Brock Martin poked his head into my dorm room. "You ready?"
"Yeah, I guess."
He looked at my maroon shirt and navy shorts. "Is it do or die time? Well then, it'll be die. You know you're no match for me." Ordinarily, I wrestled Brock in a white tee shirt and grey Russell shorts. Under the rules, if you wore something nondescript, the winner would not strip you. Of course, white and grey pretty much conceded the match.
Brock was in his electric blue sweatshirt and black sweatpants and carried a small black duffel bag. We headed over to our venue, the Phi Lambda Palestra, Philadelphia's only 24-7 wrestling club. God, how I hated those colors: electric blue and black!
As we trotted down the stairs he said, "I need someone to warm up with before I take on Glenn. He'll be there around 1:30."
"You really think you can beat Glenn?" Glenn Perkins was 5'11-1/2" and 175 pounds of rangy muscle. Barry was only 5'3" and 145, most of it in his fullback legs.
"Yeah. He only beat me 8-5 last April. He usually holds back against me, but last time he was really sucking wind at the end. I've been wrestling all summer. I'm stronger and in better shape than I was then. I like my chances."
As we ran down to the PhiLam, I thought about my chances against Barry. At 5'9", I was taller and I had 10 pounds on him, but that just about exhausted my advantages. Brock was not really what you would call a great wrestler; against a man with great moves and quickness he could look pretty bad. But he was an ideal grinder. He had those thick, hairy legs that pumped forward relentlessly. He had great balance and was tough to score on. His stamina was inexhaustible. He was a ruthless and wily competitor, though never dirty except in no-holds-barred. He was a master at psyching you out. In the eight matches we wrestled spring semester, only twice had I lasted into the second period without getting pinned.
But this time I would use my extra weight and put everything I had into beating the blue and black clad nemesis. I had to do something to compete better with Brock, even if it meant I would probably get stripped.
PhiLam was a unique institution, run by and for mat hounds of all skill levels, sexual preferences, or whatever. Saturday afternoon was freestyle rules time, with a couple of changes: matches were three periods of three minutes each, and the mats were twice as big as Olympic size. We did not make compromises to please an audience. At other times there would be five-period tournaments, submission matches, tag team, any style enough people were interested in. As long as you refrained from rape and did your sex play at home, no one was shocked or disturbed at the idea that some competitors might get off on fucking other guys.
We signed in at the mat room at about 1:00. There were two matches ahead of us. One of the regular employees reffed and another timed. The match in progress was between a tall black man in a red Speedo and a stocky Italian type in hunter green shorts and a bright yellow Oakland A's shirt. It was pretty close until the black guy broke it open with a cradle. In the meantime, Brock took off his sweatpants and was bouncing in that slightly shiny skin-tight blue singlet with the black and white piping around the leg and armholes, and up his short sides. He did look in better shape. Those thick quads were even better defined, as were those thickly haired pecs with which I was all too familiar. I could see his abs under the singlet. They had always been solid, but now they were ripped. I did some stretching, too.
The next match was between Bob Zelwicky and Pete Carlson-two big blond men. This was a closely fought match that went the whole nine minutes. The taller Pete used his long legs to keep the edge all match, and he prevailed 6-4.
In the meantime, Glenn came in. He took off his grey Pittsburgh Steeler sweatshirt and stretched in his characteristic pale yellow ribbed a-shirt and black tights. He was a beautiful rangy blond man with a woodworker's thick forearms, sinewy wrists and big, strong hands. But I couldn't think about Glenn, though I could feel my dick harden at the sight of him. I had to think of how to wrestle Brock. I would go all out to get his head down, spin around behind him and put him in a cradle. Failing that, I would get my chest on his back to keep him down and take advantage of my weight.
Brock nodded toward Glenn and half whispered, "I guess I'll have to tamp you even worse than usual." His face wore a smug smirk of mock regret.
Our turn. We shook hands and were whistled us to start. We locked up very tight and I tried to push his head down, but he got inside position on me with a standing headlock and threw me down on my back. I desperately tried to bridge, but he quickly turned sideways on my chest, so that my right arm was trapped under his hips, both his shoulders pushed down on my left shoulder, and his arms wrapped and overpowered my neck bridge. Brock Martin p Jerry Weintraub 0:38.
