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 #4 – April 28, 2024
I told myself I’d write this the same night it happened, but I.... I just couldn’t. My hands were shaking to much. Way tooooo much. My head was fuzzy, confused maybe, trying to process everything that happened all at once and way to fast. My stomach, my sides, my whole freaking everything, it still feels like the muscles are vibrating under my skin. They should be fully healed soon, well soonish, but the high of it all? The pure emotional power of it all? That will take a couple more days to come down from. To finally relax and think clearly again. Like actual me again. Ugh, yeah so it was crazy, in case you couldn't get that. Even now, a week later is it, sitting here with an ice pack balanced across my stomach, I’m still not totally sure how to make sense of it. But I know I need to try. I need to write. I can't just document the good parts, I can't honestly explore this otherwise. Can't be honest with myself otherwise. And, if you are reading this, please understand this. I don't hate the guy, not one bit. When I say red flags, I mean flags I should have seen in me. Experience that I should have put a stop to right away. But I didn't, and that's on me. You see with him, I honestly got lucky. It was a painful lesson to be sure, but one I needed.
So onto the story?
It was, because of course, another match from the fight site where you meet fighters.
With two good experiences already, I had nothing to worry about! Right? The first red flag that I should have saw, was his screen name. Dói Tão Bom. I thought it was just some reference to his nationality, I should have looked a bit deeper. But I didn't, I was too preoccupied with his great looking profile. Ademir, as I would learn his real name is, was Brazilian, mid-30s, living on the other side of town. His profile was short and blunt: “Hard body puncher. I don’t hold back. Don’t ask unless you’re serious.”
I was serious or at least I thought I was.
We messaged, a lot of back and forth, for a couple of days. He was respectful, but clear, direct and to the point on what he wanted and expected. Ademir liked to push people past their limits. Really dig deep and test a man. He didn't handhold or engage non-manly crap. You faced him, you faced him for real. It also wasn't some cruelty fetish thing, it was a test, a real test of strength, power and manhood.
“If you want to know yourself,” he wrote once, “you have to go to the edge and beyond.”
That line stuck with me. Maybe too much. I really should have thought about this more, better...
Damn, it's such a burr, so much happening so fast I guess. It was evening, we both had work that morning. The amount of time it took to show up and get to his basement was so short. No small talk, no chit chat, no getting to know you. As we moved to his basement, I remember it was hot inside, really hot. I'd be sweating like I just had a work out, even before the work out started. He opened the door to the basement, gave me one look, and nodded for me to follow him. Men like him didn't need or use words apparently. Inside, Rubber mats were down, there was a heavy bag in the corner, and a metal folding chair next to a jug of water. I wonder what this room saw before me....
I entered and noticed Ademir’s shirt was already off. He had the kind of body that doesn’t look like it came from a show gym, or pretty boys throwing out complements to get lucky. No, this man (or beast more like it) had muscled hard earned under the unforgiving sun lifting three times his body weight like it was nothing. His thick torso, must have been at least twice the side of my head, had chest hair in tight curls over the hard muscle. His core was a monster, thick, powerful, something I could hit all day and not even dent. I bet I would hurt my arms if I even tried. Speaking of arms, his arms looked like they been built swinging sledgehammers or slaying giants. He didn’t smile. He just looked at me like I’d volunteered for a storm. I probably should have known better right there, seen the next personal red flag and left. But I was a idiot. I wanted to prove myself, I let vanity take over. So stupid.
“I don’t stop unless you say the word,” he said. “so try not to be a bitch and pass out. ”
I nodded.
The first punch came without warning, at least any warning I saw. A quick jab, dead center, drove straight into my gut like a piston. My lungs popped open, then collapsed just as fast. The air shot out of me in a wheeze. It was a amazing feeling I admit, if not a little unsettling. Before I could reset, he hit me again. And again. And again. Each strike was calculated. Deep. Deliberate, powerful, and only growing stronger. Ademir didn’t waste energy. He wasn’t swinging wildly or looking for weak spots. He was making all of me a weak spot. His fists didn’t just land, they drove in deep. They pressed in like drills, not hammers. He wasn’t aiming to hurt muscle. He was aiming to crack through it, to reach something deeper. To say this wasn't like other meet ups would be a understatement. He gave me no time to breathe, to recover, to reset. Not even now. A straight right slammed up under my sternum, crushing the air out of me like a collapsing tent. I stumbled back, but he stepped forward with me. A left hook to the ribs. I twisted hard from the force. A short cross right to the navel. My stomach folded tight, then buckled. A low right body shot that buried into my lower belly. I gasped. Airless. Panicked. No time. Another jab, quicker, right into the solar plexus. My knees dipped. I felt my chest spasm. Then a rib cracker, side shot, hard knuckles turned in, dug in. I felt my body fold sideways and stay that way for far too long. But Ademir didn’t seem to care. Nope, he kept going. He stepped in with a shoulder feint and then fired an uppercut so deep into the middle of my stomach I swore it lifted me high in the air. My feet barely caught ground again before he delivered another, this one a cross right below my chest, flat against the top of my stomach.
