by

Bill Weintraub

Part 1  The Show

TUFF GUYZ was the brainchild of Aussie slumlord turned press magnate Sir Geoffrey Lomax, who'd got his start in media with the London tabloids the Brute and the Beast, but had recently branched out into television with his own version of an all shock schlock programming network called VXN, and Teddy "Skull" Witomski, a former bouncer and small-time carny operator who looked like a werewolf with a bad case of middle age.

The show was simplicity itself. Every week a producer would drag 2 cameramen, Teddy, and the commentators, a former all-American (black) whose career had been cut short by cocaine and statutory rape raps and an over-the-hill minor league lightweight contenduh (white) good at slick mick repartee, into some small backwater bible belt town where life was so dreary that the locals were willing to climb into a makeshift boxin ring for three minutes and risk permanently scramblin their brains dukin it out with each other for the chance, at season's end, to win 50 grand in prize money, which, as it happened, was approximately ½ of 1 percent of the show's net.

Teddy and Sir Geoff were laughin all the way to the bank.

But for most of the fighters, it wasn't a laughin matter.

Part 2  Psycho Mike

Take for instance Psycho Mike Gunn.

Walkin outta the dressin area in a haze of cheap strobe lights and artificial fog, Mike, in his modified gangsta cutoffs and black sneakers, was an impressive, if sullen, sight. Just 24, at 6'1" 165 you might a thought he'd be a rangy dude, but those 165 lbs were pure hard muscle, without a sign of soft to be seen anywhere on his bod. If he hadn't been a skinhead, he'd a had brown hair; as it was all he did have was a truly evil-lookin goatee, carved razor thin, and a long heavy scar on the right side of his shaved head where he'd been clocked in a bar fight. His features weren't bad, his nose maybe a little too big and not much for cheekbones, but he did have a square jaw and heavy-lidded green eyes. Women thought he was handsome, guys that he was okay. But it was his body, with its inky dark macho marks, that was truly spectacular. His shoulders were incredibly broad, the left covered with a stylized Polynesian battle axe that ran all the way down to his forearm, the right decorated with a dagger impaling the name of his gang, the Skalds, and on his tough muscled upper back a small rendition of an attacking demon, cape swirling, the blue-black tats jumpin out from his pale white skin. His pecs were flat but wide, huge really, seriously intimidatin, each punctuated with a small brown coppery nip, and over the six pack abs that tapered to his narrow waist he'd had tattooed, in letters 2 inches high just above his navel, a single word: PSYCHO.

It was both a boast and a complaint, cause that's how Mike thought of himself, as a dude with serious problems, a lotta the time just plain outta control, almost always filled with rage and needin to fight, though against who or what he'd a been hard put to say.

Part 3 A Boy's Life

His father was a Viet vet with an agent orange d/a who spent his days smokin dope in front of the TV while Mike's mother, a Pentecostal who got into snake handlin and dirt eatin from time to time, was out cleanin other people's houses. They fought constantly, not hesitatin to get physical, and dealin out frequent beatins to their many kids, two of whom died under mysterious circumstances.

Not the most secure upbringin.

When Mike was 15, already big for his age, he killed one of the neighborhood cats with a slingshot; after that, the locals starting callin him Lurch. Mike thought about it for awhile, and then, inspired by a friend's garage band and a movie on AMC, decided that Psycho fit better.

He dropped outta school a year later, driftin from construction job to construction job till he found one, roofin, that was so unpleasant that his bosses had to put up with him. Actually, when he bothered to show up, Mike liked it, the hellfire sulfurous tar fumes bathin his body in an evil smell which he sometimes didn't wash off for a week.

When he was 20 he married Bobbie, his high school sweetheart, a small pale woman who reminded him of his kid brother JB, a skinny kid who he'd used to dick around with and who'd fallen into a cistern when he was 12 and drowned. Although Mike never hit her, Bobbie knew he had a temper and tried to stay outta his way.

Of course he slept with her, but his interest in women was pretty minimal, and he made sure they didn't have any kids.

