Men Wrestle, One Survives

With a tip of the hat to JAMES12755, who loves tattoos



When I got out of the Army, I went out on a high, so to speak. As a member of a Special Forces team, I enjoyed not only the duty itself--always in the thick of it, behind enemy lines, flying to this hot spot or that revolution--but I was proud of myself. I did my duty, served my country, maybe saved a few lives (by taking out a few terrorists).

Only had one little snag: now don't get me wrong, I'm completely straight, but for some reason, don't know what it is...to see a guy with a tattoo on his chest is a real turn-on.

Again, don't get me wrong! Never had any "contact" with a man. Never! I can control myself, for hell's sake! It's a weird little foible. I don't remember the first time I saw a guy with a tattoo. Maybe a sailor with a sailing ship on his chest, shirt off, swabbing down the decks of one of the Navy ships in the harbor in San Diego, where I grew up.

When I got out of the Army I moved away from Fort Bragg and North Carolina. Got myself a nice apartment in Boston, one with a view of the bay and the Naval Shipyard. Although my career was in the Army, Boston was a Navy town like San Diego--so I got to continue my hobby of watching for tattooed sailors. Sort of a weird hobby. I never told anybody about it. Wasn't really sure why I did it.

I lived there a couple of weeks, gradually getting acquainted with the neighbors, and finally I was invited to join a poker game a few of the guys had every Friday night in the apartment complex rec room.

They were good guys. Luckily none of them was a card shark--I'm not that hot at poker. It was fun. A few beers, laughing and joking, losing a little here, coming out a couple of times with some winnings. We became good friends--even though it always took me a second to process "Hahvahd Yahd."

One night a new guy walked in. "Hey, guys, this heah is Kent Bannah. A Navy Seal! Just moved into
55."

Everybody stared. Big blond dude. Six-foot-two, at least. Just came from the pool, apparently. He wore white swimming trunks and a light nylon jacket over a bare chest--Ohmigod!--the most magnificent tattoo I'd ever seen!

Classic! None of the cute, trendy colors. It was old-school blue, meticulously drawn, a fabulous tattoo of a three-masted square-rigger. God, it was the USS Constitution! Old Ironsides!



Right across the bay! I could see it from my apartment with binoculars!

He smiled. "Actually it's BanNER."

"That's what I said. Bannah!"



I tried to force myself not to gape, but it was hopeless. The guy was a big 'un. Blue eyes, tousled hair. About my age, 38 or so, I figured him at 275-280 pounds. Muscles everywhere. Shoulders like gun turrets. Arms like oak branches. A chest so broad and muscular, it was the perfect canvas for the magnificent ship.

Old Ironsides had 44 guns. The 22 in the side-view tattoo were beautifully, accurately drawn. I was admiring the small points when I noticed his nipples. Like cannons themselves. Jutting out like pegs the Constitution rested on.

I blinked, trying to stop the train of thought. Even in the dim light of the rec room, I could see his white boxer swimming suit wasn't exactly loose. It had to fit around a belly and hips more muscular than the suit-size expected. Big bulge.



Dammit! I turned my eyes away. What in hell am I doing??



I looked back at Old Ironsides. He had manly hair on his chest, but sun-bleached blond, it didn't interfere with the view of the tattoo. If anything the hair was like wispy fog, making the picture even more realistic.

He shook hands all around. "Nice to meet you, Kent, I'm James Dodheag."

"Unusual last name, Dodheag."

"Irish. People on Ellis Island couldn't understand what my great-grandparents said, so they wrote down for their name what was on their suitcases. It means "Twelve" in Gaelic." I smiled. "Grew up in San Diego, but I came back here. My Irish roots."

"James Twelve." He smiled. "A statistic?"

I smiled back. "So to speak." He sat down, and we started to play cards.

One of my buddies chimed in, "James, heah, is a retahrd Green Beret."

"Actually, I'm retired, too," Kent said. "I got out of the Navy a week ago." He fussed with his cards. "Still not exactly adjusted to civilian life." He looked over at me. "You're a big guy. I figured you for the military or a cop. Special Forces. Might've known."

We high-fived over the poker table. "Brothers in arms!"

That began a friendly competition. "US Navy sees your bid and raises one dollar."

"US Army calls."

"Three of a kind."

"Special Forces sinks Navy battleship. Straight flush!"

Yuk-yuk. The other guys got into it, too. "Ajax Construction heah demolishes Army barracks--two paeh."

"Academy Market out of stock. I pahss."

"Checker Cab sees your Jack-high flush--read 'em and weep: Queen-high flush!"

