JiminQueens2's blog

The buzzer sounded—the sweetest sound I’d ever heard in my life.

I immediately let go of Anderson and rolled away, then climbed to my feet. I bent over and unwrapped the red velcroed band from around my ankle, handed it to the ref, then extended my hand to shake hands with Anderson.

He took it, but the look on his face said it all. He would rather have been ripping out my liver than shaking my hand. But this was our last wrestling match for our respective high schools before we graduated, and it was my arm the referee was raising, not his.

I threw a self-satisfied smirk at him; in the six years we’d tangled, we’d hit the mat fifteen times—and I’d won eight of them. Neither one of us was likely to go far in the county tournaments at the end of the season; we were ranked too low. So Anderson would never have a chance to even the score.

He glared at me and stalked off the mat, ignoring everyone, even his coach, before he threw himself on the bench, visibly seething. I smirked again and—yeah, with a little strut, what’s it to you?—went back to rejoin my team.

“Nice job, Tom,” Coach said as I stepped off the mat. “You realize he’s still looking daggers at you, right?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Anderson’s body was rigid with anger, and he was glaring at me with enough heat to melt the paint off the walls, pausing only to visually skewer those few of his teammates brave or foolish enough to try to console him.

I shrugged. “Let him. He’s a fucking asshole, anyway, so it’s not like we’re ever going to be friends. He can keep the memory of me kicking his ass for the rest of his life.”

Coach just smiled.

There were three more matches to go—my school ended up losing by a couple of points. I showered and changed quickly, then met my dad outside the arena (Coach doesn’t let parents at matside—no exceptions). “Good job out there, son,” he congratulated me.

“Thanks,” I said, grinning. “I bet Anderson is still steaming over it.”

“I bet you’re going to be jerking yourself off over this for a month,” came a voice behind me.

I turned around. Sure enough, there was Anderson, showered, changed, and carrying a duffle bag over his shoulder. Standing next to him was a fortyish man that I assumed was his father.

Anderson was still glaring at me; I wondered if he’d changed expression at all in the last forty-five minutes. “Nah,” I said. I could feel myself sneering, but I couldn’t help it—not that I really wanted to. “Even if I swung that way, you’re too ugly for jerkoff material. Have a nice weekend, loser.” I turned away from him, ready to follow Dad to his car—and then Anderson hit me. Not much of a hit, really; closer to a shove, right in my back. I staggered forward and only just managed to keep from falling on my face.

I whirled angrily, ready to launch myself at Anderson and beat his face in, but Dad and Anderson’s father got between us before I could. Dad was almost as angry as I was, and snapped, “Your son’s not only a loser, he’s a fucking pussy! Where’d he learn to shove someone from behind—you?”

Mr. Anderson’s look was cold enough to freeze the air around us. “Where’d YOUR son learn comebacks like that—from his mother?”

Mom died when I was four. Dad would have taken a swing at Mr. Anderson right then and there, only one of the school’s security guards chose that particular time to join us. “Is there a problem here?” he asked pointedly.

“No,” Dad said slowly, glaring at Mr. Anderson the whole time, “no problem. Come on, son.” He put his hand on my shoulder and steered me toward the car, but his eyes never left Mr. Anderson’s.

We drove home in silence. Dad was clearly furious, and I was just as mad. More than anything else I wanted to beat Anderson’s face to a bloody pulp, and maybe watch while Dad did the same to his asshole father.

Later that night, I found out that Anderson had similar ideas.

I was bullshitting on Facebook, answering a message from a girl I wanted to get to know a lot better, and just for shits and grins, I checked my Other folder—and my jaw dropped open when I saw a message, sent today, from…Chris Anderson.

“You got fucking lucky today—TWICE,” the message read, “first at the meet, and then when your fat ass father got in the way before I could beat the shit out of you. You’re a shit wrestler and a total pussy, and I could beat the crap out of you without breaking a fucking sweat.”

I sat there in disbelief for a long time.

When I finally was able to think coherently, I tapped out a response. “Says the guy who got his ass whipped this afternoon, and would have gotten it whipped again if you’d been stupid enough to come at me without a referee in the way. You want to continue this in person, you know how to find me.”

I sent it. I waited.

I wasn’t waiting long.

“Fuck you. Let’s do this. Tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” I sent back. “When and where?”

“You got the balls to come to me? I have a mat room here. We can settle this shit without anyone interrupting us.”

“No problem. When are we going to do this?”

“What’s wrong with tomorrow?”

“Not a damn thing. Where are you?”

He gave me his address – it wasn’t that far a drive. He also included his cell number “in case you puss out.”

“Fuck you. Get ready for the beating of your life.”

“You fucking wish!”

We went on like that for a while, but the important part had been settled: tomorrow morning, Anderson and I would hit the mat one last time and settle things once and for all. After I shut down my computer, I did what I usually did in situations like this. I went straight to my father.

