Wrestling This Read Free

stories. He’s one horny dude and age hasn’t calmed him any.
    While the revelation in the back of Margie’s Mustang had fueled my alone time with new mental material— Eric boned in his singlet, Eric’s tongue on mine, Eric’s cock up my ass —I still kept my thirst parched and safely hidden from sustenance. So much so, it sometimes even surprised me when it reappeared. Keep that bagel in just a little longer, until it’s nice and crisp.
    Oddly, my desire for Eric morphed into this jealousy phase toward him. Apparently, it became noticeable to the team and affected our performance. We fought constantly, and it became disruptive to practice.
    One afternoon in March, our tempers flared, per usual, but the coach had had it. He dismissed us early, telling us he had better things to do. Eric and I, the star wrestlers, took the brunt of the blame, while our teammates—except for Dylan—scowled at us and headed off to the showers.
    The three of us argued, pointing blame at anything but the truth.
    “I don’t get it,” Dylan said. “You two are too good to throw this all away over some rivalry no one understands. What is it with you guys?”
    Neither Eric nor I said anything, and we flopped down on the mats, dejected.
    My head swam. I lay down and closed my eyes. Admit it. To yourself even.
    Dylan kicked the bottom of my sneakers. “Get up.”
    “Why? What?”
    “Just get the fuck up.”
    I rose to a sitting position.
    He then took over as coach and barked orders about the maneuver we’d been failing at so miserably. Neither Eric nor I had wanted to bottom —the submissive position in wrestling. It’s so obvious why now but in the haze of dealing with my sexuality, I blamed it on my competitive streak. In sparring, to learn the maneuver best we both needed to play each position.
    When Dylan got mad, his whole body turned red. “Would you two just get your shit together?” Even his chest had splotch marks, as he stood over us with his singlet straps dangling by his side. “Jesus Christ! If you two don’t make up, you’re going to kill our chances against Jacksonville.”
    That’s all I needed to hear—seemingly, Eric too. Dylan took our competitive nature better than the coach and proceeded to instruct us on the move, which we did for a time while the rest of the team filed out and left. They’d given up on us.
    Face down, rump up with Eric behind me, I let go of my humility, and the last of the team shuffled out of the locker room. Eric and I unlocked our hold and fell onto the mats.
    “Better,” Dylan said, and looked up at the windows as it began to rain. “Great, now I’m stuck in here with you two fuck heads.” He made us practice the maneuver a handful more times till we were exhausted and sweaty.
    “Enough,” I said and collapsed on the mat.
    “Uncle,” Eric said and lay down beside me.
    Dyl landed on his knees between us, slapped us on the stomach. “Now you’re getting it. You dudes need to chill into each other.”
    I turned my head and caught Eric’s eye. Beautiful . I laughed nervously and Eric did too.
    A clap of thunder shook the gymnasium and Dylan laid down, head by our feet. “Another Florida rain shower.”
    “It’ll be over in an hour,” Eric said.
    The rain poured in sheets, threw itself against the windowpanes high atop the gymnasium, and the metal roof sounded like bullets ricochet off it. In the far corner, by the stacked bleachers on the east end, a metal bucket caught drops of water that in between the storm’s torrents sent off an annoying plop.
    During a lull in the deluge, but not one safe enough to leave, Dylan blabbered on about a girl, “a C-cup,” from Gilchrist Hall whom he’d run across earlier. We all knew her—all the guys did. After describing her physique, Dylan mentioned, “I’d like to push them together and fuck her tits till I’m raw.”
    “Romantic,” Eric said, in jest. “I’m sure she’d love that.”
    Despite my trying to be