Sweaty Men Boxing Story
He had me. I
can't believe I made it out of the first round.
Let's start with the obvious. I lied when I told Arch Dobbs my name is Stone
Bradford. I mean, please, it sounds like a porn name. Let's just say that's my
name anyway. Easier to tell the same lie every time.
I live on the west side, right on the border between the "gay ghetto" and the
hispanic neighborhoods. Hey, I'm dark enough to look Hispanic if I want to.
Anyway, I live about a mile away from Arch's gym. I knew it was there when I
moved in--I'd gone past it a few times--but I don't follow boxing, so I had no
idea who Arch Dobbs was. I never even stepped into the ring until a week before
the match against Rusty's Gym. Not that I haven't been in fights before. Plenty
of those. Grow up gay in any city, and there's always somebody ready to throw a
punch. Most of those fights were over before I hit high school. I had this
massive growth spurt the summer after eighth grade, and I'd been lifting from
sixth grade on. So I walk into high school like superman--almost six feet tall,
170 pounds of muscle with an attitude to match. I wore my shirts tight enough
for everybody to see how my pecs stood out like a shelf and the long line of my
arms from forearm to delts. My legs never got all that thick, so I had a
triangular build from shoulders to waist and then a straight shot down from
slender hips to the ground. I was particularly hard in my gut. Not a bad thing
when most of my high school fights were really gut-punching contests. Once I
flexed my abs, nothing broke through. Hey, I didn't like fighting, but I never
backed down. Guys just stopped calling me out, and I enjoyed the luxury.
So why box now, and why start one week before a major competition? Short answer:
Arch Dobbs.
He had to have jogged through my neighborhood before, but I'd never seen him,
probably because my own road work had me somewhere else. Our paths crossed one
morning--him headed south, me headed north. If you haven't seen him, I don't
have enough words to describe the glory of the man. Always shirtless in the
summer, muscles pumping with each stride. Long story short, I followed him back
to his gym and found out it actually WAS his gym. Even surprised myself by going
inside when he did. The place wasn't exactly empty, but there weren't too many
guys there. He asked me my name (I lied), if I'd fought before (I lied), and if
I'd be interested in picking up what he called a wild card bout against Rusty's
Gym (I lied). He had me spar a little, and I guess I did all right 'cause he
signed me up for the fight.
Fast forward a week. The guys from Rusty's show up, and the other three fights
go down 1-2-3. Two of Arch's regular guys win, and one loses on a close
decision. Just before my fight, Arch pulls me close. He's sweating, but that's
no surprise 'cause the place is like an oven. But his eyes tell me he's worried,
that he's got something bad to say.
"OK, I'm just gonna say it, Stone. I figured we'd have the match sewed up by
now, so it didn't matter who fought the wild card. I'd usually give it to a
heavyweight. Tell you the truth, I only picked you to throw Rusty a bone. Sorry.
We gotta take this fight, though. So look at the guy and tell me you can take
him. I gotta hear you say it."
At that point, it didn't even occur to me that I could just leave. Arch didn't
expect me to win--hell, he'd put me in to let the other gym win a fight. Big
confidence builder this was, telling me this now. But I had something to prove
now...and someone to impress. I am such an idiot.
I looked across the ring at a behemoth named Andrew Jakes. He easily had 25 to
30 pounds on me, probably a few inches of height and reach against mine, and
definitely more experience. We locked eyes and both knew he could take me down.
I looked back to Arch and said, "No problem."
I lied.
The first round was painful and humiliating. I couldn't get off any clean
shots--I couldn't land anything. I kept missing, and he kept punching my face.
Before long he was just swatting at will. I went into my high school mode--guard
up to protect my head,abs flexed tight to absorb the punishment. Assuming I
could hold out like that for the rest of the round, I could give up after
putting forth a suitably manly effort. But my high school fights never lasted
all that long, maybe five or six exchanges tops. What can I say, my classmates
were creampuffs. Jakes kept up the pressure, pounding parts of my gut I'd never
felt before. After thirty seconds of this, the pain wasn't even localized
anymore--every punch felt like an ax chopping me down. Each hit pushed the air
out of my lungs, so I had to concentrate just to keep breathing. I swear he
landed at least three low blows, and that just made it worse. In a valiant
attempt to hold on, I pulled my elbows in and forced my abs to flex by pushing
down from the shoulders. Jakes caught me with an uppercut that snapped my head
back and left my face an open target. He punched me backwards into my corner. I
tried to duck away, but he caught me with a left that blurred my vision. I think
I heard the bell. Next thing I know, I'm sitting on a stool and Arch is trying
to bring me out of it.
His corner man, Phil Martin--a guy who hadn't said ten words to me all week--was
tellling Arch off. "That's what you get for letting this faggot take the fight.
He only did it to get in your pants anyway." Some other time, I would've made
him pay for saying that, even if it were true...which it was.
Arch didn't seem to hear Phil. He asked me, "How we doing out there, Stone?"
"Not good. I can't do it, Arch. He's got me"
Unlike Phil, Arch seemed to care about my health, probably because sticking me
in this fight hadn't been that good of an idea, even if he hadn't meant for me
to get creamed. However, he also cared about the match, and ending it up as a
draw didn't figure as acceptable. "I think you can do it, Stone. I think you can
take him. No lie."
