Date: Tue, 13 Jan 1998 01:58:07 +1000
From: cuteheel@hotmail.com
Subject: Teen Pro #2: Cruiserweight Fight

One.

The corporate headquarters of J.W. Simms Esq, founder and chief
commissioner of Continental Championship Wrestling, were usually split
evenly between the back seat and trunk of his car. So when someone
offered him a side room in the gym we were using for a CCW show, Simms
acted like he'd found the keys to the Oval Office in a bucket of
Kentucky Fried Chicken.
I was sitting in his new operations center, waiting for him to get off
the phone. His desk was the top of a two-drawer filing cabinet with a
telephone, filofax and battered brown briefcase all fighting for
position. In his open briefcase I could see a legal note-pad, the
oil-stained wax paper from a long-eaten sandwich and his personal copy
of the PWI 500, with carefully composed notes like "bullshit" and "like
hell" written into the margins.
"I'm tellin' ya Arnold, ya gotta stop worrying aboudit," he was saying,
his broad flat brow beading with sweat. It was 95 in the shade outside
and the concrete-block walls were transferring every last degree.
"Yeah, look Arnold. Yeah. Arnold. Look. I gotta go. I'll get bagdaya on
that."
He hung up the bone-coloured telephone and hooked a finger into the
collar of his shirt. "Bigfoot McGurk," he said, by way of explanation.
"Upset `cos he found his name in summing called Where Are They Now? on
the Innernet."
"So why don't you book him?" I said, not really caring. I was beginning
to sweat, too, and I hadn't come to discuss national monuments.
"Cos he can't walk inno a ring without fallin over frum azma, or some
shit. My granma couldn't sell a move for him."
I was nursing a bruised shoulder from last week's show and desperately
wanted to get away from Simms and his halo of personal odour. It was
eight months since I started in CCW and there were things I wanted to
discuss.
"Look, Mr Simms," I said. "There are some things I wanted to ask you.
You said if there ever was anything, right?"
He nodded. "Shoot."
"First off, my ring name -- Jason Striker. I hate it. I sound like a porn
star."
"Nuttin I can do, kid. The mugs know you by that name now."
"Second of all, my entrance music. The fuckin' Spice Girls? I mean, come
on."
Simms leant forward on his elbows, tipping his briefcase onto the
concrete floor. "Look, Chad. I'd like to help ya out. I would. But them
Spice Girls -- the kids love em. You're a good lookin' kid, you're 19 and
those udder kids are your market. There's nuttin I can do."
"Shit, Mr Simms," I started, but he held up his hand.
"I know you been teaming with Aaron for awhile now and I'm not stupid --
I know you kids don't exactly get along. So I'm gonna cut you a break. A
title shot."
"Yeah?" I said, suspiciously. "What title?"
"Cruiserweight," he said proudly.
My heart sank. The Cruiserweight champ was someone I'd got to know, one
of the few guys in the whole outfit who wasn't a complete asshole. He
was a tightly-muscled, 24 year-old African American who wrestled under
the name Shemar Wilson, although his real name was Joe. I used to wait
to take my shower until he came out of his fight, and I was always
amazed how he could keep his long, fat dick tied up in those little red
tights.
"Couldn't you book me against Kid California or someone?" I said. Now
there was a jerk whose head I could quite easily put through a table --
and I longed to see first-hand just how well his tanned, perfectly-toned
body actually worked.
"Nuttin doin kid. I booked you against Shemar" -- he always mispronounced
it so it rhymed with `lemur' -- "this Saturday night. You're second from
the top on da card."
"Bullshit!" a voice behind me yelled. I knew who it was before I turned
around -- Aaron.
He was standing at the door wearing dirty green shorts and an old pair
of Nikes, a football clamped between his hand and his waste. The light
was coming from behind him and his bare, sweaty torso made him glow -- I
was a year older than him and a little better developed, but he had a
lean, fearless bitterness which could scare me.
"Now Aaron ... " started Simms, but he didn't get far.
"That's bullshit and you know it," he said, coming into the room. "I
been with this outfit since I was 16, and if anyone's going up against
that motherfucker on Saturday it's me!"
"Now, Aaron, jest calm down a little ... " said Simms, but it was too
late. My tag partner was spitting mad and he was standing right over me.
I moved to get out of my chair and he pushed me, his hot hand leaving a
wet mark on the chest of my tight white t-shirt. I fell back against
Simms' filing cabinet and knocked over the telephone, but I didn't fall
over.
"I'm telling you, pussy-boy," said Aaron with his finger in my face and
beams of pure hatred coming out of his eyes, "there's somethin not right
here and I aim to fix it."
With that he turned and left the room. Simms seemed more shaken than me,
but he picked his stuff off the floor and tried to restore his normal,
obnoxious voice.
"I'm telling you, kid," he said. "I been in this business long enough to
know pro-rasslin attracts only three types of people: psychos, faggots
and the just-plain-stupid. And the only type that gets anywhere is the
first."