Part 4  Fightin and Lovin

Instead, to relieve his almost constant tension Mike became a bar fighter and street brawler. He was a compulsive and berserk battler, ready to fight anyone over almost anything. He hung with the local skinheads without giving too much thought to what it meant -- what he liked and needed were the fights, the outta control over the edge bare knux back alley combats where he could elbow and muscle and kick his opponents into bloody ragged heaps.

With Mike anything went -- elbow drops to the spine, merciless gut punches, heads hittin sidewalks, knees in the groin, kicks to the kidneys. His friends -- such as they were -- had no doubt that he would a torn off a guy's balls if could a gotten to em.

He especially liked hookin his opponent round the neck and punchin his face over and over, then workin his elbow into the guy's throat till he started to choke and puke.

Course there was another side to these fights, one that Mike didn't like to think about, and that was the sexual excitement they left him with. It wasn't unusual for him to drive 30 miles south after a fight, particularly one with another young dude where there'd been a clench or two, to a rest stop where he knew he could get anonymously sucked off by some rural rube. Had to be men too, women didn't do it for him. Curiously, he was never violent with the men who blew him -- for reasons that he didn't clearly understand, he didn't share his skinhead buddies'hatred of queers.

Course he didn't exactly tell them what he was doin in the dark either.

Despite his more than ample street fighting experience, Mike didn't do well in TUFF GUYZ. After violently and viciously manhandling his first opponent, another dopey palooka, in and outta the ring, he got the decision, but the second guy he went up against knew how to box. Mike tried his usual tactics, but by the middle of the second round he was tired, and his bad manners turned the crowd against him. Not only did he fight dirty, but at the end of the bout he spit out his mouthpiece in the guy's face, bumped pecs hard with him, refused to shake his hand, told the mick commentator that the guy was a bitch for wantin to box instead of brawl, and threatened any judge who might rule against him.

Not surprisingly to everyone but Mike, he lost the fight and was eliminated from the competition.

It was a bitter disappointment to him. He believed that if God had made him for any purpose at all, it was to hammer in other dudes' faces till someone gave him $50,000. He didn't really understand what had gone wrong.

Part 5  Pit Bull Chris

Also fightin that night was Chris Miller, a floor manager aka pit boss at the Hurokatoc Nations Enchanted Island Casino and Lodgepole Dinner Theater on Lake Hurokatoc, which happened to be where they were filmin TUFF GUYZ that week. Chris told the TV crew that being a pit manager meant keepin the customers happy. Actually, the better part of his job was watchin out for grafters, confidence shills, and card sharks, and, more than occasionally, takin some pro into a back room and workin him over when he just wouldn't learn to stay off the gaming room floor.

Chris had been persuaded to enter the TUFF GUYZ competition by his boss, a middle-aged tribal council member who got his thrills servicing travelers in the same rural tea room Mike liked to visit. But Woody Falling Feather had never actually seen Mike, it was too dark for that, and anyway, his interest was in Chris. He had a more than passing suspicion that Chris would look truly spectacular in boxing trunks, and he wasn't disappointed.

Without a doubt, Chris's face was better lookin than Mike's -- he had the bland even features and thick blond hair of a cereal box champeen. But like Mike's, it was his body that wowed the crowd.

At 5 11 and 182 lbs the 28 year old Chris was a lot stockier than Mike, and his physique was just plain breath-taking. His proportions were just about perfect, so much so that he looked like some piece of ancient sculpture or some burly baroque nude brought to meaty modern American life. He had of course broad shoulders and big arms, but his torso was particularly awesome, with heavy, thick, truly massive pecs, and gleaming abs that rippled and flowed seamlessly into his groin.

And like a sculpture, there was no hair on his chest to ruffle the smooth surfaces. In the heat of the arena lights his skin glowed with a light sheen of sweat, while in the inadequate head protector the contestants were forced to wear his handsome face took on the look of an ancient gladiator's, that of a beautiful, brutal, killer.

Part 6  Lookin Good and In Control

Chris knew all about his good looks -- actually, you'd have to say that he was one of his greatest admirers. In the mornings, doin his shit-shave-shower routine, he'd park his beefy butt on the john and let his hands roam over those hard pecs and golden nips, past his flat belly, and down to his fat uncut prick; sometimes he'd slip a finger under the hood and get some a the eatin stuff head cheese, still fermentin from the remains of last night's jerk off.

