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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?”


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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The Danforth Review is produced in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. All content is copyright of its creator and cannot be copied, printed, or downloaded without the consent of its creator. The Danforth Review is edited by Michael Bryson. Poetry Editor is Geoff Cook. Reviews Editors are Anthony Metivier (fiction) and Erin Gouthro (poetry). TDR alumni officio: K.I. Press and Shane Neilson. All views expressed are those of the writer only. International submissions are encouraged. The Danforth Review is archived in the National Library of Canada. ISSN 1494-6114. 

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