I got up at five o’clock (my usual time) to go for a run yesterday. I like to get in about two quick miles before work along with around 400 crunches and 80-100 push-ups. I walked out the front door and took a look at the temperature gauge on the front porch. It was twenty-four degrees.
I don’t like cold weather. Oh, I ran, avoiding the icy spots, but it was damned cold. If the wind hadn’t been blowing, I think I could have stood it a little better, but the breeze would just take your breath away.
This morning, it was twenty-one degrees. I just turned over and went back to bed for thirty minutes.
Winter is not my favorite season. I don’t like being cold. I guess it’s the southern boy in me. We folk from south of the Mason-Dixon don’t care much for frost and snow. We like it hot and sunny, with a mint julip on the front porch. I’ve been to Chicago in January, and I’ve been to Evanston in early March (that’s just north of Chicago). And it was frigging cold. But I didn’t much care for it. Heavy coats make it hard to gauge a guy’s build.
Of course, on the other hand, January and February is wrestling season. This is the time of year when college wrestling is in full swing and I can watch matches on the Big Ten Network or on FlowWrestling.com. As you probably already know, I have a major hard-on for several college wrestlers, and I love watching them hit the mats and struggle and sweat and win, and lose.
I especially love it when a wrestler I like gets in trouble, and gets turned over onto his back – giving up those precious backpoints – as he struggles to escape and right himself. That moment, when he is being humiliated in front of the crowd, held helpless on the mats, gets me really turned on. I love that scenario when the hero is rendered immobile and displayed to the gaping crowd. In college wrestling that means that he is face up, a strong hand across his chin, pulling his head backwards. His body is arched and his crotch exposed. You can almost hear the other guy laughing under his breath. Giddy at the debasement of his foe.
College wrestling, unlike so much of the wrestling we see in Pro or in the various videos tailored for gay men, is very real. That sense of real struggle is what I find exciting. The idea that they aren’t just going through the motions of the match; they are actually trying to pin their opponent. I’ve never liked videos where it was obvious that the two guys were just playing, or where it was obvious that neither wrestler really knew how to wrestle. I like to watch the real thing, with real consequences.
For me, personally, I desperately want a match with a guy my size and my skill level. I want to wrestle with him until we are both covered in sweat and gasping for air. I want to be put in holds and have to fight to escape. And I want to put him in holds and have him struggle to free himself. At times, I want to be trapped in a scissors or a nelson—or any appropriate hold--and taunted and teased. I want to be that hero, helpless on the mats, humiliated in front of the crowd. And I want to escape, too, and have the match continue.
Most of all, I want to participate. I have spent way too much time in my life thinking about wrestling. I want to wrestle. I want to experience a guy’s chest pressed up to mine. I want to feel his biceps bulging as he struggles against me. I want to feel his hard cock against mine and know that he is as hard as I am.