He liked tastin his piss, sweat, and jizz too.

Chris loved his body and loved every part of bein a man, loved the way he smelled, would put his head under his arms to sniff the short blond hairs of his pits whenever he had the chance, wouldn't let his mother clean his john either, liked to let the stink of urine build for a few months, then, reluctantly, do it himself. He had no interest in women really, but he had to date. He avoided a sex life by sayin that it was against the Church to go all the way. The women thought he was old-fashioned. The men didn't know what to think, but they didn't push it. Chris was a big guy.

The truth, so artfully concealed from the TUFF GUYZ crew, was that he liked to fight, not just cause he was a big fuckin bruiser and there weren't many men he couldn't take, but because it gave him a sexual thrill too, one that he had never really admitted to himself, but which he felt in the stem of his cock and the heft of his balls every time he delivered a punch. Not that he liked gettin hit, he preferred to do the hittin, and he didn't like a fight to last too long either, was always lookin to get in a low blow that would end things early.

The night of TUFF GUYZ, Chris KO'ed his first two opponents early in the first round and then took on Tony, a studly young super buffed Eye-tal cook at the dinner theater who foolishly passed up the chance to take the Pit Bull out when he was momentarily down. Chris didn't return the favor. First time that he managed to push Tony to his knees, Chris hit him with a vicious hook to the side of the head that left him flat on the deck.

It was a blow he'd polished in his professional life.

After one more fight and a minor injury, Chris passed on the chance to keep goin in the competition. He was just narcissistic enough not to wanna get hurt, and he knew that his bosses didn't want him to have too much notoriety either. But those weren't the only reasons. Truth be told, TUFF GUYZ had shaken him, for while clinched up with the hardbodied Tony, Chris had realized that under the protector he himself was hard, ragin hard, and for the first time there penetrated his brain the thought that fightin and men might mean somethin more to him than just a good time and a way to please his boss, might actually mean somethin sexually.

Once started it was a feelin he couldn't stop, and that he wasn't sure how to handle. One thing he knew for certain, however, and that was it was something he was gonna control. Chris was always in control, not like that dope Psycho with his ratty tats and his motor mouth. Chris ran a tight ship, in the pit, and in his own life.

Still, he knew he had to work this one through.

Part 7  Hangin at The River of No Return

After the crowds and well-wishers had gone home, Chris retired to one of the less popular watering holes at the Hurokatoc, the River of No Return Microbrewery and Sushi Bar, run by his good bud Dakota, a full-blooded Pawnee who'd wowed council audiences for years with his annual impersonation of Sacajawea's impassioned defense of Lewis and Clark, to nurse a Jack Daniels and think over what he'd been feelin in the ring that night. It was true that it wasn't uncommon for him to jerk off after workin over some git for the casino, but he'd never really connected the two things before.

Somehow though this night had been different. Bein out there, in front of all those people, mixin it up with three good-lookin guys on a more or less even footin, Chris had felt things he never had previously. And now he wondered what he was gonna do about it.

In the meantime, Mike was pacin back and forth in his and Bobbie's room at the Hurokatoc, a room reluctantly paid for by the TUFF GUYZ staff after he told them that it was too late to drive back to Clay and that he'd destroy their sound truck if they didn't. Mike was still furious about what had happened in the ring, and completely enraged that he hadn't been able to take out either his opponent or the judges.

And he was horny too. Although most boxers will tell ya that losin a bout does not have an aphrodisiac effect, in his mind Mike hadn't lost anything, he'd simply been cheated out of something the way he'd been so many times before in his life. So he was worked up, angry, and beginnin to get boned too. And he sure as hell wasn't interested in doin anything about that with Bobbie.

Instead he decided to go down to the casino to have a drink -- and maybe find a fight that he could win. For her sake, Bobbie was glad to see him go. That night, like most, she was afraid of him.

Wanderin into the River of No Return, Mike saw Chris sittin in a corner banquette. He'd seen Chris fight earlier, heard him take the accolades of the crowd. It hadn't improved his temper.

He walked up to Chris, got real close. "Saw ya fight tonight," Mike said, as irascible, truculent, and just plain mean-spirited as ever. "Think ur pretty good, don't ya?"

