Billy Simpson walked out of Lynwood High School and found his girlfriend Chelsea waiting for him outside the doors. They’d been dating for two months and this was the first match she’d seen him wrestle. That night he’d served as Terry Funk’s opponent and had gotten his ass kicked. But he’d also made a couple hundred bucks and like all young wrestlers, the 23-year-old Billy knew you started out at the bottom and worked your way up. It’s the way the business worked. In a few years he’d be the one delivering the ass kickings, maybe even on national television.
He leaned down to kiss Chelsea and she, strangely, moved her face so all he pecked was her cheek. “Hey, babe,” he said, “did you like the show?”
“Mmm,” she replied and turned to walk toward their car.
Billy didn’t think much of it and as they reached his car he threw his bag into the back, climbed in, pulled out of the parking lot and hit the highway for their 2-hour trip home. They didn’t share an apartment or anything yet but they spent all their time together. Tonight, when they got home, Billy couldn’t wait to fuck Chelsea again. He always needed it after a match, and Chelsea was amazing in bed: adventurous, giving, a little kinky, a little submissive, everything he liked in a chick.
She didn’t say anything the first few miles. Coupled with the weird non kiss he knew something was up.
“So,” he said, “what did you think of the match?”
Chelsea said nothing for a few seconds, and he thought he saw a slight smirk. Finally she said, “It was…interesting.”
“Interesting. Okay. Interesting good, interesting bad, what?”
“Well, just interesting, that’s all.”
“Look, Chelsea, you’ve seemed weird since I came out of the school. What’s going on? What was interesting about it? Did you like it or not?”
“I guess I have to say I was just a bit surprised when you came out of the locker room and you were wearing…pink trunks.”
Billy felt relief. Whew. Okay, that was nothing. Just his normal wrestling trunks.
“Well, that’s just standard ring attire, babe.”
“Pink? For a guy? Skimpy pink. Silky pink. Shiny. Nylon pink. Spandex.”
Now Billy felt a bit uncomfortable. She seemed offended. She wasn’t religious or anything so he wasn’t sure what her big concern was. Yeah, the trunks weren’t his favorite gear. in fact, if you hooked him up to a lie detector, he’d say he sort of hated them. But again, it wouldn’t be long until he sported black tights and kicked ass of guys in pink.
“It’s just the trunks my promoter, Mr. Watson, wants me to wear,” he explained. “He picks out the gear he thinks we need and that’s what he’s been having me wear.”
“So another man picks and decides that you need to wear pink panties in a ring while wrestling in front of a bunch of people. And you go along with that? Willingly. Like I said, it was an interesting night.”
“Trunks, Chels. Trunks, not panties.”
Chelsea snickered. “Okay. So, when you came out in your pan—, trunks. When you walked out, did you hear the high school girls sitting by me call you a fag when you walked by?”
Billy had, indeed, heard those bitches say that and start laughing when he walked past but he did his best to ignore them. Mr. Watson told him to wear the trunks with pride and that’s what he tried to do. But it did still hurt. He was a man’s man and to have hot girls think he was a fag did hurt. He didn’t think Chelsea had heard it.
“Yeah, I did. I didn’t think it was very funny.”
“THey did. They laughed like crazy when you pranced by in your little pink outfit and white boots. And I guess you didn’t see me but I started laughing too. It was laughable. You looked laughable.”
“But didn’t you think I looked sort of hot?”
“Oh yeah, honey! So hot!” Chelsea laughed and slapped her thigh in the passenger seat. “It’s always been my dream to date a guy who wears tiny pink Speedos in public and gets laughed at by women and men and old people and kids. Because that’s the range of folks who I heard make comments, Billy. Yep, that is really hot. To have your boyfriend — your man — seen as a panty fag, wearing pink, and coated in baby oil apparently, all while wearing white boots and knee pads that make him look like he’ll drop to his knees if you just give the order. And your little cock, which, yeah, sometimes you know how to use but when it’s outfitted in a pair of pink trunks looks like the little worm it is, but this time for the whole world to gawk at. The little nub in pink. Yeah, that is so hot. And then when he actually gets beat up, dominated and emasculated in front of a crowd of people? And that happens from some redneck, fat, old hillbilly opponent? THat is sooooo hot. I mean, jeez, my panties were wet just watching it. That’s my boyfriend, people! You think I was telling folks there you were my man? Uh, no.”
