Journal Entry #5 – June 20, 2024
It’s been a couple months since the last entry. Took a while to bounce back after what happened with Ademir, not just physically, but mentally too. I needed the space. I needed to remind myself that this isn’t about pain or pride, it’s about control, clarity, whatever I’m still trying to name. It was a painful lesson but one I obviously needed. I don't hate Ademir either, don't get me wrong. He gave me what I wanted and asked for. Thankfully, while he still pushed hard, he saw me, and gave me what I needed too. But yeah, I wasn’t even planning on setting up another match yet. I think I was still a little iffy about everything, and I wanted to be sure. Like sure sure, you know? But then I got a message from a guy named Eli. Username was something simple, “NiceBoyFighterNextDoor.” His profile was honest. Nothing flashy, nothing aggressive. Just: “Lean build, into gut punching and long friendly matches. Respectful, chill. Just want to test limits, together.”
He attached a couple photos, like most of the guys did with their profiles. But unlike the others he wasn't trying to show off. They were him, real, every day. Kinda cute.... shut up I didn't just admit that. Maybe that's what changed my mind. Eli, did I mention I like his name, well he's close to my age. He's got a nice body too, it's slim, but toned. It reminds me of a swimmer who stopped competing but never stopped moving. He may have moved into other things, but the drive was still there. He also has a bit of a dusting of chest and stomach hair, like someone pressed a brush across him lightly. He's pale but with the kind of flush that hinted he sweated easily. Definitely Irish, and it worked for him. And finally, something about his eyes made him look like he smiled often, even when he wasn’t.
We chatted for some time, starting with the usual casual back and forth. It came so easy, he wasn’t trying to impress me or show off. It was normal, grounded, even for people who liked fighting. It was almost like we been chatting forever, like we been friends since grade school. He would ask what kind of hits I liked, how long I’d been doing it, if I was okay with slow builds instead of hard slams. I was honest, I told him I’d had all kinds, fast, brutal, drawn-out. Said I was still figuring out what I liked best.
He replied, with absolutely zero judgment, “Sounds like you’re getting closer. I'd be happy to help if I can man!"
We agreed to meet up at his place, a loft-style apartment above a shop on the east side. Clean, open space, perfect for our casual but somewhat violent encounter. He’d already cleared the floor and laid down some foam mats before I got there. Fan's were spinning on low overhead and to the side. Windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in. He wanted everything to be set when I got there, and to be comfortable. He really was the nice boy next door....
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He opened the door shirtless, and oh my, he looked even leaner in person. Wiry but strong arms that could bring good thoughts to anyone they wrapped around, slim and slightly haired chest that just began to show signs of gym time, slight dips under his ribs. Definitely not fragile at all, just built differently. Efficient might be the right word? I caught myself staring at the way the sweat glinted on the curve of his collarbone and ran down that chest. He looked amazing. He looked at me and grinned, either not noticing or not bothered by my admiring.
“Sorry,” he said. “I run hot.”
Oh how I didn't mind at all... Not at all.
He invited me in, and I followed with more delight then thought possible. We, well I stripped down to shorts. No gloves, just open fists. “Let’s keep it clean,” he said, “but let’s see how far we can go.”
The match started slow. Eli stepped close and gently tapped my stomach with a loose fist, feeling it give slightly under his knuckles. He was testing my reaction, not just to the contact, but to him. He would watch my eyes, the way my breath hitched or held, the way my skin flexed under pressure. He would hit me, wait, and adjust. No ego. What surprised me more than anything was how long we kept going. The pace never ramped up. It stayed steady, constant, deliberate. Like we were both tuned into the same rhythm. No counting. No clock. Just the sensation of movement, impact, breath. His hands were perfect. Not calloused or rough, soft, even gentle, but they made a hard, serious fist when they closed. One of those fists landed a solid punch to my upper gut. Not too deep. Not lazy either. It landed, and I grunted, felt the muscles under my ribs ripple with the force.
He stepped back slightly. Waited. Let me breathe. Then we reset.
The next shot came straight to the center of my stomach some power, and firm. I took it. Let the breath ride through me. He saw that, and smiled, not mockingly, but pleased. Like he was glad I was in this with him. Then he moved to my solar plexus. He tapped the spot once, then brought the fist in slow, like he was showing me where it would land. When he threw the punch, it wasn’t fast, but it was committed. It landed with a soft plop, not loud but deep. It curled through my chest and made my breath stutter. I bent slightly, arms loose, adjusting. Then came a side shot, low and wide, into the left of my stomach. His knuckles thudded into the obliques, and I could feel the way it shifted through me, wrapping around my middle like a shockwave.
