Memory Lane

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.

My work is making me cross paths frequently with college-age hunks these days. Like I mentioned yesterday, the heat is also inspiring the aforementioned barely legal muscleboys to display generous quantities of skin. Yes, indeed, there could be worse ways to spend a summer, even with the sweat trickling down the back of my neck at this very moment.

These shots of Seth 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.

I had a few rockin’ gorgeous frat brothers, one in particular who particularly enjoyed to wrestle. He was blond, a football player with incredibly long legs and a fantastic hard, round ass. I don’t think I’m overstating it to say that he had some of the aesthetics of a Seth Kuhlman. And for some reason, he loved wrestling with me, in particular.

The scenario was repeated often my last two years in the frat (I was a junior his freshman year). He’d walk in the room where I was (the “chapter room,” my bedroom, the bathroom…), and he’d say something intentionally provocative. He’d make a short joke (I was about half a foot shorter than he). He’d walk up and knock my cap off for no good reason. Whatever, he’d create a pretense in which I was required by the intricate homo-charged bonding rituals of young men to stand up, puff out my chest, and indicate that I was prepared to defend my honor with physical force. Two seconds later, we’d be locked up, him with a height and weight advantage, me with a lower center of gravity and, let’s face it, superior smarts. Two times out of three, the situation would end with me submitting. At least one of those times out of three, I’d submit because my erection was raging so hard that it couldn’t be disguised and, frankly, was posing an injury hazard. One time out of three, the gorgeous blond stud would power me to my back, hook a leg, and just let gravity keep me pinned to my back until I gave up.

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.

3 thoughts on “Memory Lane

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