Recently, James Cameron, the director of the award-winning movie The Titanic, plunged to the very bottom of the Mariana’s Trench in the South Pacific in a custom-built submarine. Cameron descended over seven miles to the bottom of the trench where he found…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just sand and a sterile (and unforgiving) environment.
Like James Cameron, I plunged into an unforgiving environment last night, descending over twenty miles (take that Cameron) into the depths of a territory peopled by Sex Offenders, Meth Addicts and (apparently) deluded and clueless old men. I did this as a public service. As a means of answering that age old question: will I get laid? And will it be any good?
The answers: No, and, even if I had been, no.
I drove all the way out a gravel road to a couple of trailers arranged in a haphazard jumble under the spreading arms of a brace of oaks to wrestle a guy who was my absolute first guy to wrestle from globalfight. This was, in many ways, a return home. A joining of the circle.
Aw, fuck it. Let’s not tart it up. What a fucking drag.
This dude met me with his hound dog on the edge of his drive (some grass pressed flat by his big ol’pick-em-up truck) dressed in a hoodie and sweats. He looked like he’d gotten out of bed in the previous few minutes. He took one look at me and went all gol-lee.
Did I wrestle him? Yes. For about an hour.
Was it fun? No.
He is some sort of jiu-jitsu black belt bullshit and has no idea how to grapple with someone who is not at his skill level. He kept talking about how hot I was, as he lay, prone and sweaty, on top of me. Have I mentioned how excited I get when an out-of-shape guy lays on me, immobile, for several minutes and says things like “You’re mine, bitch,” in my ear? No, I don’t think I have. I won’t either.
I finally pushed him off and told him that I would not be coming back. I tried to explain to him that there was nothing erotic about having him elbow me in the face. Or use his chin to break a hold. Or the fact that he was forty pounds heavier than me and in terrible shape and hadn’t bothered to bath that day.
So, there it is. The Circle of Life. Cue Elton John. I hopped in my blue Honda Fit and motored my ass outta there. I swerved so as to miss said hound dog and headed back to civilization where I swore never again to let my desire to wrestle override my good sense.