College Boxing Glove Fight

When I was in college (yeah--ancient history), I lived in a double-sized room in one of the honor dorms. Usually three guys would have been living there, but my roommate and I paid extra to keep it as a double. The guys on our floor loved combatative sports--boxing, wrestling, fencing (one of the guys liked sumo wrestling)--anything where one man dominated another one. One day while we watched boxing, one of the guys started bragging about his amateur days. Nobody believed him except one guy who called him out. We cleared the lobby, and they started making the moves without making contact. Looked stupid to me, and I said so. I told them I'd buy some gloves, but they'd have to buy any other gear they wanted. Time to put up or shut up.

That's how it started. Almost every weekend after that, the guys would mix it up. It never got too serious, though. Instead of fighting a predetermined number of rounds, the fights went on a round-by-round basis. They'd fight one round, recover, then decide if they wanted to continue. Most fights only went a round or two, just enough to vent a little testosterone and claim some bragging rights without anyone getting seriously hurt. If the lobby wasn't available, we'd go to my room, which made things pretty much toe-to-toe by default. Still, the guys kept it sane--evenly matched fights, stopped if someone drew blood or surrendered. Since the floors weren't padded, a knockdown pretty much sealed the deal. And nobody ever hit a man once he was down.

As I've said before, I've always been a hefty dude. While the fights were on, though, I dropped down to my lowest weight ever--right around 185--but I still had a paunch. My shoulders and arms were enough to make most of the guys think twice about calling me out, but I looked stronger than I was. Sometimes I'd offer to even things up a little by lifting weights for a while before the fight to wear myself out a bit. The boxer ended our fight by giving me a bloody nose, but that's the most damage I ever suffered before I fought Billy.

About two months into this, the guys started bringing their friends into it, and that's when Billy showed up. A little guy compared to the rest of us, a couple inches shy of five feet tall. A little top heavy, but in proportion to his frame--a gymnast build. Muscled, but without too much bulk. Nobody to be scared of, but he probably did all right with the little ladies. He might've weighed 130 soaking wet. Plus he wore dark-rimmed glasses, kind of Clark Kent without the Superman. So nobody called him out, and he didn't call anybody out. He just sat on one of the built-in desks and watched.

When these fights wound down, the guys would usually have something else going--a party sometimes, maybe a kegger at one of the frats or just a visit to one of the local bars. The fights never lasted more than an hour or so, then everybody'd clear out. About three weeks after Billy showed up for the first time, he stuck around until it was just a couple of guys, my roommate, and me left.

And then he called me out.

Right off, the guys think he's joking, but I could tell he meant it. I hadn't fought that day, and I hadn't lifted either. Besides that, we'd had the fights in my room that day, so--even with most of the guys gone--Billy wouldn't have much room to run. Suicide, but I had to give him credit. I said I'd do it.

As I gloved up, I looked him over. His arms were short, but built like a gymnast's--tight bunches of muscle, but lean. His pecs stood out a little, especially after he took his shirt off. Flat stomach. Thin hips. Tight butt. Sturdy legs. The guy wasn't a wimp, he was just small. He left his shirt and his glasses on the desk and pulled on a pair of boxing gloves. We agreed on one round for starters, more if we both were up for it.

I expected him to fight on an hit-and-run basis: in close long enough to score a shot, then outside of my reach before I could counter. He'd probably have the advantage of speed and keep his head out of range as long as possible. If he could go a round with me, he could earn some points with the other guys. On my side, my willingness to let him hit me a little might encourage some of the more reluctant guys to call me out. Yeah, I planned to let him hit me pretty much at will for a while. Then I'd catch him coming in or counter him going out. At least that's what I planned.

I was so wrong.

Billy came on like a pit bull. Forget the hit-and-run strategy. He got in close, his left shoulder against my chest, and he started whomping away at my gut with his right. I'm hefty, but I'm solid underneath, so the first attack benefitted from surprise. Before long, though--maybe ten good chopping punches to my left side--I could feel a growing burn from the attack. I pulled my left elbow in tight and tried to muscle Billy off of me, but the guy stuck. He moved his attack to the center of my gut, just above the navel. The guy had a lot more power than I'd expected, and his arms moved regular and fast like pistons. Soon I was bending over, trying to force some space between us. He just switched from straight shots to uppercuts, slamming his fists deeper with each blow.

While this was happening, the guys watching stopped laughing and started yelling at me to hit the guy. Seems they couldn't understand why I hadn't employed that particular strategy--rocket scientists, every one of them.

Of course I planned to fight back. Enough was enough. I tried to wrestle him a little, to tie him up so I could lean in and let my weight slow him down. I trapped his right arm, but I couldn't get his left. He kept pounding higher and higher until he landed a solid uppercut to my solar plexus. My legs gave out, and I went to my knees. That put my face level with his tight six-pack of abs. Before I could think to defend myself, he hit me with two solid hooks to the jaw, and I dropped to the floor.

I couldn't leave it like that. I had to get up and hurt him. My abs didn't want to move, but at least my head hadn't hit the unpadded floor, so I was clear. I managed to make it to my feet, but I couldn't quite straighten up. Billy charged across the room, but I was ready this time. My straight left landed just above his nose, forcing his head back. Then I threw two hard right hooks to his temple. Billy fell back against the wall and slid down into a sitting position. The round ended. It was over.

I stayed in fighting stance for a moment. Then I realized that Billy had seen the bulge in my jeans. I'm not exactly hung, but you can tell when I'm aroused. Fighting almost always got me hard, especially when I got hit. I could fantasize about a good fight for at least a week. Most of the guys paid no special attention to the visible signs of my interest. Hell, a lot of them had the same response. None of them thought of themselves as gay--at least they never said anything about it. They'd just laugh it off with some jokes about having something ready for their girlfriends. Whatever.

Billy saw. Billy wasn't laughing. But Billy didn't freak out, either. He held out one hand, and I helped him up. "Sorry, man," he said. "I got a little crazy there."

"Me, too," I said. "It's cool."

Once he was on his feet and I'd let go of him, he let his glove brush lightly against my crotch as we separated. He took off his gloves. He put on his glasses, but he just tossed his shirt over his shoulder and left. The guys left. My roommate had a date. I jacked off and hit the showers.

The next week, Billy came back, and some of the guys called him out. Some of the more reluctant types were more willing to go a round or two with me.

And I'd had a fight to fuel my fantasies for a month.

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