Still no pause. Still no mercy.
Another punch came, lower this time, aimed at the space between belly button and waistband. A dead center shot, deliberate, thick. The pain poured inward like hot syrup, slow and sticky, as my body folded inward. He spun slightly and slammed a body hook from the right, then mirrored it on the left, each blow landing with a thwack that echoed inside my head. A diagonal shot, shoulder to hip, sliced through my core like a steel cable under tension. My arms dropped. My breath wheezed out like steam from a broken pipe. Then, a three-punch combo, rapid-fire but not lacking in any power. Left jab to the belly. Right hook to the side. Uppercut to the navel. All landing before I could register where one ended and the next began. Then he stepped close and buried a slow, crushing punch, straight into my gut like he was trying to leave his fist there. It was absolutely relentless.
I think, maybe I was thinking I'm not sure, there was no rhythm. No breaks. No kindness. Just force. Pounding. Inescapable. My body stopped reacting. I wasn’t dodging. Wasn’t even flinching. Just taking. I had no more breath to lose. My mouth hung open. My stomach felt like they’d turned to water, spasming on their own, begging for relief. But he wasn’t done and neither was I apparently.
“Don’t run,” he said quietly. “Take it. Be a man.”
Be a man... why did I still refuse to see the red flag?
He wanted for moment, like he expected me to say something, when I didn't, it began again. He lit up my belly with a brutal combo, overcoming every defense I had left. Two more unforgiving hooks now, each slammed into my left side, then a deep cross, that cut across my entire stomach, that folded me forward. My stomach felt like a bag of wet cement. My vision went spotty, colored dots dancing about. I gagged and wanted to end it there. But again I was stupid and to proud. No, no lets be honest, not proud, I allowed my stupid vanity to get the better of my judgement. I forced myself to stand even as my legs felt like paper.
“Tudo bem então, eu vou te ensinar...”
Another red flag, that I didn't know or see then, another ignored, another regret.
He worked my stomach like a freaking machine. Not as a man, no that would have been to easy now. He as a mechanism of total destruction. He was efficient, he was precise, he was I thought... unfeeling. Hooks to both sides, left, then right. The kind that twist your whole body, like he was trying to pull my insides out through my ribs. I could feel the bruises forming already. Then came the jabs, utterly devastating ones, angled under my navel. He fired them in with his whole body behind each, punching down like he was trying to drill into the foundation of me. My stomach lurched inward, convulsed, then refused to come back to shape. Next came the shots above the belly button. Not wild, not crazy, not the hits of a mad man, they definitely were not random either. No, they were Targeted. Each punch landed with almost like surgical intent. He was singling out every square inch of my core, each individual ab muscle like he was working down a checklist.
Top left? Crack.
Top right? Thud.
Centerline? Thump.
Lower left? Pop.
Lower right? Smack.
(Like I even had abs, I thought—what was he hitting? What was left?)
He stepped in even closer now, maybe too close. I could feel his breath. Smell the sweat on his chest, it was nice in my delirious state. His shoulder brushed mine for half a second, and then, just... BOOM. An uppercut. Crazy powerful, like more than one man was behind it. It went straight into my solar plexus. It was.. it was the kind of punch that doesn’t just knock the wind out of you, it takes your will with it. It landed so deep, I thought he might’ve dislodged something internal. My entire chest caved inward around it. I won’t lie, even if I did to myself at the time, I was really scared. This was so far beyond me. The hits weren’t just testing my limits, they were erasing them. My legs buckled. My stomach stopped clenching. It just gave up. But I didn't say anything, and he kept going. A wide hook to the ribs sent me staggering sideways, but he caught me. He physically pulled me upright by the arm and planted another punch into the exact same spot. Then a cross to the dead center of my stomach. Then a third punch to the lower belly, right above my groin. Then two more to the sides, hammering both flanks like he was playing a drum solo on my torso. I wheezed. I couldn't get my arms up to brace. My fists hung limp at my sides. My eyes started to water, not from emotion (ok maybe a little) but from pressure. From sheer internal chaos.
