gay wrestler who loves kinks

Used with permission (RIP, the actual good version of GearFetish that died 4-5 years ago.) 

This one’s a collab between Blank Boy Zeta and realhankmcoy. The piece was originally his. I tried to emulate Bob Ross as a revisionist, dipping my brush into a potpourri of burnt umber and raw sienna while picturing the glory of Farrah Fawcett-feathered hair.

Continual change, to modify Heraclitus, means you can never tongue bathe the same armpit twice.

Fed on sirloin burger and cod grilled on the back porch, riced potatoes and green bean casserole, veal soup and cranberry Jell-O, but avoiding the Stove Top stuffing in the Thanksgiving turkey, he was a boy from what was once called the upper midwest, a boy who felt like he was being stretched out on the rack into a great ape. His body was always needing new clothes, lengthening, trying to burst through its own shows. Sometimes they even would, until they became newly big, unruly, floppy feet. Even his once pure and angelic body was busting brown curls of kinky hair in embarrassing places, hair that threatened to spread across his entire body. And soon it was doing just that, hair sprouting and spreading across so much of him like a pubic creeper vine. Even weirder, it felt like it seemed to be subsuming all his thoughts into pushing his increasingly sensual mind towards primal sex, the sex of the body of a primate, a primitive impulse he could only fight in vain.

Some nights, especially the long, hot nights of the intense summers, he’d find himself lying prone, trying to stay quiet, trying not to let anyone in the house hear that he was secretly jacking his lengthening dick, his hard, horny dick. He would even cum in a rush as he grunted into the pillow, facedown, the bliss of the sensation washing over his mind. Sometimes when jacking, he’d find himself glancing over at his increasingly fury armpit, his own changing body fascinating him. He’d find himself feeling his hairy groin with one hand, feeling the increasingly thick, long pubic hair there, rubbing it and feeling like an altered beast of a boy who was out of control, rubbing it with a hand that felt more and more like a paw.  He knew the whole human body renewed every cell every seven years, but how to handle how, from age twelve to age nineteen, the body turned into the body of a glorified ape?

As he wrestled for the team, as he enrolled in the sports he was expected by everyone to join, he found his thighs, thighs that were once the smooth legs of a sprightly deer, were now sprouting unsightly fur. What would become of the sensitive boy who had read The Yearling and cried for Old Yeller? Did this really have to happen to guys? His new legs seemed stubby, stubbly, fuzzed out, and he was developing muscle in places he’d never paid attention to before, too. And then there was dad, always the issues with dad, a dad who wanted him enrolled in sports. He had a whole new vocabulary and schedule to worry about now, and one that was far busier and dirtier. It seemed brutish to have to constantly exercise and shower with other men, to be expected to just strip off his shirt and mow the lawn for dad almost on command every other Saturday, to have to think of pelvic thrusts, lycra singlets, bulky shoulder pads, mesh jock straps, groin cups, Remington model 870 12-gauge shotguns, Selective Service and Social Security cards, the Waffen SS and the Normany landings, among so much else. There was always more responsibility to take on, always higher brass rings to strive for. He didn’t want to end up as one of those men with a mean look. He got scouted for wrestling and they were pushing him up the weight classes, year by year. Almost against his will, he found his diminutive, elven was gradually hulking out into that of a furry, beefy, summer sun-kissed ape of an all-American male.

And now he beat off and came a lot at night, dripping more precum as he jacked than he had at first. He had a lot of perverse thoughts streaming through his psyche and new wet dreams to contend with. He had to constantly wrestle and play ball with others. He couldn’t stand the thought of anyone being his better on the field, on the mat, on the racetrack. People told him not to smart off, and he rarely did. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest guy in his school, but he sure was serious and sure was driven. Many nights he thought about how, in a less mad world, he’d be able to go through puberty with a pal, have exciting heart-to-heart conversations the insanity of these increasingly furry armpits, maybe even get his very face in the blossoming curls of a dark blonde groin. He’d be able to have a pal who’s purely functional pisshole, just a Manneken Pis of a urinator, began to mutate and grown far beyond normal aesthetic proportions into a giant throbbing fuckrod that shot out ropes of a whole different color, ropes of a something much wilder. A dick that changed until it was twice the size of what it had been, a dick that would now never seem satisfied, constantly stirring upwards into various erections, and for all realistic purposes, making his body look like what it was becoming: the body of an ape gone wild with lust for muscle, hair, and increasingly enormous sex organs. Soon he was getting direct life experience of his own about why and how the homo sapiens had evolved in the way it had, from eggplant emojis all over the internet to watching a man who wanted to become the nation’s top alpha male display his large hands in a bid to be blessed. We must all climb and fuck on during our sweaty, arduous, improvement-minded staircase to the future, it seemed to him. At times he would beat off just thinking about how crazy it was, and how crazy it was that a man’s thick shoulders, muscular biceps, and the flash of wild, dark hair sticking out from under the shoulder would turn him on.

