Message from John Carter

This blog is rated R and is not appropriate for people under the age of 18. If you are offended by gay content, please move on and read some other blog.

Monday, January 27, 2014

I Need to Wrestle

This past weekend was a bit of a drag.  I caught the flu - or something very nearly like it - and it sort of ruined my weekend.  Here it is Monday, and I feel just fine.

Go figure, huh?

So, I decided a while back that I would try Scruff again.  That is an app for your phone that lets you meet guys.  It tells you exactly how far they are from you, and you can text them and set up a meeting.

After being back on it for a while, I remember now why I dropped off of it.  The guys on this app just want to text - endlessly, back and forth.  How are you. I'm fine. What's up? What are you up to?  On and on. 

I haven't actually met anyone yet.

Certainly no one like the stud in the pic above.  Yikes.  I'd like to get him on the carpet and wrestle him into a few holds. 

One thing about Scruffs that cracks me up is that guys always ask the size of my cock.  "What size are you?"

I don't really know.

I guess I must be the only male in America who has not measured the length of his cock, but honestly, it never occurred to me that I needed to.  I mean, I've never walked away from a guy because his member was undersized.  I've met a few guys whose members were, in fact, rather small, but that was no big deal. 

So I never know how to respond, exactly.  Lately I've just taken to selecting a number a random:  Seven.  Forty-nine.  Three hundred and eight. 

One guy sent me a pic of his cock.  Then another.  Then another.  Then another.  And on and on.  I finally just texted him back and said, "Yeah, I got it."  I mean, it wasn't like they were artfully posed shots.  It was just him and his cock in the bedroom - in the kitchen, ominously close to a knife sharpener - in front of the bathroom mirror, looking particularly jaundiced - in front of the TV apparently watching "The Bachelor."  I was expecting him to send me a shot of the Eiffel Tower with his cock in a beret, or a shot of a smiling President and Mrs. Obama with his cock waving in the background. 

But that's the difference between people you meet on a site like Scruff and those you meet on a wrestling site.  We are more interested in seeing each others chest and arms.  Our abs.  Our shoulders.  The face can be important, but not always.  Other guys, they just want to see the cock.  How's it hanging?  Well, it' know...hanging. 

So, will I actually meet a guy using this app?  I doubt it.  One guy I texted with for quite a while seemed promising.  But when I texted him and asked if he'd like to meet, he just texted back, continuing the conversation, as though I'd never asked.  He didn't want to meet.  He just wanted to text. 

So, when will I next be wrestling?  I hope this coming weekend.  Then, the week of Feb. 14, I will be in DC to wrestle for a few days.  Can't wait!!

Monday, January 20, 2014

How'd This All Get Started?

The other day I was trying to remember how I ever got interested in wrestling.  I'm aware that most of the guys who equate wrestling with sex came to it through professional wrestling.  And I watched pro wresting on Saturday afternoons on occasion.  But most of the time my grandmother was busy watching it too, and she really believed that it was real.  She actually fell out of her chair one day watching a match.  I thought she'd hurt herself.

But I don't recall being particularly turned on by pro wrestling until I was in my teens.  I think part of the reason I didn't like it as much was because the guys always seemed so huge...and older.  Many of them had full beards.  They looked like grown men, and I think I was just not that turned on in those days by a huge, hairy guy.  I've changed now.  I can definitely appreciate a muscled guy with a hairy chest, and I certainly have no issue with the age of a guy.  But I'm talking about when I was a kid.

So, anyway, pro wrestling was not the genesis of my interest in wrestling.  Rather, I'm pretty sure it originated from reading comic books.  I loved comics, and I was lucky that I was bought comics by my mom pretty often.  Whenever we went down to Weingarden's, I would sit on the floor in front of the spinning rack of comics and search for the one's I wanted.  When I got my haircut, the barber had tons of DC comics.  I invariably read the Flash or the Green Lantern while I got my bi-weekly crewcut.  And when we went to the drug store, I was at the rack again, buying copies of the Amazing Spider-man, Thor, Hercules, and the Sub-Mariner. 

