Series: Gut Punch Journal - Entry 2

These stories started off as a standalone short, meant to be a one off tale that sparked unexpected interest. Got a few comments and request about wanting more, and so here we are! "Series" with feature recurring characters, themes, and an expanding world that continues to unfold, one story at a time. Also yes, this series does feature the actual meetfighters site. 

 

 

 

Journal Entry #2 – February 17, 2024

I’ve been thinking a lot about that fight. How I was forced into it, for reasons I still don't know. How it was my first fight ever really. Been thinking long and hard about it. More than I probably should. It’s been sitting on my chest like a weight I can’t shift. Not that I would really want to. You see all this, it's not in a bad way. It's all more like a memory I keep coming back to, reliving it, pressing on it, testing how it makes me feel. Is that weird? Normal? I don't know, but as my generation is ever so fond of saying... it is, what it is. I told my therapist I’ve been journaling (is that a word?) about the fight, about how it made me feel physically and mentally. She thought it was progress. I didn’t mention everything.... I don't think I can yet. I have no idea how they would react if they knew I enjoyed it in the end. I don’t know why I like it. It’s not sexual, at least not yet. It may very well become that, but it's just... well I don't know what it is. Maybe that's why I keep writing you know?  It’s just... something in the force of the blow, the way my body braces and absorbs it, the way it breaks me down in the end, empties me out. Like it resets something. But to really understand it all, I needed to be sure it wasn’t a one off fluke. Some bs misfire of my brain or some other techno babble explanation. 

 

So I went online. 

 

If I went to a bar, club, park or something public it could have ended in a bad way. Public humiliations you know? At least online I can search, research and the like without being judged... yet. And you know what? It worked! Sure you're probably going to think I'm insane (I'm still not sure if I am or not) but, I found a site, “Meet Fighters.” Yeah, I laughed too. But it was surprisingly, to me at least... normal. Sure it was literal real people looking for real matches, but there was no judgement, no questioning, just accepting who you are and what you wanted. Some guys were looking for sport, some to play out a fantasy they had, some to find themselves, and some for other reasons. It just clicked, felt right, so I made a profile. Kept it honest: average build, 5’11”, some body hair, not looking to be seriously hurt, just curious about body shots. Sure I wasn't impressive, but I was trying. 

 

A guy named Rick messaged me within a day. 

 

 

We met at a local gym. One of those old-school, hole in the wall gyms that had a boxing ring in it. It had metal lockers rusted with time, rubber mats that seen better days, and smell of sweat soaked into the walls. It was old, dirty as hell, but had a charm a man could appreciate. Geez, how old am I and I'm just now feeling like a man? Eh, whatever. So Rick. Rick was in his forties, built like a truck. Not cut, but thick. A big guy who could break me with a look, but had the charm of a grumpy grandfather who loved his kids and grandkids more then he would ever let on. He was also barrel chested with arms like tree limbs. Said he used to train pro back in the day. If this was him not training, damn how did he look then? More importantly, he didn’t ask me why I was into gut shots. Just nodded when I told him I wanted to explore this need, find myself.

 

Another man thing I guess?

We agreed, well more like he was nice enough to follow, on a few things. There would be no head shots naturally, no low blows, no medical issues. Just gloves to the body, mostly the core. He’d go slow and steady, watch how I reacted. Adjust on the fly. He seemed eager to see what I could take, so I wasted no time... I was too. I stripped down to my shorts and shoes, shirt off so I could feel everything. I needed the full experience again. We touched gloves, he insisted, as a sigh of respect. He asked one last time, “You sure about this?” 

 

I nodded.

The first punch was a test. Right into my upper belly, just above the navel. A sharp jab. I grunted. It caught me off guard, not from the pain... but how my body welcomed it. Like a breath I didn’t know I needed to exhale. He gave me a second, seemed to understand. I was grateful, this would be hard, but safe and sane. When I was ready, I nodded again. 

 

Here we go.

(I also apologize if I get the terms wrong, I'm knew to this!) 