Two.

Thirty minutes before the fight I had my own little ritual to keep my
mind off things till bell time. When I wrestled with Aaron in the
stupidly-named "Teen Ragers" I wore yellow, but in singles competition I
had tight white speedo-briefs with white boots and wrist-bands, to wipe
off the sweat. I could tell I was going to need them tonight because it
was almost nine-thirty and you could still fry an egg on the carpark.
There was a full-length mirror for the wrestlers and I'd taken to
covering myself with a thin coat of baby oil, to make my muscles stand
out. I was still slender, but eight months of knocks had hardened my
arms and chest and I enjoyed wearing tight street clothes to show off
the way my nipples pushed out against cotton shirts. My blond hair was
short at the back and sides with just a lick that fell over one eye --
not enough to block my view, but enough to get people excited. I had a
deep, summer tan and sometimes in photographs the oil picked up the
tiny, almost invisible layer of downy white hair that spread from my
tight, boyish stomach, over my growng chest and down into little
v-shaped flutes in the small of my back. 
My cock tensed a little as I looked at myself, but I had a trick with
the way I wore my jockstrap to hold it in when it got fat during
matches. It usually did.
I wanted to look great tonight because I would be competing for the
crowd's support against Shemar, who was one of the handsomest men in the
promotion. His body looked like it had been sculpted, not just formed
from the same skin and bone as you and me. A natural athlete, he always
wore white boots, matching red knee and shoulder pads and red speedo
tights. His coffee-coloured thighs ballooned over his knee-pads and
sloped back into an impossibly slender waist, with abs you could grate a
carrot on. His chest looked like it could've kept the Titanic afloat,
and his already generously-proportioned arms seemed to triple in size
when he flexed a bicep. To top it all off he had a lantern jaw,
mile-high cheekbones and not more than a few milimeters of tough black
hair that covered his perfectly-proportioned head. Sometimes, at night,
I used to imagine myself sliding into his soft, dark pink lips like I
was settling into an easy chair ...
"Hey there," said someone behind me. I started, suddenly aware that my
dick was erect and my clever little jock-strap trick was not doing its
job.
It was Shemar. Looking at him now, in the flesh, I realised that I had
only appreciated about one percent of how beautiful he was. The only
thing I hadn't remembered in detail was the thin, razor-sharp coating of
regrowth hair on his chest, which he said he didn't like waxing because
of in-growns.
"I know it's not really, you know, etiquette to talk before the show,"
he said, "but I just wanted to say good luck."
With that he stuck out his hand and I felt my heart run down my arm and
leap from my palm to his like a bolt of static electricity.


Three.

