Once after a spectacularly fun, sweaty and erotic hour or so of wrestling with a wrestler buddy, as we lie naked together on his mats, drained and drenched in sweat, my head resting on his pecs, he said to me, with a bit of a laugh, “You know, wrestling is just another form of rough sex.”
And I realized it was true in many ways; wrestling videos certainly had long replaced pornographic ones for my viewing and masturbatory pleasure. My embrace of the erotic side of wrestling, and its place in my nature and desires, was deep and intrinsic. I often had to warn opponents, before hand, that I would get hard while we wrestled; the contact, the testosterone, the competition and struggle, would be a turn-on for me, but I also never expected anything sexual to come from the wrestling. It was a nice bonus, but wasn’t necessary.
So, there I was, on top of Mitch Colby in a hotel room in Vegas, listening to him breathe laboriously, struggling to get away, to get out from under the hold he was trapped inside, as I tweaked it ever so slightly in order to make it even more painful for him to continue resisting.
Wrestling Mitch, despite the fact it was a tough fight, was also turning me on. Maybe it was the fact the fight was so tough that it was a turn on? Was it an overpowering attraction I felt for him? This match was him at perhaps the physical peak of his body; this was arguably the hottest he ever looked.
He was bigger than me, he was stronger than me. Those shiny trunks hugged his pouch and ass beautifully. And even when I got control of the match and was able to dominate him for a while…he was able to take control back almost ridiculously easily.
And then he would flex at me, posing, taunting me with his beautifully shaped and defined muscles.
And with his crotch in my face, his muscles flexing and his veins popping, winning the match became less of a concern…but I still wanted to get some punishment in.
But he ultimately proved to be too strong.