canwrestle's blog

It's been just over a year since I published my last MM wrestling novel, ACTING UP, and after a recharge, I have begun working on my next book.   If anyone has ever tried writing before, you will know that, aside from finding time, one of the hardest things about the process is not getting bogged down in edits and rewrites.   Something that helped me with this in the past was using this blog space to post chapters as I wrote them.   I posted a new chapter every two weeks, and the artificial deadline kept me on track. It forced me to keep moving forward and finish the story.   So I am going to do this again, at least to start, and I appreciate anyone who wants to come along for the ride and read the chapters as I write them.   I welcome feedback on the story, the characters, pacing and clarity... , so if you wanna give me some, please go ahead.   I will do my best with grammar and such before I post, however, I do usually pay someone to do that  once the entire book is finished and I'm ready to publish, so please forgive misplaced commas and typos. I promise those will be taken care of.  

So without further ado, here is the first chapter of my novel with the tentative working title of "Alex, the ALMOST Great"

Chapter One

A New Leaf and an Old Memory

“EWWW ! MOM! Look at his face!”  My sister shrieked. 

“Alex, baby, what happened?” my mom asked, looking up from the eggs she was scrambling. 

“I shaved,” I answered, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“With what? A lawn mower,” my sister hissed. 

I knew what she was disgusted with.  My chin and neck were a patchwork of bloody toilet paper bits.  Puberty had hit me hard recently.  My mustache and wispy chin fluff had thickened and grown darker and, even though I was just seventeen, I now had a beard that was fuller than men twice my age.  I’d also shot up in height so much that my bones were constantly aching. My pants only came to my mid-calf.  I was already six feet with no end in sight.

Normally, stuff like that didn’t bother me, but this was a special day, so I’d picked up a packet of cheap plastic razors and some shaving foam and attempted to tame my beard; however, they weren’t up to the task.  I’d gone through half a dozen and done a hatchet job on my face in the process. 

“Sarah Jane, don’t be mean to your brother.” My mom admonished as she poured the cooked eggs onto my plate. 

Sarah grumbled and rolled her eyes, “Ugh, this is so unfair,” she moaned. “I finally get to go to a real high school and my Sasquatch brother is going to be in my grade.”  

I pretended not to hear, she couldn’t make me feel any worse.  My stomach was in knots as it was.   It wasn’t just her first time in a real high school, it was mine too.  

“You both have your stuff? The bus will be here shortly.”  My mom asked, ignoring Sarah’s complaining as well.  She’d been at it nonstop ever since the school's principal had called to tell us that, due to my test results, I was going to be placed in the eleventh grade instead of the twelfth with my same-age peers.   It hadn’t come as a shock to me, not that I felt dumb or anything, but I knew I’d bombed the assessment.  Apart from a few years when I was really little, I’d been homeschooled and the idea of going to a real school had made me so nervous I froze and couldn’t answer half of the questions on the paper.  Sarah hadn’t taken the news very well though - she barely tolerated my presence at the best of times, and the idea she’d have to share a classroom with me was making her nastier than usual. 

“Is Dad home? I asked, changing the subject. 

“Mmmm, asleep.  These night shifts are knocking him out.”  Mom answered.  “He told me to wish you both luck.” 

I knew he hadn’t said anything of the sort. He’d probably forgotten it was our first day of school, but at least he was still working.  We’d been here two months now, and there had been no benders, nor had he missed a shift at the refinery.  Maybe this was going to be the new start he’d promised.  I hoped so, for my mom’s sake more than my own. 

 “Now hurry, you don’t want to miss the bus.”  She held out two paper bag lunches while I shoveled down the last of the eggs and popped toast into my mouth.  

Sarah was already out the door when I finished and made my way around the table to stand in front of Mom.   She handed me the bag, and I bent low so she could kiss my forehead. I was a full head taller than she was.  When I stood, she started pulling the toilet paper patches off my chin.  

“So handsome.  I’m gonna pick you up a proper razor from the store today.”

