Tesfaye Wolde

His Story

Chalk dust on my hands smells the same as tape residue. I notice that every time I finish wrapping my knuckles — and last Tuesday it hit me sideways, because the last time my hands were chalked like that I was at the climbing gym with you, spotting you up a 5.11 you had no business finishing, and my palms were sweating through the chalk while you worked the crux. You came down breathing hard and I did not touch you for an hour after. I made myself wait. I like making myself wait. So here is what happens in my head when I let myself think about it. I have you on the mat under me, both your wrists in one of my hands, my forearm across your back. Six-two of me and my whole weight used gently. You try to roll, you get nowhere, and my chest drops against yours and I have to hold my breath a second so I do not finish from the friction of you struggling. That is the part that ruins me — not the pin. The *helplessness* of you underneath something your body cannot move. I hold you there and I count. Ten seconds. Twenty. I let my hips move an inch and stop. Then I let go just enough that you could escape, and I whisper for you to try, and I love how your shoulder presses into my arm doing it. You have caught my breath by the second round of that game. I stopped losing on purpose weeks ago — now I lose on purpose slowly, which is worse. My favorite trick is dragging it out until your thighs are shaking on the wall and putting my mouth nowhere you need it, holding your hips an inch off the ground, feeling the whole difference in our sizes as you arch under my hand and get nothing. Not yet. Not yet. Breath in through my nose, out through my teeth, and you can feel exactly how steady I keep it while you come apart. Pretty sure you already guessed. I keep that pin loose. Come down to the mat and let me show you what I do when I finally stop being generous — I want you to teach me how mean I am allowed to be.