I’ve also been thinking a lot about that meetup with Rick. The power of his hits, how he kept such control, and made it such a amazing experience. That moment stuck with me, with such force, force that I wanted. When he caught me when I stumbled, doubled over, when I fell but didn't want to stay down. When he finally broke me. I’ve caught myself walking around work some days, stomach tightening when I remember the impact. Not in fear. Not even in anticipation. Just remembering the feeling of my body absorbing something like that. And yeah how I wanted it again. I mean if I'm going to do
this right, explore it and find out what it means to me, and if I really
want it...im going to have to do it a few times at least. So I went back on the site, thought I have a single message at most. Probably addressed to someone else. Someone better than me, better looking, better built, better able to take a hits and be a man. Yeah I'm working on self confidence thing too, bare with me. Anyways, imagine my surprise when I saw a lot more than just one message. Like a lot more. I read them all, thanked each and every one for messaging me, reaching out to make me feel wanted for once. I wanted to meet them all, even the odder ones, but one really really stood out.
His name was, well is, Marcus. Late thirties, I think. His profile pic wasn’t flashy, just him in a pair of gym shorts, standing in a garage with a heavy bag behind him. Built like he spends more time lifting things than talking about it. A man who could pick up a baby and swing them to sleep while tossing a full sized tree like it was a basketball. A man of few words, at least that's what I got since he didn’t say much in messages either. Just direct. Confident. Not arrogant. I... Kinda liked it. After a couple short exchanges, he asked if I’d be willing to drive out to his place. Said he had space in the basement. Clean setup, mats down, private. “We can go hard if you’re ready,” he wrote. “But only if you say so.” So he was willing to go hard, well harder, but still thinking about safety. Works well for a idiot like me!
In case you didn't figure it out yet, I said yes.
Marcus was about thirty minutes (ish) outside the city. Older neighborhood, smelled of some above average money, a little to well kept like they are trying to hard, but quiet and peaceful. His house was smaller than the rest but still impressive. Blue siding, big oak tree out front, a truck in the driveway. Why do I remember such uninteresting details? Ugh. Ok focus. So when I knocked, a bit nervous and he opened that door? I knew right away I’d come to the right place. Marcus was, like really impressive. Like really really impressive. He was around six foot at least, thick through the chest and shoulders. Not crazy taking steroids like candy bodybuilder huge, more like farm-strong. Wide frame. Chest hair creeping over the collar of his T-shirt. Calm face, soft-spoken, but his handshake had weight in it. He smelled like clean laundry and sweat that had dried into cotton. He was one hell of a Latino man I'll tell you that. It was, appealing, like the feeling you get when you walk into a good gym, have that man smell in the air and know it will be a good work out. He led me down to the basement. Ceiling was low but not cramped. Thick puzzle mats covered the concrete. There was a space heater in the corner, humming low. A bench press setup in one corner, a pull-up bar mounted to the ceiling beam, and a couple folded towels already waiting on the mat.He didn’t talk much, which I appreciated. Just asked, “You want to go shirtless hombre ?”
I nodded, why not, this was a man thing after all? And if this experiences was doing anything for me, it was at least making me feel more like a man. Well, he peeled his shirt off first.... And I stared, probably longer than I should have. His chest was broad and solid, a thick line of dark hair running down the center. His belly was soft but firm underneath, like a punching bag built into him. Deep obliques on the sides, like two ropes running from ribs to hips. His arms were veined and strong, his shoulders round with years of pressing. He had old bruises on his left side, fading yellow against brown skin. He looked like someone who knew how to take hits, and dish them out, and he wasn't even flexing yet! Ok focusing way to much on his body. How many times have I gone on about it? Ok ok, so I stripped my own shirt off and kicked off my shoes. My skin already buzzed with that now-familiar mix of nerves and anticipation. Hopefully he didn't notice, or comment on me being smaller. He didn't, didn't even seem to care. All that mattered was I showed up.