 I nodded.

 “It’s going to be great, you’re going to make a ton of friends, I just know it.”

I nodded again and did my best to smile, mostly to reassure her that I was okay, but I had serious doubts myself. I headed out, the hastily consumed breakfast sitting uncomfortably in my throat.   

The big yellow school bus was already there, and Sarah Jane was already heading up the steps as I made my way down the gravel drive from the little bungalow we were renting.  I sprinted the last few yards and got on.  We were a couple of miles outside of town and were one of the first stops on the route.  I nodded at the driver, who ignored me, and then made my way down the aisle, making sure to choose a seat that put as much space between Sarah and me as possible.   I slid in, awkwardly folding my long legs in the too-small space, and we were off, no turning back now.  

As we moved along the country roads the bus slowly filled up, but the place next to me remained empty.  I tried not to notice the other kids as they filed past me, wary looks on their faces, clearly wondering who the giant in the ill-fitting clothes was.  Instead, I stared out the window, noting the landscape.  It didn’t feel like a foreign country, but then it was only a small town just southeast of Calgary, Alberta, not too far removed from the small town outside of Billings, Montana, we’d come from.  It was mostly flat, mostly farmland, and a wave of homesickness passed over me.  

I missed our farm.  I missed the old house with the wood stove and creaky floorboards. I missed the barn and the loft, which was a great spot to daydream. 

I also missed Hector. It was about this time of the year when I’d met him a few years ago. 

As the mostly treeless scenery passed, I let my mind wander back. 

***

We'd just buried my Grandmother, and my Dad was in a rage over something, so I was staying out of his way, hiding in the barn loft, when I saw a stranger come in. 

He was young, maybe just a little older than me, but like me, he was no skinny teenager.  He was tall and broad, with the wide, powerful-looking shoulders that heavy farm work produced.  He had dark curly hair that was shaggy and sat on his head like a mop.  His hands were in the pockets of well-worn jeans, and his faded t-shirt had holes at the collar.  The skin of his exposed neck and arms was a warm brown, and I immediately assumed he was probably one of the itinerant workers who passed through during the harvest season.   

“Hey!” I called down from the loft. “Can I help you?” 

At the sound of my voice, he turned and looked up at me.  His face was heart-shaped, with a straight nose and huge eyes under thick brows.  He grinned, and dimples appeared on his cheeks.  I was caught off guard by his age, how handsome he was, and by his friendly smile.  Most of the men who’d come in previous years were older and kept to themselves. 

“Just looking around,” he answered.  He had an accent, but his English was good. 

“Are you one of the seasonals?” 

“Yeah, with my father and uncles, they are talking to the owner about some work.  You part of the family? 

“Yep, I’m Alex.” 

Intrigued by his outgoing personality, I moved to the ladder and climbed down.   He met me at the bottom with an outstretched hand. It was as coarse and calloused as mine. 

“Hector,” he said. 

I didn’t know many people my age, and the ones I did know, I could not call friends.  I was too self-conscious about my rough clothes and lack of social skills to ever be comfortable around them. This guy seemed different; he was like me, and I was instantly at ease. 

“Nice place, what kind of farm is it?”  He said, looking around. 

As farms go we were small and struggling, but I appreciated the attempt at a compliment.  If he was thinking I had some pull with my dad and could help his family get hired, though, he was dead wrong. 

“It’s okay, mostly soybeans, some wheat.  We have a few chickens and two dairy cows.”

“Horses?” he asked, a hopeful glint in his eye.

“Nah, we had a mule when I was a kid, and a goat, but they’re long gone.” 

“Hector!” A voice called from outside the barn. 

With a final smile and nod, he turned and went out the door.  I watched him go, taking note of my slightly elevated heartbeat. 

I had known for some time that I was attracted to boys, and I knew that made me gay, and although I wasn’t quite sure how I fit into that world, I wasn’t too upset about it. However, I’d been sitting on the knowledge, unsure what to do with it, and understanding that, for now, stuck on a farm in Montana, I was not going to experience it anytime soon.

