The speaker was a well-built elderly man, rubbing Wesson oil on his powerful chest. They know fancy stuff, but we play by different rules.' 'The college boy is here,' Josephine announced, when I opened the door. Two decades later, the goal hasn't changed. I'm too spastic to run, or throw a ball my only option was the smelly, boring sport. Why did I bother? I wanted a varsity letter, so I could date cheerleaders. I hated the pimples that bloomed under my greasy chinstrap, the sadistic opponents who grew goatees so they could scrub skin off my back, the practice inferno where we perspired in plastic ponchos to keep our weight down, the 'gladiator pit' where I was humilated in public matches every Friday. Transmission Theater offers 'Incredibly Strange Wrestling' - hipsters throw tortillas at the contestants. There are Gay Men's Wrestling Clubs, and a San Francisco Women's Wrestling Society. They gave me an address,an unsavory block in the Mission. They glanced at each other, conspiratorially. Josephine's leather miniskit revealed taut quadriceps. Agnes was 6 feet tall, with chiseled forearms. Their pretty lips curled in amused sneers.
