Pretty soon I was hunkered down on a trestle, singlet straps danglin’ around my waist, soakin’ up that familiar locker room stench. Tell you buddy, I was just itchin’ to hit the showers. “Good going Ricky.” It was Mitch again, offerin’ more encouragement. ‘Til my sweaty singlet was damn near glued to my fuckin’ wrestler body. Worked ‘em ‘til a wall of sweat washed down over my abs. By the end of the session I’d worked my pecs to within an inch of their goddamn lives. “Lookin’ good buddy”, he enthused, as the over-stacked bar rattled noisily back into place. Mitch, he’s my teammate, kept yelling out encouragement. After practice I put in two extra hours on the weights. This fuckin’ A-grade wrestler works out every day, and then some.
And hey, ain’t no one here at Stockton Academy who comes even close to toppin’ my record…where it counts…on the mats.Ĭoach Anderson reckons I’m what he calls “Olympic material”. But hell, team captain two seasons in a row. Hard to hide when you're wrestling, as you all know. I didn't continue in high school b/c I started to find it impossible to control my erections.