We shook hands and my head hung down as the ref lifted Brock's arm in victory. "You can put your shirt there," said Brock, pointing toward his sweats. "I'll take the rest when we get back." I took off my shirt as he got a drink from the water cooler and laid the shirt respectfully on his sweats. When he came back, he took his jump rope from his bag and started skipping, which he did from time to time until his match with Glenn.
Fuck!!! I had been completely humiliated. I had tried hard. My shoulders were cramped from fighting off his pin. But he was just too good, too tough, too smart. I guess from now on I'd wrestle him in white and gray; when he was in the mood to relax, he could drub me, and when he was loosened up from pinning me about a dozen times, maybe he'd let me hold and sniff his jock. Like I said: Fuck! I shot a glance at Glenn: Beat this guy, PLEASE!
I was almost too humiliated to watch the next match, even though it was the main event. Scott vs. Keith, two wrestling gods, both handsome studs who had wrestled at states. Scott was a state champ with short red hair, about 5' 8" 150 lb., in shiny gray polyester trunks and a white ribbed a-shirt. Keith was a little taller and about ten pounds heavier, with a black beard and hairy chest, broad shouldered and flexible. He had on a black and yellow Iowa singlet. He took Scott down early and kept a slight edge throughout, matching his opponent's quickness and power. After the match, Scott handed his a-shirt to Keith, and Keith took it and embraced his opponent with real affection and respect.
Next were two frat guys in for some structured horseplay: Bruce, a gymnast, against his basketball buddy Ray. I had wrestled Bruce three times; I loved his hard body and sweet, gentle disposition. He was a stocky strawberry blond, about my size, with ridges in his abs so deep they seemed to reach his backbone. He was in a tan shirt and preppy azure shorts with pockets. Ray was a lean all-around jock at 5' 10", also about 155 lb. with black hair, a ruddy complexion, and long freckeled arms. He was clad in a red muscle shirt and grey shorts showing off his chorded thighs. In no time, those freckled arms were double locked around my friend's head. Ray held Bruce down in a guillotine, but it took Ray a little time to overpower Bruce's muscular upper body. Ray Haas p Bruce Lowell 1:10.
Now it was time for Brock against Glenn. The first period was all Glenn. After some arm fencing, he got Brock's head down, pulled his body down and spun around for two. Brock fought like hell, but Glenn sank a cradle on him and drove him onto his back for three. Then Brock manged to get out of bounds. When they started from referee's position, Brock went totally ape-shit and twisted out of Glenn's grasp. Then a long sequence of hand fighting and a double leg takedown by Glenn. Glenn tried hard to turn Brock again, but there wasn't much time left and he couldn't move those heavy legs, so the period ended with Glenn ahead 7-1.
On the second period whistle, with Glenn on top, Brock stood up, but Glenn had his leg and walked him out of bounds. But Brock beat Glenn on the next whistle, trapping his head under his sit-out, driving behind Glenn and fighting through his counters for the reversal. Glenn almost reversed Brock, but Brock had a double lock on Glenn's thigh, which he was unable to break, so the ref whistled a stalemate. When they started over, Brock started to take the initiative. He constantly tied up the rangy blond's wrist and ankles, made him wrestle on his side, and maneuvered the bigger, stronger man from one fucked-up position to the next, never letting him get off more than one weak off-balance move at a time, except for a near escape that was out of bounds. At the end of the second period, Glenn was still ahead 7-3, but he was in trouble and he knew it. His chest was already heaving with exhaustion, and there was frustration and panic in his deep-set eyes.
"Come on, Glenn!" I cried.
Third period, Brock still on top. At the whistle, Glenn stood up and with a mighty effort, he pulled Brock's arms off and twisted free for an escape; but before he could bump back, Brock fastened himself onto Glenn's left leg, planted his head on Glenn's hip so Glenn could get no leverage on his cross face. Brock pulled Glenn back down to the mat for two. Brock yelled "Yessir!" He put in a crotch block to keep Glenn's legs split so he could not turn overwhile he trapped Glenn's left leg between his thighs; then he walked his chest over Glenn's until he had a tight grapevine. This freed Glenn's long legs to kick over, but not before Brock had racked up another two.
