I recently received an e-mail from one of my loyal readers that has inspired me to start a new series: “Confessions of Wrestling Obsession.” Here is what he wrote that got my wheels turning:
“What’s the weirdest thing your jobber obsession has made you do?”
“That’s the question I imagine Oprah or Springer or Maury or maybe Barbara asking me if I was ever forced into a tell-all interview about my jobber perversions.
And with the camera lights making me sweat, and bloggers and folks on Twitter talking about how nervous I look, I would explain what was the peak of my perversion. Or would it be the low point? Who knows.
There’d be so many things to choose from!”
“How about being 10 and hog tying myself with a belt and wristbands and looping them with jump rope because I saw a jobber tied up on Saturday morning?”
“What about wrestling with my friend at a similar age and allowing him to “beat” me and play the role of heel and yank up my shorts and expose my underwear in humiliating fashion because I just liked how it made me feel?
Maybe giving myself wedgies when I’d see a jobber get one?”
Same result. Press, wedgie, backbreaker, you’re done jobber.
“How about hanging upside down on my couch while wearing athletic underwear and rubbing myself and nearly being caught by my mother?
Or maybe giving myself military presses and wedgies while taping myself playing the role of broadcaster announcing a jobber’s humiliation?”
“How about watching hours — fucking HOURS — of YouTube videos and slow-motioning tiny moments just to see a jobber’s cock in his trunks or to see a fan’s reaction in the crowd when a jobber’s humiliated?
Those are all strange, right? Well I’ve done them all.”
“So how about you folks out there? What have you done to meet your wrestling desires?
What weirdness have you indulged in? How far out there have you gone?”
So it’s time to come clean — that’s the theme of my new series and I need your help. We all want to know about your deepest, darkest secrets — your wrestling-related habits, kinky behaviors, or fetishes. Get them off your chest at last. Email your confessions to me at wrestlingArsenal@hotmail.com, or post them as a comment to an article in this series, and I will turn them into a gallery like this one with images of wrestling that relate to your secret confession.
Tell us all about the time you tried on your sister’s red Yoga pants because they resembled Steamboat’s tights, or drove three hours one way just to lay eyes on another man in spandex trunks, or put the neighbor’s Saint Bernard in a Headlock just to see how it felt. Inquiring minds want to know.
You can tell us anything — we’ve all done the same or worse weird-ass wrestling shit. I’m hoping by sharing our stories, we might resolve and finally heal some of that guilt, shame, and inadequacy we all felt when we indulged our strange and secret fetish, thinking we were the only freak in the whole world with such an odd perversion. Maybe we can share a laugh over the desperate games we played just to be able to experience the excitement of pro wrestling.
Here are a few ground-rules for your Confessions:
- Nothing But the Truth — This ain’t Penthouse Letters where you share your Fan-Fic stories of when you were raped by Bob Orton or spent a weekend in a handsome billionaire’s secret wrestling mansion. Just confess what you really truly did to act out, dress up as, watch, or otherwise get off on wrestling. No story is too tame or too outrageous, I think…
2. Keep it Short, Stupid (KISS) — We can’t cover all 50 of your wrestling Shades of Gray in an article, so keeping each confession under 500 words is probably best — 1,000 at most. Also it’s my blog so I reserve the right to break up your epic novel into multiple chapters, or edit down the tedious details to focus on the good stuff (and to leave out anything too gross, offensive, explicit, dangerous, or nutso.)
3. Privacy Guarantee — I understand that nobody really wants their Pastor, or grandma, or drinking buddies, or boss to know that they pay other men to put them in Headscissors when they’re on business trips.
So whether you deliver your confession by e-mail, by posting a comment, or by carrier pigeon, I am not going to “out” anybody by sharing any identifying information — not your name, e-mail address, home address, or any other kind of address. Your secrets are safe with me — so please don’t stress out that I’m going to blackmail you for taking those polaroids of yourself laying on the floor in bikini briefs with a cowboy boot balanced on your chest…
So let us know what you did when you were home alone and when wrestling was like a drug habit you couldn’t kick. Confession is good for the soul.
