Story: Runner-up Romance

You would say that discipline was my defining characteristic, and you would be correct. In high school particularly, I didn’t even date because I was busy training to be a wrestling champion. Back then, wrestling and romance seemed like conflicting principles to me, and I simply did not have enough focus for both. There’s a whole lifetime to get laid, I reasoned, but only four years to be a champ.

My senior year though the best I managed was to be runner-up in the Show, and I wasn’t naïve enough to continue in college (throwing a second place fish into a bigger pond does not improve its chances). Instead, I contented myself with beating up the guys in my dorm—late at night, past curfew, because none of them could bear the thought of girls watching me wax the hallway with their asses. With their reputations thus protected, they actually found the whole thing immensely entertaining, and didn’t mind lavishing me with compliments so that I acquired a certain late-night fame, though I pretended not to care.

But just as often as those impromptu wrestling matches, talk of sex was ritual in those late hours when girls were exiled from our quarters; some sort of consolation, I suspected, to compensate either for the embarrassment of having their asses kicked, or for the strictures imposed by the school’s ‘honor code’ (which, coincidentally, forbade sex in the dormitories). In either case, I would sit very quietly while they exchanged tall tales, face still red and glossy, attempting to stay as long as I could with the exultant feeling of victory, and that quickening in my chest.

Eventually though, I too managed to find a girl who seemed impressed by my wrestling prowess—though she obviously could never be there to witness it first-hand—who on our second date asked me to show her a move on the floor of her bedroom. My eyes, I’m sure, gleamed at this, for we wrestlers are not unaware of our trade’s interdisciplinary virtues, and already I considered how later on I might relate the story, late at night, and so broaden the scope of my fame.

Which move should I show her though? I wondered.

A double grapevine? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I thought. Second date might be a little early to bust out a chest to chest pinning combination (not to mention one that involves a forcible spreading of legs). And besides, I would have hated to give the wrong impression. At that point, despite the regular late-night matches, I was actually quite out of practice, and so the moves may not have occurred to me as quickly as they would otherwise, but nevertheless, eventually I settled on what I was sure was the perfect one. If a pinning combination was premature, near fall, perhaps, were just the points I needed to score. (‘Near fall’ refers to points scored by exposing an opponent’s back to the mat at an angle of forty-five degrees or fewer. The amount of points awarded depends on the amount of time an opponent is held in a near-pinning position.)


“Alright, get down on your hands and knees,” I said.

Her eyebrows arched suggestively and the corners of her mouth flickered. She obeyed, bending down toward the thinly-carpeted concrete.

“This is called ‘referee’s position’,” I said, lumbering behind her. I placed my chest against her back and reached around with my right hand so that my fingers rested just above her navel, then paused for a moment. Without thinking, I hit the first motion hard, knocking her left arm out and pressing forward while my right extended into her thigh, stretching her instantly to her stomach.

“Hey!” she complained, surprised and obviously irritated.

I smiled sheepishly behind her head and apologized. “Habit,” I explained, and continued the demonstration. I was a little embarrassed by my over-zealousness, of course, but was assured it was still epic-romance-in-the-making. “This is called a spiral ride,” I explained. “See how the pressure flattens you out?”

“Uh… yeah.” Her laugh was half-sarcastic, but I could sense her good humor slowly resurfacing.

“But I don’t score any points by just flattening you out; what I’m counting on is you resisting…” I cued her hips to pressure back against mine. “See? The pressure on your shoulder forces you to a seated position…” But something about the motions caused a sudden flash inside my brain—or the firing of muscle memory perhaps—and no sooner had she reached her butt than I swung my body out from behind her and jerked her back toward the ground, causing her head to smack painfully against the floor.

“Ouch!” she yelled, and I was face to face with her now, instantly aware that it was not the romantic moment I had imagined, though I managed to console myself with the fact that I was at least still scoring near fall.

My "Work-in-Progress"

Many of you who know me also know that I've been slowly working my way through a novel (or what I hope will turn out to be one) for quite some time. Its working title is The Body and the Blood, though few have any idea what it is about. This is because whenever somebody asks me about it, a flood of its various premises overcomes me and I'm simply unable to determine which are pertinent to a description, and which are not. I've recently completed a first draft and am just beginning the second, so the whole thing is still very raw to me and tough to paraphrase, so in order to satisfy my interrogators (and also to organize my thoughts for the revision) I have come up with this little book jacket-esque description of the work and its themes. I've intentionally left out spoilers and excessive details, both for future readers and for myself--I would hate to take the fun out of writing it by getting stuck in various descriptions--though hopefully I've included at least enough detail to satisfy your curiosity. Enjoy, and you can look forward to the release probably a million years from now:


“For one cannot truly be counted human until [he] has fallen… Born innocence is a beautiful thing, but only innocence reclaimed fulfills God’s plan for us.”

So speaks Edward Hammond, the troubled narrator of The Body and the Blood. A defunct Catholic, much of Edward’s life has been dictated to him by different narratives: from the polemical texts of his faith, to various works of literature... His very name is derived from a character in one of his father’s novels! This first-person narrative, however, represents Edward's attempt to sort through and reclaim the broken fragments of his past. From a childhood in which both parents were in their own way absent, to life as the single father of a seven-year-old son, his account ultimately reveals a tender exploration of human depravity, and of the mysterious forces that bring people together. Interspersed with scenes from Eden and the tale of Original Sin, in these strained pages Edward makes his way ever backwards, with turns both comic and heart-rending, toward a hopeful salvation and release via the confessional power of narrative.

Poem: Official Scent

According to its bottle
Old Spice is the official scent of confidence,
and it’s true-- it is a fine smell.
Fine enough to skip showers now and then
and wax on another layer instead.
You don’t even have to remove your shirt
just watch in the mirror while an arm disappears
then you’re ready to go.
And what a grace it is
to be spared the body’s flaws;
to abide more fully
in the abstract world
of clothes and artful swagger.
So what if after a few days your armpit
looks like Shelob’s Lair?
It’s a small price to pay
to see yourself without contradiction;
the body’s truths subjectified.
Each week though the day arrives
when not even Old Spice
can mask your Unofficial scent,
and though you divert suspicion
by standing near people
just a little shabbier than yourself
at day’s end you are inevitably left standing naked again,
shadowless before the bathroom mirror,
waiting for the glass to fog
so that you’ll know the shower is warm.