Until Hector, and it was crush at first sight.  

Much to my great joy, Dad announced at supper that he’d taken on Hector’s family for a couple of weeks' work.   Mom wasn’t happy, we were barely scraping by as it was, and she thought it was an expense that we could not afford.  They argued, but eventually, Dad won. His logic was that their labor was cheaper than renting the fancy equipment we’d need to get the harvest in.  We still had a tractor, but most of what else we’d owned had been sold off to keep the bank at bay.  Plus, as a bonus, if we finished early, there would be time to plant some hard winter wheat before the first frost.  I think it might have been the first time that I’d ever been rooting for him in one of their disagreements.  

For the next few weeks, I was excused from any schoolwork to join the men in the fields, and my fascination with Hector deepened. 

September that year was warm and often he worked stripped to the waist, his light brown body rippled with muscles and I loved the sight of him.  I’d never been so happy to do farm work in my life.  I started to copy him, losing my shirt, and soon I was almost as brown as he was.  

It wasn’t just how handsome he was. He was also kind and funny.  He was a few years older but didn’t treat me like a kid.  In the evenings, we’d hang out in the loft, lying side by side, and he’d tell me about the world outside Montana that I had yet to experience.  I would be conscious of how close his body was to mine, the way his dark hair curled around his ears, the small scar on his right elbow, and the soft purr of his voice when he rolled his r’s.  I had no indication Hector had any interest in me except as a friend, but it didn’t matter; being around him was enough.  

Once a month, as part of our homeschooling, my mom would take Sarah Jane and me to the big public library in Billings.  And I had recently discovered a series of novels about Alexander the Great.  In particular, I was excited about his relationship with Hephaestion. The idea that these two men could be in love and could have a passion for each other that transcended ordinary friendship was magical.  My time with Hector made me feel like I was experiencing the same thing, that he and I were like Alexander and Hephaestion.  Even our initials were the same, A and H.   

One night, as we were nearing the end of the harvest, I went in search of Hector for our usual evening chat.  I entered the barn through the smaller side door and saw him standing halfway up the ladder that led to the loft.  Just as I crossed toward him, he leaped backwards, pushing off the rung with his powerful legs, launching himself out into midair.  I thought he’d slipped and was about to yell his name, but instead of crashing to the floor, he gracefully kicked his legs over his head, completed a neat back flip, and landed perfectly on two feet.  

“Holy Shit!” I called, “I didn’t know you could do that. What are you, some kind of acrobat?” 

He turned and a shy smile broke across his face, “No, not an acrobat, a Luchador… or I want to be.” 

“A what?” I asked.

“A Luchador, a wrestler.” 

“A professional Wrestler?  Like on TV?”  I asked, crossing toward him.  I’d watched some wrestling on TV when I was a kid.  I’d loved it then, but neither of the two channels we got played it anymore.  I immediately pictured Hector in a skimpy pair of trunks, rolling around with another guy, and I started getting hard. 

“HA, sort of like that, but in Mexico we have our own style, Lucha Libre.  My Uncle Ernesto is pretty well known in my town.  He is El Lobo Guapo, “the handsome wolf”.  He’s been teaching me, and when I get back, he said he will put me in a real match in the ring.

“Amazing!”  I enthused.

“I just have to decide if I am going to be a good guy, a tecnico, or a bad guy, a rudo.”

“I can’t imagine you as a bad guy.”  I said innocently, making him smile even bigger. 

“Well that’s the beauty, behind the mask you can be whatever you want.  The tecnico’s usually win but the rudo’s have the most fun.  Uncle Ernesto says I can always wait and let the audience decide.  If they boo at me then I will be a villain whether I want to be one or not.   He says that even though the mask hides your face, it cannot disguise your true nature.  The fans will know before you even step in the ring.” 

“What else can you do?” I asked. 

“I can flip from the front as well, but I land on my opponent.” 