What? You think I’m NOT going to tell him about something like this? Guess again. My dad and I have a great relationship, and in my eighteen years and change, I’ve learned that he knows when to lay the hammer down and when to stand back, let me do something stupid, and then help me pick up the pieces.

He listened when I told him the whole story, then nodded and said, “Let me talk to his father.”

I gave him Anderson’s cell number. He called, and presently said, “This is Tom’s father. Let me speak to yours.” There was a pause, and then he said, “This is Tom’s father. We met earlier tonight. Did your son tell you what they have planned for tomorrow?”

A pause. “So do I.”

Another pause. There is nothing more frustrating than a one-sided conversation. “Yeah, I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Yet another pause. “If you feel froggy, leap!”

That sounded interesting. Dad exchanged a few more remarks with Mr. Anderson, and then ended the call. I knew better than to ask what had happened; he’d tell me what I needed to know.

And he did. “Well, it seems like Mr. Anderson is willing to let you boys wrestle it out,” he said, “but that’s not all he has in mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“He challenged me. The stupid son of a bitch challenged me.” Dad was grinning from ear to ear. “He said, and I quote, ‘After my son kicks your son’s ass, I’ll be happy to kick yours.’”

“No way!”

Dad nodded. “So get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be an early day…and a good one.”

I went to bed, but it was a long time before I slept. Excitement kept me awake half the night as I imagined my dad in a fight.

Even up so late, I woke early, before the sun was even up. I showered, dressed quickly, and headed downstairs. Dad was already there, finishing up a very light breakfast. He spooned out some oatmeal and buttered a couple of pieces of toast, then poured me a glass of orange juice. “Nothing heavier than that,” he said, “not on a match day.”

“Gee, Dad, thanks a lot,” I drawled sarcastically, but grinning. “I mean, never having wrestled before in my life, I don’t know what I should and shouldn’t eat before getting on the mat. You’re a genius, Dad, an absolute genius.”

“Keep that up, and you won’t have to worry about getting beat by Anderson,” Dad growled, “because you won’t survive your warmup with me!”

“Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir!” I mock-saluted him, laughing. Dad grinned and glanced up at the clock.

“Time to go,” he said. I nodded, took a final swig of juice, and followed him out the door.

The drive took about twenty minutes; neither one of us talked much. I had butterflies in my stomach over the match—or, if I wanted to be realistic, the fight—and a strange excitement over the thought of Dad fighting Mr. Anderson. He’d been my first teacher on the mat, and he’d been to every one of my matches, but I’d never seen him in action before. The thought of seeing him taking on another man set my heart racing…and caused a really surprising stirring in my groin! Where the hell was THAT coming from?

As we got closer, I sent a text to Anderson to tell him we were almost there. He was waiting for us at his front door, his face completely unreadable. Dad and I got out of the car and walked up the front walkway; Anderson, dressed normally, held the door open for us as we went in the house.

“Mat room’s downstairs,” he growled. “Dad’s already down there.”

“Fine,” I growled back. Dad and I followed him down to the basement. I had to admit, I was impressed. The bulk of the room was set up like the wrestling room at school, complete with mats on the walls to catch flying bodies. Mr. Anderson was waiting there, also dressed in street clothes.

“Let’s get the ground rules down,” he said coldly, glaring at Dad. “Standard wrestling rules, to pin, no periods, no time outs. The boys wrestle until one of them pins the other one. Deal?”

“Deal.” Dad extended his hand, and Mr. Anderson shook it perfunctorily. They both glanced at us. Anderson offered me his hand, and I shook it to cement the deal.

“Get changed,” Mr. Anderson said. Anderson immediately began to undress. Apparently their mat room didn’t include locker rooms—although, I thought as I peeled off my shirt, why should it?

No one said anything as Anderson and I stripped to the skin and then pulled on our jocks and singlets. What was there to say? One he finished lacing up his shoes, Anderson stepped on the mat and walked to the far corner, then turned and looked at me expectantly. I didn’t keep him waiting long.

This was it. I was going to prove to this asshole once and for all that I was the better wrestler, and I was going to take my time doing it. Even though we were doing standard rules, there was a lot I could do to him to make sure that he would *hurt* tomorrow morning, and it would be completely for nothing. The knowledge that he’d lost, again, would last for the rest of his miserable little life.

“Shake hands,” Dad said. I glanced back at him, but he wasn’t kidding. Okay, whatever. I didn’t have to mean it. I extended my hand, and Anderson tapped my fingers with his. Close enough.

“WRESTLE!”

I don’t know if Dad said it or Mr. Anderson said it, and I don’t really care. The second the word was out of whoever’s mouth, I lunged forward for a single, but Anderson sprawled and jerked his body to the side. I abandoned the shot before Anderson could get behind me and sprang up to my feet as quick as I could, even as he did the same.

