Wrestling is Fake Unless You Are the Wrestled
You grew up on all the same bullshit I did. At least some of it: King Kong Bundy, Big John Studd, Randy Macho Man Savage…Hulk Hogan ripping yellow shirts to I’m a Real American. And I’m a small town Canadian kid from the sticks, but all that retarded macho shit permeates. I remember the first time I saw Andre the Giant. I think I stopped growing after that because there was no point, I was never going to grow that much. And my favourite was Jake “the Snake” Roberts because he always brought a python to the ring in a brown bag and everyone seemed surprised and wondered what was in the bag and were scared of the snake when he brought it out even though he did it every time. And I had all the WWF (that’s what it was called back then) figurines. Got my King Kong Bundy at a garage sale along Grove Street for 50 cents. The full sized ring with blue elastic ropes for them to fight in at Christmas. I even had to steel cage for special matches. A large part of my childhood spent watching, cheering, mimicking…and a lot of good it did me. All that practice and my first real sexual encounter I found myself pinned to the bed like an amateur. Wrestling is fake unless you are the wrestled. She was a lot stronger than me, or maybe just more motivated. But you’d think all those years would count for something. Still, I found myself near comatose drunk on my back. Trying to stay hard long enough to leave virginity behind. And when I did, I left all the rest of it behind as well: The Iron Sheik, Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, George “The Animal” Steele…Cowboy Bob Orton looking like Country Joe and the Fish coming out against Nam before that was popular.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian born author presently residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario Canada. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as The New York Quarterly, Windsor Review, Vallum, The Antigonish Review, CV2, Horror Sleaze Trash, Evergreen Review, Your One Phone Call and In Between Hangovers.