I'm not sure how I translated the pictures of the muscular guys in tight spandex into sex.  I mean, I'm not sure why that is what happened with me, as opposed to just liking comics.  Probably the fact that I was gay and desperately wanted to have sex (even at eleven and twelve) got sublimated into a fetish for muscled guys who struggled against each other.

My absolute first encounter with wrestling involved a kid who lived on my block.  In those days, my mom and dad both worked during the day, so I was turned out into the streets to play until dark.  I also had the run of the house, so there was plenty of privacy if I wanted it.

Anyway, this kid on my block was a year younger than me.  He was very handsome and had a great body.  It sounds sort of pervy now, doesn't it?  But when you're eleven or twelve and you really want to have sex, you try your best to find a way to do it.  The problem was that I did not know what the hell sex was.  I just knew that wrestling a guy really got me excited.

So, anyway, this kid - let's call him Ken - and I were playing.  I don't remember what we had been doing, but I suggested we go over to my house.  My older brother was out, and the house was quite and dark.  For some reason Ken and I wound up in my parent's bedroom.  We were not on the bed, however.  Instead, we were in the floor, talking.  I remember the room being dark - the shades were drawn, and my mom's vibrating exercise machine was against the wall.  You know what I mean (I hope) --one of those machines with the band that wound got around your waist and then it would shake the shit out of you and you were supposed to lose weight.

I suggested that we wrestle.  Kids, young kids especially, always want to wrestle it seemed to me.  And Ken was ready to take me on.  We wrestled back and forth across the carpet, and pretty soon we were hot and sweaty.  We both had that smell guys get when they're wrestling.  That clean sweat smell - I haven't smelled it in a long time.  Men don't smell the same.  And frankly that it fine with me.  But I can't help but remember how we smelled.  And how I wanted to wrestle with our shirts off.
I'm sure I told Ken that we need to strip down because we were so hot.  I vaguely remember telling him that he had a great body (believe it or not).  And I remember him swelling up with pride at that.  Then we wrestled some more.  I loved the feel of his body.  Loved the fact that I could control him and the match and make it last and last.  He was so determined to pin me or make me give, but he just wasn't strong enough to get me in a position to make me submit.

Then, suddenly, he had to go.  He struggled into his shirt and began making excuses about how he thought he heard his mom calling for him.  I almost begged him to stay, but he was gone in a few brief seconds.  At that time I didn't even know how to masturbate, and I was left with that flushed, throbbing feeling that comes from being aroused with no release. 

I'm not sure what I did to make him so uneasy.  Maybe it was just the realization that what we were doing was so private.  Or he caught on to how I was reacting.  I never attempted to undress him or anything.  It was all just wrestling and frankly that is all I knew to do.  I had no conception of anything beyond that.  But, again, I was eleven or twelve.

Now, I have no interest in children.  That is not the point of this story.  I like grown men.

No the point is that I was trying to recall the point in my life when sexual desire became attached to wrestling.  I actually recall that I had this timeline memorized as a kid as to when I started thinking this way.  I tried to hold onto that memory, but it has faded over the years and I can no longer recall it.
But I can recall those first, fitful, awkward attempts to find a wrestling soul mate.

I'm still looking.


Saturday, January 18, 2014

Taking Charge

There is this guy from a state over who has been writing to me.  He found me on a website - not Global - and had been wanting to wrestle with me.  The first time he wrote to me, I wrote back and said I'd wrestle him.  I guess I meant it in the polite but never-gonna-happen sort of way.  I really didn't think we'd ever wrestle.  He lives about eight hours away from me.

He wrote back and said he was driving over to wrestle me. 

Ordinarily, that would not be a big deal, except for a few things.  He didn't ask me if I was free.  He just said he was coming.  I was not free.  I had already made plans with my family. 

Then there was his size.  He weighs 285 pounds.  He's six two.  And he has this pot belly. 

