Wrestling This (4 page)

I wanted to cry, but shook my head. “I’m beautiful.”

“You are.”

T
he following afternoon, I finished the end of my twelve-hour workweek at the campus café. Washing dishes, preparing sandwiches, and wiping down tables saw an end to the week. I pocketed my check stub into the back of my jeans pocket and headed to the dorm, frustrated that barely a Benjamin had been deposited into my checking account.

When I got there, Dylan met me at the room’s door. Slightly ajar, he peeked out from behind it, shirtless and hair tousled. “Dude, you gotta give me fifteen.” He flicked his head back into the room. “I got lucky.” He held his hands out, indicating the size of the melons he’d conquered.

I rolled my eyes and left.

A day off from wrestling practice meant not seeing Eric till Monday. I didn’t want to appear needy but I really wanted to be with him.

After our session in Ragans’ gym room, we exchanged numbers but made no definitive plans to get together. Had he been a girl, I would call and ask him out on a date—like dinner and a movie or something—but this man-on-man thing seemed too new to me to know what to do. I knew it shouldn’t be any different yet I struggled with how to approach this new life I’d accepted.
Do I accept it?

My gym clothes were back in the room, so with my book bag slung over my shoulder and a hand in my Levi’s pocket, I headed out for a walk.

A winter day in Florida with temperatures reaching
only
a high in the sixties would be a small heat wave back home. Here it required merely a thin thermal shirt to be comfortable—one I’d wear under layers back in New Hampshire during this time of year.

Unbeknownst to me, in a way, my legs brought me to Ragans Hall, and I jumped when my phone vibrated with a text. Fumbling for my cell, I hoped to see something from Eric. Instead, Dylan’s quirky misspelled message indicated he was done and, “the cost was clear” for me to return. But, I didn’t want to go hear all about the girl. This would make it his first time this semester. I knew because he told me everything. I couldn’t stomach the excitement I knew I’d hear in Dylan’s triumph. While happy for him, it would make me jealous that I couldn’t or hadn’t been so intimate with Eric, yet.

“Fuck it.” I took out my phone and as I looked up Eric’s number to call, he buzzed me. I bit back a smile. “Hey,” I answered. I didn’t want to sound too eager. “What’s up?”

“I see a sexy guy who looks surprisingly like you approaching my dorm.”

I looked over my shoulders. “Ah...you do?”

“Red Sox baseball cap, with a bit of semen stain.”

“What?” I took my hat off for inspection.

“I’m kidding. Hey, I was wondering...this seems weird to ask but...if you’re around tonight...you want to get a pizza or some—”

“Yes!” I shouted. So much for not showing enthusiasm. I tried to soften it by adding, “Um, sure.” I put my cap back on, noting Eric had left his signature under the brim.

T
wo hours later, he picked me up in a BMW. I dressed nicer: blue-and-white striped polo tight around my chest, Hollister jeans, loafers with no socks, and, of course, no baseball cap.

“My parents gave me this car,” he said apologetically, as I fastened my seatbelt. “They got a new one last year. It’s a hand-me-down.”

“Cool.” I understood expensive cars, my dad the quintessential connoisseur of them.

He pulled out of Broward’s lot. “Honestly, I’d prefer a beat-up Honda or something.” Some of us wealthy kids felt a need to apologize for our parents’ luxuries. While grateful, I didn’t like to shove my family’s prosperity in other’s faces.

I wanted him to know I empathized. “My dad drives a 911...on the weekends, in the summer. And, he’s got a new Mercedes S-Class for everyday driving.”

Eric looked at me and smiled, and without words I understood we shared that indifference toward our parents’ wealth. “So,” he said, “there’s this place down on Old Bainbridge, near the highway, that’s good.”

I shrugged. “I’m game for anything.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

Part of me celebrated that he didn’t want to go to Roddy’s, or someplace closer to campus, for fear we’d be seen together as more than just two guys sharing dinner. Then, I saddened, realizing we’d have to keep things clandestine or risk outing ourselves to the team and our families. I didn’t have to think about that with Margie.

Regardless, I didn’t want it to weigh down the evening and, like Tamara would tell me, whisked it from my mind.

P
rimo Italia served wine in decanters wrapped in wicker casings.