The champ always gets to come in second. So I stood there, waving
desperately at the crowd after having shaken about a thousand hands on
the way into the ring and pumping each and every one of them like it
belonged to my best friend. The announcer, a jolly man with a sparkly
cummerbund who got a personal Christmas card every year from the Jack
Daniels company, read out my porn star name and the girls at the ring
barrier waggled their tits in time to the Spice Girls. 
"Alex fuckin' Wright doesn't have to put up with this," I muttered
through my smile, and waited for the Shemar sound and light show.
Sure enough the arena lights dropped and Shemar, wearing a
rhinestone-decorated red nylon robe and grooving down the aisle to Smash
Mouth, was picked out in a single bright spot. The crowd went bananas as
he paused to sign a few autographs, and I swear some huge woman had to
be carried out on a stretcher when he entered the ring with a
sommersault over the top rope.
He opened his robe like it was the box that held the Ark of the
Covenant, and there, somewhere above the small child that he carried in
his tights, was the Cruiserweight belt. Duely displayed and dispensed
with, he walked into the centre of the ring and elicited the biggest
cheer of the night by extending his hand once more to me.
I could've killed him with a mixture of lust, jealously and coiled-up
anticipation for the violence that was about to follow.
"`Luck, Chad," he said through tight lips.
"Yeah, Joe. You too."


Four.

Shemar's finisher could take a wrestler with an hour's fight left in him
and lay him out cold. From looking you straight in the eye he flipped
into a backward handstand, grabbed your head between his thighs and then
flipped forward again, landing you flat on your back with him kneeling
on your throat and upper chest. You got a great view of his crotch, an
unscheduled nap and a thorax you had to put back togteher like a jigsaw
puzzle.
The 6' athlete god was still acknowledging the cheers from crowd 30
seconds after bell time. His exposed back was the perfect opportunity
for an attack but I felt I needed the support of the crowd if I was
going to get anywhere with the match. A hostile crowd isn't just
discouraging, you can't get out of the ring without being covered in
beer, popcorn and whatever is small, hard and throwable from a woman's
purse.
Finally I decided on a risky move -- approaching him, I tapped him on his
left shoulder and ducked, planning to plant him with a shoulder block to
the abs and send him neatly into the turnbuckle. But no sooner had I
touched him and started to duck, the sole of his boot came up and
connected with my stooping face. I was layed flat on my back and the
crowd screamed with laughter and approval -- sadistic fuckers.
Shemar stood above me, smiling. Once more he offered me his hand -- to
help me up -- but I decided not to add insult to injury. So I resisted
the temptation to kick him in the balls and got up myself, pressing the
back of my hand to my mouth and checking it for blood.
Now he approached for a lock-up, which I gave him. It wasn't easy
because he was taller and incomparably better built than me, but it
would have been even more humiliating to back down. With ridiculous ease
he pressed me down by the back of my neck and clamped me into a reverse
headlock. My body tensed and I waited for what was coming next -- weirdly
aware at the back of my mind that this was probably the last time in the
match I'd enjoy being pressed to his skin. The left side of my face was
smooshed into his lats and I noticed that he smelled of deliciously of
sweat and talc ...
I felt a white-hot, lung-crushing explosion of pain as he brought a
forearm down between my shoulder-blades. I raised my hands, expecting to
hit the canvas with my face ... but no. He was still holding me. His arm
came down once more, and then again, in exactly the same place. My
grunts were stiffled against the pressure his thick arm was exerting on
my throat and I felt the strength drain from my knees.
He adjusted his grip to crush my Adam's apple and I desperately started
scraping at his arm, flecks of white spittle shooting from my mouth. But
he was just tightening his grip for the next move, heaving me over so he
landed comfortably on his ass while I skidded wildly across the canvas,
winding me completely and leaving a generous layer of my skin on the
mat. As I groggily opened my eyes I saw I'd come to rest in a corner,
just near the time-keeper's desk where the announcer was wincing in
empathised pain. Even from here, his Coke can smelt of whiskey.
Just as I tried to lift my head I felt a tight grip on the heel of my
right boot. Startled, I looked around to see Shemar's broad white smile
beaming at me from outside the ring. He gently opened my legs, tugged me
towards him and slammed my right knee into the ring-post. 
I howled with pain and tried to grip my flaming joint, but too late to
stop him slamming the knee once more into the cold metal pole. My
knee-pad had twisted in my last fall and offered no protection at all,
and I leaned forward, holding myself up by gripping the lower ring
ropes. Shemar turned and held up both arms to the crowd, showing me the
incredible V of muscle his back tapered into where it disappeared into
his tights. In another moment he had turned around again, grabbed both
my boots and heaved me forward, slamming my crotch into the post.
The pain -- incredible, debilitating -- was so intense it had the effect
of a cold shower. I quickly tucked my legs in, pressed my hands into my
throbbing cock and balls and half crawled, half bounced my way away from
the ropes. I guess the crowd was cheering but through my pain the whole
world sounded like it was on a roller-coaster, the noise swooping in and
out of my addled perception.
But one thing was for fucking certain -- the gloves were off with Shemar.