That more or less set Escort Sakarya the tone for the poker games for the next few weeks. Everybody's card-playing character became his job.

I loved the poker nights. Laughed ourselves sick. Kent was a funny, clever sum-bitch. Every once in a while he would show up at poker night with "the buffet"--99¢ burgers and kosher pickles.

I loved dill pickles, and when he found out, the ones he would bring me were huge. As he tossed them to me, he'd give me a sly grin. "Anybody who doesn't bite into it before he closes his lips is queer."

Of course, just to play along, I took the pickle out of the package and held it out in front of me. "Oh, god, oh, fuck!" And I sucked it into my mouth, slurping, puffing my cheeks in and out, reaching down to make jerk-off motions in my lap.

Yak-yak! "Hey, that's too good! He's not faking! He's done that befoah!" More laughter.

I looked around. "Anybody want to go in the men's room with me?" Then with a single snap, I bit the pickle in half!

Every man at the table shivered.

"Lucky no kids ah heah. Management would have a fit."

Kent was a party guy, always coming up with practical jokes and funny situations. Ever tried to play poker where everything is opposite? The Ace is a two, and a Royal Flush is the Two, Three, Four, Five, and Six of Spades? I lost $20 trying to beat a full house of three Twos and two Jacks with my own full house of three Kings and two Queens.

We joshed a lot. Never about the military. We never talked about Black Ops--sworn oaths about that. I showed him my personal collection of combat knives, including an original, 1942 Ka-Bar with "USMC" stamped on the hilt that Kent raved about.

We talked about the snipers on the Maersk Alabama. "New generation. I moved on to instructor status years ago. I could've done that, though. Used to shoot cherries out of the neighbor's tree with a BB gun." He smiled. "But a Seal is 'sealed' at my age. I'm a Navy Walrus."

The combination of players routinely changed--one guy would be gone on a business trip, on another night, somebody would be absent with his wife to the movies, etc., but Kent and I always showed up. Poker night was my favorite time of the week.

One night, though, in a weird coincidence, I walked into the rec room, and the only person there was Kent. We waited for a few minutes. "Looks like we're all alone."

"Want to play?"

"What the hell. It's either that or making popcorn and watching TV."

We started playing. Poker with only two players isn't much fun, though. Finally, with a snicker, he said, "Let's jazz this up a little. Two of us playing for a buck at a time is a drag." He lowered his voice. "Let's go up to my apartment and play strip poker."

I chuckled. "Won't be the first time the Army has tossed the Navy butt-naked into the water."

"Think about it: it takes 13 buttons undone to get into a Navy uniform. It's just a zipper into Army fatigues."

We went up to his apartment. Just like mine: one bedroom, living room/kitchenette, bathroom/shower. His was on the wrong side of the building, though. No view of the bay.

We sat on the plastic chairs and started playing at his kitchen table. First round went to the Army. Kent stood up and took off his shirt.



Shit. There was Old Ironsides again. God, I loved to look at that thing! Weird, but it actually made me a little horny. Understandable, really. It was the finest tattoo I'd ever seen. "Where'd you get that tattoo?"

"Weirdest experience of my life. I was stationed in San Diego, and one night I got liquored up with my shipmates. Next thing I knew, we'd taken a bus to the border, crossed over into Tijuana, and somehow found ourselves in a tattoo parlor."

He smiled. I liked his face. Like a blond cartoon Batman, actually--broad lantern jaw. Hawk nose. Bushy eyebrows. Would've been sinister if not for his beach-bunny yellow hair. Gave him a sort of drunken Viking look.

"A very special tattoo parlor," he went on. "It was a whore-house and sort of an endurance test. A guy would get tattooed while one of the whores sucked his cock. You had to lie there and stand it while the guy used the needle. If she made you lose control of yourself, it made the needle slip--any guy with a smear or a scrawl in his tattoo caught shit for it. He lost it from the blowjob." He grinned. "But if you didn't cum, if the pain of the tattoo made you lose your hard, the tattoo artist wouldn't sign it."

He brought his chest over close to me. At the right corner--Oh, fuck, right over his nipple!--in red letters: Toro.

Thinking about that made me lose me my concentration. "Navy wins!"



Shit. I stood up and took off my shirt. "Sorry, I don't have a tattoo."

"Probably just as well. Everybody knows the women go for a Navy uniform. Army guys don't get blowjobs often enough to be able to control themselves. You'd end up with a Chinese scribble Side escort across your chest."

"Oh, yeah? Let's forget the the poker plays. Let's just go high cards wins." I dealt us both a card. "Check it out, Navy, Ace of Spades!"