Eric chose the house red, figuring beer not appropriate for our first date, and after a glass, we laughed uproariously at the folly of our old enemy ways. We seemed like two different people now.

The waitress gave us time to look over the menus. Even though we’d already landed on one of the specialty pizzas, we didn’t want to rush the date along.

“You gents are having a good time,” said the gum-chewing waitress, checking in on us. She stuck a pen in her hair bun, and I wondered if Dylan’s mother looked similar. “Can I get you some more rolls?”

“Sure!” Eric said, happily, and sopped more oil from the dish with the bread he had in his hand.

I tried to not think of the carbs I’d consumed, gave the waitress a wink, and grabbed my water. “You don’t worry about weigh-in?” I asked Eric. On Tuesdays, the coach made us line up in front of the gym’s scale before heading out into the gymnasium. We had to meet the weight classes designated by the NCWA. I dreaded it and usually starved myself all day and worked hard to sweat out excess water weight to make sure I ranked.

“It’s Friday,” Eric said and took a sip of wine. “We’ve got all weekend to burn it off.”

Agreeing, I took another sip of my wine. I’d had only a few tastes, concerned the sugar would convert to fat before we even got to the main course. “True.”

Under the table, Eric’s leg rubbed against mine and I quickly forgot about the lipogenesis process I studied in biology that no doubt bulged my waistline.

Sandy, our server, snapped her gum and placed a fresh basket of rolls. They smelled wonderful. “Fresh out of the oven,” she said. “You guys ready to order?”

Eric looked at me. I nodded. “We’ll start off with the house salad,” he said, an endless bowl as indicated on the menu. “And”—he looked at the menu to remind himself—“the Primo Italia Mediterranean.”

“A large?” she asked, without looking up from her pad.

“Of course,” Eric said and took a fresh roll.

Sandy collected our menus and tapped them on the table with a, “You boys let me know if you need anything else. I’ll get your salad right out.”

My stomach practically cried from the teasing smell of the bread, and my mouth watered. I took a roll. They were indeed fresh and nearly scorched the tips of my fingers. After smearing the bread in the plate of olive oil with parmesan cheese, I scoffed it down. My gut thanked me, and my mouth wanted more.

By the time the salad came, I’d already consumed the entire basket of bread. Eric didn’t seem fazed. He’d eaten nearly the entire first round.

I devoured the salad. It had whole black olives—nature’s aphrodisiac, according to an article I read online, though not necessary for the evening considering what sat across from me. They tasted delicious. I ate up and licked the house Italian dressing from my fingers.

We washed our first course down with wine, plus I gulped a full glass of water to diffuse the alcohol. Eric ordered us a refill on the salad.

Grateful the busy kitchen couldn’t get to our pizza right away—as told to us in an apology from Sandy—we ate more salad and bread.

Stuffed when the pizza finally came, I didn’t care. We ate the whole thing.

“Run tomorrow?” Eric asked. In between one of the bread rounds, we agreed to several miles around campus.

“Absolutely. Maybe even tonight.”

He grinned. “Tonight, I hoped we’d engage in some other sort of exercise.” His smile dropped. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m new to this too. That’s probably rude of me.”

I lifted a Nike to his calf and rubbed. “Not at all.”

I
n the back of his BMW, in the spot on campus where Margie and I used to go, we steamed his windows.

“You sure no one will see us here?” he asked, kissing my neck with his hand up my shirt, tweaking my nipple.

I touched his chest and his heart thumped forcefully against my hand. “No one cares.” My head fell against the back of the seat. It was more like I didn’t care. I moved down to his crotch. The olives, or something, had him so hard that his zipper had already inched open. I helped it the rest of the way. He had no underwear on and his cock popped out. I sat him back, jacked him off, and kissed him until his legs twitched violently.

Then, sucking him off, I had him tottering at the edge of orgasm, him pulling me off: “Not yet...not yet!”

A flash of lights filled the car’s cabin.

“Shit!” Eric’s mood quickly altered. He pushed me off him like he’d done so many times in a match and my head hit the window. He fumbled to pull up his pants. “Duck!”

Hunched down—neck now pinned against the lumbar section of the seat—I found my polo next to me and threw it over my exposed crotch and searched for my pants. I found the leg of my jeans slung over the parking brake.

