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.

It had been three weeks since the brawl in the wrestling gym.

Neither of them talked about it—not to each other, not to anyone else. But it lingered like smoke. The bruises healed, but the fire didn’t. They still passed each other in the halls. Still worked out in the same weight room. But now? Not even eye contact.

And yet—they were thinking the same thing.

It didn’t end right.

The brawl was wild. Ugly. But it wasn’t settled. There was no win. No clarity. Just sweat, blood, and walking away angrier than before.

So the final text came late one night. No threats. No hype.

Jax: One more. Clean. No running. No gear. Back room behind the old gym. No one’s there.

Reid: Friday. Dusk. Don’t bring excuses.

---

The back room wasn’t even part of the official training space anymore. Old mats, rusty vents, flickering lights. It was half-forgotten. Which made it perfect.

Jax was there first—hood down, shirtless, pacing. His knuckles were taped this time, but nothing else. He wasn’t here to score points.

He was here to end this.

Reid came in right on time, jaw tight, bare chest rising slow. He closed the door behind him and said nothing. Just dropped his gym bag and stepped onto the mat.

No music. No timer. No coach.

Just the two of them.

Jax stepped forward. “Last one.”

Reid nodded. “Let’s make it count.”

They circled.

This time, there was no rush. No lunging. They moved like they were calculating—looking for that one mistake, that one break in posture. Their feet shifted. Shoulders coiled. Then—impact.

Reid went in first, fast double-leg. Jax sprawled hard, fought him off, then countered with a snap-down. He drove Reid forward and tried for a front headlock, but Reid rolled out, slipped behind, and nearly took Jax’s back.

They reset.

Jax landed a powerful hip toss next—spiking Reid on the mat. Reid bounced, grunted, but rolled with it and caught Jax in a side hold, using leverage to flip him. They scrambled like animals—raw, technical, and aggressive.

Minutes passed.

Grunts. Sweat. Quick gasps between slams. Reid locked in a cradle. Jax broke free and charged. Jax hit a lift. Reid sprawled and reversed. Neither one giving up the mat for more than a breath.

They were both shaking now. Muscles screaming. Pride cracking.

Then—it changed.

Reid caught Jax in a deep single-leg, lifted him high—and slammed him down hard.

Jax hit the mat flat. For one breath, he didn’t move.

Reid straddled, locked Jax’s arms down, chest pressed, breathing through clenched teeth. Jax tried to bridge—but nothing left. His body twitched, but the strength was gone.

He stared up, teeth grinding.

Reid’s voice broke the silence. Quiet. Steady. “This is it.”

Jax’s eyes flared. Not fear. Not even anger anymore. Just... defeat.

He exhaled slowly and tapped the mat twice.

Reid released him.

Jax lay still for a second, sweat running down his cheek. Then, slowly, he sat up. No outburst. No curses. Just heavy breathing and a hollow look in his eyes.

Reid stood, chest rising, blood at the corner of his lip again. “You gave me hell.”

Jax looked at him. “You earned it.”

Another pause.

For the first time, they weren’t enemies. Not quite friends either. But something changed.

Respect. Hard-won.

Reid offered a hand. Jax stared at it. Then took it.

No words followed. Just a nod between two guys who had thrown everything at each other—body, ego, and rage—and survived it.

It was finally done.

And this time, they both knew it.

There’s something I didn’t think I’d need to say out loud and I don't wish to—but clearly, it needs to be said:

Being new doesn’t give you the right to be disrespectful.

And being lean, fit, or “aesthetic” doesn’t make you better than someone with a bigger build.

Here’s what quite recently happened in the wrestling community that left a sour taste in my mouth:

A seasoned member—let’s call him Mark—reached out to a newcomer. Friendly, warm, respectful. A simple message:

> “Hey, welcome! Hope we can wrestle one fine day.”

No pressure. No expectations. Just a kind gesture from someone who’s been around and loves the sport.

And the reply?

> “Only in your dreams.”

“You’re too big—you’d probably kill me.”

Seriously?