No longer focusing as hard on his homework at school, and not quite cut out to be the NFL or WWE superstar his parents hoped to goad him into being, he started looking for ways to fuck around with other males on the downlow. It made for a great natural outlet for his energy. His newly sprouted muscle, his increasingly larger dick, and even his aggression felt right at home when looking for a guy to do some fooling around with. Some guys liked to be intimidated by a man, liked to be wrestled down and pinned. One early virgin even asked him to call him a faggot and choke him. Gotta give the guy what he wants, he rationalised, and so he did, and it felt hot. It felt really hot, if he was honest with himself about it, which he was.

Hunting for sexual experiences instead of standing in the field waiting for a deer to stumble by like most guys his age did every fall, well, it seemed to be a rewarding move for him. It augmented his sense of focus and quick thinking in a similarly challenging way. Most gay guys were fickle and seemed to think of the chase and all as a sort of fun game. Primates that they are, playing hard to get was in their nature, if even they were naive enough to think they were the ones who wanted it that way.

School now began to seem suffocating with its regimented factory schedule and industrial locker-slamming sounds. Having to be funnelled into class at the sound of a bell, herded through the halls like cattle, seemed more and more like a strange way of developing a society. He found that in movies he was now drawn to the theatre of warfare, the grandeur of the old Hellenistic heroes. Fucking other men was part of that ancient culture, too. He thought every day of how he could be the best man in bed, the best lover in town, as well as the best in all the sports he was enrolled in. Striving was in his nature and fostered by his parents and community. Only sweat and hard work would get him to where he wanted to be, he was told, and he agreed on that one as there wasn’t any other option, really, especially not in a town like this.

His body had already changed so much, and he was now learning about how his brain was loaded with androstenedione, testosterone, growth hormone, gonadotropin-releasing hormone, follicle-stimulating hormones, and so many others. Who knew how many still unidentified hormones were causing him to mutate into this dark-haired silverback? He couldn’t even get a grip on all the details over how his body was transforming into that of a mature male, his body that he ceaselessly was pushing towards its pinnacle, pushing to be more alpha, and the whole time finding himself becoming some sort of fuckbeast who simply didn’t want to be surpassed by anyone else in town. The harder he worked out in the school gym, the more he pushed his body to the limits, the more he did what his coaches instructed, the more his body seemed to hulk up and actually be devolving into the body of a hot, muscular, hairy, precum-leaking, sex obsessed gorilla, the much less cerebral, much more corporeal and excitable body of a sports-oriented man. As is typical of high testosterone males, his beard began to densely grow across his entire face in his freshman year , and by sophomore year he found he carried constant reminder of that with a five o’clock shadow that wouldn’t quit, not even after he switched to a better razor. Not being one for half measures, he started letting his beard fully grow out. He thought it looked good, and beyond that, it made him look even tougher, more in command, and more mature than he really was. He had change so much already, now so tall, broad, and chiseled. He had stepped beyond being merely athletic into the body of a guy who was manly and muscular.

It was at this juncture in his life that he finally met a bro like him. The guy was from the next town over. He was a guy with lighter hair, maybe a somewhat smoother complexion, an inch or two taller than him, and built of the same kind of lean muscle that was needed to dominate guys on the wrestling mat. The guy had been wearing all the typical headgear, strapped up in his black and yellow singlet when he walked over and said “Hey.” He had the look of a guy with boyish features who had been rapidly maturing into a man, still with plenty of room for growth, but so attractive as he was right then and there. He could almost swoon over this bro if he wasn’t so in control of himself.

He wanted to get this guy naked. He wanted to see that body up close. When he approached him for a handshake, something about the guy had him feeling both nervous and at ease. Maybe it with his soft, sweet smile, the easy and almost classically godlike quality of his gait, a gait that was neither overconfident nor shy and awkward. This new bro had been wrestling and working out since he was twelve. He had started getting really good at it as he entered high school, and although his coach was probably pushing him a bit too hard and he didn’t always like that, he had nonetheless found his life almost totally taken over by love of the sport.  For hours and hours he trained, enjoying even the dumbfuck sort of jocked-out feeling of knowing you should be doing homework but preferring, choosing to work out in the basement instead. Or perhaps even choosing, in his case, to beat off to porn in his own bedroom, to look at pics of men he knew his peers wouldn’t accept.  It was secretive to him and it was hot to him.

But this bro, man, well, he just had a sense, maybe, from his good looks or the soft, warm tone of his voice, that he and this guy were kindred spirits. It was easy to talk and easy get to know each other. It was almost just as easy to propose they try wrestling practice together some night, to eventually sneak him into his school after hours, right into the men’s locker room. He had the key to it, the key to get into the wrestling practice room where he could pin this guy down on the large couch and find his bliss in the steamy, sweaty passion of a man playing with another man. It felt not just natural and right but almost even better than that, to feel this guy’s well-honed muscles, to wrestle him backwards half spread-eagled, in a supine position on the wrestling couch in his skintight singlet. To clasping his hands against his hands, his paws with his paws. To plunge his tongue into his exposed, ripe pits, licking the sweat from them and breathing in the musky, natural oder of a beautiful man, a truly beautiful man.  He was a man who had turned ape in such a similar way, a way that seemed to almost insist, now, upon physical contact with another man as a former of higher expression and actualised lust. The tales of his life sounded so similar to what you had been through, what you were still both going through. It was wild, hairy, and almost accidental, all of this, but so, so hot. Was that the right word? Hot? Such as basic word. Is that where its power comes from? How could a blissful sensation like that, a bond like that, ever be so accurately conveyed?