Billy seethed as he drove down the highway. Motherfucker. Didn’t she understand? This was the business? He hadn’t explained a lot to her about it, keeping up some kayfabe, but he’d said he was a pro wrestler, starting in the biz but moving up fast, he hoped. Sometimes you had to take your lumps, like he had that night against Funk. Yeah, Funk had beat him up good and the crowd seemed to get off on it, but this wouldn’t be his life forever. Now his 24-year-old girlfriend just sat there mocking him. Fuck.
“So, any other complaints or thoughts on the night?” he asked, even though he knew he might regret that.
Again a few seconds of silence followed. She turned and faced him. “I mean, I guess I was a bit surprised how often your…trunks got yanked on by that guy you wrestled.”
“Yeah, Terry. Like, he pulled them a ton. I wasn’t expecting that. I wasn’t expecting him or the rest of the crowd to see my boyfriend’s ass so much.”
Again with this.
“It just happens sometimes, it’s just a normal wrestling thing,” Billy mumbled, remembering how Funk DID grab those trunks a lot. Too much in his mind. Like when he scooped him up like a ragdoll for a bodyslam and pulled the top of his trunks down so part of his crack showed. He heard the crowd murmur as Funk held him aloft, showing him off to everyone like a carnival prize. Billy remembered feeling helpless in the big man’s hands, how he just dangled there like a puppet as Funk walked around with him, pulling the silky material down. And he remembered the pain, the shooting pain in his back when Funk planted him in the center of the ring, almost as if the heel was trying to throw the jobber entirely through the mat and six feet under the earth. And he remembered Funk picking him up by his blond hair, the hair Chelsea usually liked rolling her hands through, and slapped the side of his trunks and lifted him up in the air for a vertical suplex. He remembered Funk holding him in that position, clutching the trunks, as all the blood rushed to Billy’s head. He felt himself passing out as Funk manhandled him for 10, 15, 20, 30 seconds, and with each passing second the crowd cheered louder and louder until finally Terry fell backward and brought his foe down with him. And then he remembered Funk picking him up, grabbing ahold of the rear waistband on his pink trunks and firing him over the top of the ring, where he landed two feet from the crowd on the converted basketball court.
Chelsea remembered too.
“So, it happens sometimes. So that was normal when he flung you like a paperweight over the ropes and you crashed down and the trunks were lodged up your ass like one of my fucking thongs? That’s normal? It happens sometimes? And when you reached around haplessly and picked out one side of the wedgie but just couldn’t get that second side before he was kicking you in the head? That happens sometimes? That’s what you’re saying? Just sometimes or all the time?”
Billy remembered the wedgie and he remembered the woman in the front row who sneered, “Nice fucking wedgie, idiot,” when he reached back and released it from his ass. And then he could still feel Funk’s size 14 foot crashing onto his head. He felt dizzy, saw stars in that moment and he wondered if Funk was in one of his moods where he really wanted to truly hurt his opponent. He’d heard horror stories. And indeed, Funk then delivered a piledriver on the wood floor, first putting Billy’s head between his knees, bending him over like a slut, posing, then giving a tug on the trunks, again putting them up the jobber’s ass before holding him by the waist and falling to the court. Billy’s neck exploded and he writhed on the court in front of the crowd, in front of his girlfriend. The girlfriend he now knew who was watching with wide eyes at the festivities.
“You know what was, in your words, hot, too?” Chelsea asked, and Billy dreaded where this was going now.
“No,” he almost whispered.