Five.

The big African-American was taking his time climbing back into the
ring. My head started to clear almost enough to complain that the Ref
wasn't counting him out, but not quite. Finally, from my canvas-level
view, I spotted him posing for a photograph at ringside with a woman who
looked like Ernest Borgnine.
Slowly, painfully, I crawled toward the other side of the ring. My
crotch was hurting so much I couldn't use my legs effectively, and just
as I reached for the bottom rope a ring photographer's flash-bulb
exploded in my face. I cursed him, but he just looked at me blankly and
wound onto the next frame. Taking one last look at Shemar, who was
flexing his arms now, both at the same time, I dropped ingloriously to
the floor on the other side of the ring. Crawling to the green metal
ring stairs, I crouched with my back to the ring apron to catch my
breath. And wait.
With both of us out of the ring now the Ref started to count -- selective
bastard -- and in another moment, there was the white flash of Shemar's
boot on the steps. With both hands I grabbed his ankle and stood bolt
upright, tipping him violently backwards. He landed with a booming crack
on his shoulders, his head slamming hard onto the floor. And, oh look.
He missed the padded mats.
The people on either side of the entrance aisle went eerily quiet,
half-chewed popcorn visible in a dozen open mouths. Shemar wasn't out
cold but his eyes were blinking groggily, and he was trying to lift his
hands to his head but all co-ordination seemed to have left him. 
I hadn't fully recovered but I was in a lot better shape than Mr
Universe there. Nor had I figured myself for a heel, but with surprising
aplomb I found myself saying to anyone close enough to hear: "Ladies and
gentleman," and with both arms held up at the elbow, like a surgeon
waiting for his gloves, I planted a boot into Shemar's ribs. It felt
good.
Shemar wailed in pain but his reactions still weren't happening. I
nudged his ribcage delicately with the toe of my boot, thinking for just
one moment how good my white leather looked against his molases-coloured
muscles. When I thought I'd found the bruise I kicked him again. Harder.
He rolled over on his left side now, holding himself and just barely
whimpering. I figured I had to get out of there before I started using
Coors cologne, so I gripped him by the back of the neck and started to
lift. I was surprised at how heavy he was -- the weights they announced
before the matches were as made up as our names, but this guy seemed
like he could've been 240 pounds.
So I gripped his thick neck with both hands, taking care to dig the tips
of my fingers deep into the muscle. He was on his feet now, groggy and
sagging at the knees. At the far corner of the ring that photographer
appeared again, and in a flash of inspiration I hoisted Shemar's head
up, cupped his strong chin with my free hand and said: "Smile!"
He was like a rag-doll hung on a hook, his enormous shoulders sagging
and his two massive arms swinging like lead pendulums. Like this his
waist seemed even smaller and his huge chest even bigger, making him
ridiculously top-heavy. When the flash went off I looked quickly into
his handsome face -- if his pupils were still behind those thin cracks in
his eyelids, I couldn't see them -- and launched him towards the
ring-post.
Shemar hit forehead first, his arms swinging around with momentum like
he was hugging a sweetheart, and then dropping away insensibly. Slowly,
almost in slow motion, he fell backward like a California redwood.
I walked over to the limp stud, and paused for a moment to catch my
breath. The mood in the arena was eerie -- the roar had left the crowd
and it seemed like one enourmous beast, puzzled and silent, as if trying
to make up its tiny, prehistoric mind. I considered for a brief moment
hoisting Shemar to his feet and dumping him face-first through the
time-keeper's table, visualising his tight, red-clad butt sticking up
from the rubble like an invitation to dinner.
But no -- that'd get me disqualified and if there was any way I could get
out of this match with that shiny gold belt and the audience behind me,
I was going to go for it.
So I dumped him like a sack of trash back into the ring and climbed in
after him. Even after all the punishment he had taken, Shemar was not
only still conscious but seeming to recover. I knew I had to do
something quickly -- his powers of recovery were a minor legend in the
CCW.
I went to the nearest ring-post and climbed up hastily. From the top of
the trunbuckles I could see the whole arena, and there Shemar lay on his
back, a mountain of muscle in tiny red tights that seemed a hundred feet
beneath me. He was hugging the back of his throbbing head with his
hands, body tensed and elbows poised as if he were about to do a sit-up.
He was incredibly sexy in his vulnerability, and my crotch stirred as I
realised at that moment I could do whatever I wanted to him, whatever
way I wanted.
So I stopped to flex my own biceps, and in that instant the crowd roared
like a blast of hot air from the biggest fucking jet engine in the world
-- the flash-bulbs bursting all around me, an armed escort of fireflys
lifting me higher and higher into the stratosphere.
I cocked my elbow to scatter Shemar's abs like six glass marbles and
dropped through space, gloriously, tripumphantly, straight into the
champion's knee.


