During spring break in my senior year at Colorado State, totally bored after almost a week with my parents and desperately in need of adventure, I found myself on the internet searching a familiar site. It was the place where guys look for guys and this personal ad jumped out at me:

Wrestling Challenge. Goodlooking young guy, built, 5-10, 175, seeks same for private bout. I have mats.

Wow! The guy lived nearby, just thirty miles away. We were a good match as far as size was concerned. Cautiously, I emailed this reply: "Accept challenge. I'll call today if you furnish phone number." Fifteen minutes later he emailed an answer, a phone number and the words "I'm waiting for you, Champ." Our subsequent phone conversation was just as terse for he was a man of few words; and within an hour I was on my way to his place in the country.

On the way, I began to have some misgivings about this adventure. I knew nothing about the guy. I didn't know if he was straight or gay. I wasn't sure about his motives. S&M? Bondage? It was stupid of me to assume that he enjoyed my kind of gay, amateur wrestling, that our match would be thrilling and certainly erotic, and that no one would get hurt. I pulled off the road and said to myself "just turn around now and go home", but then overwhelming desire compelled me to drive on.

If he turned out to be straight I could handle it. After all, I was captain of the wrestling team in high school. With concentration and some cover-up I always avoided discovery, though once in a while my opponent was too cute or too muscular or too well-hung and I lost those matches quickly and before my secret was revealed. With my head full of doubts and expectations, fear and anticipation, I almost missed the turn that led me to his driveway.

The place appeared to be an old ranch with fences in need of mending and weeds crowding the lane, an open meadow with two Arabians quietly grazing, and then the small house with stable nearby. As I got out of the car he appeared, in a doorway at one end of the stable, and the sight of him was so disarming that I just stood there and waited for him to speak.

"As you can see, I have a lot of work to do," he said. "I inherited this old place from a favorite uncle who loved horses, too." He smiled. I melted. He stood there as though some photographer, waiting for just the right pose, might ask him to stay. He appeared to be in his late twenties. He was shirtless and wore tight jeans and boots. An old felt hat was tilting on the back of his head. Afternoon sun glimmered on his shiny torso, sweat highlighting exceptional musculature. "Come on in," he said with a wave, "I've got the mats down and we can do some wrestling."

We entered the tackroom. At once the odor of the place made me swoon. It was a mixture of aromas from cedar siding and old leather saddles and fragrant hay. Ancient ribbons adorned the rustic walls, testimony to the champion steeds who once lived here. Otherwise the room was bare, with mats covering most of the floor. My breathing was becoming shallow and I was aware of a rapid pulse, and I realized that something extraordinary was about to occur in this special place.

"Hang your clothes on those hooks over there," he said. "I showered after I talked to you but now I'm all sweated up again. Hope you don't mind." He was taking off his boots.

"I like sweat," I said, trying to avoid eye contact and continuing to ignore the man's perfection, those wide shoulders and great chest, those sinewy arms. After hanging my shirt and trousers on the wall pegs I turned to face him, sucking in my stomach and swelling my chest, trying to look my best in the sexy speedo I had donned in expectation of this match. He was watching me. He seemed to approve. He said, "I really prefer nude wrestling." With that he managed to unzip despite the tightness of the bulge and I was feeling so giddy that I remembered the old Mae West line: "Is that a gun in your pocket? . . ." but I kept it to myself and breathed deeply.

"Okay by me." I was breathless. I sounded like a schoolboy.

But now we stood naked and the world went away. I was looking down the barrel of his big cannon and it was pointed at my navel. My own erection was growing, but not as fast. "Now what?" I asked.

"How about two out of three falls, climax wrestling."

"Climax wrestling?"

"Yeah. The guy who cums first loses the fall. And no using hands on your opponent's cock. Just get him so excited that he shoots his load." He began to laugh and I laughed, too. I was mesmerized. I began to think 'I like him too much'.

That big gun was now three feet away and was aimed at my chin. When he moved in to make contact, placing his hands on my shoulders, I didn't respond; and when he suddenly encircled my ribcage with his brawny arms I let it happen. My lungs were constricted and I couldn't breathe; my crotch was pulled in against his, pulled in so tightly that the enormous rod flattened my cock; my ribs were caving under his biceps and forearms. I heard myself groaning, and even now I remember it as supreme pleasure rather than pain.

The hold went unbroken, perhaps for three minutes, and my hardon was complete. His was spectacular. Then he flattened me on the mat and began a rhythmic pumping, his big one plowing mine, up and back, until we were covered with sweat and as hot as the tin roof above us. Again I heard myself moaning and he eased off, obviously concerned. He asked, "Are you okay?", and I smiled and said, "Yeah . . . this is great . . ." and then before I knew how the words might sound to him I added, ". . . and you're terrific".

It occurred to me that this was a wrestling match and it was time to show him some of my stuff. He looked surprised but pleased when I used a headlock to get him on his back; and when he broke that hold I retained control with a bearhug of my own. As he tried to escape I slid my arms downward, around his hips. My sweaty armpit was waiting as his prong slithered into it, and when I flexed my bicep the two muscles slapped together. Like a hand gripping the swollen penis, the armpit massaged it and lathered it and drove him to the brink of orgasm.

The first fall might have ended then and there if he had not broken loose, in desperation. For several minutes we wrestled to a draw, and then I caught him in a body scissors. My legs and thighs are strong and the scissors is my favorite hold; and when I held him in it for minutes and despite his repeated efforts at escape, I sensed that he was ready for the coup de grace. By contracting the big thigh muscle I tormented his dick, and simultaneously I massaged his slippery pectorals until he muttered "aw, shit".

He did not resist when I rolled him into a punishing submission hold, combining body scissors and full-nelson. I held him there for thirty seconds while he fought against the inevitable, and listened as he moaned, listened to the sensual sounds which signaled a coming climax. His body tensed. Beneath my calf his throbbing cock spasmed. His cock-head oozed pre-cum. His balls suddenly tightened. The cannon shot a salvo, up and over his chest.

We lay there without speaking for several minutes, his body against mine, and then he said apologetically, "I came too fast, Champ."

"And what a shot!" I said, enviously.

He rolled over on one elbow and looked into my face. His big pistol was still hard and it pointed to my heart.

"Cowboy," I said. "You're the fastest gun in the West."