A left swing to my side. A right hook shot to my center. A series of straight punches, jabs, to the same spot. A deep uppercuting just right under it. I gasped, air rushing out, but stayed upright. My stomach tightened on instinct, Rick smiled and threw another punch. His arm extending in a straight line, assaulting just above my belly bottom with cool hard leather. It was just enough to drive it in deep. He didn't stop, and I didn't want him too. Each punch made my muscles tense, then buckle. I could feel sweat already gathering at the back of my neck. He kept a rhythm, two to the gut, one to the side. My body rocked with each hit. The sound of his glove hitting my skin was addicting. Thick. Meaty. I could feel the echo of each punch in my spine. I tried to stay calm, but my breathing started to go ragged after a minute or two after that. We've been going for about fifteen minutes now, so I wasn't surprised. He circled me slowly, waiting for my signal to stop, but I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t want it to end. I could go longer, without over doing it.... I think. 

Rick smiled, and I could hear his thoughts without them having to be spoken. He was asking if it was okay to go harder, to up the game, you know next level stuff. I nodded because hell, I wanted it too. No, that’s not right to say. I needed it, Gods did I need it! 

He stepped in and dug one in hard, right under the ribs, a diagonal shot that ripped through me like a wrench twisting in my side. My knees dipped. Gods damn, that one hurt. It made my eyes water, my jaw clench so tight I felt my molars grind. My stomach curled inward on instinct, like my body wanted to protect something sacred inside, but yeah there was nowhere for the pain to go. It just stayed, humming through me, vibrating from the inside out. I staggered back a step. Rick gave me a second to breathe, but didn’t stop. BRING IT ON! He followed with a left hook, a bit lower, slamming into the soft part of my gut just above the waistband. The sound was dull, thick, like a drumbeat sunk in mud. I grunted, loud this time, my whole body flinching with the force of it. I still had my feet firmly planted I think, but, but yeah, I felt myself lean into him without meaning to. It was like my body wanted contact now, like the hits were the language we both understood. And we did. Another blow came, this time a straight right, glove pressing deep into my solar plexus. That one broke something open. Not a bone, not a muscle, but like something else. My breath caught, stuck halfway between an inhale and a cry, and all I could do was fold forward slightly, mouth open, eyes wide. The pressure crawled up into my throat like I was going to gag, but I didn’t. I just absorbed it. Felt it echo. Rick’s hand, it took me a second to realize what that feeling was, rested briefly on my shoulder, grounding me. I was breathing hard, but I wanted more. He knew it, he continued. Another punch, this time into my left side, just under the ribs again. The shot snapped through my core and I swear I saw a flicker of white behind my eyes. My abs were twitching now, my skin hot and wet. I could feel every nerve in my belly lighting up like power lines in a storm.

He wasn’t careless. Every punch was intentional, exact, measured, seeing how deep I could go.

It hurt like hell, but I stayed up.

He went in again, then again, then again. Damn! I had to be moaning in pain a lot... ok maybe a bit of pleasure. Shut up, we all like different things. In any case, finally a right cross sunk into my midsection and I bent over falling into him. Full into him. Rick caught me as I folded and held me up. He didn't feel like a man who wanted to hurt me, but more like a dad holding his son up. He gave me a moment to steady myself, take a breath in, gather myself. After a moment, he asked if I was good. 

“Yeah,” I panted. “Just… need a sec more.”

He waited. Let me catch my breath. He was giving me proper time, and so much more.

 

 

 

 

I took a few more minutes, then stood up straight, full height. I was really feeling like I was proving my manhood, and I would keep doing it. Rick, that great man, nodded after making sure I was actually ok to keep going. The next round, could you call them rounds, was slower but heavier. He stepped in with his weight, aiming low to start this time. He punched just below my navel, over and over. Not rapid, not deadly, but measured. Deliberate. Controlled. To show reaction and give experience. My stomach started to feel loose, like my muscles (heh, what muscle right?) were giving out. Every blow thudded deep, and I could feel sweat running down my ribs, my chest hairs, pooling at the top of my shorts. I wanted still more, I could keep going for just a bit more. Another exchanging of nods, and time seemed to slow...