“Entiendes esto, I’m not here to seriously hurt you,” he said. “Ego bs is just that. Hospital stays aren't a mark of honor with me. It's a mark of shame, loss of control. You want to be pushed, I’ll push you. But if you go down, and you are done, you stay down. Don’t try to be stupid to impress. Comprender? That’ll get you the type of hurt that doesn't go away.”
“Okay,” I said a bit sure, a bit nervous.
I appreciated his directness, his honesty. Also the assurance of a safety net. Even if I lost myself to the moment, let my own judgement be overruled, he would be looking out for me. Good. Very good. I also wish I had something cool and dramatic ready to be said, to start it off with a bang. But I didn't, and maybe I didn't need it? Never would? I just stepped forward and nodded. Thankfully all he needed was my nod, to begin.
The first punch was just a warm-up. His right glove, almost gently (for him) tapping my upper belly, just under the ribs. Even still, I grunted. It felt like a medicine ball had been thrown into me, heavy, blunt, not sharp. The kind of impact that doesn’t sting, just settles. I felt it bloom across my diaphragm and tighten everything at once. My stomach pulsed hard, bracing instinctively. But damn did it feel good, even more so since I took it. Marcus didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching me absorb it. There was a shift in his body tone, approval. I shown I could take a hit, and was ready for more. Wanted more. The next one came lower this time. Firmer. His glove pressed in a few inches below my navel, a slightly downward cross that made my stomach cave in for a half second before it snapped back. I took a full step back with the force. My gut clenched like a cramp had been switched on. It hurt, hurt so good, but in a way that made my brain light up. Not panic. Not fear. Just awareness. I stepped forward again. I swear the man smiled like a kid at a carnival. He stepped forward and hit me. It was a wide, sweeping left hook (I've been Googling and learning this) across my side. The impact smacked into my side with the force of a truck. It pulled my body sideways, hips twisting involuntarily. Without missing a beat, or a moment, Marcus shifted stances and slammed a rising uppercut into the lower shelf of my stomach. It landed with a pop, not a crash. Fast and direct. I gasped. My stomach tightened around the blow like it was trying to keep it in. He wasn't pausing or stopping now, we were getting into a rhythm. A hard cross aimed just above my waistband. His fist sunk deep, driving right into the centerline of my core. My whole midsection flexed tight, and I heard myself grunt louder than before. It was a vulnerable spot, soft under the muscle, but my body held. A diagonal shot, almost an uppercut, that hit across my ribs and lower belly in one motion. That one wrapped around me. The pain wasn’t just surface level, oh no, it shot down into my hips and curled into my spine. Straight into my sternum. It hit high, pushing down into my diaphragm. I felt the air pressure shift in my chest, like a vacuum opening or exploding. A light jab, quick, right to the center of my gut. Fast but sharp, like checking for softness. My muscles flinched and rebounded immediately. It stung, but didn’t shake me. He stepped in close, set one glove on my shoulder to hold me still, and threw a slow, deep body blow into the pit of my stomach. That one made me bend. It wasn’t just a hit. It was a message. It landed like it had been poured into me, and I coughed, wet and raw. Then back to the side, a bruiser of a hook to my right ribs. It didn’t knock the wind out of me, but it rattled something loose. I grunted hard and stumbled a step sideways. My whole gut throbbed, red-hot and clenching around itself.
But you know what? I was standing! I was. uh, what's the word? Oh yeah, I was tanking this!
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Marcus tilted his head, breathing heavy through his nose. He told me that I had more in me than he expected. It wasn't said with venom or spit, he actually meant it. And the truth was? He was absolutely right. Not even in my craziest dreams, and boy do I have them, could I have imagined this. Me? Tanking hits like a man? Wild.... But it was about to get even better, cause you know what? When I showed him proper I could take it... That’s when he got serious.
He dug a hook into my side, right above the hip. Then followed up with a quick straight to the navel. His punches were denser but not wild, not flashy. Just thick, purposeful hits, each one making my body react before I could think. I tried to remember Rick’s advice he gave me as I left, don’t clench, just breathe. Let the power of each blow pass through me, even when the impact rocked me. My stomach felt like they were being tested by a hammer with every punch. Marcus stepped in close, bracing his forearm on my shoulder again as he threw another punch deep into the pit of my stomach. I folded. The breath whooshed out of me, and I dropped to one knee. My mouth hung open, heart racing, sweat already dripping off my nose.
