Figure Four Leg Lock
by Shane Jones
In the beginning we had sex four or five times a day. But the summer my
boyfriend decided to become an amateur wrestler he lost all interest. Every
moment was another opportunity for him to get faster, stronger, and learn yet
another new grappling technique. When he wasn’t waiting tables at the Falcon, or
at the gym, he was home - watching old tapes featuring his favorite and what he
considered the best wrestlers. He would stand, mimicking elbow drops, off the
top rope splashes (the bed came in handy for something other than sleeping),
uppercuts, and karate kicks in the glow of television light. In the morning he’d
leave early - a day planned around a new finishing move he’d learned the night
before. I’d find his red tights bunched up in the bed sheets.
When we went out for dinner he consumed insane amounts of food. Need to bulk
up, he would say. No longer did he have the college kid frame - thin but Brad
Pitt muscular - when we first met. Now he looked comical, cartoon like. All
features out of proportion, biceps and thighs stretched tight like a helium
balloon ready to explode with another ounce of air. And we always talked about
him, about his wrestling.
“It’s a tough one,” he said. “I mean, I like the figure four leg lock for a
finisher, but it’s kind of boring. Maybe I should do the sharp shooter, or cross
faced crippler. What do you think?”
I gave him the rest of my friend eggplant. “I don’t know baby.” I tried to
look sexy and moved his pant leg up his ankle with my foot.
“You’re right, who am I kidding? I’m a figure four leg lock type of guy.”
Still, my boyfriend cared about me. On the drive home after matches I’d
massage his neck from the drivers seat while he rested. Sometimes he’d turn his
head, his chin on his shoulder, and smile at me. That told me he cared . But
once we got home he’d go to sleep. I felt motherly, like I had punished him on
the ride home and sent him to bed early. My desire to have sex felt like it was
eating its way up and through my skin.
I hated wrestling. But I also found it ridiculously erotic. It was all
scripted out, soap opera like, but this gave it a sensitivity that was both
laughable and enjoyable. I never did like violence - but wrestling was safe.
And the outfits! These men with such overwhelming bodies in colorful tights and
masks. It didn’t leave much to the imagination.
Most of the time I didn’t go to the matches. There was always the
possibility that my boyfriend would get hurt. Plus, my increased sex drive gave
me a wandering eye and I felt guilty for looking at other men’s crotches.
Secretly, I hoped my parents had raised me better.
They didn’t. One night I decided to surprise my boyfriend by acting out one
of my fantasies. It would snap us out of our sexual slump that was going on to
three weeks, I thought. In college he loved when I dressed up. Innocent
cheerleader, naive schoolgirl, dominant nurse, all these made him talk in
tongues. I did it for him before, but now I was doing it for myself.
El Vito Loco. That was his character in the ring. His “true self” as my
boyfriend said one night after one too many Souther Comfort shots. Sometimes he
would walk around our apartment in his outfit, occasionally looking into the
random hanging mirrors and saying catch phrases. I have to admit - the outfit
was colorful, sexy, and mysterious. Mostly because of the orange mask with blue
flames stitched across the center. The only thing human were dark eyes and thin
lips.
My boyfriend worked part-time at the Falcon - a dive bar that tried to pass
its self off as a family restaurant. For a waiter he made fairly good money. I
knew exactly when he would be home.
I stripped and put his red shorts on that were about seven sizes too big. I
laughed at myself in the mirror - pulling the waist tight with one hand as I
tried to act serious. “I’m gonna crush all of you!” I narrowed my eyes and
scrunched my face. “I am El Vito Diablo! The master of the figure four leg
lock!” I fell to the bed laughing.
Next, the mask. It fit perfectly. Like hot wax had poured over my head and
cooled itself to my skin. Just looking at myself turned me on. It was like
looking at someone totally different. Someone sexual and dominant. I could be
that person for tonight, I thought.
When my boyfriend came home he walked in, sat on the couch, and from a brown
paper bag, took out a greasy looking hamburger. “Deb you here?” He took a few
bites. “Deb!”
He didn’t notice me standing at the threshold separating the living room and
bedroom. “Right here baby.”
He turned around. He stood up. He walked over to me. “What are you doing
in that?”
I could barely contain myself. I slid my back up and down the wall trying to
restrain my hands by placing them on my ass. The mask was beginning to get hot
and sweaty. “You like?” I said.
“I want you to take it off. It’s my thing.”
I kissed him and it felt strange with the mask pressing against his face. I
felt powerful and scared. Scared he would laugh. I had used a safety pin to
hold up the red tights and they were beginning to slip off. “I’m going to fuck
you so hard. I’m going to ride that big cock,” I said and pushed him towards the
bedroom with my body. The tights fell to the floor and I stepped out of them.
“I want you to take that off,” he said. “This isn’t sexy at all.”
“Fine. Do you want to wear it and you can fuck me?”
“No.”
He went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. For the
first time in our relationship I felt pathetic. I stood there completely naked
except with a wrestling mask around my face. I unzipped the mask and walked into
the bedroom.
I was hoping he would come in. That he would walk in and apologize. “I’ve
been such a dick lately” he was going to say. “Let me make it up to you. Let me
show you I love you. That I’ve just been a different person lately but I’m still
the person you fell in love with.” But I waited, and I listened to him in the
kitchen rinse the beer bottle out and open another then another. I got into bed,
still naked, and turned the lamp off. A few minutes later my boyfriend said he
was going out and I wanted to believe there wasn’t some finality in that.
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