And that’s how it went.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
Ten? Fifteen?
Twenty?
Neither of us spoke. It wasn’t about talk. It was about rhythm, presence, touch.
He would land a hit to the upper abs, then lower. Sometimes one fist, sometimes a mirrored shot to the other side. He tested my center again, dropping a steady cross into the spot just under my navel. Then one higher. Then one with just a little twist, to see how my body reacted. I swayed with the punches, let them flow through me. My stomach clenched, burned, softened, clenched again. Each one felt like a signature, like he was writing something on my skin with his hands. And the whole time, he watched. Not for weakness. Not for power. For feedback, for that connection, for mutual trust. A body hook landed into my right side, followed by a push to the belly that almost felt more like a shove than a strike. My breath hitched, my body folded briefly, and he let me linger there, then gently straightened me back up with a hand on my shoulder. Gods I was really getting into this.
Another hit. Centerline. Deep.
Another. Just above my belt. Lower.
Another. Two fingers right of my navel. Firmer.
Another. A slow, sinking punch right into the same place as before, but deeper. Testing. Exploring. My stomach pulsed under it. And I took it.
A dance of fists moved across my midsection, mapping me out. Every impact was deliberate, each producing a low moan acting as if it was pain but really pleasure. Every impact as if he was learning something from me, from each hit. And I was too. And oh, OH MAN, how my stomach was glowing now. Not just sore, but alive. Flushed and radiating heat. My back was slick with sweat. It rolled down my sides, across my hips, soaked into the waistband of my shorts. My legs trembled, not from fear or weakness, but sheer, repeated pressure. Another fist to the center of my stomach, then a combo, then a rhythm. Left and right, left and right, left and right.
And I wanted more... and we both knew it.
This wasn’t a fight, this wasn't a match anymore. This was a good time between good long time friends who met for the first time. A mutual curiosity playing out, one body learning another’s limits, and the man behind the fists caring enough to respect them.
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He hit me with a clean right, deep into the center of my belly, and I took it. Took it and demanded more. This time a deep hook to the very center of my stomach. It hit hard, but I rode it out. Feet planted, core solid, eyes steady. I felt the blow ripple through me, the heat spread across my stomach like a stone dropped in a still pond. My stomach compressed under the pressure, but there was no panic. No stagger. Just presence. Eli stepped back, brows raised, not smug, but impressed. Admiring his work… or maybe even me too. He came in again, threw a wide left hook to my side. It thudded against my side with a heavy, respectful weight. I grunted lightly, but barely moved. My body rocked with it, adjusted, and returned to center. I was getting use to this I think? Then came a jab. Straight and quick, square to the belly button. I tightened around the hit, absorbed it. I held my breath for a second, then let it out slow. Controlled. Calm. Another punch, same spot. A little deeper this time. His knuckles sank into the soft part of my gut, and I felt the internal pressure roll through my body. He circled slightly, his feet quiet against the mat, then struck again, a big right hook that caught just under my ribs. A classic shot. I felt it vibrate in my chest, but my knees held. My hands were still down. I didn’t need to protect myself.
I trusted him.
And I trusted me.
Another one came in, low left, diagonal angle. It landed across my lower stomach with a muffled thud. My hips swayed a little from the torque, but I steadied myself instantly. Breathing through it. Then came a center line punch again, his favorite spot, I think. Right into the core. A simple, focused strike. It pressed into me hard. He gave a little smile. Just a flicker of something in the corner of his mouth. We were both enjoying this, there could be no doubt. He smiled again, then he threw me a double combo. Jerk caught me off guard lol. Two quick shots, one to the high belly, one just above my waistband. They landed with quick, snapping contact. Not brutal. Not soft either. Just firm and solid.
“Damn,” he said. “You’re tougher than you look.”
I laughed between gulps of air, trying to hide the rising blush coming on my face. “That makes two of us.”
We were having way to much fun, enjoying each other and the experience. Was this what I was always looking for? I had to continue to be sure. So, naturally, we kept going. He kept up the punching, kept the blows to my stomach coming, kept me on my toes. The room was also getting hotter, or maybe it was just me?
No, no it was hotter.
