Darren's blog

Growing up close to my mum’s side of the family meant spending a lot of time around my male cousins. And if you know anything about boys packed into a living room, yard, or bedroom, you'll know that physical games are bound to happen — especially wrestling. It was one of our favorite ways to kill time during family gatherings. We'd pretend to be our favorite WWE stars, body slam each other onto mattresses or sofas, and laugh until someone cried or got scolded.

Back then, it was just roughhousing. Just play.

But something always lingered for me — something I couldn't name.

I spent my entire school life in all-boys environments — from elementary right through high school. You can imagine the testosterone-filled chaos that came with that. Especially in the locker rooms after PE. Puberty made everything louder, sweatier, messier. Some boys flaunted their bodies, others flashed each other as a joke, and there were always moments of unfiltered, raw energy. I remember the variety of body types — the way backs curved, chests broadened, how some boys carried muscle while others stayed lean. It was all imprinted in me in ways I didn’t quite understand at the time.

I used to think I was the only one feeling… different. The only one who felt something stir when we locked up on the mat, or when a friend casually leaned on me after practice, damp with sweat. I’d get hard sometimes, especially during play fights — and I’d feel embarrassed, even ashamed. I kept thinking, “Why is my body reacting like this?”

But over time, it didn’t feel so confusing — just unspoken.

As I got older, I leaned into wrestling more — not just as a memory, but as an interest. I began watching more, and not just the mainstream matches. I found myself more drawn to independent and underground circuits, where the bodies were stockier, heavier, and more diverse. Over time, I realized I wasn’t into the traditional washboard abs type — I was into beefy, solid guys. The kind who looked like they could crush you with a bear hug… and maybe hold you just as tightly afterward.

And then came that match.

It all started with a DM on X (formerly Twitter). A random guy slid into my inbox after seeing the word "wrestling" on my profile.

“Hey, you wrestle?” he asked.

I replied, “Yeah, but I’m just an amateur. Still kinda new to the whole thing.”

He responded almost instantly. “Same here. Wanna go for a round? My spot’s free.”

It caught me off guard — direct, casual, confident. But something about it felt easy. No pressure, just two guys who shared the same interest. We exchanged a few more messages, set a time, and next thing I knew, I was at his place — mats already laid out, the space clean but minimal. He greeted me in shorts and a tank top, barefoot, solid. Stocky in the best way.

We stretched. Chatted a bit. Agreed on some friendly rules. And then we locked up.

What happened next was a blur of holds and counters. His grip was tight but respectful. We rolled, shifted, grunted. The match was casual, but the tension built quickly. Every time our chests pressed, every time he pinned me down or I wrapped my legs around his torso, something inside me stirred again. That familiar heat.

And then — during a brief pause when he had me in a tight hold — I felt it.

Hard. Pressed against my thigh.

Not just mine — his too.

We both paused. Caught between instinct and curiosity. I looked up at him, breathless. He looked down at me and raised a brow with a grin.

“You too?” I whispered.

He didn’t say anything. Just smirked again and loosened his grip. The energy shifted. Not into something sexual, necessarily — but something real. Acknowledged. The rest of the match played out slower, more deliberate. We weren’t pretending anymore. We were feeling everything.

When he finally pinned me, fully straddling my waist, our bodies still hard and sticky with sweat, he leaned in and said, “It’s more common than you think.”

Afterward, we both laughed it off — but not awkwardly. Just honestly. Two guys who found something familiar in each other.

That moment didn’t make me ashamed. It made me seen.

Wrestling didn’t just give me bruises and sweat-drenched shirts. It gave me a mirror. It helped me make peace with a part of myself I spent years hiding or pretending didn’t exist. It showed me that intimacy doesn’t always look like candlelight and whispers. Sometimes it looks like two bodies tangled in tension, testing limits, and sharing unspoken truths.

It wasn’t just a sport to me. It was an awakening.

And I’m grateful for every hold, every g

rapple, every match that reminded me: I’m not alone.