Mike was standin close enough that Chris could feel his heat and smell, beneath the lingering suspicion of asphalt, his acrid, almost adolescent, sweat.

And look into his crotch too. Suddenly Chris realized that he had a chance with this dumb punk to figure out just what it was he'd been feelin earlier in the ring, and whether it even mattered at all.

He was beginnin to think it did. Chris looked appraisingly at Mike again. "This guy's turnin'me on," he thought. "Wonder if that makes me a fag?" He groaned inwardly. Whenever he thought of fags, he thought of ancient Father Gaughn, who'd been caught with his hand up some acne-scarred altar boy's skirt and sent on permanent retreat to a cold remote desert town somewhere above the tree line in Idaho.

Still, Chris thought, only one way to find out.

"So, think ya can take me?" he asked Gunn.

"I can take anybody," Gunn snarled, and then pushed him -- just enough. "Woulda taken that bitch tonight if he'd a come to fight instead of box."

Once again Chris groaned to himself. Mike'd be a lot cuter, he thought, if he stopped callin everybody bitch. Maybe this wasn't gonna work after all. Then Chris looked up at him again, and felt that same stirring in his groin. He remembered an expression of Woody's: "Young, dumb, and full of cum."

Well, Mike was young, and he sure was dumb. Chris started to get up. He saw Mike reach for a beer bottle and, behind the bar, Dakota lunge for his baseball bat. Chris gestured no to both of them.

"Not in here," he told Mike. "I gotta better place."

Part 8  The Honeymoon Suite

The architects had put four honeymoon suites, little individual cabins actually, into the Hurokatoc, but somehow the place had never caught on as a joint for newlyweds.

Maybe it was all the cinderblock.

So Woody had given Chris one of em to use as an enforcement room. Followin suggestions from some of Woody's Vegas contacts, they'd taken out the water bed and put in thick carpet and a little foam soundproofin too.

Chris led Mike through the grounds to the door of the cabin.

Once inside, Chris pushed him back hard, suddenly feeling rage boiling to the surface. "You're just dyin for a fight, aren't u kid," he said to Mike. "Fine, fuckhead. We can have it out here. No refs, no rules, no gloves, nothin. Just u and me. Skin on skin. Flesh on flesh. Bone on bone. That suit u boy??"

"YEAH," said Mike. "Suits me fine. I'm gonna take ur ass, bitch, beat u into nothin."

"FUCK YOU, asswipe," said Chris. "Look at u boy. Don't have a job, stink of tar, and can't even win a lousy TUFF GUYZ bout. Ur just powhite trailer trash, and I'm gonna smash ur face -- AND DON'T CALL ME BITCH."

Chris pushed him again, then, controlled as ever, walked across the room to the closet and started takin off his clothes. Mike looked at him. "Oh, so that's how u want it, huh?? Shoulda figured u were a faggot. Well we can play it anyway u wanna man."

Chris got his shirt shoes and pants off, and so did Mike. They were both wearin boxers. "Whadda bout those," said Chris.

"Fuckin fine faggot."

They yanked em off and stood facin each other. Both of em were gettin boned fast.

And they were quite a sight too, standin nude in that pit of a cabin, Mike tall and lean, his muscles strainin and his tats poppin out of his skin, his 7.5 fat inches of uncut meat juttin outta his brown bush under a sunburst tat worked into his groin, fists balled and ready to charge at Chris, blond and brawny, his own thick 8 inches stickin straight out of his blond pubes like a weapon at Mike, already drippin over his heavy balls, his massive muscles ripplin and flexin as he balled his fists too and got ready to annihilate the Psycho.

"C'MON MAN," said Chris, "LET'S SEE WHAT U GOT."