He dug in another uppercut, right into the exact spot he’d broken me the first time. My knees hit the mat again, but this time slower, like my body just sank. I stayed dropped, wheezing, mouth open, heart pounding, sweat pooling in the rim of my shorts. I was swaying on all fours, stomach twitching uncontrollably with every pulse of pain. But it didn't stop, I didn't say anything. I didn’t even see the last few hits clearly. I just felt them.
Punch.
Gasp.
Punch.
Shudder.
Punch.
Fold.
But still, I didn’t say the word to stop. Not. One. Gods. Damn. Word.
"Well?” he said after but a moment. It was cold, distant. Like he was judging me. Like he was every alpha man who looked down on me, like every bully who beat me down, put me down. I wasn't going to lose now. No, screw that.
“I’m good,” I lied.
He nodded. “Stand.”
I did. I obeyed to show I wasn't the weak boy anymore. I was just as much a man as any one on that site. I was shaking as I stood, dripping with sweat. My belly, or what ever was left of it, was tender to the touch, bruises already blooming. I was.... OK, I'll say it. I was ready to die to prove myself that day. Lucky for me, Ademir strength and overwhelming power was tempered with wisdom. You see, he did something I... I didn't see coming. He hugged me. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel. Just a solid hold around my back, one hand steadying me, the other drawing back. He told me I had nothing to prove, I never did. I was a strong man, a worthy man, if not a little dumb.
Then he drove his fist in, hard and high.
I... I really don’t remember much after that.
There was a white flash? My knees definitely hit the mat. Hard I think. My mouth opened but no sound came. I fell sideways, the garage was spinning like spinning tea cup at the fair.
Then—nothing.
I woke up, I don't know how much later it was, lying on a pile of towels, my head on something soft. Ademir’s hoodie, maybe. The lights were dimmed. He was sitting nearby, arms crossed, watching me. He looked different in that moment, less fighter monster destroyer of men, and more caretaker.
“You passed out,” he said calmly. “Don’t worry. You’re okay.”
My mouth was dry. My stomach felt like it had been hollowed out and filled with fire. But I was breathing. Slowly. Shakily. But breathing.
“I went too far,” I said.
“Sim, idiota! Yes! But it's good you realize that now” he replied. “And now you know how stupid that was. If I was a lesser man, one of ego, this could have been bad. Very bad. But today? You only have a pain in your stomach that will fade, may it prevent worse pains. ”
His words were harsh, but truthful. What if this man really did a number on me? Put me in the hospital? Beat me so bad I became a cripple? Beat me down and forced me to do... things I didn't want to. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but he was right. I learned something today, one I might never have learned without the pain. This pain I could recover from, another time, I may not have recovered at all. He helped me sit up, offered me water, waited while I sipped. When I was back in my head, once again in control of myself, he smiled and gave me a fist bump. He wasn't mocking, and it was not as a insult, but as a man to man sign of respect. I kinda wanted to cry, thankfully I didn't. Something tells me he may not have minded...
“You don’t always have to prove it, you know” he said,“this is your journey to explore, enjoy, experience, not to ruin with going to far. Pain is a tool my friend, not a deadly test".
I didn’t have a response. Just a nod.
So yeah, don't worry or anything, I'm okay. Not like macho bs OK, actual ok. Nothing was broken, but a lot was bruised. I’ve taken hot baths and iced my stomach twice a day for a couple of days now. Things are improving, getting better. But the part that sticks? That really sunk in and lasted? Not the hit. It’s what he said.
Pain is a tool my friend, not a deadly test....
I think I needed to hear that too. I think I got caught up in proving something, to myself, to whoever I imagine watching, maybe even to this journal. I let my need to feel the hit, to stick it to my demons of the past, override the part of me that’s supposed to listen. I still love the impact. Still love the raw honesty of it. But this time… I learned something important. Next time, I won’t chase past the edge. I’ll meet it, sure. But I won’t let it swallow me. Consume me.
I’ve got nothing to prove. The past is dead and a new man has already been forged.
I am Joe, a man.
—Joe
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