“Show me!” I enthused impulsively.  The wrestling talk was like gas poured on the fire of my attraction. My heart was pumping a mile a minute. 

He eyed me suspiciously. “The opponent needs to be strong enough to catch me.”

“I’m strong.”

“I know you are,” he smiled, “I’ve seen you lifting hay bales.  But it’s not just about strength.  There is an art to it.” 

“Teach me.” 

I tensed my muscles and puffed up my chest while I watched him debate the idea in his head.

“Okay, but let’s use some of the straw to make a soft landing just in case.”  He smiled, and I silently screamed “yes” in my head.  

Working together we took some of the freshly baled hay and stacked a few on top of each other.  Then I grabbed a pitchfork and threw enough loose straw on the floor of our “ring” till there was a nice thick cushion under us.  

“Okay,” he said, unbuttoning his plaid shirt and tossing it to the side. “First I need to show you how you will catch me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, then, feeling that I had come this far, I followed his lead and took my shirt off. 

“You will take my weight here across your chest.”

His rough hand pressed on my bare pec muscle, and a shiver went down my spine.

“One arm will go between my legs here,” he pointed, “the other will go around my shoulder, yes?”

I nodded.  It was a cool, early fall evening, but I was sweating. 

“Before I jump, we will practice.” 

Dutifully, I reached between his legs and lifted.   My other hand went over his shoulder, and very quickly, he was up and across my body.  I had expected it to be harder, but he was helping me by taking some of his weight as he held my shoulders.

 “I must keep my body stiff like a board so you can catch me.  If I am soft or wiggly, I will hurt you or myself.” 

“Yeah, makes sense,” I answered, my voice coming out slightly higher than normal. I could feel the fat lump of his dick pressing against my forearm, and I thought I might pass out.  I quickly set him down.

We went through the lift a few more times just from standing.   He made a few corrections, then he stood on one hay bale and jumped.  I staggered a bit as he landed, but then held him steady after a moment.  I forced myself to focus on the mechanics of the maneuver and not on the beautiful, bare-chested object of my desire, which I held in my arms.

After a few more practice leaps from one bail, we progressed to two, then three.  By the time we got to four, I felt pretty good about my ability to take his weight.  He did too, flying at me with more abandon, sure now that I could hold him.

“You are a fast learner.”  He patted my back.  It was dark outside, and the single bare light bulb that illuminated the barn hit his upper body, making him look like he was carved from stone. 

“Is this Lucha stuff just all jumping and flips?”  I asked.  I was craving him so desperately that I was moved to throw my natural cautious nature out the window.  

“No, there are lots of wrestling moves… probably like the ones you’ve seen on TV.”  He answered.

“Like what?” I asked. 

“Lay down on your belly.” 

I did as he asked.  

I felt him straddle my back and plant both feet just behind my shoulder blades.  He took hold of my biceps, pulled up, draping them across his knees, and my spine was bent unpleasantly. 

“Relax,” he instructed, “you will be able to withstand it longer.” 

I tried to do as he’d told me, but it was still painful.  When he reached his hands under my chin and lifted my head, it got worse.

“In English they call this the camel clutch.  I believe it was made famous by an Arab wrestler.” 

“Ugghhh yeah,” I grunted, “makes sense.” 

“Try to get out,” he said. 

I began to fight against the hold, straining to get my arms off his thighs, but he kept his elbows tucked close to his legs, preventing me from breaking free.  Eventually, he let me go, and my chest crashed to the straw matting under us. 

“In a match,” he continued, “you and I would work together, like dance partners.  You would stay in my hold and act like it was killing you. The crowd would go crazy.” 

 He moved off and stood. 

“Yeah, I know.  It’s all fake.” 

“Mmmm,” he chuckled, “Did it hurt when I put you in the hold?”  

“Yeah, some.”  I answered, rolling over and sitting up.

“So then not completely fake,” he smiled.  

