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Such is the power of touch on my imagination. When I was a teenager watching Championship Wrestling from Florida on TV, a cross-body roll-up pinning position could make me jizz in my Fruit of the Looms. If I'm lucky, the wrestlers at some point return to a face-to-face encounter-a bearhug, or a corner ten-count, as the aggressor towers over the victim, pounding away as the crowd counts out each punch and abs bump against nose and lips. From there, the action moves on to other things, eventually (almost inevitably) leading to one wrestler grabbing hold of the other from behind, crotch tucked against the pert round buttocks of the guy in front. Then, of course, the cocks, which glance off each other, setting a charge off in me as an onlooker, whether or not the wrestlers experience a comparable excitement. Then maybe the chests press together, nipple tapping nipple, and then the stomachs-here is why I love a slightly convex but firm belly, guys-nudging against each other. They feel the other guy's breaths against their faces. Then their bodies draw in-usually in a test of strength. I am especially fond of the point towards the beginning of a match, as two men stand inches apart, bending their foreheads together as they glare meanly into each other's eyes. Lately I have been trying to pay attention to the succession of stances wrestlers take from faceoff to the victory stance over a fallen foe.
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Even the word "skin" packs a certain tingle. I just want to muse over the particular excitement I get from touch. It's not that I have a lot to add to the catalog descriptions. I just take the other guy's kink and run with it along with him, I infuse his fantasy with my feeling for the sensual-and I'm hardly ever disappointed by where it takes us both.
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On these occasions I prefer to enter into my partner's daydreams-so over the years I have wrestled nude and weightless on an intergalactic spacecraft, played a serial killer playing cat-and-mouse games of domination and control with a cop (a real cop, as it turns out, a motorcycle traffic cop, though, not an FBI profiler), fought to the death in an alternative universe where the gladiators possess sixteen senses instead of the mere human five, and pitted Alex Pettyfer against Zac Efron in a poolside brawl at a Beverly Hills mansion. It's escapism from my own imagination, which I explore plenty enough on my own through the blog. I almost never have anything to suggest to my partner by way of who our fantasy wrestlers should be or what the rules of engagement should be or what gear or what venue. Steeped in my self-indulgence on the blog, I use this other outlet to lose myself in other people's fantasies.
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When I play at fantasy pro wrestling via instant messaging, it's a different story. It's devoted to my thoughts on wrestling, its fusion of violence and creation, intimacy and cruelty, imagination and physicality, guilt and thirst for justice, authenticity and camp. Ringside at Skull Island is a personal journal and a scrapbook, as I have said before. Then, too, there's something probably to be said for keeping all that fascination to oneself, but in the 21st century we all live in glass houses, on nearly constant liquid-crystal display. I started the blog to analyze my own erotism, to examine it in public or rather in the public-slash-private realm of the blogosphere. It is my conviction that any man over 25 who is not fascinated with himself-his mind, his will, his passions, especially-is not a man worthy of my time. I write a lot about myself in this blog-even when I am supposedly addressing the subject of wrestling. Whatever else I seem to be discussing in these pages, I am always talking about me, my tastes, my interests, my obsessions, my kinks. I do this mostly because I find myself fascinating. I make no apologies for my egoism.