 

He stepped forward and began unloading, shot after shot, each punch landing like a hammer on different parts of my gut. There wasn’t time to breathe, to think, to do anything but feel. The first hit, yeah I counted them, was a hard, snapping jab straight into my center. A classic boxer's jab, from what I was told later on, it was quick and sharp. My stomach rippled from the impact, the skin stinging as my belly compressed, then snapped back. Oh was I going to feel that tomorrow. The second one was deeper, driving cross into my lower stomach. He dropped his weight behind it and the punch sank in. I grunted, staggered. My knees gave a little. My intestines clenched. It felt like the punch pushed through me and hit the floor beneath. The Third, it was a, what did he call it, a rising uppercut to just beneath my ribs. That one lifted me half an inch off my heels. My breath caught mid-inhale and stayed stuck. My body folded more, a soft "nnkhh" escaping my throat. The fourth, and ughhhhhhhh by the way, the fourth was a left hook to my side, right into the obliques area. A twisting pain bloomed, sharp and stretching. My spine jerked sideways. I could feel the muscle try to tighten, then give out. The fifth was a low shot, glove digging just above my waistband. A thudding impact, low and dirty, not illegal, but brutal. I winced, legs locking to keep myself upright. The sixth, that was a double tap. It was a quick jab-jab to the same spot on my solar plexus. One-two. Each one shallow but fast, like testing my armor for weak points. I gasped after the second, the wind slipping out in shudders Yeah I was close to being just about done. The seventh hit was a right cross again, but this one aimed high, straight into the middle of my sternum, compressing my chest and top abs together. My breath hitched, eyes wide, ribs vibrating. I felt that, hell even now I feel that. The eight was a, what the hell did he call it, something like a  pivoting body hook? It was twisting from the hips, his whole torso behind it. It caught my lower right side and folded me halfway over. My mouth opened in a silent shout, but nothing came out. I had to fight to get back up straight, it was almost as hard as the fight itself. The ninth hit, that damn thing was an overhead hammer-style punch, crashing like a sledgehammer into my upper belly. It thudded deep, a blunt trauma that made my legs buckle completely. But as I was about to fall, or maybe as I was falling? The Tenth hit. This one broke me. It was one final, devastating uppercut, dead center. He threw it slow and mean, letting me feel it coming. The moment it landed, it felt like my whole gut had been scooped out with a shovel. 

 

Holy hell man... holy hell.  

 

I dropped to my knees, arms limp, belly trembling like an aftershock rolling through me. My forehead touched the mat. I couldn’t move. I just stayed there, chest heaving, every breath shallow and sharp. My skin had to be flushed hot at that point, my stomach twitching under each layer of pain. I could feel where every punch had landed, distinct, like handprints pressed into my muscles from the inside.  I couldn’t straighten up for a solid minute. I say that, well write that, like I knew time then. It could have been a lot longer, it probably was. I was soaked, heart racing, belly heaving with every gasp. But I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t ashamed. 

 

No, I was satisfied.

Rick stepped back. “You’re still breathing,” he said, low and even. “That’s more than most.”

I couldn’t speak yet. Just nodded once, slowly, from where I knelt.

“That was good,” he said, not unkindly. “You’ve got something in you. You ever want to go again, just say the word.”

I thanked him, still winded. My skin was red and marked, but I’d taken every shot. No shame in that. Some time after, I really don't know when, I limped home. Showered. Sat down. Wrote this. I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know why it makes me feel better. But it does. Not in a weird way. Just… like my body gets something out of the pressure, the impact, the force. Yeah I know I wrote this before, but I'll do it again. This is all suppose to help me short things out after all. It's for me, and well, I guess anyone who gets ahold of this journal. I’ll bring it up to my therapist soon, well I might. Maybe, definitely,  not all the details. Just the parts about learning limits. About breathing through pain. About control. I’m not broken. I just feel more, maybe. Or maybe I won't bring it up at all, keep this just for me. Who knows...

But for now, all of this is enough.

—Joe

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