He lied.
I was almost crying, but I wasn't about to let Phil see THAT. I pulled it deep
breaths, as deep as I could manage. The pain still cut deep. One good body
blow...
Arch pulled in close again and whispered in my ear, "So Phil's right about you,
isn't he? You're just a fag after my ass? Fine. You take this fight, and my ass
is yours."
This worked on so many levels. Instantly it was as if the first round hadn't
happened. No pain in my gut, no bruises anywhere, nothing sore. Suddenly Jakes
was every bully on every schoolyard, every jerk who'd ever called me a faggot in
the lockerroom, every sneer of hetero superiority I'd ever seen. I could've
exploded from the adrenaline alone. I leapt to my feet and thumped my gloves
together.
Poor Jakes. The guy had no idea how many fists were in my gloves.
Once the bell rang, it only took about twenty seconds to send him to the canvas,
but a lifetime went into every punch. I ducked his right and threw a left for
every kid who'd ever been gay-bashed--WHAM! I threw a right for every politician
who promised to make life better and then "voted his conscience"--BOOM! Another
right for the guy who made up the word "faggot"--POW! After that, I just kept
slamming his face until the ref pulled me off the guy. Jakes fell face down and
stayed there. I watched Arch's face whiten as the ref counted ten. I returned to
my corner and held out my hands for Phil to take off the gloves. Then I went
into the lockerroom alone.
I'd been outed to the gym. Fine. Arch probably hadn't meant for me to collect on
his offer. I could let him off the hook. I could be the better man. Hey, I'd
earned my rep here. No shame would follow me home. I should just grab a shower
and get out of here.
Screw that.
I knocked on Arch's office door. He sat behind his desk, his shirt off, that
tight torso exposed and slightly sweaty. His eyes went to my crotch, which had
to be a little scarey for him. I'm nine inches when I'm soft, and I wasn't soft
just then. I closed the door behind me, not realizing that I'd locked us in.
Arch stood up. I guess I'd caught him getting ready for something else. His
street clothes were on a hook on the wall, and he'd dropped his boxing trunks on
the floor when I came in. He stood before me now, dressed only in a jock strap.
Probably not the impression he'd wanted to make. He held his hands up, palms
open towards me. "Look," he said, "I know what I said, but you know why I said
it, right? To pump you up, to get you psyched. It worked, too, didn't it? You
knocked him flat on his ass. But my ass...um, no. That was just a head game,
that's all."
I said nothing. I pushed my trunks down past my hips so that Arch had a better
view of what was coming his way.
"Look," he said, "It's like I said. I thought we'd have it won. I figured you'd
back out when you saw the guy, but, no, you've got guts. You've got cajones,
man."
To prove it, I slipped off my jock and let both trunks and jock fall to the
floor. To his credit, he didn't say anything else. He just tried to get past me
while I was getting my feet clear of my clothes. I caught him around the waist
and spun him back against his desk. I moved in close so that my erection poked
the pathetic lump in his jock. I smiled.
He misread me. Seems he thought my smile let him off the hook. At least that's
what it looked like. "You had me going for a while there," he said.
I slammed my right fist into his gut. He hadn't prepared for it, so the air flew
out of his lungs and he slumped forward. I pushed him back against the wall,
just missing the hooks where his clothes hung. A little to the right, and I
probably would've killed the guy. I held him there with my left forearm and
pounded his guy with my right. I targeted the ridge between the ab muscles,
especially the area close to his navel. He grunted after each blow.
Suddenly, I heard the doorknob rattle. That's when I realized the door had
locked behind me. I stopped the assault, realizing Arch had a case against me if
he wanted to press charges. Good thing he didn't know my real name. Phil called
from outside, "You all right in there?"
I froze solid.
Arch sucked in enough breath to call out, "I'm fine. Tell Rusty to wait." He
kept his eyes on the door, and I didn't move. A second or two later, I heard
Phil shuffle away, muttering something I couldn't quite make out. I locked eyes
with Arch again, and he flexed his abs, ready for me to continue.
I released him and took a step back. He stayed against the wall, waiting. He
actually wanted me to do this. Then he took a deep breath, sighed, straightened
up as if I hadn't even hit him once, shrugged, and said, "Kinda spoiled the
mood, didn't he?"
So I coldcocked him with a right cross. He fell forward into my arms, fully dead
weight now, no act involved. I draped him over his desk, face down, and prepared
to give it to him dry. That's when I noticed the gleam of fluid. The guy'd lubed
himself up before I got there. He'd planned the whole thing, probably from the
day we'd met. It'd be just what he wanted if I raped him now. I'd be playing his
game right up to the end.
As much as I wanted to (and believe me when I say I had an excellent barometer
of just how much I wanted to), the whole thing had been too much of a head trip.
No ass will ever be worth that much trouble. I left him there, grabbed my stuff,
and went home to shower.
Still, now that I know the game, I could play it differently next time. I could
just keep doing my road work until we cross paths again. I still jog the
neighborhood. I'll bet he does, too.