I press My Lover's face into the mat and watch as the blood pumps out of the cut on his forehead. The opening bell still rings in my ears. The crowd cheers in a way that can only be described as bloodthirsty. He’s screaming and I know he loves it. The cameramen wheel around the ring like spirits haunting my every move. I stand up and look down on My Lover. His body is covered in sweat and bruises, all of them my doing. I raise my fists into the air and strut around the ring like I already won the belt. We planned this part. My showboating. He knows how much I love to hear my name chanted from the mouths of thousands and from between his two soft lips. Right now, there is only time for one. The crowd comes first on Sunday nights.

While I soak in my glory, I hear the fans yell to warn me that My Lover has gotten up. I ignore the warning and continue my strut. I can feel My Lover creep up behind me. I swear I can feel him anywhere, I sense him like a part of myself. That's what makes this dance we do so goddamn good. They call these rivalries heat. And I feel the heat so deeply, in my blood, in my heart.

This dance, this rivalry is so intoxicating because we are of one soul. I wonder if the fans would hate me to know I’ll be rubbing his muscles later instead of breaking his bones. I’ll be scrubbing the dried blood from his face in our shower that we hardly fit in. Our bodies are bloated and huge from the weight training and steroids. All for the craven audience. It’s all for them.

My Lover wraps his arms around my waist and for a moment it feels like that very morning when he woke me from sleep with a kiss on my neck. But he doesn’t kiss me now. He hauls my body up to suplex it over his head and smashes my back into the mat. Carefully, of course. The crowd doesn’t see how I hoist myself to let him better toss me. It’s amazing how much they can’t see.

He mounts me again. Except this time, I’m limp and playing possum under him. The ref slides in and slams his hand on the mat twice before I push back, suddenly brought back to life by some massive and relentless need for victory. That’s what they want, you know. They want to see a man pushed to his limits and beyond. They want to see a man broken in body, mind, and spirit and then they want to see him kick out of a 3 count, despite all odds. They want to see the relentless human spirit.

I love this sport. So does My Lover. Is it fun to wrestle? Yes of course. Is it dangerous? Yes, of course. But above all, it’s a fairy tale with cartoonish characters and convoluted storylines. I’ve worn feather boas too close to pyrotechnics for an adrenaline-addicted storyline. I’ve busted out of an overturned car to fight my evil twin. I’ve danced with my trio partners to Samba music in tight spandex. We all eat it all up like candy. I sure as shit did when I was a kid. Back then, I couldn’t fathom that any of the men in the ring were kissing each other.

I knew it was fake, but I never thought it would be fake in the locker room too. The performance is never-ending.

I pull My Lover into my arms and whisper a sweet nothing in his ear, away from the camera so they can’t see. We’re hidden behind a veil of sweat-soaked hair. And then I climb the corner turnbuckles with his hair in my hands. He stands dazed in my grasp and the look is familiar. I shove his face between my thighs, and I wonder if the fans would have cheered when I did it this morning. I feel his hands come up to grip my thighs as a signal that he is ready. I showboat a bit more and the crowd roars. And then I jump, bringing My Lover’s skull with me as I land on the mat.

I hope I did it in such a way the camera couldn’t see my legs take the brunt of the force, my thighs protecting his precious head. I roll off My Lover and he lies dazed. If I hadn’t known better, if we hadn’t practiced this forty times before, I would have been terrified.

Men have died in the ring and men will die in the ring again. And if they don’t die in it, they will die later because of what happened in it. Bodily harm is an occupational hazard.

I crawl over and press my body against his, chest to chest. The ref slides in again. Time slows as the ref’s hand flies up into the air, bright from the lights. The hand pulls down towards the matt and My Lover’s eyes shutter open. He looks up at me and only I can see his smile.

A slap of flesh on fabric sounds a thousand times louder here. Probably because of the mic under the ring.

“ONE!”

The crowd is on their feet. Waiting in anticipation if My Lover will kick out. Wondering if he will retain the belt made of cheap metal and faux leather but also made of magic. I know he won’t. He told me it’s my turn to triumph. Good over evil.

“TWO!”

I feel a squeeze on my wrist and My Lover is holding me there. My chest is heaving, and I wish I could share this moment with him. My sworn enemy and my greatest companion. But I have to destroy him to have it at all. Later I will share the moment. More moments. All moments.

“THREE!”

Time whips back to normal as the ref yanks my wrist out of My Lover’s hand. He raises it high above our heads. I see the screaming faces of fans piled high in this arena. They are chanting my name. Some are booing. That’s the way it goes, though. We’re all here for the story.

I look back at My Lover and he’s sitting up. He’s got a look of pure hatred on his face. I know better. We’re all here for the story.

My music begins to play, and I snag the belt from some nameless, faceless body that hands it to me from outside the ring. I perch atop the corner ropes and the roar of the audience is filling me to the brim. I am the hero of their story. I am who they want to see when they look in a mirror. I am the ideal.

And yet all I want to be is backstage with him. Slumped over and sweaty. Heaving air and smiling. Kissing. Caressing bruised bodies.

All is the same in love and war. All is the same in sex and professional wrestling.