Wrestling This (3 page)

We moaned into each other’s mouth, tongues fliting. The stubble on our faces grazed and sent out a rasp. A white heat filled my body...my soul, and I knew at that moment that loving a man—Eric—was right. We came in furious groans—wetness filled our hands, groins, legs, and chests.

“Are you guys com—”

I turned to see Dylan staring, slack-jawed, at us: Eric’s arm hugging me, his semen mixed with mine in crisscrosses along both our hairy chests, and our mouths frozen in a kiss. He felt so right. More so than I’d imagined.

“Um...no biggie,” Dylan continued, and then looked away. “I guess we’re just bustin’ a nut for Jasmine.”

In post-orgasm awkwardness, Eric and I avoided eye contact and the three of us grabbed our gym bags and left—rain or no rain.

B
ack in our dorm room, Dylan and I argued. We still had our wrestling singlets on, wet from the sprint across campus, the storm only now slowing.

His Linkin Park poster hung crooked on his wall, above an overflowing basket of laundry, a collection of notebooks, and papers—opposite my side of the room with its books neatly stacked on shelves and a New England Patriots poster over my bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were gay?” he asked, plopping on his twin mattress. “I don’t give a—”

“Dylan,” I cut in, “
I
don’t...didn’t even know.” I paced. “In fact, I’m not sure...this is all so new to me.”

He sighed. “It makes what we did...gay.”

I stopped. “Huh?”

He got up, locked the semi-closed door, and in a quieter voice said, “So I beat off with guys sometimes. That doesn’t make me gay.” He sat back down. “Just horny. It’s not like I...kiss.”

“Who am I to judge?” I said, annoyed.
After all he’s done—he’s not one to talk.
I pulled my desk chair out and straddled it with my arms crossed on top.

“But now...it doesn’t matter.” He shot up. “Hey, maybe you could...suck my dick?”

“Dylan! I don’t want to suck your dick. Just because...” I put my hands out. “I’m a little confused, all right?”

“I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Lighten up.” He looked up at the ceiling as if to try to think if it’d be possible.

“I like Eric.”
There
.
I said it.

“I figured as much. Well, just for the record, I still like Jasmine and Margie and—”

“I know.”

“You guys being boyfriends ain’t going to interfere—”

“We’re not boyfriends. Just a few hours ago we hated each other. We haven’t even talked after...”

“Makes sense.”

“What does?” I asked.

“All this fighting and arguing—you guys really love each other.”

“Dylan! We do not.” Loved seemed a little strong of a word, so soon. I started getting anxious, nauseous even. After Eric and I came, and with the embarrassment of it all, the three of us went our separate ways back to the dorms, Dylan and I sharing a jaunt. “Look, I need some time to think.”

“All right.” Dylan rifled through some magazines on his nightstand drawer. “I’ll leave you be. Besides, I’m going to go crank one out. You guys sort of ruined my happy ending.”

I shook my head as he rolled up a magazine, placed it under his arm, and left.

W
hen I left to find Eric, the rain had passed and the sun shined bright—typical Florida afternoon.

From what I recalled, he bunked at Ragans Hall, and after showering and throwing on some fresh clothes—jeans and a long-sleeve, breathe-easy nylon running jersey—off to find him I went.

Across campus I trudged, flipping my Red Sox cap backward so it wouldn’t catch the breeze and blow off. The shirt hugged me in the right spots, and I told myself I looked good—my sister’s advice seeming to work.

When I’d obsessed about my weight, usually when nervous, Tamara put me in my place: “You’re lean as USDA prime cut of beef. Stop! You’re what? One-hundred seventy-four pounds with nine percent body fat?”

“Nine point five,” I’d say, “and one-hundred seventy-five. I shouldn’t have had that shake at—”

“Enough!” Tamara would yell. “Think fit, not fat.” Ever since our mom died, a few years back, she took over with motherly aspects. “Be confident. Drop the fear.” I love her.

Plodding past the Greens, the FSU track team ran laps and a surge of energy swept through me. I started to run in time with them, and then Tamara came to mind and I stopped. Besides, I didn’t want to be all sweaty when I got to Eric’s place.
Let go of the nerves.

Ragans Hall, with its pointed spires and clean, modern look, made me reconsider why I’d chosen Broward. My dormitory looked more like a doctor’s office.