He extended his hand to help me up.  Once standing, I saw a glint in his eye that I recognized.   We’d been playing a game with each other while we worked,  comparing strength, seeing who could lift the most bales of hay.  I recognized the look he was giving me now as the same one he got when I’d outdone him in some way.

 “This is how we start,” he said.

Before I could react, he moved in and locked up with me, one hand behind my neck and the other on the back of my arm. 

Instinctively, I matched him, and I heard him grunt in approval.  

Instantly, I felt the change.

His grip got tighter. He was using his muscles to pull me off balance.  We were wrestling for real now. 

I widened my stance and did the same.

We were pushing and pulling on each other, trying to gain an advantage. The closeness of our bodies, the smell of his clean sweat, his strength matching mine, was exhilarating.  Alexander and Hephaestion probably wrestled together all the time. 

After minutes of struggling, he caught me off guard.  With amazing quickness, he threw me off balance, stepped to the side, tossed one of my arms over his shoulder, and caught me in a headlock.  My face was pressed into his sweaty armpit, his chest hard against my cheek.  He clasped his hands together and ground his bicep into my neck.  I was bent forward, and I heard him snort in pleasure at gaining the upper hand. 

My competitive nature, which I’d discovered was much stronger than I’d ever thought, kicked into gear.  I locked my arms around his taught waist and pulled him in.  I was pleased to hear his victory groan turn to a moan of discomfort as my bearhug tightened around his ribs. 

I was in heaven, then an angry yell penetrated my euphoric fog.

“HEY!”  I heard.  “What the hell are you two doing?” 

It was my Dad’s voice. 

We both dropped our holds and stood up to face him.  He was standing by the small door with a scowl on his face.

“Look at this mess!” He bellowed.

“Sorry, Sir.”  Hector stammered.  “We will clean up.”

“Damn right you will, and be quick about it.  It’s after ten.”

He stared at the two of us, and his expression wasn’t just the usual pissed off one - there was something else, like he’d tasted something sour.  I felt like I knew what it was, that he could read my thoughts and knew that wrestling with Hector had meant more to me than just two boys messing around, and he hated me because of it.

“Alex get inside.” He finally yelled, then turned to go, mumbling what a couple of jackasses we were.  

Neither of us moved until he’d shut the door behind him.  

Right away, Hector started dismantling the ring.  I fought through the guilt and shame I was feeling and tried to crack a joke, something to dispel the ugly tension that my father had suddenly brought to the barn, but the words dried up in my mouth.  Hector's cheeks were red, and he wouldn’t make eye contact with me.  He was embarrassed and felt the same kind of humiliation I did

“Sorry,” was all I could manage.  He just grunted and kept on working. 

                                                                                                                       ***

“Sorry,” a tiny voice beside me questioned, and for a second I thought I had spoken.  Saying out loud what I’d said to Hector as he pulled away from me so quickly.   But I turned away from the window and discovered it was a kid standing in the aisle next to my bench. 

“Is it okay if I sit here?” he asked. 

He was white as a sheet, and there was a tremor in his voice. 

Looking around, I realized that while I’d been daydreaming, the bus had filled, and the spot next to me was the only place left open.

What does he think, I wondered, I’m going to eat him for breakfast?

“Sure,” I answered, then realized that a good number of the other passengers were watching us, waiting to see what the giant would do.  

The little boy swallowed, then sat down, straddling the vinyl with one cheek on and one cheek off.

Satisfied I was not about to attack, the others turned away, and I heard a mumbled freak from somewhere.

I ignored it and went back to looking out the window, but unfortunately, just like last year, Hector was gone. 

I didn’t see much of him after the barn incident.  He stayed in the tent with his father and uncles most of the time, and a few days later, they moved on.  Nor did they return the following year.  Not that it would have mattered anyway.  My Dad’s drinking had escalated to the point that there was not much of a harvest to get in anyway.

We struggled through the winter, but by the spring it was over.  The Bank seized our farm, and the only home I’d ever known was no longer ours.

Then came the big move.  With the help of a distant cousin who lived in Canada, he got a job with an oil company in Alberta, found a small house for us to rent, and Mom, Sarah Jane, and I joined him.