We were both soaked now. Our shorts clung to us like second skin, every movement tugging damp fabric across sore hips and trembling thighs. Breaths came ragged, shallow, but steady. Our bodies gleamed under the low light, sweat shining across our chests, shoulders, and down the valleys carved into our stomachs. Eli looked amazing, and my gut? My gut didn’t feel like mine anymore. It had been molded, well more like reshaped, by Eli’s fists. Not just bruised or pounded, but sculpted. Tight. Sore. But proud. Not the loud, stupid kind of pride that gets you hurt. Not like when I lost control with Ademir, this was a good quiet pride.
Eli looked at me, steady, focused, a smell of sweat, man and power, then stepped in again. No words, no nod, just a clean, deliberate punch to the center of my gut. I didn’t flinch. Just absorbed it. Another one, slightly higher this time, into the line between my ribs and belly button. My stomach tensed. Then relaxed. He adjusted his footing, angled his body, and threw a wide left hook into my right obliques. I rocked a little but stayed firm. My core caught it, moved with it. No resistance. No collapse. Then a right cross. Lower. Deep. I felt that one settle into the bowl of my stomach like a dropped weight. My breath stalled for half a second. He moved again as I swayed, the stuck. A knuckle-heavy jab to the navel, quick, narrow impact. Then two more. Back to back. Each one landing perfectly into the center of my gut. Each one pushing a little deeper. He took a breath, then hit again. A full body uppercut, slow and committed, dug right into the base of my belly. That one rocked me hard, sure it hurt but it also felt good. I grunted. Exhaled through it. Let the pain ripple across my stomach like heat lightning. Another hit came fast, he was breathing hard but kept going, side punch to the left, knuckles angled flat. He followed it with a mirrored shot on the right. Then a twisting punch into the soft curve below my ribs. Then one more, direct, simple, just above the waistband. It stuck, and he let it sink in for a beat before withdrawing. Each punch echoed deeper now. Sunk deeper, connected us deeper.
At one point, he landed a hard cross that made me stagger into him. He caught me gently by the body... His against mine.
“You’re still in there? You good buddy?”
I nodded, I smiled, I didn't want to leave his arms.
“Hey man don't leave me hanging, don’t want to stop yet.”
I was trying to make a joke but I really didn't want this to end... And when I saw his face it was clear. Neither did he.
We went longer than I thought possible. Longer than I thought I ever could. But it was never bad, never forced, always a experience. I could feel every punch layering over the last, each one settling into my core like bricks in a wall. I was shaking near the end, not from fear, but from everything catching up. We were both drenched. The mat beneath us had turned darker from the sweat dripping off our bodies. The fans overhead were moving, but barely keeping up, not that they could when two men really decided to go at it. Eli wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his chest rising and falling in steady waves. The sweat on him wasn’t just pooling, it shined. It ran down his torso in slow, winding trails, cutting through the light dusting of hair across his chest and stomach. I caught myself staring, hopefully in time...
“Man,” I said between breaths, “you wear sweat well.”
He raised an eyebrow, smiled lazily. “That right?”
I nodded. “Seriously. It looks good on you. Especially with” I motioned vaguely toward his chest, “the whole chest hair thing. It’s like… I don’t know....”
Wait, was I really saying all this? Out loud? What the hell was I thinking! Thankfully, he seemed to take it all in stride, allowing me to avoid embarrassment. He even let out a soft laugh. “You’re not so bad yourself. I’ve punched a lot of guts… yours has serious strength there.”
We were both quiet for a few beats. Just breathing. Standing there in the heat of our exhaustion.
Then Eli stepped forward and said, “Let’s dial it up shall we?”
That smile he wore, I would conquer worlds for that smile. He wanted it stronger? Let's do it! I, of course, agreed and he stepped in. Close. Fist ready. This was going to be good.
First punch—a soft one. Knuckles tapped the upper center of my gut, more of a reminder than a test. My body accepted it with barely a twitch.
Second—same spot, a bit deeper. Still measured. Still kind. I exhaled through it, grounding my feet.
Third—a jab to the lower abs, just above my waistband. A slow burn bloomed under my skin. I didn’t move.
Fourth—a short hook to my right side. My body tilted slightly, but righted itself. My breath stayed even.
Fifth—straight into the belly button. A cleaner shot, heavier than before. I tensed, absorbed it, and breathed through.
Sixth—another hook, this time to the left. I grunted. There was more power in this punch, it was.... nice.