As I schlepped the walkway, with lush grass flanking its sides, my legs felt heavy. I lumbered farther, but as I got closer to the entrance, I stopped, and students whisked by as if I weren’t even there. Justifying an excuse, I told myself I didn’t remember his last name to ask at the door.
Aalam Eric Palak
, a voice inside me said. “Shit.” I couldn’t move.

Jasmine—Dylan’s fantasy, in a tight white sweater—smiled and casually elbowed me. “Hi, Quin. At the wrong hall?”

My stomach tightened. I combed a hand through my hair. “Just...studying the architecture.”

She looked at the building’s brick peaks, where I’d stared. “Huh?”

My baseball cap’s visor hit my shoulder, edging the front upward, and I turned it around—brim forward. “For a class,” I lied, “on contemporary design.” I knew she’d fall for it. Sometimes blondes really do earn their reputation.

“Hmm. Well, we’ll see you around, Hottie.” She went inside. Since I’d broken up with Margie, nearly every girl seemed interested.

Walking backward, I took in the building, making mental notes for my phantom-architectural class.

“Quintin.” Immediately, I recognized it as Eric’s voice, and queasiness ensued. “Quin!” the voice repeated.

I spun, as if in slow motion like one of those sappy movies Margie used to make me watch. I felt like the film’s leading actor, on location. I couldn’t stop the smile from growing on my face.

Part of me expected to see a camera down the quad rushing forward. Instead, Eric sprinted—tan straps on the ends of his cargo shorts swinging beside solid knees and thick quads. “Dylan said you might be here,” he said, coming to a stop with his hands on his hips. He caught his breath.

Keeping my jaw from falling, I muttered, “You went to Broward? To find
me
?” I emphasized the last word, finding his behavior incredulous. I had a hand on my chest.

Teeth whiter than the winter-break blizzard I suffered through months back greeted me. “I did.”

T
he sky threatened a return of rain and we opted to go inside Ragans Hall. Eric signed me in and an overweight girl in a security uniform—reminiscent of the ones Dylan had us steal last year—gave me a raised-eyebrow look. With his room occupied, we decided to use the hall’s gym—in a far corner of the first floor. Our sneakers squeaked their way through the lobby and down a corridor on the building’s northeast side.

“Hardly anyone ever uses it,” Eric said. “They prefer the much-larger sports center with all its equipment.” He wore a green T-shirt, tight around his chest, and his pecs flexed when he held the frosted-pane door open for me.

“Don’t blame them,” I said, entering. The room was small, and the equipment dated, like something out of an eighties movie. A four-stack workout station took up nearly the entire area. A gray file cabinet, rusted on the bottom, stood in the corner.

Regardless of antiquated equipment, it didn’t stop us from using it right away—like two addicts finding a hidden stash. Halfheartedly, we lifted dumbbells we’d taken from a small metal rack along a mirrored wall. We chose weights well below our abilities—the whole effort more to avoid our unspoken-about attraction and its next steps, rather than to exercise.

Eric played a One Republic shuffle on his phone. It emitted tinny squeals from the small speaker. “Sounds better with my earbuds,” he said.

For a minute or two—while “Counting Stars” squeaked out—we talked about the band being our favorite. I felt a connection, at least through song, growing strong. I wanted to see where it would go
. Could two guys really have a relationship?

He let go of the station’s lat pull he’d held, and its fall clanged to a stop. I think he only had fifteen pounds on it, so it barely exerted his pinky.

“It’s cool that we both like the same music,” I said. You’d think we just met and hadn’t been floundering on top of each other for three months sparring on a mat—the discovery so innocent.

With the peeling sound of Velcro, he opened a pocket in his shorts and took out a set of earbuds. He hitched it to his phone and placed one end in his ear, and then gestured for me to come near. I did, and he placed the other earplug in mine.

I gasped.

After he finished—all smiles—he traced two fingers slowly along my cheek. It seemed like one of those moments straight out of a movie again, time grinding to a halt.

I lost myself in the pull of his eyes—the flecks of black in his brown irises. In his pupils, I searched for his soul. I knew he saw mine. I could feel its tug. I freely let the depths of
me
out. Moreover, I thought I got a glance of his true essence deep inside him.

