Cretin Fierce Wrestling Story

"The Cretin"

There was a funny kid in our neighborhood known as the Cretin. He was a little guy, short and skinny, who compensated for his size with a comical tough-guy act. He had a kind of punk-rocker look, his hair twisted up in greasy little spikes. He smoked cigarettes in the dramatic, affected manner of a street-greaser, and he prefaced every utterance with an exaggerated, "Hey maaaaan." To augment this personna he drove around in his brother's big 4X4 muscle truck. He took a ferocious ribbing from the rest of the guys but didn't seem to mind being the Cretin. A lot of us did "Cretin-imitations" and many of the meaner kids enjoyed driving their fists into his shoulder.

The Cretin was kind of a loner but once in a while I would hang out with him. One Saturday afternoon I was expecting a couple of friends over, Tommy and Ray. But when I looked out the window I saw the Cretin pull up in his brother's truck. My heart sank a little because I just wasn't in the mood for his antics. I didn't feel up to his little gangster-act.

My basement was kind of a hang-out for a lot of my friends, and that's where I found myself shooting the breeze with the Cretin, gradually losing patience with his tired little show. I felt like saying, "You're not tough, you're a pathetic little fool who I'm about to crush." Anyway, I ridiculed him in some fashion which prompted him to dance around going, "Hey maaaan... I kick yo ass." He was joking but I wasn't laughing. I gave him a playful shove and he said, "Maaaan, don't even THINK about messin' with me." I laughed out loud and he came right up and grabbed my shirt.

We were both sixteen years old. I too was rather skinny, but much taller than this little guy. I'd won a few fights and I'd lost a few. I knew enough not to mess with certain dudes, but was not in the habit taking crap. So I decided to teach the Cretin a little lesson. I put him in a tight reverse headlock as his arms encircled my waist in a lame bear-hug. Then our feet got all tangled up and we hit the floor.... well... all right the truth is that he tripped me rather cleverly and took me down. But I got lucky when we hit the floor-- I was in a good position to grab him. Immediately we began grappling. It wasn't how I'd planned it-- on the floor my height advantage was nullified. But I quickly slipped a half-nelson on him and drove his head to the floor. My other arm was wrapped tightly around his mid-section-- I was in complete control. "That's a tight half-nelson dude," I said. "In a little while you'll be toast." In spite of my superior position, and his apparent helplessness, he somehow managed to fight back rather effectively. It was as if his entire body was a weapon. I had him wrapped up tightly but he felt like a coiled serpent in my grasp, pushing constantly against me so that I was forced to back-pedal while on my knees. It was like trying to hold on to a wild animal. In a quick, slippery move, he eased himself out of the half-nelson so that I was forced to hold him with both arms around his waist, he on all fours, I on my knees. "A bear-hug maaaan?" he said. "That's all you got?" I squeezed with all of my might as this little bucking bronco dragged me around the room. I was beginning to tire and I thought, I must do something now!... this is wrong.... this is the Cretin!..... I must take him down right away and pin his little cretin-ass to the floor!

At this point I was beginning to panic because I didn't know how much longer I could hold on. My arms were turning to jelly. Suddenly, in a split second, he reversed me. He must have sensed that I was tiring. He just exploded out of my grasp, spun quickly around and seized hold of me. Now I was on all fours, he on his knees beside me squeezing so tightly that I was certain my chest would cave in. It was a struggle to breathe. He said, "Now THAT'S a bear-hug maaaan." Then my arm was in the air, his hand against the back of my neck. A forearm suddenly came tightly under my chin. I was pulled roughly, backward up off the floor. He was behind me applying a fierce, calculated pressure simultaneously to the front and back of my neck. "Dig it maaaan....," he said, "a half-nelson/choke."

I was humiliated. I felt it in the marrow of my bones. The Cretin, the neighborhood laughing-stock, everybody's punching bag, was using me for his own personal whipping boy-- and I was powerless... I could do nothing. How did he do it?! How COULD he do it, the little punk?!! He was allowing me to breathe only in short bursts and I was growing very weak. I remembered that Tommy and Ray were due to arrive soon. They would let themselves in as they always did. They would see me being punished by a little joke of a person, a little boy actually! To make matters worse, he kept asking me if it was tight enough, telling me he could make it just as tight as I wanted it. I decided to take a page out of the Cretin's book and began to writhe around violently, pushing back up against him with whatever strength I had left. I managed to get the two of us tangled up against the wall in my Dad's garden tools. Rakes and shovels toppled and fell over us in a huge clatter. The strategy worked! He let go of me.

But climbing slowly to my feet I saw him waiting for me in the center of the room, his hands up. I was trying to figure out a way to talk my way out of it. Then he said, "You're just too easy maaaan." I lost my head. The sight of that greasy-headed little fool saying that to me was too much to take. I lunged at him. I tried getting an arm around his head but it was difficult because he was so short. For some reason he kept pushing his hip against me as I finally got a tight headlock on him. I began to grind my forearm against his cheekbone. I was beginning to feel confident again because all he seemed interested in doing was pushing his hip into me. But I was having trouble keeping my feet planted-- they kept trying to go up in the air. I was up on my toes when his hip drove into me and I went into the air, over his body and hit the floor. I landed on my butt, stunned, knowing that he was behind me somewhere.