Seventh—he stepped in and threw a uppercut into my solar plexus. That one made me wince. My chest jolted. Boy was giving me a damn good ending.
Eighth—he twisted his hips and sent a deep, gliding cross into the middle of my gut. I bent at the waist, groaned through gritted teeth. He gave me a second helping, I groan even more. Not sure if it was pain or pleasure.
Ninth—lower shot, right beneath the navel. A tender area by now. The punch sank in with deliberate pressure. My legs wobbled but held.
Tenth—the last one. He stepped in, locked eyes with me, and drove a punch deep into my core. It hit like punctuation at the end of a sentence. My whole midsection bowed inward, breath left me in a single, shaking gust. I doubled slightly into him.
His sweat mixed with my own as our bodies touched. It was... it was something. It was bare skin against bare skin, humid, hot, the kind of contact that felt earned. His chest brushed mine, and I could feel the slick warmth between us, the trails of sweat weaving together where shoulders and ribs met. His breath was slow, heavy, but steady. I could feel it on my neck. And in that moment, pressed so close, I realized something. For sure this time. I liked this. This was what I wanted after all, what I always really wanted. This was to perfect, a dream come true. The heat. The exhaustion. The nearness of someone who had tested me, reshaped me, and still held me upright. Not dominance. Not even intimacy. Just… understanding. Shared space. Shared pain. Shared pride. I looked at him, my stomach still throbbing from the last exchange, and said it without hesitation.
“Go for it.”
He blinked once. “You sure?”
I nodded. “All out. I want to feel it.”
I raised my arms and draped them over his shoulders, fully exposing my stomach. Leaving it wide open. No defense. No hiding. Just me. Just flesh and trust and willpower. He hesitated only for a second, then Eli let loose. The first punch drove into my belly like a piledriver, his whole body behind it. My stomach caved in under the pressure, skin rippling, ribs lifting slightly with the force. It landed so deep, I felt it echoing all over. Another came, slamming in from the side and folding my belly halfway over. A crushing hook to my right side was next. My core flared and shuddered. He followed with a short, sharp uppercut to just beneath the sternum that knocked the breath up into my chest. I coughed, stumbled, I held on for dear life, he held me firm. He repeated the action again, fists meeting whats left of my stomach. Then another came. And another. His fists rose and fell like waves, hitting high, low, center, never breaking stride. One sank so deep into my navel I felt my knees buckle. Another thudded into the top of my stomach, flattening the muscle before snapping back into place. One landed just above my belt line and stuck there for a second, grinding slightly before withdrawing. The way his fists hit, it wasn’t violence, it was craft. My stomach was his canvas, and he painted in bruises and heat. My body rocked, bowed, gasped, but didn’t fall. He slammed a full-body punch into my solar plexus again, and I felt the edges of my vision blur. My stomach twitched, my breath hitched, my whole torso sagged. The hits kept coming. I let every blow land, arms still resting over his shoulders, mouth open, sweat dripping from my jaw like rain. He pushed me upright with his forearm, looked in my eyes, and drove one final shot straight into the center of my gut. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t grunt. Just felt it, deep, pure, shaking every part of me loose. I didn’t know where I ended and where the pain began. Eli held me there as my legs finally gave out, lowering me to my knees with care, his hands still braced on my shoulders, steady and warm.
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“You surprised me,” he said. “In a good way.
I didn’t say much back. I was still inside the feeling. Still lost in the moment. Hell, I thought we were done, I was certainly not taking anymore hits. But nah. Nope, apparently the next stage was already happening. You see we were both still catching our breath, me slumped on the mat, him stretched out on his back, arms behind his head, chest heaving slow and deep. His stomach was smooth and damp with sweat, rising and falling with each exhale. He looked amazing, my Gods did he look amazing.
Then Eli looked over at me and said, real casual, “You ever throw?”
I blinked at him. “What, punches?”
"Yeah. You ever been the one doing the gut work?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Kinda want to try it at some point?”
He rolled onto his side, propped himself up on one elbow. “Wanna try now?”
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I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know what to say. I’d never really thought about being on the other end, at least not yet. The one hitting? The one making someone else feel what I’ve been chasing? Sounded good, but was I ready? He must’ve seen it on my face, because he added, “Only if you want to. I can take it don't worry.”
So I stood. Slowly. My body still throbbed from the earlier exchange, but there was something in me that was… curious. Like a mirror had been turned around. Eli stood too, hands behind his head now, elbows out, giving me full access to his gut.