Six.

If my jaw were still somewhere on my body it wasn't on my face where I
left it. Perhaps it was swinging comically around the bottom of my neck,
like a well-pitched horseshoe.
The glare of the flash-bulbs had transformed seemlessly into a galaxy of
pain, my eyes transmitting pictures of crazy, improbable angles and
arguing stongly that the ring mat had become attached to the ceiling of
the auditorium. I figured that if ever I'd broken anything in a
wrestling match, I'd broken something now.
Madly, dumbly, like crab with a nerve disorder, I scuttled into the
corner. There at least I could prop myself up while the world turned
cartwheels around me. Insanely, when at last my head cleared enough to
see straight, I saw that Shemar too was propped weakly in the adjacent
corner. Whether I had hurt him also on the way down, or he was still
groggy from the punishment I had given him outside the ring, at least he
was too disoriented to attack. There wasn't a fat ass on a chair in the
whole place.
Although I felt like puking everything north of my toenails I knew I had
to get Shemar before he recovered any further. With all the grace of a
dead walrus falling out a closet door I lunged at him and connected with
a double axe-handle to his head. He bellowed and fell back into the
turnbuckles, his chin pointing to the ceiling and his incredible abs
just begging to be strummed like a banjo. I shucked my knee-pad down to
my ankle and softened him with a bare right knee to the gut -- which
still hurt like hell, on account of the number with the ring post. 
His neck snapped back and his grip on the ropes tightened, being all
that was holding him up. I kneed him again in the gut and another time
more, keeping up the pounding until I could feel his muscles loosen and
separate. As his grip on the ropes slackened I wrapped my left hand
around his throat and went to work with my right fist. A low wail
uncoiled from his windpipe like a released spirit, and I kept pounding,
finishing the barage with a right-left combo to those damn perfect
cheekbones of his. As the sweat started to darken his tight red speedos
my own dick began to stiffen and strain against the elastic of my
jock-strap.
Administering the beating had been taking it out of me, too, and I
needed a low-energy move that would keep Shemar out of action for a
little while longer. He was drenched with perspiration now and spinning
him around by his rock-like shoulders wasn't easy, but in a moment I had
my hand splayed over the back of his head and was pressing his face hard
into the top of the rope.
When he realised what was about to happen he started to struggle, but he
was too weak from the beating to do much to resist. His apprehension was
an aphrodisiac to me, and at that moment I could have shot a bucket into
my tight white speedos. I wish I could say he pleaded, or begged, but he
didn't -- he just began to scream as I scraped the skin of his face over
the rope. I sped up as I reached the other turnbuckle and launched him
into it for good measure. 
He bounced off it like his head was made of basketball and collapsed
back from the corner. There were those abs again -- I couldn't resist
gripping the corner ropes and jumping onto them with my toes bent into
two sharp little points.
He twitched violently when I landed but his eyes remained closed fast
and I figured I had to have almost beaten him into a coma. Keeping my
gaze directly on him, I allowed myself to raise one arm in anticipated
victory -- to my amazement, the crowd roared its approval. Perhaps it
wasn't going to be such a bad night after all.
With the fight beaten out of him Shemar was heavier than ever. I stood
above him and watched once more for any flickering behind his eyelids,
saw none, and squatted over his boots. I was going to end it with a crab
and if he didn't submit, the Ref could drop his limp arm three times to
the canvas.
I rolled the huge man over and shuffled his white boots into position.
Just as I began to sink my weight down I was pleased to see that
photographer again, poised to get a perfect shot of Shemar's legas and
my face, written all over with victory.
The first I felt was a twinge in Shemar's thighs, like a muscle spasm.
Good, I thought. If he's cramping it'll hurt more. But the spasm grew
stronger and the next moment he threw his legs out with the force of a
burst dam, starightening them violently and sending me straight towards
the turnbuckle. The next time I opened my eyes I realised I'd missed the
turnbuckles and smashed directly into the metal post.


Seven.