“When what’s his name, Funk, picked you up after he nearly broke your fucking neck and then walked you around the entire ring and showed you off to everyone. That was hot, boy! What girlfriend doesn’t want to see her man frogmarched in front of 200 people while another man holds him by his hair and and the back of his trunks, lifting them up his ass. Do you realize that at one point when you went by me that you were on your tippy toes, like some ballerina? That’s how high he was yanked those panties up your ass.”
Billy didn’t even correct the terminology. He just took the abuse.
“You were on your fucking tippy toes because I guess those silky pink trunks were so far up your ass you were trying to relieve the pressure. It was quite the sight. And seeing your eyes glazed over like that, like you were concussed, that was so hot. Man, right there I was hoping you’d escape from your tormentor and ask me to marry you! Those girls next to me as they took your picture, at least you gave them a sight they’ll never forget, your wedgied ass being prominently displayed.”
Billy did remember being on his tippy toes, when Funk gave an extra tug, an extra bit of humiliation as he hauled the jobber boy around the ring, giving all the good folks in attendance a good look at a dominated jobber. But again, this was the job. This was dues paying. You took your knocks. And then eventually the tide turned and you named your price and you were a big star and you got to wear regular tights and do what you wanted. But now, Chelsea made it sound almost…perverse.
“So, I do have a question?”
“What?” Billy replied.
“When Funk threw you back into the ring, you didn’t pick your wedgie. You just laid there pathetically, letting everyone see your thong’d ass. But earlier outside the ring you tried picking it. Is that a wrestling thing, sometimes you pick, sometimes you don’t? Was just wondering the thought process because I thought you’d try fixing your little panties there before Funk attacked you again.”
The truth, Billy knew, was that he was so dazed from the piledriver that when Funk flung him under the ring ropes and back inside the squared circle, he just laid there trying to gain his senses and he didn’t even think of the silky intruder invading his ass. He remembered his smooth chest heaving up and down as he waited for Funk to climb back in, but at that moment he was almost hoping for…what, a nap? For Funk to walk back to the locker room and call the whole thing off?
But what he said outloud was, “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I…I don’t know.”
“Hmmm,” Chelsea said and stared out the window again, shaking her head before laughing.
Mile after mile went by in silence for about 15 minutes. Billy didn’t know what the hell to say and he dreaded what Chelsea might say next.
Finally, inevitably, she broke the silence.
“Did it hurt, what he did to you like the last five minutes of the match? Because you were really screaming. Like, loud. I’ve never heard a man scream like that.”
Of course she’d break the silence with a question like that. Did it hurt?
“Yeah, it fucking hurt,” he replied. “A lot.”
Yes, yes it did. It hurt all right when Funk came back into the ring and did a leap onto Billy’s stomach. Both feet. Jumped right on his fucking stomach and stood there for like five seconds. Billy thought he’d crushed his ribs. He thought he’d suffocate. He didn’t scream at that point because he couldn’t make a sound. So when did he scream? That came when Funk brought him up to his feet — Billy finally took that opportunity to adjust his wedgie, this time getting both sides — and locked him into a brutal bearhug. Billy hadn’t actually been expecting that. Funk hadn’t told him about that in the locker room before. But there he was, cinched in the big man’s arms as he crushed his back and spine. With the initial squeeze Billy let out a primal scream that everyone in the gym heard. “AAAAAAHHHHHH!” All that did was incentivize Funk to squeeze harder. Funk then lifted Billy up a bit and it a worthless effort to relieve just some of the pressure Billy found himself wrapping his legs around Funk. He could imagine how ludicrous it looked, this 220 pound young man hoisted up in the air, legs around his opponent’s back like he was a kid being carried by daddy. Funk kept the hold for a good three minutes before sprinting toward the turnbuckle and ramming Billy into it.
In the corner, Funk rammed his shoulder into Billy’s abdomen three more times before using his hair to manipulate him back into the center of the ring. Funk threw him into the ropes and greeted him with a pulverizing clothesline that sent Billy toppling head over heels.