Let’s be clear: you’re allowed to have preferences. Not everyone wants to wrestle someone bigger, or older, or more experienced. And that’s totally okay.

But there’s a way to decline with basic decency. A way that doesn’t involve mocking someone’s body or throwing shade for the sake of feeding your own ego. Because this wasn’t about setting boundaries—this was about belittling someone who had only shown kindness.

We’re not impressed by your attitude.

We’re not clapping for your sarcasm.

And no—being lean doesn’t excuse being an a**hole.

What makes this worse is that it’s happening more and more. Some new faces come in with great physiques but zero humility. They act like they’re God’s gift to grappling and look down on anyone who doesn’t meet their lookbook standards.

Here’s the thing: you might be proud of your body, but if your character is ugly, no one wants to roll with you anyway.

Guys like Mark? They’ve been around. They’ve built this community with patience, knowledge, and openness. They offer guidance and sportsmanship, not just matchups. When someone like that gets mocked for their size instead of thanked for their welcome—it says a lot more about the person mocking than the one receiving it.

So here’s a little message for the egos in shiny new gear:

You’re not better than anyone just because you’re new and cut.

You're not above kindness.

And if you think being rude makes you seem tough—it doesn’t.

It makes you seem small, no matter your size.

---

TL;DR:

If you’re too busy polishing your body, make sure you’re also polishing your soul and attitude. Because at the end of the day, no one remembers how shredded you were—they remember how you made them feel. And yeah, there is bunch of real man with manners and better build than you here mate

I had a thought of tagging him here but I don't want to step lower to his level

It was supposed to be a canceled practice. After the storm, the back field behind the school was wrecked—mud everywhere, grass drowned, standing water near the fence. Most of the team had gone home once Coach called it. But Jax stayed. He stood near the middle of the field, shirt slung over his shoulder, boots already sunk an inch deep. His arms were folded, muscles flexing out of habit, eyes scanning the misty horizon like he was waiting for something. Or someone.

Reid showed up ten minutes later. No words. No warmup. He tossed his hoodie onto the bench, kicked off his sneakers, and walked barefoot through the mud like he didn’t care. Shoulders squared. Jaw clenched. They locked eyes. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone at Eastgate High knew about Jax and Reid. Same grade. Same build. Same fire. From the moment Reid transferred junior year, they'd clashed like oil and flame. Jax was the team’s enforcer—loud, explosive, untouchable on the field. Until Reid showed up and cut through the defensive line like it was made of paper.

No one had ever run through Jax. Not like that. Not until Reid. The coaches called it healthy competition. The rest of the team called it a time bomb. Shoves in the weight room. Elbowing during drills. Glaring in the locker room. But nothing had come to blows—yet.

Jax spat into the mud and cracked his neck. “Took you long enough.” Reid stepped closer. “Was hoping you’d leave.” “Not a chance.” They circled. Slow. Careful. Like two bulls testing the ground before a charge. Jax could feel his heart pounding, not from nerves, but from rage. Every damn time he saw Reid’s face, he heard the same voice in his head: “Reid’s got better footwork.” “Reid reads plays quicker.” “Maybe Jax needs to step up.” He was done hearing it.

He lunged first—low and fast. Reid met him with a shove, and they slammed into each other hard enough to knock breath from their lungs. Mud exploded around their legs as they grappled, slipping and crashing to the ground. They rolled. Fought for control. Elbows. Knees. Hands clawing for grip. Jax caught Reid in a clinch and dragged him forward, slamming a shoulder into his chest and throwing him down. Reid hit the ground with a thick splat, but twisted and kicked Jax’s knee, toppling him.

They wrestled in pure instinct—half-brawling, half-grappling. Jax got on top, mud dripping from his hair, and landed a forearm across Reid’s face. Not a punch—just enough to sting. Reid shoved him off, breathing hard. “That all you got?” Jax didn’t answer. He tackled him again, full force, grabbing around Reid’s waist and lifting him just enough to crash them both into a deeper patch. Mud filled their ears. They surfaced gasping. Reid caught Jax’s wrist, spun behind him, and locked in a choke. It wasn’t clean—just pressure and fury. Jax bent forward, powered through, and flipped him off his back.