The growl of the intruder’s vehicle traveled off to my right.

Next, Eric pushed me aside, and I fell to the floor as he moved the driver’s seat back and shimmied his way into it.

“What the—” I said, getting up in time to recognize the Mustang’s rear and, more importantly, Margie’s plate—
GO-GRL. What the hell is she doing here?
She drove down the graveled path, which led to the main street.

“Fuck that!” Eric’s BMW started, and he tore out of the dirt lot and into the opposite direction Margie had gone. The car’s thrust pushed me against the seat and I dropped my pants.

“I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “That was just too close. Wasn’t that your girl?”

I stepped into my pants. “Ex girl.” I arched my back to pull up my jeans. “Remember?”

He combed a hand through his hair. “I just...it’s just too close to home.”

“Isn’t home Atlanta?” I said, trying to make light of the situation but he didn’t reply.

Silently, we drove about a mile until he pulled off onto a deserted, tree-lined street, a couple of blocks from my dorm. With the car idling, he looked around surreptitiously. “Dude, I can’t do this.”

“Huh? Look, I know—”

Dark and cold eyes stared at me—the ones that flung me on the mat over and over, a soul hidden from view. “This. Us.” He shook his head. His words and action hit me hard in the stomach.

“Is that it?” I asked, pushing the passenger seat forward to exit.

“Dude, it’s getting late anyway.” He faced the street, hands gripping the steering wheel. “Let’s go jogging tomorrow and we can talk about it. I’m freaked out is all.”

I tried to make eye contact.
Was he in there?
I couldn’t see him well, reached up, pulled the handle open to the passenger door, and climbed out.

He leaned down and his face peered out the passenger-side window. “Let’s just take it slow?”

Anger rose and I slammed the door shut—mad that he’d leave me on the side of the road like an abandoned dog. I stormed off and under the dark of an oak’s canopy. His car slowly pulled away.

I wanted to cry. My stomach, heart, and entire solar plexus hurt. The street grew dim as I watched the BMW’s taillights disappear into the night.

The urge to vomit grew strong. I leaned—arm up—against the tree, my head in the crook of my elbow. Fallen leaves crunched underfoot as I rocked on the balls of my feet. I wanted to punch something. “You’re stronger than this. You’re stronger than this,” I told myself. The urge to slam him to the ground rose, but the feeling changed.
Then, I’d climb on top of him and slowly...
I couldn’t go there. I took a deep breath, swallowed my sadness and anger, and ran back to Broward.

S
aturday morning, Eric called for our jog around campus, but I never picked up. Instead, I threw myself—full-force—into schoolwork, and hung at the library, researching articles for my Criminal Law paper due before break. I wrote five pages of the report on my Mac, reread it, and added another page.

Afterward, I worked out with Dylan in our room—several full-throttle sets of push-ups, pull-ups, mountain climbers, and bodyweight squats. He didn’t ask about Eric.

On Sunday, Eric sent a text with an apology. I deleted it and focused on my World Lit assignment—an Ibsen play—that I had to finish before Tuesday’s class. I had to do well academically and thought that perhaps a relationship was too much of a distraction to begin with. Around eleven p.m., I finished
A Doll’s House
and fell asleep with it by my side.

In my slumber, I dreamt of Eric and me marrying—no doubt spawned by the protagonist’s plight in the play. Arm and arm, dressed in wrestling singlets, we walked out of a church and told a crowd of waiting protestors to
go fuck themselves
. We kissed on the steps and I woke to a Monday morning, trying not to think of him.

By afternoon exhausted from classes and slopping minestrone soup and slicing tuna fish sandwiches all day, I felt too sick to go to practice. I told Dylan I had an upset stomach—partially true. More so, I felt depressed about my love life, or lack thereof. When Dyl left, I crawled into bed and listened to Bruno Mars on my iPod.

With my school assignments caught up, my work-study job done for the day, and nothing to divert my attention, a dark cloud of depression enveloped me. I considered calling Tamara, but I couldn’t tell her I was gay, not yet.

I couldn’t blame Eric for being scared. We were both so new to being out. The ordinary straight things we did—when we were straight—were harder.
How do gay couples do it? How do they stay together when they can’t even be together openly?
I pondered these questions—in my downtime, I often obsessed over details.