Wrangled

My curiosity is annoyingly piqued, so I look over my shoulder.

Chad is already changed, wearing the red-and-white wrestling singlet and his socks, nothing else. The material clings to his every muscle, curve, and bulge. With him turned away fussing with the crap on the storage shelves, my eyes drop to the crack that singlet is making between his bountiful globes we’ll call butt cheeks. As he bounces in place and struggles to reach something at the back of one of the top shelves, I am figuratively biting a knuckle at the sight of his glorious ass as it dances and squirms and moves from side to side in that skintight singlet.

He’s doing this on purpose. He has to be doing this on purpose.

Then he gives up and spins around with a shrug. “No more pairs of wrestlin’ shoes, I guess. Just the one.”

My eyes drop to his crotch.

Or should I say: the bulge of red spandex glory that is his one and only package, packed into such a tight, exquisite space that I don’t know which to feel sorry for: the overstretched fabric of the singlet, or his giant cock which barely fits in it.

“Eyes up here.”

My eyes snap right up to his face.

Then he lifts the pair of shoes up and gives them a taunting wiggle. “I swear, you’ll notice the difference. Put these puppies on, and you and I are gonna have ourselves a match. It’s gonna be the best time of your life, my man. Gear up!” And with a laugh, he slips right past me, slaps the shoes to my chest, and is off down the hall, where I watch with ogling eyes as his big, tight ass struts away.

I will say right now, there is no way in hell I’m wearing this skintight singlet, stepping out onto that worn wrestling mat, and facing off with Chad. This reeks of an evil prank he’d pull on me back in the day.

I peer down at the shoes he pressed to my chest. They’re red, white, and blue, with the heels balled and the sole separated in the middle, leaving room for the arch of the foot. The back comes up high on the ankle, like a pair of high-top sneakers, but skinnier.

My eyes drop to his pile of clothes on the floor, uncertain.

I close my eyes.

A different kind of voice appeals to me. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? Someone catches us? What’s the big deal, if you’re never going to see any of these people again anyway after tomorrow?

And what am I missing if I decline to put these on?

A chance to literally put my hands all over a man like him? A chance for him to put his hands all over me?

These sorts of aggressive, masculine endeavors called “sports” are something I’ve sworn away my whole life. I’m an artist with a pencil behind a piece of paper, who turns sketches into fabric choices, thread, and sewing machine magic. I’m a person behind a desk, but with more flair. I’m a designer.

But I’m not in LA tonight. I’m in Spruce, Texas.

Flashback to Salvador tearfully waving me goodbye at the airport yesterday morning.

Flashback to Richie at that same airport, clinging to his side and smiling mutely at me, then giving him a peck on the cheek.

Flashback to me sitting in the airplane as it flew over LA, with my eyes shut and a scowl of determined anguish on my face.

My jaw tightens with conviction.

Fuck it.

When I bust out of the locker room, I find Chad facing off with an imaginary opponent, his legs spread and bent, his hands ready to grapple, his eyes focused and sharp.

That is, until he spots me.

He stops moving, then slowly stands up straight, taking me in. The medium-sized singlet I put on that he picked for me. The one pair of shoes he found, which are a perfect fit for my feet.

And a set of kneepads, which I got myself.

And pads for my elbows, too.

And a set of headgear I fished out of a bin, strapped over my head with the big red guards covering my ears like headphones and the rubbery cup-shaped bit strapped firmly under my chin.

I let the locker room door shut behind me as I come up to the mat, then crack my knuckles. “Alright, big wrestling loser,” I taunt him, “who hasn’t won any trophies or championships. I figured, if we’re going to do this, then I’m all in.”

I might have expected Chad to laugh.

I mean, it’s a ridiculous entrance I just made, acting like I’m a legitimate rival who has a prayer in hell of taking him down.

But instead, he’s still looking me over, stunned by me.

His eyes are all over my chest. Then my legs. Then my feet. He drags his eyes up my arms, back to my neck, and finally up to my face where he stares, bewildered, into my eyes.