From that time on he was in Glenn's jock, anticipating every tired and off-balance move by Glenn with a deadly acuurate pin-threatening counter. He rode mostly from the right, giving himself an edge by forcing his opponent to make his moves backwards. He kept himself between Glenn and the out of bounds circle to deny him any breather. With about a minute left, he took control of Glenn's legs, lifted them and leaned down on the backs of Glenn's thighs, trapping him on his back. Another "Yessir!!" Glenn cried, "Freak!" With a burst of strength, Glenn rolled out of the hold, the ref showing three fingers. But while Glenn was off his back, Brock kept crotch control with a firm arm between Glenn's legs. Brock used the arm to put in a vicious cradle and jacked Glenn up again, this time leaving Glenn no leverage. Glenn's tight black clad ass was held straight up in the air over his shoulder blades as the ref slapped the mat at 8:41.
"Wooo! Woooooo!" screamed Brock as he jumped up from the mat and flexed his biceps in victory. Glenn, stunned and close to tears, looked like the ancient statue of the Dying Gaul. I, too, felt like crying. Glenn gasped, "Great match" as he handed Brock his sweat soaked pale yellow a-shirt.
"Nice match, Brock," I said when he walked over to me.
"Let's go back," he said. He stuffed his sweats, my shirt, Glenn's shirt, and his jump rope into his bag. We went over to Glenn, who was panting on the sideline in shock. He shook Brock's hand again like the good sport he was and I laid my hand on his neck.
Brock swaggered in his electric blue singlet as he led me back to my dorm. After I unlocked the door he went over to my bed and stripped down to his jock. "Over here!" he ordered. "What the fuck was this 'Come on, Glenn,' huh?" He roughly pulled off my faded navy Champion shorts and my jock, then stripped off his own jock, revealing an aroused dick crowned by a thick growth of jet black pubic hair. "Did you like the way I wasted your hero?" He pile drove me into the bed and used my chest as his fuck rag. After five minutes of humping he shot a huge wad of cum into my face. He turned me over and jacked off again on my back. Then he took off a pillwocase and dried me off with it. He shoved my head between his legs and took a nap with his cock in my face. After about fifteen minutes, he pulled my head up to his chest and pushed my nose into his soaking wet left armpit and fell asleep again. After another nap he pushed my face very tight against his right armpit and wrapped his left arm around my head and his thick hairy legs around my legs. His dick was still warm and thick on my belly. For a long time he held me tight and helpless under his compact hairy chest squeezing my face into his armpit.
I didn't dare resist because I knew from experience he would thrash me if I gave him any pretext. Most guys would let up if you cried for mercy, but Brock's idea of mercy was that he would stop tightening the submission hold. He would just keep your head between his thighs until he got bored with hearing you scream.
He finally got off me, took a shower, dried off with my towel, and slathered a generous amount of my Right Guard under his armpits. Then he padded over to my dresser and took out a jock strap, a pair of black shorts, and an a-shirt.
"Make yourself at home," I said.
"Don't get fucking sarcastic with me, Jerry. Oil me up." I fetched my bottle of Johnson & Johnson's and started rubbing it in on his back as he stood in front of my bed. I could see and feel that the rest of his body had become as powerful as his legs. I rubbed the oil into his bull neck and the ridges of his trapezoids and his striated delts. I did his arms, the well-defined biceps and forearms, down to the tough wrists and small but thick hands that had put on those grips big Glenn had been unable to break. I felt up his gracefully curved back, then faced him to do his chest. The thick hair on his hard pecs soaked up a lot of oil. Then I rubbed it into his ridged abs, whose suppleness had stifled my hero's will to fight, and into his glutes, so thick and solid they seemed almost as if transplanted from a black sprinter. Finally the thickly muscled and hairy thighs and calves, fresh from wiping the mat with a handsome athlete, and also with me. You just couldn't pack more masculine energy into 145lb. than Brock. My boner was parallel to the floor.
He stood next to my bed and put on my jock strap, my black shorts, and my white ribbed a-shirt, tucking it in deep so it wouldn't look as oversized on him as it was. He sat down on the bed and put on his sneaks with no socks, gave me a playful slap on the back, picked up his duffel bag, and was gone. I walked over to the window and followed him with my eyes across the quad and out the gate. I lay back on my bed and jerked off. When I came, I sprayed so hard that cum landed on my face.