Before I had a chance to gather myself his arm was wrapped around my neck and strange noises were coming out of my mouth. He locked me up somehow with the other arm so that his hand was pressing down on the top of my head. The pressure was frightening. It did not feel like a wrestling hold. It was a strange and clever mechanical vice, his own limbs the parts of a machine-- and my head was a red, swollen piece of fruit ready to burst. I was getting woozy. Dreamlike, I heard the words, "Dig the sleeper hold maaan."

I'd done more than my share of wrestling as a kid. But I'd never seen anybody use a hold like this. I thought, where did the Cretin come up with this? Where did he learn it? How did he do this to me? And finally, why me? Why not someone else? Unless of course he had correctly sized me up ahead of time as an easy victim. Had he come to my house knowing precisely what he would do to me? Was this all a master-Cretin-plan?

He made an adjustment. Now both arms were snaked around my neck and my chin was locked upward so that I was looking at the ceiling. The entire breadth of my throat was now exposed. He tightened both arms around me in a powerful death-grip. I could feel his arm muscles, hard and tight against my throat. With his arms tightened I could not breath. When he relaxed the muscles I gulped frantically for air until the lock closed tightly again. With both hands I pulled wildly at his wrists and arms trying to gain more air than he was willing to grant me. But it was hopeless. As my oxygen dwindled my hands fell away limply and I just waited for the ordeal to end. Tommy and Ray could come around any time they wanted now. I was way beyond humiliation. I wanted them now-- they could rescue me from this cretin-menace!.

Throughout the ordeal he unleashed a stream of insults, calling me a weakling and a little sissy-boy. He called me "Mary" and "Sally," so when he was finished with me and I lay wheezing on the floor, there remained not a shred of self-esteem in my being. I felt smaller than a bug. When finally I managed to stand up he was sitting nearby on a tall stool, watching me, the silly spikes of his hair shining beneath a bare bulb overhead. A rush of pain coursed suddenly through my neck. I brought my hands to my head and said, "Oh-my-god."

"Hey maaaan," he said, "I coulda just put you OUT... put you to SLEEP!"

"Tell me about it," I said feeling my bruised neck. I turned my head to the side and went, "Ow... oh... thank you for letting me go."

Is humiliation a drug? Sufficiently wedged beneath another's boot-heel, is there no choice but to enjoy it? Up on his stool the Cretin was royalty, beaming with triumph while I, head in hands, stammered dumb words of supplication.

He said, "I warned you not to mess with me maaan."

"I know you did," I said. "But I had no idea you were... you know, so... strong."

"No offence," he said, "but it didn't take much effort."

"I know that," I said. "Jesus, I'd hate to be around when you get mad."

Then he put on the consummate Cretin pose, tossing a cigarette expertly between his lips. He was putting on his dumb little show-- but this time I wasn't laughing. Our struggle had resulted in the sleeve of his tee-shirt being forced up near his shoulder. I could not help but notice that, for a skinny little dude, his arm was none too skinny. Why hadn't I noticed it before? A cigarette lighter emerged suddenly from his pocket and he torched up the cigarette with a dramatic flourish. In doing so a thick, round bicep muscle bulged up in his arm and I thought, since when did the Cretin have arms like this?! Like a pauper to a Prince on his throne I crept forward, my hand coming to rest upon his warm, hard upper arm. Enjoying the moment, He pulled the shirtsleeve up over his shoulder and gave me the royal flex. "Feel them rocks maaaaan."

Indeed I felt them rocks-- and felt them, and felt them, and felt them. Years earlier, as a 12-13 year old, I'd wrestled often with friends. At that time the hard biceps in the arms of boys my age were intensely erotic, fuel for my emerging teen sexuality. But it passed. It was a phase. I drove a car now-- I was a girl-chaser. But suddenly, with the Cretin's thick cords of warm muscle pushing up against my fingertips, it all came rushing back with a vengeance. My heart leaped in my chest and there was a wild pounding between my legs-- I was completely, wildly turned-on.

Eventually he ripped his arm away and said, "Lemme go maaaan. I'll put you back in that sleeper in about two seconds."

"Okay okay," I said quickly, backing up a step. He dropped a shoulder as if to come after me and I back-pedaled instantly going, "no-no-no... please." He laughed out loud and said, "You got off easy this time... next time I'll just break you in half!"

"I believe you," I said. With both hands I was massaging my throbbing neck. "Dude, you really did a number on me. Jesus, that last hold you put me in, I mean... wow!"

He took a long drag on his cigarette and said, "You asked for it maaan."

We shot the shit for a while and I smoked a cigarette with him. The sleeve of his shirt remained up on his shoulder, and as he worked on the cigarrette ropes of muscle jumped in his arm. I could not take my eyes away. My state of arousal was out of control and I was desperate to feel his arm. It was driving me crazy. It took all the will power I could summon to keep from reaching over to touch it. But I couldn't chance it. I was afraid he would make good on his promise to break me in half.

I didn't see much more of him after that day. Honestly, I avoided him. I was afraid he might decide to humiliate me again, this time in front of people, who knows... maybe in front of a bunch of girls. But the experience of being helpless in his powerful limbs, this little cretin-boy... the feel of his quivering, sinewy cords of muscle beneath my fingertips... well, that memory was and still is a source of intense personal pleasure that I keep tucked away like a jewel so that I may summon it whenever those very quiet, very private moments present themselves.

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