 So here we were, starting over, in a new country, with me on a bus going to a high school for the first time in my life. 

I closed my eyes and tried to conjure up the picture of him again, in just jeans, sweat glistening on his hard muscles, smirking at me, then moving in and locking up to wrestle, but the nerves and tension I was feeling kept the image from becoming clear. 

I rubbed my eyes and then ran my hands down my face to my freshly shaved jaw. Three little pieces of blood-stained toilet paper fluttered loose and landed on the kid’s pant leg.

It has been a couple of days since Wrestlefest Canada ended. While everyone who attended tries to readjust to normality again, on behalf of the Organization Committee, I would like to take a minute to say thanks.

It was an incredible weekend, filled with wrestling and comradery. Life-long memories were made, a few bucket lists were checked, and friendships were born and deepened. It turned out better than we could have hoped and there are more than a few people to thank for that.

First a shout out to our sponsors and partners. Meetfighters, Watchfighters and Meetkink, were generous in their financial support and for providing the platform to promote and organize. Also, thank you to the venues who hosted our official events. Flash graciously hosted our opening singlet party, Jarod at Gigster for providing our venue for the Live event, The Black Eagle for accommodating our closing BBQ, and the Grapplepit for partnering with us at the Birdhaus for the open mat. We appreciate your contributions, and for making space for us.

A thanks also goes to Ry Levey, and Smash Wrestling for providing the door prizes at the Opening party.

Thank you to the wrestlers, hosts, and our referees, who performed at the live event. I won't list you all by name, but your hard work and bravery entertained everyone who attended for three hours.

However, the biggest thank you must go to the attendees, the guys who participated, engaged, and showed up. Without you, this weekend wouldn’t have been what it was. As the organizers we set the stage, but it was you who brought it to life with your energy, enthusiasm, and openness. Thank you to the wrestling locals who welcomed the out-of-towners, and to those that traveled, some from as far as Australia, to partake in this crazy, wonderful weekend of wrestling.

In the next few weeks, we will be posting a feedback survey. We would appreciate hearing your genuine thoughts and experiences. Conversations about what we can do to make next year even better are already occurring and we welcome your input.

On behalf of myself (Canwrestle), LeanMachine, Madeincanada, and Sunny Deleon, thank you. We look forward to welcoming you back next year and to more fantastic times on and off the mats.

We are less than two weeks from the Live at Wrestlefest Canada show on July 27th. It's going to be a great night, with 16 wrestlers and 7 matches. Thank you to our sponsors Watchfighters and Meetfighters, the ticket buyers, and the brave Wrestlefest attendees who have volunteered to wrestle for the audience.
Unfortunately, the event is sold out, but don't worry if you are not going to be in Toronto, or didn't get a ticket, the individual matches will be coming to Watchfighters soon after the show.

As I edit a video I filmed for my Watchfighters page, (shameless plug: https://www.watchfighters.com/channels/canwrestle) I am contemplating what made this particular meet "ALMOST" perfect.

This is subjective of course, there are lots of opinions on what perfect is, and by no means do I think my preferred style is the only valid one. Nor do I want to give the impression that I haven’t experienced really awesome meet ups apart from this one. However, having read OsakaRob’s interesting post about your “wrestling quotient”, where he suggests one metric for our own desirability as a wrestler is the ability to fully explain what we are looking for in a match, what that means to me, and whether I can do that, has been on my mind. When I think about it, this one comes pretty damn close as an example of what was perfect for me... almost.

This match took place in my hotel with the incredible Bobby Ben Carter the first night of Wrestlefest Canada this past July. Although it was the first time Bobby and I were meeting in person, we had been chatting for months leading up to the event, and had built a pretty good friendship. This meant that when he came to my room we were already comfortable with each other. There wasn’t any awkwardness, our personalities meshed and the relationship we’d created on line was well established before we put the gear on.