We circled, our bodies crouched low to present as small a target as we could, and then went at each other, locking up in a collar and elbow tie-up. His fingers dug into my neck as he tried to force my head down, while I clutched his arm so hard I was sure I was going to leave dents. Our eyes locked on each other’s even as we pressed our foreheads together, each one of us trying to assert our dominance over the other. “You’re going down, asshole,” Anderson growled.

“In your fucking dreams, you little bitch,” I snarled back.

I yanked hard on his arm and twisted, dragging him over my body and down to the mat. Anderson immediately rolled over onto his stomach – we were wrestling to pin, remember – and pressed his body to the mat. I immediately dropped on top of him, and sure enough, I got the usual tightening down there that most wrestlers get, and learn to ignore.

I slipped my left arm underneath his and clamped my left hand on the back of his neck, then clamped my right hand on top of it. I got on my toes, putting all my weight on Anderson, and I could hear him grunt from the pressure. Step by step, I began to “tiptoe” to his left—and, in the process, turn him over onto his back.

Mr. Anderson was screaming, “Don’t let him beat you with such a baby move!” And Anderson was certainly listening. He had his right leg out and was pressing his toe into the mat—blocking me. I couldn’t go more than three or four steps before I couldn’t go any further.

Well, I could have, but not without hurting him more than I wanted to. I cursed under my breath, then let the half nelson go and got back up to my feet.

We locked up again, collar and elbow, our hands squeezing each other’s muscles, our foreheads pressing into each other. Our eyes locked in mutual determination and hatred and our breath was hot on each other’s faces.

Anderson suddenly shoved my arm up with his land—leaving me wide open for him to duck under it and come up behind me, his arms now firmly clasped around my waist. Before I could try to break his grip, I felt his crotch ram forward into my ass, yanking me up off my feet and into the air. Anderson twisted his body and brought us both down to the mat—hard! And as we hit, I’d swear his hands dug a little into my stomach!

Before I could react, Anderson had “loaded” me onto his knee, his arms wrapping even tighter around my waist. I knew what was coming, but he had me and there was no way I could stop him. He rolled to the side, bringing me along with him, and then slammed me back down to the mat.

“A gut wrench?” I muttered. “Seriously? We’re not wrestling for points!”

“You don’t like it,” he whispered back, “you stop me!”

“Fine, I will!” I grabbed both of his wrists in my hands and threw my body against his as hard as I could, rewarded with a satisfying grunt of surprise at the impact. My legs now had room to move, and I kicked them forward, keeping my weight on Anderson as I did so. We slowly got to our feet, with his hands still in my grip.

It was easy to break his hold once we were standing, and I whirled to face him, still a little pissed off, but not so much that I was going to lose control of my temper. Coach had told us over and over again that the one who gets mad on the mat is the one who loses the match, and I wanted to beat Anderson more than I ever had.

We circled slowly, “feeling” our way with our arms, neither of us wanting to tie up just yet. Then, just as I lunged forward, so did Anderson, and we came together in a tremendous SLAP of flesh upon flesh. I felt something hard under my foot, and realized I’d stepped on his when Anderson yelped and shoved me away.

“Watch it, you piece of shit,” he snarled.

“It was an accident,” I snapped back. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch!”

Anderson gave me a look of pure hatred and disgust. He came at me with his arms outstretched; I figured he was going for another collar and elbow and decided to let him come to me. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my ass after he’d shoved me backwards and I’d lost my footing.

“Oh, sorry,” he said with a smirk. “It was an accident.”

As I climbed slowly to my feet, my insides seething, Mr. Anderson’s voice penetrated the pure rage in my head. “This was supposed to be a wrestling match,” he said, “but it’s up to you boys if it stays that way. Okay with you, Reynolds?”

Dad nodded.

So that was that.

We locked up again, and this time I got him in a tight headlock. I shifted my weight slightly, then send Anderson flying over my hip and down to the mat—with all of my one hundred and eighty-five pounds coming down right on top of him. I could hear the breath leaving his body with a very satisfying WHOOSH!

I had Anderson’s face dug into my pit, and I grinned a very nasty grin at his squirming attempts to free himself. His shoulders were on the mat, of course, but somehow none of the four of us seemed interested in counting pins at this point. This wasn’t about wrestling anymore. This was about dominance.

Which is why I “accidentally” let him out of the headlock. He instinctively went to his stomach—and I was still on top of him. And I was still hard.

But this time I wasn’t going to ignore it. Oh, no. I ground my hips into his ass, even as my arms slipped under his and clamped on a tight full nelson. Illegal, yes, but at this point, the rules were out the window. I leaned down and whispered into his ear, “You like that, don’t you, you little bitch?”

To really rub his face in it…I literally rubbed his face in it. The mat, I mean. I pressed down on his neck, driving him face first into the mat. I could hear muffled curses coming from him, but his face was pressed into the foam rubber and he couldn’t really let loose with all the things I knew he wanted to say.