Re-reading yesterday's post, I'm struck by my near hysterics. I'm actually not feeling nearly as desperately uncomfortable today as yesterday. It may be that the temperature has actually changed, or possibly my body has adjusted a bit to this climate (or both). You can still call me a pussy if you like, but I may just feel well enough to hip toss you to your ass and sit on your face for the trouble. Your call.
eth Kuhlmann from DNA are making me feel all nostalgic for my own undergraduate days. True story: I was a frat boy in college. Have I mentioned that? All four years, with the secret handshake and the pseudo-religious ritual and the copious quantities of alcohol always nearby... Somehow, my memories of those years don't quite match up with the gay porn fantasies of frat house romps. I don't quite remember my frat brothers dropping trou like butt-beautiful Seth here. All that said, however, I have to also say, there were some fantastic wrestling kink moments strongly associated with frat house living, that stoke my fantasies still today.
And that last one time out of three, I'd take him down, typically sweeping one of those long, strong, smooth legs of his. 19 years old and still growing, he'd be all awkward arms and legs and unchecked balance. I actually pinned the pretty little bastard just handful of times, but much more often, I'd make him cry uncle by locking one of his arms behind his back while I straddled his narrow waist, cranking his wrist higher and higher up between his shoulder blades... or I'd snap my albeit shorter but surprisingly strong legs around his midsection, lace my ankles together, and grind my knees into his gut and lower back. That would always make him laugh at first, as if it was no big thing to be scissored between my thighs. But his laughter would evolve into choked coughing, punctuated by sharp inhalations as he attempted to disguise his pain. Eventually (preferably only after a long time), he'd groan, no longer with any pretense that he wasn't suffering. Finally, he's repeat quickly, with more than a note of desperation, "Okayokayokay!!!"
There's no chance in hell that this guy was unaware of the hard-ons that our wrestling bouts inevitably gave me. I don't know what it meant for him, whether it was just relatively socially acceptable homoeroticism for him as it was for me. But he kept coming back for more, and despite the odds against me (and perhaps even more so because of them), I kept puffing out my chest, locking up, and wrestling long and hard fueled by an overabundance of testosterone and a passionate lust for intimate physical contact in the form of wrestling domination.