Shemar was standing unsteadily above me, a wobbling giant. I had been
thrown into the cente of the ring, body aching from more than just the
impact of the ring post -- whatever he'd just done to me, I had an
imprint of pain from my neck to my ankles.
The Ref was holding my wrist in his right hand as if to check my pulse,
and in the last moment I realised what was going on. His left hand had
two fingers raised and he let my wrist go, leaving it to fall like a
sock full of gravel to the canvas. With an effort in my upper back which
sent a seam of pain from one shoulder to the other, I sent every iota of
energy into that arm to stop it hitting the mat. I was successful -- just
-- and the crowd whooped with a single voice.
The Ref stood up and held his two fingers up to the audience and the
time-keeper, but I had no time to appreciate the smattering of applause
which was, presumably, for me. Shemar brought his knee hard down onto my
chest and I coughed up a wad of phlegm as I grunted in pain. The wad was
stained with red, and I realised that I only had a matter of minutes
left in this fight.
Shemar fell on me once more, connecting his fist to my forehead. I
gripped it in agony, and the next thing I knew he was hoisting me to my
feet. Despite all he'd been through Shemar was still incredibly strong;
unbelievably, he lifted me onto his shoulder and walked us both slowly
toward the ropes.
I knew this was the end -- if he heaved me over the ropes I was going to
pass out, and be counted out of the ring. But Shemar had gone just two
steps when he began to sway, and I could feel the strength going out of
his legs. Trying to stay upright he dropped me in a clumsily-executed
slam, which hurt the hell out of my shoulder but wasn't as bad as it
could have been. I could only lie there stupidly and glare up at him,
the topography of his muscualr body standing out like some incredible
landscape. Almost delerious with pain I remember looking blankly at his
navel like it were a well in a meadow, and thinking: "When I die, I'd
like to be buried there ... "
Shemar wrenched me up painfully by one arm, until I was standing crooked
but more or less erect, and looked me in the eye. I knew the finisher
was coming, and wondered idly whether I'd still be conscious in the 0.5
of a second it'd take my head to hit the canvas. But instead of flipping
powerfully onto his hands Shemar took one staggered step backward, and
then another half step. He was in better shape than me but I realised he
was incapable of putting me away with the move that made him famous.
Groggily, he reached to grab me by the bicep -- his hand sliding off my
sweaty flesh once and leaving a trail of scratch-marks, but then
reaching again and grabbing me tight -- and spun me once in a full circle
around him. The force of that alone was almost enough to put me out, but
he let go of my arm and I sailed straight into a turnbuckle, front
first.
That was it for me -- I hit hard, and I fell straight backward. The blood
was flavouring my mouth now and I waited for the final elbow slam or leg
drop which was going to precede the cover.
There was the expected flash of white boot and red trunks above me,
divided by the dark, beautiful expanse of his incredbile thigh. I
welcomed the hit which would be my last for the night.
