed tightly together.

"Ohhhh," Weaver moans. The pain in his back increases by the second. With a grimace, he raises himself on tiptoes to put more leverage against Jacobs's chin. "Aaahhhhhhh," he screams, partly in pain from his aching back, partly to spur himself on to escape Jacobs's crushing arms. He feels Jacobs's breath struggle through his fingers.

Jacobs suddenly lets go.

Weaver sinks to his knees, his hands on his thighs, his chest and belly heaving desperately.

Jacobs rolls his neck and steps quickly behind Weaver. He sinks to one knee, leans his chest into Weaver's sweaty back, and wraps his left arm around Weaver's jaw and chin, cinching the
reverse chinlock with his hands clasped together just behind Weaver's right ear.

"Aahhhhh!" Weaver's eyes squeeze shut. His hands fly up, pleading again.

Jacobs holds Weaver's chin wedged in the crook of his left elbow. His hairy chest leans heavily on Weaver's back. He loosens the hold slightly and then cinches it even tighter, slamming his chest into Weaver's back so hard that sweat sprays out in all directions onto the mat.

Weaver feels the rough hair of Jacobs's chest grinding into the heated skin of his back. He feels Jacobs's bulging left bicep, rock‑hard, pressing into the left side of his face and nearly
forcing his left eye closed.

"Uffftt," he gasps. He slaps Jacobs's bicep with his right hand. Jacobs's weight on his weakened back makes him blink hard. "Oooohhh."

Jacobs leans into him heavily and tightens the reverse chinlock. Then he falls back to a sitting position, pulling Weaver with him, still in the chinlock. As Weaver settles roughly back between his thighs, Jacobs wraps his thick legs around Weaver's waist and squeezes.

"Noooooooooooooooo!" Weaver screams with what breath he can muster, and the ragged sound echoes through the dark gym.

Jacobs releases the reverse chinlock and wraps both arms around Weaver's chest. A reverse bear hug combined with a body scissor.

"Ooofff." Weaver feels the little breathing space left him above the vise‑like body scissor being squeezed to next to nothing by Jacobs's powerful arms. He breaths hard but draws little air.

Jacobs holds Weaver with his legs and arms.

"Uuhh," Weaver whimpers. He tries to push down on Jacobs's knees but Jacobs's thick biceps wrapped through his armpits block him from getting his arms close enough to his body for a powerful push. He sinks into the hold and feels the definition of Jacobs's pecs against his back.

Jacobs sits solidly on his naked buttocks, holding Weaver with his sweat‑sparkled arms and legs in the same position in front of him. Every few seconds he first cinches the scissors tighter, then the reverse bear hug. He feels Weaver's sweat‑slicked lower back against his basket, the heat of Weaver's hold‑reddened skin against his inner thighs. He smells the sweat on the back of Weaver's neck. He turns his head so that his lips almost touch Weaver's right ear.

"Come on, Weaver," he whispers. "You can't get out of this one and I won't let you go."

Weaver's mouth is open, and he gulps at the stifling air of the gym in ragged breaths. His head is starting to swim. His eyes glaze over. Jacobs's whisper at his ear reaches his fading
consciousness as if it were a sound from under water.

"Come on, Weaver," Jacobs whispers again, urgently this time. "I can feel you weaken. Don't make it go on for no reason."

"Okay, Jacobs," Weaver wheezes. "I give."

The wrestlers come untangled but not apart.

Jacobs releases his legs first and then his arms.

Weaver draws in a deep painful breath and lies back against Jacobs, breathing hard and wiping the sweat from his eyes.

Jacobs sits there, supporting his beaten opponent for a moment. Then he slides out from behind him, easing him down on his back, and sits beside him.

Outside, a late night summer rain begins to fall straight and steady through the amber lights of Cyber City.