As Giana walked into the arena that evening, she couldn’t help but feel nervous. She had never wrestled against a man before, and the thought of facing one in the ring was terrifying. But as she looked around at the other wrestlers, she felt a sense of camaraderie and support. They all knew that today was a special day for the company, and they were all determined to give a good showing.
Men wrestling against women used to be a novelty; something promoters only did when they were desperate and short on talent. Now, thanks to our new progressive CEO here at Slay Wrestling, separating matches by gender is a thing of the past.
I’m not sexist or anything, but it has been a difficult adjustment for me; in fact, my first match with a woman was a total disaster.
I’m the current champ, and I was meant to lose the belt to Giana, one of the promotion’s most popular up-and-coming stars. I didn’t mind giving up the title, as I’ve already held it for nine months, which is a pretty long run. Titles changing hands is what sells tickets, and what’s good for the company is good for all of us.
So, what went wrong? How did I fuck up losing a fixed fight?
The short answer is my dick got in the way.
Despite my best efforts to be professional, being thrown around the ring by this gorgeous blonde Amazon proved to be too much stimulation. The jockstrap I was wearing under my trunks helped conceal my raging boner, but cups just aren’t built to contain hard dicks, and it was extremely painful.
As Giana stood perched on the top turnbuckle preparing to deliver her finishing move, I realized her landing on me from that height would obliterate my dong. I tried to suck it up and be brave, but the reflex to protect my manhood was too strong. Just as she was about to make contact, I rolled out of the ring.
The crowd booed as I waited on the floor for the ref’s ten-count. I desperately wanted to get back in there and finish the match, but I was in too much agony.
Finally, the bell rang and Giana was declared the winner. But there was a problem. According to the rules, titles don’t change hands if the match ends with a count-out — there has to be a pin inside the ring. Though she had won the match, I was still technically the champ.
And that is why she is glaring at me backstage, ready to tear my arms out of their sockets. At six-foot-two and 175 pounds of muscle (plus four pounds of silicon in her bra), she’s got a six-inch, 15-pound size advantage on me. Ring or not our bodies are throbbing with adrenaline. We lock eyes, and I feel my body lose control.
I know that shit is going to go down in a bedroom somewhere after this match for sure!
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I know that shit is going to go down in a bedroom somewhere after this match for sure!