They separated for a second, both standing now, soaked to the skin, mud streaked across their torsos. Their chests heaved. Their knuckles were raw. Neither backed down. Jax wiped his mouth. “Why’d you come here, really?” Reid narrowed his eyes. “Same reason as you.” Jax stepped in again—this time slower. Grabbing behind Reid’s knee, he tried to trip him, but Reid caught the motion, twisted, and dropped Jax into the sludge with a sharp hip throw. He landed hard. The kind of hit that rattled the ribs.

Jax blinked up at the sky for half a second. Then laughed—bitter and breathless. “Lucky throw.” Reid dropped beside him, both of them laying flat, too tired to move right away. “You hate losing, don’t you?” Reid said, not looking at him. Jax turned his head slightly. “I don’t lose.” “You just did.” They didn’t speak for a while. Just laid there in the mud, hearts pounding. Neither willing to admit what the fight had really been about. Not football. Not who was better. It was something else—something deeper. About pride. Territory. The need to be seen, to be the one who mattered most when the pads came off.

Jax sat up, wincing. A bruise was already forming near his ribs. “You done?” he asked, voice low. Reid stood slowly, jaw tight. “You?” Jax didn’t answer. Just wiped his hands on his jeans and staggered to his feet. Mud fell in thick clumps from his body. He looked at Reid—really looked—and realized he’d never hated anyone more than him. And maybe that was the problem.

Reid grabbed his hoodie off the bench and slung it over his shoulder. “Next time, we settle it on the mat.” Jax nodded once. “Bring headgear.” Reid paused, then looked back, eyes unreadable. “Won’t help you.” Then he left—barefoot, blood on his lip, mud on every inch of skin. Jax stood alone in the ruined field, the weight of the fight still heavy in his bones.

When I first joined Meetfighters, I was honestly excited. The whole idea of finding people who were into fighting sounded great. I’ve always been into real, full-contact fights—where punches land, grappling gets rough, and both guys walk away knowing they were in an actual fight.

Naturally, when setting up my profile and browsing others, I looked for the “NHB” (No Holds Barred) tag. To me, NHB meant exactly that—no holds barred, real fighting, minimal rules, and both guys giving it their all. I thought, “Finally, here’s where I’ll find people who actually get what I’m looking for.”

But yeah… it didn’t exactly turn out that way.

Almost every time I reached out to someone with NHB listed, the conversation started with a bit of hope... and then slowly crashed and burned. I’d bring up striking or mention something like ground and pound, and suddenly the mood would shift. Some would reply with stuff like, “Oh, you mean real punching? I thought NHB was just rough wrestling.” Others would backpedal with things like, “Yeah I’m into NHB but… no face shots, no body shots, no hard slams… actually let’s keep it light.”

There were even times I felt like I had to double-check if we were talking about the same sport at all. Some guys clearly thought NHB just meant “let’s roll around with fewer scripted moves” or “fantasy roughhousing”. Others were mixing it up with pro wrestling vibes, complete with roleplay scenarios that had nothing to do with actual fighting.

At first, I was honestly a bit annoyed. It felt like every time I thought I’d found someone who was into the same thing, it would turn out they were using the label for something completely different. But after a while, I started to get it...

It’s not really anyone’s fault. It’s just that people interpret “NHB” differently on this platform. For some, it’s a fantasy category. For others, it’s just another way of saying “let’s wrestle with no strict rules.” And then there’s people like me, who see it as real fighting—striking and grappling, full contact, no playing around.

Now, whenever I chat with someone, I’ve gotten into the habit of just laying it out early. I explain what I mean by NHB and check if we’re on the same page. It’s saved me a lot of back and forth.

At the end of the day, I still think Meetfighters is a cool space with a lot of variety. People come here for different reasons, and that’s fair. But yeah… if you’re a real fighter like me looking for full-contact, expect to do some filtering… and maybe a bit of explaining along the way.

Just sharing my experience in case anyone else out there’s going through the same thing.