Chelsea interrupted Billy’s internal memories. “So that last move he did? Do they have a name for that or anything? That was sort of insane.”
“Superplex,” Billy said.
“Okay, makes no sense but whatever. Weren’t you scared sitting up there? Like when he lifted you up by your trunks again and planted you on there. You just sat there like a naughty little boy in the corner while he yelled at the crowd. Did you think of getting down and running or something?”
Of course Billy thought about that. But jobbers didn’t do that. They took their lumps. They took every humiliation because real wrestlers understood their sacrifices. Maybe girlfriends didn’t but the promoters and wrestlers did and down the line that paid off. But yeah, he thought about it. Instead he waited there while Funk climbed up and gave him a hard, unnecessary and very real punch to the side of the face. Billy nearly fell backward off the rope but Funk grabbed him and held him in place. Then he put Billy’s arms over his neck, used his right hand to again grab the left side of Billy’s pink trunks and lifted him with amazing strength for a devastating superplex and a one-two-three count. Yeah, he thought about running. But all he said was, “I was pretty hurt and couldn’t.”
“I believe you on that one!” Chelsea said. “So you know how you say these things are normal. Was that normal what happened after the match ended? Like, I thought you’d just go back to the locker room. But instead he gets a rope, hog ties your hands and legs and then stomps the fucking shit out of you. Is that normal?”
Normal. Again, it wasn’t in the script Billy prepared but indeed Funk had grabbed his fucking cowboy rope and lassoed him in the center of the ring, circling the rope around his wrists and ankles and hooking them together so he was like a fucking calf in the middle of the ring. Funk then stomped on every extremity. Two boots to the back of Billy’s head. Two boots to Billy’s right arm. Two boots to Billy’s back, two boots to the back of each leg, two boots to the left arm, even a big boot to Billy’s ass. Billy tried squirming against his restraints but Funk knew how to hogtie a jobber. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Before Billy could reply, Chelsea asked, “And…did he….brand you? Like cattle?”
He did. With Billy locked down, Funk pulled his trunks up his ass one more time and retrieved his branding iron from the corner; it delivered a temporary brand to a wrestler’s ass but it still hurt. But more, it was utterly humiliating, to be marked like that, as if Funk owned him. “Yeah, he did but it’s not permanent.”
Chelsea exploded in laughter. “Well, halleh fucking lullah! It’s not permanent. My boyfriend’s not going to have a permanent brand on his fucking ass, people! That’s the good news of the night. Jesus Christ, Billy, really?”
“Chelsea listen, there’s something I need to say, I…”
“Wait, wait. So, then the ref gets you of the ropes, untangles you and you’re still lying there like a bitch and then the fucking ref adjusts your panties for you and undoes your wedgie. Was that normal too?”
The ref had done Billy that small favor, though it was humiliating needing a referee to dig into his trunks and properly place the material back on his young ass. But the ref was looking out for him, wasn’t he? So the crowd and kids wouldn’t have to see anything x-rated for too long. But Billy just shook his head.
“Chelsea listen. Here’s the thing. It’s all fake.”
Chelsea turned to him. “What do you mean? I didn’t just watch all that? I hallucinated it? Hey, that’d be wonderful! Because then I’d still look at my salesman boyfriend the same way. I’d see him as an up and comer in his company who works hard during the day and is going places. I wouldn’t have the image of him in panties being dominated by an old man and laughed at by everyone in my head. It’s fake! Wonderful!”
“No, no, I mean wrestling is fake. Like, the moves are real and everything and they hurt and we take punishment but it’s fake. The outcome is predetermined.”
Chelsea thought for a few minutes. “Uh, huh, okay.”
“No, really. I’m not supposed to tell you this. No one is supposed to know. We’re supposed to keep up the ruse. But it’s all fake. Honestly, in a bar fight I could probably kick Terry Funk’s ass,” Billy boasted, though deep down he knew that to be an absolute lie. If anything, in a real fight Funk would fuck him up more. “Everything is predetermined. It’s not like I couldn’t have escaped some of that if I wanted to. I mean I have to sort of help when he lifts me up into the air like that, you know?”