They wrestled together like figure skaters do. They fucked on the sticky wrestling mats together like emboldened, horny goats do in spring. They were simultaneously firm and tender with each other. Spirographs of ease seemed to swirl through their early days of passion and lust. Their gryi were evermore tinged and corrupted by manhood. The gyrus of their secret sexual escapes widened. The artifice of wrestling on the mat was still as pleasurable as ever, yet seemed less and less real compared to the competitions they now had in bed. They competed to make themselves more attractive to each other, to please each other, with their grunts and with their fingers on each other’s cocks, to take the human tongue to new planes within this explorative wop they were brewing together, this primordial soup, these new places that neither had ever ventured to before. His new bro was drawn to his openness, his willingness to breathe misty, warm breath against jaw and his neck, the endless minutes of heartfelt eye contact and intimacy that seemed as if it would never relent. His bro made it clear that he was beautiful, lusted for, valued, wanted and possibly even spectacular in a way none of the other men even attempted to show him, competitive and self-focused as they all were. He had an emotional, trustworthy intimacy with his bro that he had never found in another human before. The more they fucked around with each other, the more they talked afterwards, the more this tangled-up, sexed-up bond seemed to deepen. With low voices, secretive and discreet on the couch in case anybody should come into the gym, they talked about how hot their increasingly male bodies were. They talked about how hot their increasingly wild sexual escapades had become.

He’d sometimes crouch down on the mat, feel his bro place his arms around his flank, and just rest his head on his bro’s shoulder for a quarter of a minute, breathing deeply, before getting started. Just feeling that masculine energy was always both comforting and invigorating to him. The line between wrestling and fucking was starting to seem increasingly blurred. The straight men didn’t know how much effort it took to keep both big wheels spinning at once, to not bust a hard-on in the middle of a meet because you’ve lapsed and forgotten you’re here to dominate, not here to please your male lover. Dominating your lover was also an option, but sexually pleasing an entire gym full of straight men was not. How could they ever even begin to apprehend? They were all too numb, dumb, young or full of cum that they didn’t know what to do with yet. But your bro knew what to do with cum when you sprayed it in a jet all over his muscular torso and across his neck, when you pinned him down and put your cock in his mouth and pumped so much seed into it that it started almost overflowing, his eyes wild with lust, trusting, begging you to deepen the sensations, the trust, the experimentation, the attentiveness to aesthetics and detail that you were both continually perfecting with each other. it stirred something in both of you, this sexual contact that now was busting out between the two of you three or even four times a week.

You fucked at your bro’s school, too, and even in his bedroom a few nights when his parents were gone or when he thought he could slip you in the side door, the difficulty of having almost silent sex, wanting to groan out your lust to him, instead quietly kissing and embracing him, just feeling the warmth of your elongated, swollen, apelike limbs around his bare torso, his muscle also swollen by the hormones and primitive realities that compelled these two bodies to connect in such a naked way. His embrace felt like it could never last long enough, like it should last forever, as if hunger and thirst and the clock on the wall were all just traps, devices meant to mar and deface everything that truly should be real.

You would think of your bro’s presence and be comforted by it even when you knew you had just seen him the night before. It feels comforting, to have a brother you can rely on, a moral bond between the two of you that’s never tight and never full of strictures. It’s embodied in you. It’s encased in the flesh of your bodies, bodies that have wrested themselves free of the grey and contentious realities out there, lesser realities which dominate so many subordinated men. You felt more ready to win than ever, and yet you’d also feel a certain sense of blended auras, tethered serenities, and sweat-soaked blankets riding up on your ass as you pumped six consecutive shots of cum into your lover’s fuzzy boyhole. You’d never felt anything like this before.

You were back at school, a few days later, waiting around near dusk well after the field had cleared out. Your bro’s here, rolling his car into the guest parking lot, grabbing his duffel bag. You don’t go out to meet him, instead choosing to wait for him on the lower set of bleachers in the gym.

“Hey man,” he says, smiling at you. “Hey,” you say back, not really having a lot of gab on the brain either. “You want to go change clothes?” he says, nodding his head to the left, already looking in the back corner towards the locker room.

You do want to go change. And soon it’s just you and your bro in your jockstraps, the door to the wrestling changing room clicking as you lock it behind you. You’re feeling his scruff and he’s feeling your beard. You’re taking each other’s thick heads into your powerful, clumsy, testosterone-infused paws, tongues wet with slobber, jaws sticky with dripping saliva, the footwork of your bare feet accidentally stepping on his bare gunboats. You grip his shoulders, rounded with the muscle of nights of pumping iron, with your own heavily calloused paws. You as him to flex, and he flexes hard, bro. He looks so good, bro. He’s getting bigger all the time, bro. He’s like you, bro. You just want to fuck, bro, and you have to fuck, bro.