"FUCK YOU," yelled Mike and charged. They met up hard in the middle of the room, right under the heart-shaped chandelier, and started pummelin each other with hooks and uppercuts, short sharp savage blows that hit their already bruised bodies with a thud and got grunts of pain outta each of em, their blood filled cocks and heavy balls swingin wildly back and forth with each cruel punch and mean counter. Chris had the sense to keep his hands up, which meant that Berserker Mike was takin more hits, till Mike decided to take brutal aim at the Pit Bull's thick-skinned balls. Chris had to drop his hands fast to defend against the low blows, and Mike was able to get in a coupla of good shots to his sweet boy pretty blond face before Chris said no way fuckhead and grabbed Mike's shoulders, causing them to lock up and grapple wildly around the room gruntin and pantin hard, Mike managin to get Chris in a headlock briefly, ferociously forcin the blond boy's smooth-skinned face into the long brown hairs and stench of his pit till Chris slipped the hold and grabbed Mike's arms again, using his superior weight and lower center of gravity to twist Mike to the floor, Mike holding on tight and the two of em crashin down together, Chris on top and their rock hard drippin cocks suddenly and fiercely jammin together.

It was the first time in their lives either man had felt raw enflamed cock on cock, naked superhard bone on bone, and they both moaned, the intensity of the sensation driving them wild with a combination of violent eroticism and sexually fired rage. Maddened, Mike tried simultaneously to kidney punch and head butt Chris, so Chris jammed their heads together and slammed his arms tight around Mike and the two hard-muscled super-boned furious fightin boys rolled crazily around the floor, gruntin and pantin, their thick pecs tensed and scrapin hard, back leg butt and arm muscles flexing and rippling frantically and cocks grindin violently, both men now instinctively focused on keepin their massive manweapons jammed and rammed tight together. Chris managed to get on top and use his superior weight to hold Mike down while he humped him ferociously, poundin and slammin the skinboy cock with his own huge engorged bulldude rod. "God damn you," he said, "I'm gonna grind the jizz outta u fuckhead, I'm gonna bust ur boner with my dick and make u beg for mercy." "FUCK YOU," Mike growled back, "fuckin shithead, I'm gonna drain ur balls and twist em off," brutally thrusting his hips back up and slammin his rock hard meat into Chris's thick, swollen, prejizz-drippin dick.

Now the two fighters were in a dead serious all-out cockrub battle, all their fierce energies focused on the raw cock combat that neither had expected but that now held them locked in a primeval contest neither wanted to end. Instead, the sensation of cock against cock was driving them both wild with lust and an insane urge to establish complete cock domination. They began poundin and grindin even more furiously, their hot full boilin ball sacs slammin together while their blood swollen pricks raged against each other, each warrior cock seeming to have a barbarous will of its own, a bestial innate determination to outfight and outmuscle the other till it had completely mastered its foe. Each cock became even more engorged, and now the fighters discovered that every time their cockheads rubbed together they were pumped full of sensation and erotic pleasure, and like rabid animals they  began tryin to press more and more of their bodies into each other, grindin their smooth hard pecs harder and harder, strainin to hold each other tighter and tighter with their thick arms, twinin their massive muscular legs together, poundin and poundin and poundin savagely into each other until their bodies began to tremble and shake, and suddenly, Chris, fearin they were gonna cum and knowin there was somethin he wanted and needed and had to have first, pulled back and grabbed at Mike's arms, which as soon as they were free had begun flailing at his face.

STOP HITTIN ME, Chris said. He pushed up on his bi's, still keepin their cocks jammed together and still rubbin fierce, and pinned Mike's arms hard to the carpet.

Mike fought back strong but he was getting tired-- plus he was feelin more and more overwhelmed by the cockrubbin. He was pantin n moanin, and his struggles were becomin weaker, and finally Chris was able to keep his arms pinned down.

"Why??" Mike gasped out, tossin his head from side to side.

"So I can kiss you," said Chris.

Mike paused for a moment, confused and pantin for breath.

Then he looked wildly at Chris. "Okay," he said.

Chris kissed him. Mike still didn't know what to do, so he just lay back and let their lips brush.

Chris pulled back again. "Hey," he said.

"What else do you want?" Mike groaned.

"KISS BACK," Chris demanded.

Mike looked up at Chris's massive beautiful chest loomin over him, and he knew all he wanted was to feel it against his own again. "Oh man," Mike moaned, "Put ur chest against mine and I'll kiss you, I swear it."

Chris dropped his body hard back onto Mike's and pushed his tongue deep into Mike's throat and Mike groaned and snaked his own back into Chris's mouth and they let their tongues duel the way their dicks were too, and started kissin more and more deeply and passionately and then fiercely and they started up the relentless cockrub again, poundin and jammin and slammin into each other with fury and ardor, each man hopin now that what would happen between them could go on forever.