“Wait, wait wait,” Chelsea finally interrupted. “Wait. Okay I believe you, I do. I’ve heard rumors like that over the years. But you somehow think that makes me feel BETTER about what I saw? That it makes you look better?”
“Well, yeah,” Billy said. Didn’t it?
“So, okay. Here’s what you’re telling me. You willingly wear tiny, ridiculous, skimpy, silky pink trunks. But you said the promoter made you wear those.”
“Well, he did. See, okay. The promoter decides some things.”
“Okay. So he tells you, Billy, wear these pink panties. And you do. Willingly. Like, he’s not going to have you arrested if you don’t. You ultimately choose to pull those up your long legs, adjust them on your ass, and stroll on out from the locker room like you did tonight. And then you willingly go along with being beat up, dominated and humiliated. You let that happen? That’s what you’re telling me. WHAT THE FUCK, BILLY!”
Her anger shocked him and he nearly jerked the wheel.
“You don’t see how this is like 1000 times worse? It’d be one thing if you were just a fucking wimp who got beat up. I’ve seen that happen a lot in life to dudes. But you choose to be the submissive in the ring. You choose to let whoever the promoter decides beat you up. You go along with this, willingly, eagerly. You choose to be…what was the word the one guy said next to me. Starts with a j. He said you were that.”
“A…jobber,” Billy said.
“Yeah! A jobber. That’s what you want to do with your life. You work during the day, then at night you put on your pink outfit and your white boots and knee pads and go out in public and choose to let other men beat the shit out of you. With moves that you admit hurt. You let that happen. And that’s supposed to make me feel better about my boyfriend.”
Billy couldn’t talk. When she put it like that it did sound…absurd. Yes, he chose to be a jobber, he supposed. But…no, he chose to be a pro wrestler. And at this point in his career he was a jobber. He wore what the promoters said, he took the beatings they wanted, he, yes, submitted. But that was in the ring. He was still a man outside it. He was still king in the bedroom with Chelsea. He was still going places. The pink trunks didn’t define him. The losses didn’t. Did they?
He pulled up outside Chelsea’s apartment, where they often met for nice long fuck sessions. He didn’t know what might happen tonight. In her current mood she might only give him a blowjob. But that’d be a good ending to the night. He opened the car door and Chelsea put a hand on his arm. “Billy, don’t, wait.”
He closed the door.
“Listen, you’re a nice guy. We’ve had some fun. But I can’t see you anymore.”
Billy stared in silence.
“We can’t go back, I can’t go back, to pretending everything’s the same. I can’t see you in the kitchen in your shorts and T-shirt and not think about seeing you in a ring in little pink trunks. I can’t hear your friends talk about how good you are at pickup basketball and not remember the girls laughing and snickering at your wedgied ass. I can’t see you in boxers after you shower and not see you in pink panties. I can’t picture you trying to kiss me, trying to fuck me, and not imagine Terry FUnk giving you a wedgie, fucking hog tying you and then branding your fucking ass. It’s laughable to think I’d still see you the same way, Billy. Right? You see that, don’t you?”
In fact, Billy did. She’d laid out his current life in striking detail. And he wondered just why, still, six months into his wrestling career, his main promoter Mr. Watson still had him suffering every night. Still had him dressing in pink trunks. He told him it’d just be a few matches. But here he was. Maybe he’d been lying to himself the whole time. But no, he couldn’t lose Chelsea.
She leaned over and gave him another chaste kiss on the cheek, chuckled to herself and said, “I’ll see you around, Billy. Maybe I’ll bring some of my friends to your next match. Make sure to wear pink again!”
She shut the door and went into her building. Billy sat in the car for a few minutes before driving home to his life. A life that he recognized had been something of a lie. He wasn’t a wrestler on the move. He was a jobber. He only prayed Mr. Watson wouldn’t make him be one forever.