17: Zayd (Bushwick)

Occasionally, like this hot summer day, I like to switch up my gym routine. Rather than my typical weightlifting, I took a boxing class. Just something to switch up the monotony of routine.

The class was unremarkable — just a standard class — and by the end of it, I’d worked up an appetite.

I hadn’t originally planned to stop anywhere after the gym, so I hadn’t packed a change of clothes.

I grabbed my bag and walked out of the gym with my gloves tied around the strap, wraps still on my knuckles, in just shorts and a tank top.

About a block away was this casual cafe that’s been here for generations, but I don’t think anyone knows what it’s called anymore, except for the employees. It’s just “that cafe on 14th with the good burgers” as far as I knew, so I stopped in and took a seat at the counter. Not for a burger, as much as I wanted one, but for something a bit more roundly nutritious considering my body was recouping from a workout.

I placed my order and waited, doing nothing in particular as I sat there.

Maybe it was because I didn’t have my nose buried in a book or my phone that I noticed a man sitting a few seats over from me at the counter. With no one sitting on the three stools between us, his view of me — and mine of him — was uninterrupted. He didn’t even try to hide his stare.

Peculiarly, he had a black eye and busted lip. Maybe that’s not so weird, but was definitely noticeable. As he kept staring, I shot him a subtle what’s up nod with my head.

He got the waiter’s attention and asked for a pen. On a napkin, he made a quick scribble that he slid down the bar toward me.

It was his name, Zayd, and his phone number. Underneath were the words, “Fight me?”

I immediately glanced back up at him, but he didn’t see me. His gaze was averted as he tore a twenty, a ten, and a five from his wallet and dropped them on the counter and exited the cafe without looking back.

Well, of course I was intrigued.

Through his black eye and busted lip, he must have noticed my wraps and gloves. I wondered what fighting is to him. Clearly he’s really into it if he’s asking random men to fight him while proudly sporting his injuries as he goes about his day.

I ate my meal thinking about Zayd, and walked home still thinking about Zayd.

He was handsome, well built, and clearly tough. I wondered if he’d be into gutpunching, or if his interest was squarely fighting.

Finally, at about 8:00, I texted him to see what’s up.

 - Hi Zayd. It’s Leo, the guy from the cafe.

 - Hey Leo. I thought I’d scared you off.

 - Not at all. Curious what this is about though. You a boxer?

 - Not exactly. Are you?

 - No, I just take a boxing class from time to time. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in your note.

I waited for a reply, and about 15 minutes later Zayd sent me an address to a spot in Bushwick.

 - Meet me here at 10? Come ready to square up, he said.

Fuck it, I thought. Let’s see what he’s up to.

As 10:00 approached, I slipped on some black shorts and a tee shirt. I left right on time, but that meant I didn’t have time to go back for the gloves I’d forgotten in my apartment.

Bare fist it is, unless Zayd has spare gloves. Then again, I’ve never minded a bare fisted fight, personally.

I arrived at the address to see a row of new(ish) townhomes. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to knock, or what. I texted Zayd, who told me to skip the front door and instead go directly to the basement door under the stoop.

I had to knock, and a man answered. It wasn’t Zayd. But it was a man who looked equally as beaten up as Zayd did at the cafe earlier.

“What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

“I’m here for Zayd.”

“I dunno who that is.”

I showed him the text and address.

“Ah,” he said. “You’re new, then. Come on, let’s get you introduced to Travis.”

“Who’s Travis?”

The man just smirked as he turned to lead me into the basement, which I could now see was full of men, half of whom were shirtless. As I followed the man into the room, I felt like fresh meat as the men stared, obviously talking about me, the new guy.

Before we met up with this Travis guy, though, Zayd intercepted me.

“Thanks, Marco,” he said to the man who’d met me at the door. “This is Leo, he’s new. I invited him.”

“You’re Zayd?” is all Marco said.

“Yes, Marco. We’ve met like nine times.”

Marco brushed it off and walked back to his post at the door to the basement; Zayd laughed off Marco’s forgetfulness. “Ole Marco’s taken a few too many shots to the head.”

I laughed at Zayd’s quip, still not sure where I am or what I’ve gotten into. The basement was new like the townhome, but not pretty. It was cramped and the walls, ceiling, and floor were all plain gray cement with fluorescent lights overhead.

“Welcome to the Bushwick Fight Club,” Zayd said.

I went to reply, but just then a man stepped up onto a chair he’d placed in the center of the basement and began addressing the room.

“Alright, alright,” the man said. Zayd indicated that the man speaking was Travis. “You’ve all seen the movie. You know how it is. Only fight if you want to. No coercion. Fight to knockout or tap out. No shirts. No gloves. And if it’s your first night here, you have to fight or get the fuck out.”

The men in the room, for some reason, cheered.

Zayd turned to me and just smirked. I merely extended my hand for a handshake, agreeing with my body language to fight him. He smiled gleefully as he shook my hand.

“Oh, one more thing,” Travis continued as he stepped back up onto his chair. “This fight club is gay as fuck. The loser bottoms. If you can’t handle that, get. the fuck. out.”

The men in the room cheered again, which I couldn’t help but feel was a little cheesy. Then again, I did feel more at home. This now felt less like unbridled straight masculinity and more like a room of gay fetishists. Whatever the case, I was growing more comfortable by the second.

“You’re up,” Travis said, still standing on his chair. I looked up at the sound of his voice to find that he was pointing at me. “Get in the ring, new guy. Who’s taking him?”

A chorus of dudes broke out in various calls that they each wanted a shot at me, but I slapped Zayd across the back and indicated he’d be my first fight.