And then both cocks were precummin furiously, slickin the shafts and soakin the heads, both cockheads getting redder and more sensitive with each violent pass, both men gruntin and moanin, their ass cheeks pumpin savagely as they humped each other's dicks.

Neither man had come for weeks in preparation for the fight, and their balls were churnin with jizz. Both could feel a violent warmth surge through their chests and balls as they got closer and closer to cummin. Mike suddenly fought furiously to dislodge Chris, but Chris's hard bulk weighed down too heavily on the muscle skinhead punk and he began to feel his cock swellin, getting closer and closer to shootin. Chris could feel it too, but his own cock was super close now, and suddenly he knew he was completely done with domination and control, and he groaned to Mike, aw man, all I want is to cum with you, and Mike's eyes shot open and he looked deep into Chris's blues and he said me too man, that's all I want too, and Chris just moaned and said c'mon Mike, let's do it, and pushed his tongue hard back into Mike's throat and Mike arched his body hard, completely hard, as though his body had become his prick, hard hard hard against Chris till finally they could both feel their jizz begin to boil up outta their balls.

Pantin, moanin, groanin, they simultaneously shot out great gobs of pure white jizz, hot creamy supertuffguy juice that soaked their bodies in a purifying essence, covering them both in universal peace and love and then sweeping them away, Chris letting go completely for the first time in his life, while Mike felt a rush of pure serene energy, and suddenly realized that he wasn't cut off anymore, not from his creator and not from creation either.

That ecstatic orgasmic moment seemed to both warriors to last forever.

Then both of the fightin men lay quiet and still and entwined with their eyes closed, both driftin, lettin go, finally sated and satisfied. But just before he feel asleep, Mike thought he heard something, and it might a been just the wind, or maybe, he thought, it could be the cheers of the crowd.

Part 9  A New Career

Afterwards, rested, they lay naked and completely relaxed in each other's arms, looking deeply into each other's eyes, their now empty balls nestin gently.

Then Chris got up to take a piss. When he walked back in to the room, Mike grabbed his thigh and put his face up by Chris's still-drippin slick thick dick, then nuzzled his cock and balls, scrapin gently with his 'tee.

Mike hadn't felt this good since he and JB had jerked off together all those years before. Now Mike realized that in some strange way he blamed himself for what had happened to JB, and that his real troubles had started around the time JB died.

"Hey Chris," asked Mike, "does this make us fags??"

"I dunno," said Chris. "I don't feel like a fag, do you??"

"Naw," said Mike. "I feel great."

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Chris saw a flash of movement beside the cabin door. He jumped lightly to his feet and yanked it open, but there was no one there -- just a piece of paper that had been folded and slipped over the sill.

"What's it say?" asked Mike.

Chris unfolded it.

"COCKRUB WARRIORS RULE."

"Cockrub Warriors -- what's that??" Mike wondered.

"I dunno."

"Hey, maybe it's a gang," said Mike, "like the Skalds!"

"Or a club," said Chris. "Yeah a club for guys like us -- that's what we are Mike, Cockrub Warriors -- that's what we are."

"YEAH," Mike yelled. "COCKRUB WARRIORS!"

"C'mon," Chris said, "let's go get somethin to eat. If his brain's not too fogged, Tony can make us some veal parmesan."

Mike laughed.

At that moment the house phone rang.

It was Woody.

"Yeah Boss," said Chris.

"That git Mandel is back and he just took Lolita's table for $5K. U gotta do somethin!"

Chris sighed silently. Woody is always whinin that I have to do somethin, he thought.

"Don't worry boss," he said. "I'll take care of it."

Chris hung up the phone. He sighed again. He really didn't feel like beatin anybody else up -- at least not today. He pondered for a moment, and then turned brightly to Mike.

"Hey Mike," he said. "Wanna job??"

bill weintraub

november 21, 2000

© Copyright 2000 - 2011 by Bill Weintraub. All rights reserved.

 

mike -- one year later

 

chris

the boyz went into home improvement

did quite well too

had a good concrete supplier

bill

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