Gut Punch Journal - Entry 4

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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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... 

Gut Punch Journal - Entry 3

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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Journal Entry #3 – March 23, 2024

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. 

 

Gut Punch Journal - Entry 2

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

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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. 

Gut Punch Journal - Entry 1

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

 

Socials/Tip Jar: linktr.ee/TheCelticFire

 

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January 17, 2024

It... Damn.

Sorry....Ffs I'm apologizing in writing to paper.

I must really be messed up... 

OK focus... It's still a lot to process. Feelings suck sometimes. 

OK... So, I remember it was bad. Even now weeks later, I can still feel the phantom pains of it all. My stomach still jerks and pulsates when I'm still. My therapist said writing it down might help. 

I think it's bullshit, they could never really understand all this, but when your shit insurance is finally paying for something, I guess you gotta do. 

So here goes... 

 

It was raining hard, I can see and remember that clearly. It was the kind of bullshit rain that soaked you down to the bone, and made every breath feel like steam off a dying fire. It was like I was in some dark YouTube video or found footage horror movie. What I don't know... Is how it started. Maybe it was something I said? He said? Maybe the other guy was just looking for someone to bleed? Maybe we both had to much to drink and did something really stupid? 

I really don't know... 

Maybe that's why I can't let this go. Not knowing does things to the mind. Maybe I'm not realizing something yet? Anyways, all I do remember is I blinked, and I was outside in the alley, some dirty back alley behind the bar, and this guy was standing in front of me with his fists clenched tight like iron.

He didn’t speak, just paced angerly. The rain made his skin shine, his shirt tight, muscles twitching like they were on a hair trigger. He was same age as me and about the same build. Average, maybe, but every inch of him said he was about to make me feel everything bad in the world. He wanted to make me hurt. 

Then he moved. Gods he was fast. 

The Clash of Egos – Mikey vs. Celticfire

Series: Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

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When the match was announced, it came as a surprise to no one. Both wielded and flung smack talk easily as any person would breathe. The stage was set, the date had come and now? The crowd was electric, the roar deafening as two bear-like men stood face-to-face in the center of the ring. On one side, Mikey, a powerhouse wrapped in muscle and rage, eyes burning with intensity. Some said his mouth moved faster than his fists. Today he would prove them all wrong. On the other side, Celticfire, full of self pride and a thirst for battle. His thick frame carved by years of battle, fists clenched ready to go, and more bar fights under his belt than should ever be allowed (or legal for that matter).

The bell rang. It. Was. On. 

Butting Heads

Series: Stories series. Like shorts, these are generally done by request and have some personification of the requester in the story.  Unlike shorts, these are longer (6k+ words) and move descriptive and world building. 

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The two had been friends for years, maybe even longer. They trained hard with each other, helped push the other before fierce, high risk fights. They bandaged each other when one fell. They lifted each other up. They were as close as brothers. Maybe even closer. So of course the day would come, when brother would fight brother in the ring. Being at the top of their game it was only a matter of time. Plus the money was good. 

But that unspoken rule would be there.

Before the fight there would be respect, after the fight they would reunite as brothers. During? Today? Now? The world would watch them fight it out, draw blood and make it flow like waterfalls, and destroy each other for honor, to see who was really the top dog. They where still men after all. It would be a long ruthless match, bloody, never giving up, driven. It was the kind of fight guys with a lot of testosterone really loved.

And so the day came. 

 

Split Decision

Series: Shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.

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Under the hot lights of a roaring arena in Las Vegas, two warriors stood across the ring, each a symbol of national pride and personal fury. Each at the peak of their game. Each ready for the absolute time of their lives. Sure, there was still the shit talk and playing it up, that was just part of the fanfare. But these two respected each other, and would not dare insult the other by holding back.

The ring would be covered in blood, sweat, and exuberance before it was over.

First came CelticFire, carrying the pride of Dublin on his shoulders. A green haired hurricane with fists of granite and the fire of centuries in his blood. He looked like a drunk at Christmas, joyous and dangerous. His trunks where dark red with black trim, his gloves were stained by past victories. Then came El Yaguareté, moving like his namesake. The look in his eye was fierce, more predator than man. He came from the barrios of Buenos Aires, clawing his way to the top. Like Celtic, he chose a simple form for his ring clothing. No need for unnecessary pampas fluff. They were here to fight, not win a beauty contest.

The bell rang.