The Benefits of Wrestling with One’s Conscience

I’ve always preferred strong women. That’s probably one of the worst-kept secrets of my personal and romantic life—such as that is. What I’d always meant, though, is that I usually found myself drawn to strong-willed women. A demure and submissive one can be a nice a change of pace, but I tend to get bored with them quickly. I prefer spending time with someone who can be a partner in our decisions and adventures, rather than me having to make all of the decisions. Although Sarah was a bit of a surprise, once she got a bit smashed . . . but that’s a story for another time.

I don’t remember why I’d gone to the bar that night. I usually don’t like to drink alone. It’s more of a social experience with me, even if I do occasionally indulge myself with a drink alone at home. I think I was waiting for a buddy who didn’t show. He ended up having a fight with his girlfriend or something and never made it. I had about finished nursing one drink, stalling for my second one until my friend got there, when I noticed her at the bar.

I’m not sure how she drew my attention at first. It might have been some kind of unconscious recognition, or maybe something about the way she moved or held herself. At first, I thought she was a large woman. I don’t necessarily find that unattractive. I’m not usually drawn to them, but some have a way of carrying themselves, a certain air of self-assuredness and confidence that announces, “This is the way I am. I’m comfortable with it.” Some of the best sex I’ve ever had in my life has been with women who were carrying with few more pounds and inches than many people find socially acceptable. Their loss.

When she turned toward the guy on her left, clearly someone that she wished was sitting somewhere else in the bar—if not on another continent—and revealed her profile that I recognized her. It was then that I also realized that those few extra pounds I thought she was carrying were all muscle. It had to be. There was no other way that she could perform the way she did in professional wrestling ring otherwise. I’d seen her take down men a quarter again her size—and take down hard.

And speaking of hard, I discovered that my rod had gone swollen and stiff against the fabric of my pants. That bothered me . . . a little. I’ve never thought of her—or any her other female wrestling companions—in quite that way before. Clearly, something in my brain did.

Now, I’m no fool. I know that those cage matches are as much theatrics as athletics. Big and beefy as those guys (and girls) are, there’s no way their bodies could take that kind of beating and be back two days later for Round Two.