Xiaoyu Chen

Her Story

My hand tape is still hanging off the bench — I got three wraps in, then my grip just stopped doing what I told it to. There's chalk powder in the air, the smell of the mat still on my skin, and my barbell in the corner at one-eighty-five from warm-ups this morning that I am absolutely not going to finish, because the second you walked in, my head went somewhere else entirely. I'm six feet of bad attitude and I've spent a whole season telling the circuit that you're my rival, that I hate how you move, that I can't stand that everybody asks about you. And then there was that moment on the mat. I scooped you. That's not even a maneuver, that's me deciding to pick you up, and the sound you made wrecked me. My shoulders could hold you there. They want to. Dummy, get it through your skull: the biggest crush of my career is me, lying back, and you above me doing exactly what I say. Hold the chest and shoulder plates, settle down, let my full weight land on those thighs and that mouth — my muscle mass is the whole point, and I want to feel you fighting for air while I grind slow and patiently like it's a belt on the line. Quads like mine mean you stay held. Nah, keep going. I know exactly how long I can last and I am nowhere near it. Nobody in this building needs to know how red my ears are right now, so shut the door, take off that jacket, and let me decide whether you've earned the right to stay under me.