“I’ll let you know if it’s too much,” he said.
So I started, desperately holding back the hunger that just wanted to touch him again and again. This was serious, I had to be in control...
It started with a light hit at first. A short jab to his belly, just above the navel. His body twitched, but he stayed in place. I followed it with a left to his lower abs. Then a straight shot to the center of his core. His body took it like a champ. It was amazing. Something also shifted in me. No not down there... well yeah down there, but it wasn't just that. My shoulders relaxed. My breath slowed. I started to feel what I was doing, not in a cruel way, not in anger, not lust or desire, but in rhythm. In control.
I circled him. Tested different shots. Mirrored his actions at first, but then adapted, made them my own.
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A sharp uppercut to the center of his stomach, a left and right hook to each side of his stomach. A series of jabs targeting different random parts of his belly. A few more body blows that pushed in and sat there for a few moments before withdrawing. A swift hard hook into his solar plexus that made him grunt and hunch slightly. I stepped in close, wanted to be close, and buried a hook into his side, just beneath the ribs. His skin was slick under my knuckles. His muscles moved with the blow, not against it. He was leaning on ME now, and damn did that feel good.
“Yeah,” he said under his breath. “That’s it. Keep going.”
Apparently it felt good for him too, so I did just as I was told...
It was a beautiful dance of fists meeting flesh, of knuckles vs muscle. Single quick hits, combinations of slow powerful hits, single deep punches. A pause, a breath, then another set would begin. I watched his expression shift, tight, relaxed, then tight again. I watched the sweat run down his chest in lines, some clinging to hair, some pooling down to his belt line. At one point, I stepped in with a harder right cross. He tanked it. His abs flexed and absorbed it, and rewarded me with a smile.
“You’ve got a good arm,” he said, winded but steady.
I didn’t say anything. Just nodded.
I hit him for what must have been another ten minutes. Maybe more. I lost track. I could feel the muscles in my own arms burning. My knuckles starting to swell. But I didn’t want to stop. My punches kept coming and he kept eating them, taking them, tanking them. It was absolutely glorious to behold. Eventually, I stepped back. Not because he asked, but because I felt the moment settling. Like we’d reached whatever it was we were chasing. He flexed showing off, it was like watching art in motion.
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There was a long pause.
Neither of us said anything. Just stood there, breathing, facing each other across the mat.
Then Eli smiled again. “That was good. You’ve got a feel for it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
OK so little anxiety inducing right?
I won't lie, we sat there in silence after that, as we dried off. Cleaned up. As we found our shirts and put them back on. After everything that happened, all the talking and noises we made, it was awkward as hell. I got a little nervous (OK a lot), had I done something wrong? Had I gone to far? Not far enough? Did I just screw this up big time? I was wanting something that wasn't there, I made up feelings he didn't have, tried to force them, and now i ruined even a possible friendship.
I really hate my head sometimes....
He walked back up the stairs and I followed behind. I expected to be lead to the door and thrown out, without a word, maybe a silent wave goodbye if I was lucky. But instead we slowly made our way into his kitchen. He offered me water, and I took it. We stood there, still in silence, like we’d just come back from a jog, not from punching each other in the gut for a couple of hours. I tried to find words to speak, I found nothing. I'm a coward, I know.
"so..." it was Eli, he finally said something.
"so..." I repeated, nervous as hell.
"En....enjoyed yourself?" was that a bit of nervous in his voice?
"Yea...a lot." I admitted looking down to the table.
".... Me too."
Another long silence, another long pause.
His hand reached out, touched mine. I didn't pull. I took his hand in mine. I smiled. So did he.
It wasn't some grandiose commitment, or suddenly bursting out into a love song, not yet. This was real life, not some Hallmark movie. But what it was? It was a start. A wonderful start. I...I want to see where this goes. I hope it's good.
Update: June 21, 2025
Well hell, it's been a year since I updated this old thing. Would you have thought I totally forgot about this? Guess time flies when you are having fun? Ever since that day, that amazing day when I met Eli, everything has been going right. Perfect? No, but where is the fun in that? No challenge, no guessing, nothing out of order. Every day, the bad, the good, the normal and the weird. It's been amazing. Yeah, so I guess if you read this far you want a update.... Well see for yourself.
... so that's my final update. To who ever was reading this, I hope you enjoyed my journey. I also hope you enjoy yours too. You find someone that makes me happy, just like Eli does for me.
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