I opened my eyes and for a moment and, inexplicably, he wasn't there.
Then I heard a sound like that irresistible force meeting that immovable
object, a single gasp from a thousand throats and, summoning the last
ounce of energy in my body, I cocked my chin down so I could see where
he went.
Shemar had gone to head-butt me against the corner and found nobody
home. There he was hanging, as if he'd been posted, body limp between
the top end second turnbuckle, his head crammed tight against the
unfeeling metal pole. His butt quivered once, then again, and he sunk
slowly, pathetically to his knees, as if he were kneeling to lay his
head in someone's lap. 
The black-and-white figure of the Ref was hovering somewhere around me
but, God bless his stupid head, he had no idea what to do. I guess he
couldn't work out whether to check me for consciousness, check him for
consciousness or just book an ambulance with room enough for two.
But I knew what to do. I gave myself the luxury of three more seconds to
recover, spat out a mouthful of blood and reached my hand out to that
butt which was sucking red nylon into its crack like water down a hole
in the ocean. I grabbed the top of his speedos and yanked, rolling out
of the big man's way as I did. Victory always gave me a hard-on and here
was the added bonus of one great look at Shemar's bare ass, grinning at
me, until the elastic on his tights snapped back into place.
One or two women with a decent view at ringside tittered excitedly at
the spectacle and I just rolled me a great big ball of muscle, like my
moma rolling out the cookie dough. His huge thighs formed the perfect
lever and their sheer mass helped press his shoulders deep into the
puckering canvas. I don't know whether he was conscious then or he
wasn't -- I kind of hoped he was -- and I pressed my crotch into the back
of his tights as the Ref collapsed to the mat and started banging his
hand.
Shemar's arms were out last like a crucifix -- one hand proably close
enough to grab a rope, had he been in any state to think, and the other
flopped into the centre of the ring, his wrist curling slightly at the
palm like God reaching out to Adam. My dick had been through a lot but
it appreciated being nestled into Shemar's ass, even with two pairs of
tights between it and its new best friend.
Too soon came the three count, too soon the final bell. I stayed on top
of the mass of muscle for as long as I could without tempting the Ref to
disqualify me for applying a hold after the end of the match, and he had
to help me stand as he raised my arm in victory.
Shemar uncrumpled on the canvas and began slowly to move his head, as if
waking up with the world's champion hang-over. I longed to plant just
one more boot into his ribs, but at that moment the accumulated pain and
nausea of the fight began to rise in my stomach like yesterday's rotten
curry. 
Somewhere in the distance a gold belt was being handed through the ropes
and people were cheering. But me, I allowed myself to let go of whatever
it was inside me I was using to keep myself up; thinking dreamily as I
closed my eyes of holding Aaron by the hair as I smacked his face into
my brand new belt, or of tying Kid California into the ring ropes and
going to town on the very best work Soloflex ever did ...