We’d also talked about our likes and what we enjoyed extensively and so were comfortable with what was going to happen. Of course there is that fear that we will be disappointing in person. That we won’t live up to the persona created by sharing pics and messages, however, this didn't last long and we were quickly relaxed and easy with each other. Bobby exceeded my expectations and I got the feeling I met his.

The wrestling started and the only thing we planned was that we would wear matching singlets – for the shits and giggles. Right from the lock up we were in synch. We are very similar in height and weight and pretty close in strength (although he might have me there, but I think I got him in experience). I can enjoy the mismatch of wrestling with a larger or smaller opponent, but for me there is something special when the two combatants are equals. This was the case and the chemistry we shared in personality transferred to the physical.

Style is a tricky thing, especially when you add the video component. I pride myself on being flexible in this area, moving easily from pro to real submission and even freestyle depending on my opponent. Bobby and I had talked about a real wrestling match, but we also discussed that if you are making a video, that to keep things interesting, you need to qualify that realness with some flow. One guy in mount moving at a snail’s pace to secure a submission, while the guy on bottom moves equally slowly to reverse, does not make for an interesting video. You have to be able to give a little, allow a sequence to play out, and control your intensity so you’re not making your opponent tap within seconds. This is a hard skill to master. It helps if you have training, or experience at least. You have to walk a fine line and not everyone can or is willing to do this. Within the first few minutes of wrestling I knew Bobby had a good mastery of this skill. The fight would be real, but safe and controlled. I’d be sore and sweaty after we were done, but not injured, and we’d have a good video to share as a bonus. I also didn’t know if I would win or lose. It was going to be close and that gets my juices flowing.

Wrestling is inherently erotic for me. I get off on it, that’s why I’m here. If I want sport I can go to my BJJ club and wrestle all the straight boys I want. What I hope when meeting someone from here is that there will be an attraction and the wrestling will include an erotic component. It doesn’t always happen, and that’s okay too, also what constitutes erotic can change depending on the person and the situation. Maybe the match will end in a mutual jerk, maybe there will be nudity, oral or sometimes even more. All can be satisfying and I can usually find pleasure in whatever happens. However, what it really means is, I like when the aggression is mixed with moments of passion, when there is kissing, body worship or more.

In this match the first kiss happened after about ten minutes of straight wrestling. I can’t remember which of us initiated it, but I know it happened spontaneously, coming out of the wrestling, pausing it for a moment, but by no means stopping it. I believe Bobby followed up the making out by trying to choke me out with a guillotine. As the match progressed, the frequency of these moments and the intensity of them built. For me this is exactly how I want the eroticism to happen - a natural extension of the fight. I’m not talking about dominance either, although that can be fun if it’s your thing. I’m talking about the struggle, the bond, the challenge and ultimately what it leads to. It’s not something that happens often, but when it does, it’s absolutely perfect in my opinion.

The title of the blog is "ALMOST" perfect, and there was unfortunately one thing that I would have changed if I could. Both Bobby and I had somewhere to be so unfortunately we had to end the match after the third submission. I could have gone many more rounds with this incredible guy and I believe so could he. Also, because of our prior commitments, the singlets did not come all the way off, something that, if we’d had the time, would definitely have happened next. The bright spot however is that we are both ready for a rematch and are now fully aware that we should plan to go all night the next time.

Not every meet is going to be perfect, and it doesn’t mean that the ones that aren’t suck. I can honestly say that most of my matches have been good ones in one aspect or another, but every so often we get lucky, all the stars align and all the elements are present to create the "ALMOST" perfect match.

For the rack or backbreaker fans I just uploaded a free compilation video to my watchfighters.
A great finisher and an awesome way to humble an opponent. What could be more dominant then having a guy drapped across your shoulders, helpless and begging to submit ? Especially if he's been stripped of his gear.
10 racks from 10 different matches, Dad vs Dad, Dad vs Son, 2 vs 1, AND clips from 2 as yet unreleased videos.
Check it out, drop a like and follow !
Cheers