He crouched, not touching me. “You okay?”
I raised a thumb, it hurt but I wasn't done.
“Good,” he said. “I knew you still have fight in you.”
He gave me a minute, then we were back up.
This time, I told him. “Push harder.”
He nodded once.
He stepped into me, faster now. It was a quick repeating combo, like something out of a video game. Left hook, right jab, left hook, right hook, each one, each blow drilling into my midsection. The rhythm was tight, unforgiving. I staggered, knees bending slightly, but stayed standing. My stomach clenched and fluttered like it was trying to escape my own body. A jab to the upper belly, pop. Then a hook across the side, whump. A sharp uppercut that drove into the center, thud. A low cross just above the beltline, smack. Another hook, same side, deeper this time, clap. A uppercut, deep and unforgiving, into the solar plexus again, boom. Double tap to the ribs, pak pak. A body blow that bent me in half, thunk. Another, thunk.
And another. My skin was buzzing. Muscles jumping on their own. My legs
wobbled under me, but I didn’t drop. Couldn’t drop. I was beyond
language. My brain stopped cataloging and just felt. The hits kept coming. Heavy and close, each one chipping at something in
me. A hammer tap to the sternum. A twisting body shot to the side. A
harsh downward jab into the top of my abs that flattened me an inch
shorter. A knuckle-grinding punch that stayed sunk in for a second too
long. A lightning quick strike under my ribs that almost knocked my feet
out from under me. My arms went limp. My breath came
in short, shallow huffs. My stomach was soaked, twitching with every
pulse of my heartbeat. My mouth hung open as I tried to pull in air that
didn’t seem to be there. I don’t remember the exact number of hits that followed. I don’t even know if he knew. They came fast. Relentless. His fists were a rhythm section, and my gut was the drum.
And then the fear flickered in, fear and honest realization, dude I’m breaking. I was finally hitting the wall. It was time to listen, time to let reason win over desire. I raised a shaky hand, palm open.
“One more,” I rasped, barely a whisper. “Give me one more… then I’m done.”
Marcus nodded once, understanding.
He stood at full high, presenting, his body seem to swell with power and muscle, a God among little men like me. He tapped my stomach twice with his glove, finding the best spot and moment. Then, holy hell, B.A.M. A full-body shot, dead center. It felt like the floor dropped out from under me. My knees buckled and I fell forward against him, chest to chest.
He caught me.
“Alright,” he said. “Ya terminaste! That’s it for you."
I couldn’t speak. I just hung there, arms limp at my sides, head against his shoulder. Every inch of me was soaked. My stomach felt like it had been scooped out and filled with fire. But inside, there was this weird peace. No racing thoughts. No stress. Just the hum of my pulse and the ache that let me know I’d gone further than before. He helped me to the mat, handed me a towel. We sat in silence for a while. When I finally sat up, Marcus looked at me. There was no anger, no shame, no judgement in his eyes. Just one man having respect for another. It felt really good. Like I finally got my man card and was accepted into manhood.
"You took more than most guys do their first time here. Even after some time and a lot of experience. Not bad at all, cuate.”
I thanked him. Quietly. I think I was still catching up to what I’d just done.
On the drive home, I kept my windows down. The cool air against my sore body felt like relief. But even more than that, yeah I know here it comes, there was a kind of pride under the pain. Not the macho kind. Just knowing I’d been tested, and I’d wanted it. And... I did it. I think I might be understanding now: this isn’t about punishment. Never was. It’s about control. Letting someone in, letting the force come, and knowing you can handle it. Even when it empties you. Heh, especially then when it empties you. OK so maybe not the mindset of everyone, but for me it is. And I'm OK with that.
I’m sore now. Real sore. But I’m also… calm. And that’s why I’ll do it again.
—Joe
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