I liked his touch, the warmth in my belly—unlike anything I’d experienced. A chill came over me—his hand still upon my face—and my shoulder involuntarily raised to my ear—it tickled—but I stopped it midway. I didn’t want to come across as not having liked his caress.

We sat, chest to chest, on the weight bench while “I Lived” played. Staring, exposing our
selves
.

Any tension that’d been between us over the last few months evaporated, and in its wake a warm ripple tingled inside me. I could still sense his hand on my face and even gave it a knuckled graze, for it practically itched. Yet his hands were splayed on his thighs. His gesture had been so simple yet spoke so much. No one had ever touched me like that and left such an effect.

I hoped he felt the same.

“It’s like my anthem,” he said, regarding the song. “I want to do it all. I don’t want to die with any regrets.”

Profoundly, his words hit me. The song blared and I wanted to cry with delight, but instead I grazed the side of his face. My fingers shook—virgin to touching a coarse jawline in a non-defensive manner. The many times I did this to a girl, I hadn’t been able to will the sparks that now shot out between Eric and me. He had to have felt it too. I sensed he did as I caressed his beautiful cheek.

His hand grabbed mine, and instantly we kissed, drawn into each other like a metal to a lodestone. I slung my cap to the side for better accessibility.

Seemingly, hours passed, just kissing, tasting his sweet breath, yet the same song still played. Perhaps he had it on repeat.

We spoke no words. Only passionate kisses conversed.

Eventually, I felt my pants being unzipped.

He found his way in and squeezed the tip of my underwear-clad erection poking through my fly. He took our earbuds out, and we stood at the same time, kissing above the bench, breaking apart only to pull down our pants. We sat back down, briefs tenting our desire.

“Wait a minute,” he said, got back up, went to the door, locked it, and quickly came back, kissing me as he reclaimed his seat. “I don’t know if I’m gay. Well, maybe I do.”

“Me either. Then again, I have to...” I didn’t know how else to say it. “We have to be, but it doesn’t matter.”

He laughed nervously. “This is my first time,” he said. His eyes were a dark chestnut color, his pupils wide and black.

“It is? I thought you and Dyl—”

He looked down. “I mean like this.” He put a hand to his heart, and then put the back of the same hand to my chest. “I’ve never felt this with...with anyone. It’s beautiful.”

“We’ve been fighting it.”

“Literally.” He smirked. It shot a bolt through me and my dick oozed. “Life’s too short,” he added, “to not go with what feels right.”

I kissed his flush lips, hard.

He moaned into my mouth and touched my erection.

The damp cotton wrapped around my cock’s head, and I felt myself seep more—leaking freely as was its wont.

Then, in one tear, he ripped open the fly of my underwear, rendering the briefs useless, and threw its shreds to the floor. He jerked me off, rubbing my pre-supplied lubricant along the tip.

I shivered, fighting back an orgasm, and fished his monster out. A competitive streak rose, and with one hand I tore his underwear, though the results were not as devastating as his two-handed approach to mine. Still, I doubted he’d wear them again.

He groaned. I took some of my own biological lube and twisted my palm around his slightly bent cock. I pulled back his foreskin to see a little pool of his own creation. It drew a shiny line down his shaft.

We kissed and jacked each other off until we were a writhing, sweaty mess. Around my ankles, my jeans caught at the leg of the bench and our cocks touched.

He thrust against my dick, grabbing my ass for support. His hand wedged between the crack of my ass.

Our cocks frot in their collective goo, and we held back moans, as if to prevent our session from ending. Our crotches collided against each other in a continual pounding that wouldn’t stop.

Crazed, we sweat profusely.

I bit into his neck, and he grabbed my head, pushing it deeper onto him.

“I think, I’m going to go,” Eric said, slowing his fuck, like he didn’t want to come.

I couldn’t resist making him climax. I wanted to please him, unlike anything or anyone before, and grabbed his meaty shaft.

“Oh, God. Not yet—” His face scrunched and water edged his eyes, but he fucked my hand readily and then launched one that caught me on the side of my face. His head lolled on his shoulders and I heard another of his shots hit under the rim of my cap.

Pleasing him, knowing I caused his climax, encouraged my own, and he finished me off into a pool of gelatin, shedding my body and leaving my soul bare.

I teetered, nearly falling off the bench, and his sweaty hug enveloped me, pulling me into his chest. “Dude, you okay?”