"Fuck." He had a Seven. He stood up and shucked down his shorts. A jockstrap. I gulped. Big bulge. The webbing pouch held a grapefruit!

He dealt the cards. I got a Five. Shit! I held it up timidly.

"Shit!" He had a Three. With great ceremony, he reached down and took off his flip-flops.

"Hey, strip poker is for clothes, not shoes!"

"Hey, shoes are items of clothing!"

I dealt. I got a Jack. I smiled. "Army wants jockstrap and match!"

"You won't get it. Navy says the Army pants come off." He held up a Queen.



Fuck. I shucked down my pants. I wore boxer shorts. Thank god my hardon had gone down, but Shit! Fuck! Hell! My dick stuck out through the fly slit. Kent chuckled as I stuffed it back in. "Hey, not to worry, man, everybody loves a sailor."

"Fuck you."

"They do."



Damn, I walked into that one. Never heard that comeback before. He dealt to me. Yes! A King!

He held up a Ten, saw my King, and stuck his thumbs in the elastic of the jockstrap. He tugged it down. Fuck. That horny underwear was more camouflage than I suspected.

What unfolded out of the sphere compressed by all the elastic mesh was a jaw-dropping set that pretty much defined the word Hung. He stood a good 6'2", and that cock had to be a good six-inch-two soft. God, probably 12 inches hard! Like a giant squid swimming deep beneath the USS Constitution. I got the weirdest feeling.

Like I could smell it. Impossible. But no. I smelled something. Like the smell of the ocean. I'm an idiot! How could his cock smell like the ocean?? No, it was stronger, more powerful somehow. Eerie. Like the smell of balls. Like the crotch of my underwear. Moron! I'm smelling myself!



No. I was smelling Kent's male pheromones. Made me a little dizzy.

"Well, Navy sails away to fight another day. And speaking of fighting, isn't this, you know, like one of those typical porn stories?"

"Huh?"

"You know, strip poker turns into wrestling." He grinned. "You know--'Oh, gee, we're naked, Joe! Yeah! What shall we do? Let's wrestle!'"

He grinned even wider. "You're a big guy, probably a little bigger than me. Wanna wrestle for the final title?"

I snickered. "Okay, but as we are. You lost all your clothes. That's your handicap. I keep my boxers."

"Deal."

We moved to the living room and circled each other cautiously. He was a combat veteran, well trained in hand-to-hand, but so was I. Nobody made any quick moves right away, studying each other, watching for weaknesses.

I had to admit it, that fucking ship tattoo was a distraction. So was his cock. Couldn't stop thinking about him with spread legs getting a blowjob while that thing was inked into his skin. Fuck, how big is that thing hard? And I couldn't stop watching the heavy thing swing back and forth ponderously--Fuck, it has to affect his balance!

I wondered which of us would be the villain and which the good guy. Both of us were combat vets, so I figured dirty tricks would be the order of the day. Not at first, though. We fell into the typical first move--arms interlocked, one hand at the back of the other's neck. The clinch, a sort of embrace.

Then he made a quick swivel, trying to get into position for a hip throw, but as he did it, that big cock of his swung out like a Navy Tomcat turning up and away from the carrier, and it hit me in the thigh. God, what a hose!



Broke my concentration. I knew how to avoid a hip-throw, but the momentary admiration of his manhood put me behind the power curve. Before I knew it, I was upended and heading for the floor.

In a second he was on me, but I wasn't born yesterday. With his face inches from mine, straining, trying to get the pin--Looks younger than he is. Handsome face.--I put his semen-dispenser out of my mind and hooked my legs in his. Once I had him locked, in a favorite pet move of mine, I planted both elbows and Unngh! I rotated my hips, throwing him off me and drilling his legs into a twist that threw him off-balance, on his back, beside me.

Then I was the proud Alfa male looking down at him. We both leaped to our feet, and the match went on. We went through a few "death-defying" holds--showy to the trainees--and each of us got caught in a few throws, pretty evenly matched.

In one combination, I succeeded in getting a hold on him because he had devoted himself to yanking my boxer shorts down. He won out, though, because with my shorts gathered around my ankles, I stumbled, losing the hold. I kicked off the underwear in frustration.

I saw him look. I compared, too. Damn, he's way bigger than I am.



Anyway, we slugged at it, around and around for, hell, it had to be half an izmir escort bayan hour. Finally, both of us sweating, breathing hard, tired out, he shoved me backward, and I back-pedaled off the carpet and onto the linoleum of the kitchen area. There I stumbled over one of his flip-flops, and Wham! I hit the floor hard.

