“We will break the bed tomorrow,” I texted.
“Lol, are you going to bring a saw?” M asked.
He didn’t know I had a fetish for wrestling, but responded well to my overtures: I pinned him and he pushed me off his belly with pelvic thrushes, both of us tumbling down the bed.
I have always found grappling arousing. After getting bored of the passionless daddy porn, I am now hooked to veteran wrestling, a professional sport where mature men fight for the title.
The veterans bringing themselves to the arena at an age when men start worrying about their weakening bones is awe-inspiring. Whether it’s the short and stout Kasradze Z bringing down men much taller than him or the hefty Markov M using his enormous weight to his advantage, the duels are an exciting show of strength and technique. They’re more real and relaxing than the spectacles of hate and gore WWE and the ilk put up. Of course, the bouts always end with the two opponents shaking hands or parting with a slight pat on the back, but my voyeuristic brain is always good with conjuring juicier stories.