When I told him that I was not available that weekend, he was not very happy about it.  I guess when I had originally written back and said I'd wrestle him, he took that to mean that I was ready right then.  Or at least, in the near term. 

His email back to me was really sort of rude.  But, interestingly, he started in on wanting to know exactly when he could come over.  I wrote back, saying I thought I might be able to be available the next weekend. 

But I did not hit send.

You see, it had finally hit me.  I don't have to wrestle this guy.  No matter how insistent he is about his wanting to wrestle me.  No matter that he is willing to drive a long way and get a hotel room.

I don't have to say yes.

That might seem self-evident to you, but for some reason I've found that I have fallen into the habit of trying my best to wrestle anyone who wants to wrestle me.  No matter whether I find them attractive or even interesting.  I always say yes.

I've decided that I am not going to do that anymore.  I gotta stop.  I wind up wrestling these huge guys - all way over 200 pounds (I'm 145) - and I just can't do anything with them.  I can't move them around.  I can't get them off me when they get on top.  It's just no fun for me.

But mainly I'm starting to examine my approach to all this wrestling business.  I still love to wrestle and I am staying in shape.  But I am going to be a little more circumspect in choosing who I wrestle going forward.  I am not going to wrestle anyone who out-weighs me by more than forty pounds unless they are in really great shape or I know them already and are a friend.  I'm not going to wrestle guys who don't take care of themselves.  I work out all the time, and while I don't expect other guys to look like Kellen Lutz, I do expect them to be in some semblance of shape.  

I had a match (so to speak) a few weeks back with a guy that was really great.  I had met him before, but I had never had a chance to wrestle with him alone.  I'd can't really explain it, but as soon as I walked in the door and saw him, I knew I liked him.  We had a great time all morning long.  He was sexy and physical, and I really enjoyed myself.

So, you see, you can have great meetings.  It's just that you have to be true to yourself about what you want, and what you don't want.


Thursday, January 16, 2014


There is something about a clean-cut, muscled jock in a singlet isn't there?  The guy above has a lot of the attributes that I find compelling in a wrestler: smooth muscle, clean-shaven chest and face, and blonde hair.  I'm sort of a sucker for blonde hair.

I don't know why that is, exactly, but if I had to guess I would think that it is because when I was a kid, one of my friends was a guy who had brilliant blonde hair.  He was an absolute asshole, no doubt about that, but he was handsome.  Even as a kid, he was built really well.  He was very athletic.

I always wanted to wrestle him, but he always found some reason not to wrestle with me.  Usually, he'd just run away from me.  Weird, huh?  But he would.

I think the reason he did this was that he really found something provocative in the fact that he was not involved.  For instance, one of his favorite things to do was to get one of my friends to invite someone over.  He would hide, and then get the one friend to ask the other friend whether he liked him.  He wanted to over-hear someone speaking badly of him.  Isn't that an odd compulsion?  I've never met another person who had that desire.  This was a twelve-year-old kid, by-the-way.

I asked him about it several times, but he never would answer me.  He'd just shrug it off and change the subject.  I think that part of his problem was his father (big surprise).  His dad never called him by his name.  He always referred to him as 'boy.'

Was that some sort of evidence of abuse?  If it was, it wasn't much.  I never saw him look like he'd been hit.  In fact, he always looked really nice.

His blonde hair gave him a perpetually clean look - like even though he was covered in sweat from playing basketball, he still looked neat.  And attractive.

I sort of fell out with him about the time we hit puberty.  I started hanging out with a bunch of second-tier jocks that liked to wrestle and play football.  He was basketball all the way.

And, one day I was riding in the back seat of my dad's car and we passed by his house.  He was on the front porch in the act of putting on his t-shirt.  I never will forget that image.  I had not seen him in a few years, but there he was, muscled up and tan from the sun.  His hair was matted with sweat but still looked perfect.  I think I almost came all over myself.

The guy in the picture above reminds me of him.