Instantly he was on me, dragging me back to the carpet while I was still dazed. I moaned as he rolled me over onto my belly. What the hell? He can't pin me this way. I was still a little punchy from hitting my head on the floor. "Wait--minute--no fair--"

He should've been grabbing my shoulders to roll me over for the pin, but he was fussing with my legs, spreading them apart...then with a sudden lift, he stood up, pulling my hips with him, and Whoop! Suddenly I was on my feet, leaning over with my hands on the floor and my knees slightly bent--a bitch waiting for it!

God, I was hot, dripping in sweat. I looked back, and Ohmigod! He was positioning himself. Mounting me! The motherfucker is mounting me!!



I lurched and struggled, trying to get away, but he had me square--in a perfect hold, hands holding my sides just above my hips. And he got me. When he inserted his cock-- Shit it hurt!-- I bellowed, "You bastard, I'll kill you for this!"

"Lost match--motherfucker--you--got it coming!"



Oh, fuck! The big Seal was a submarine, and I was a freighter. His big torpedo burned a white-hot hole in me, and the pain fucked up everything. Hurt so bad I couldn't struggle! I quieted down, crouching there unmoving, anything to ease the agony.

He stopped, too (thank God). I wasn't sure why, but I didn't argue. My asshole was on fire!

He grunted, "Give you a break, Army--Gotta--get used--my cock in you." I just wished I could die. "Soon--you--beg me--"

I lurched and jerked! "The hell I will, motherfucker!" But all I really did was work that big whiskey bottle further up my ass, bringing back the pain. I stopped struggling. He was right. My asshole was on fire, and the only thing I could do was (fuck, how humiliating) get used to it.

I was his submissive prisoner.



No! I won't take the word submissive!

But as I crouched there like a horny bitch with another man's cock up my ass-- Fuck, he just got my cherry!-- the pain gradually became "standable." How fucking humiliating! My ass was stretching out to fit around Kent's big prong. I gritted my teeth. He can brag about that for the rest of his life! My asshole stretched out to fit his cock!



A fucking nightmare. I smelled that aroma again. Stronger. More overpowering. Fuck, even his body odor is a turn-on!

But if nothing else, I was damned grateful the pain had gone down some. Once on an Op in New Guinea, we disturbed a native hunting party, and I'll be damned if one of the bone-nose bastards didn't chuck a spear at me. Got me, too, right in the thigh. Hurt like a motherfucker.

Just like getting butt-fucked. Kent's big cock was a spear up my ass!

But something else: when the team medic pulled the native spear out, the pain was even worse! I almost passed out!

I bit my lip. That was something to think about.

Ever so often, Kent gave me another little lunge, sinking in a couple more inches, and although it hurt, I had to admit I was stretching out for him. Damn, I was ashamed.

And it happened. He let out a grunt, and his hips ground into my buttocks. "In you, pal. All the way." I bent my head in shame. The only good thing about it was that I could stand the pain. It wasn't getting much less, but at least it wasn't getting worse.

Then he started the lunges. Short jabs at first. His cock hilted in me, he lurched his hips, jolting my whole body, jabbing himself deeper, deeper, deeper. I was relieved--thought it would be a return of the searing pains, but no. I could stand it.

Then he twisted the knife. "Gonna treat you good, James. Gonna work you into it slow. Make you like it."

I lurched again--Ow, ouch!--"Fuck you, you cocksucking bastard! When I get up from here, I'll tear your fucking balls off!"

Still he paused (for which I was grateful), and as a matter of fact, the longer we froze there in that sweating statue, the more the pain went away--until it was just a dull ache in my ass. Finally, "Okay, James, let me recoil and chamber another round, and we'll go full automatic.

I sucked in a breath. Oh, fuck, now he pulls the spear back out. I was scared, frankly. Above all, I couldn't let him hear me screaming in pain. I braced myself.

The big rod began to pull out. Slowly. Inch by inch.

I gnashed my teeth, waiting for the agony, breathing hard, fearful I wouldn't be able to stand it.

But nothing!

No pain! It didn't hurt! In fact, as the long, long organ slid out, it was slimy and slick. The greasy friction over my dilated asshole was-- Ohmigod, this can't be true!-- pleasant!



NO! I am NOT enjoying a man's cock up my ass! I began to struggle.

"Ah, yeah, James, you getting to like it now?"



Oh, fuck, he knows? "Fuck, no, you bastard! You better enjoy this while you can, motherfucker, 'cause when I get up from here, you're dead! Yeah, I'm enjoying it!"