“Zayd!” Travis said. “My man. Get in here.”

Travis stepped off his chair and removed it from the center of the room, placing it back against the wall. There was no “ring” to speak of, just a small clearing in the crowd with some deconstructed cardboard boxes flat on the floor to serve as a rudimentary “mat” of some kind.

I can’t lie: I was excited. Fighting for top is incredibly hot for me, and knowing that if I won I’d get to fuck Zayd was a solid motivator. And standing at 6’3” with a muscular frame, I rarely lost a fight for top. I usually found it pretty easy to beat a guy into submission, or pin him down, if it meant his ass was mine as a reward.

Zayd and I pulled our shirts off, squared up, and began to circle each other as we sized each other up, and as the men of the fight club began to cheer for us.

I wanted Zayd to throw the first punch. Finally, he did. I dodged it, ready to counter him — but he was fast. He dodged my counter and landed a punch against my jaw, briefly knocking me off balance as the men went wild.

Zayd wasn’t one to let a guy catch his bearings, though. This was a fight he wanted to win, after all.

He quickly came back in, throwing a quick flurry of punches that I dodged until he landed another one on my jaw, which he immediately followed with a gut shot that loudly slammed into my solid abs. The men watching reacted with impressed shouts at the power behind Zayd’s punches and the strength of my of marble-hard muscle — but that’s not to say I didn’t feel it in my guts.

I went into defensive mode until I could get a better handle on his strategy. But with no punches for Zayd to dodge, he brought out the brutality.

He lunged forward toward me, which I dodged, but didn’t see the concrete support column that I backed into. He lunged again, this time grabbing me in a chokehold.

I elbowed Zayd in the center of his belly hard enough to force a grunt from him and feel his breath on my ear as he held me. With my head where he wanted it, he slammed five sharp punches into the side of my head. Each impact from my elbow into his abs hit harder than the last, though, and I could feel his core weakening. Finally, my elbows to his gut forced him to let go — but letting go of me was a red herring.

He wasn’t letting me break free. Trying to focus my blurred vision from the bare-fisted shots to my head, he overcame me with a hold and threw me to the floor.

A loud grunt was forced from me as my back hit the cardboard “mat” beneath us. I bared my teeth in pain, but before I could get back up to my feet, Zayd’s foot slammed down into my mostly-relaxed and vastly unprepared abs, his heel driving my intestines into my spine. I instinctively folded and rolled onto my side as the pain from his stomp radiated through my innards.

On my side, Zayd’s foot struck my now-flexed solid abs, followed by a second and third kick to my gut.

He dropped to the ground, attempting to pin me, but I headbutted him in response.

He’s way stronger than I thought — but that was exciting. No wonder he quite literally picked a fight with me. He really expects that he has a shot to win… and if I don’t get my shit together, he just might.

Immediately following my headbutt, I launched a punch into his side, which met almost no resistance from his thick obliques. Sure, he was probably keeping his abs flexed. But my shot to his side sank right into his oblique and my fist contacted his soft kidney — the men cheering over us roared as Zayd clutched his body and fell off of me.

Jumping atop him, I pounded some shots to his beautiful head before slamming my hands to the floor on either side of his dazed face. I kicked my feet off the ground and landed knee first, the full weight of my body on one knee plowing through his unflexed, unprepared guts.

An immense feeling of retribution and satisfaction coursed through me with the feeling of my knee sinking deep into Zayd’s intestines, causing his face to contort in pain as all the air was forced from his lungs, launching a spray of blood from his mouth onto my face. I dug my knee in deep, with Zayd’s bowels crushed into his spine.

I kicked up and landed knee-first in his soft innards two more times — each impact of my knee forced a deep, pained noise from his throat. The noise was not quite a shout, and wasn’t voluntary, either.

I thought he might tap out. His face was bloody, as was mine. Thick, red drops fell from my own face onto his for the brief second I stared down at him with my knee firmly holding his navel against his spine.

But Zayd was crafty. With his guts definitely still aching, he gave me a taste of my own medicine by slamming a punch deep into my own oblique, crushing my kidney, followed with a punch from the other side that cracked against my temple.

I fell to the floor on my side just as Zayd scrambled to his hands and knees. He grabbed my body as I lay on my side — only a moment before I was going to scramble to my feet — and kicked his knee into the depth of my gut. His knee caught me just slightly off guard, but was powerful enough that my loose intestines felt the full force of his knee — three times.

He collapsed over me, rolling me onto my back, stretched his arm as far back as he could, and with all his might drove a single punch into my loose lower guts, below my navel, just above my shorts.

The men around us Oooohhh’d at the sight of his fist sinking up to the wrist in my bowels. 

I tapped.

The men cheered as Zayd and I, laying on the floor with him atop me, began to laugh.

We looked at each other, bloody and smiling, before he got off of me and took my hand to help me up.

“That was fucking hot, boys!” Trevor said as he entered the “ring” that wasn’t a real ring. The men cheered along with him.

Speaking softly directly to Zayd and me, he said, “Head upstairs. There’s more to do.” He winked before turning back to the other men, all eager to fight someone.

I followed Zayd toward the stairs that led to the apartment above. As we walked through the men of the basement, guys kept their eyes on us, occasionally grabbing my or Zayd’s biceps, pecs, or abs as we passed, whistling at the sight of our tired and beaten muscles.

Upstairs, the vibe was remarkably different. About 15 dudes were all hanging out naked. Some were paired up in conversation, others were sitting in small groups. They all had dried blood on their faces and bodies; some had black eyes or busted lips. One muscle beast of a man had apparently had his eyebrow split by whoever he fought and though he was no longer bleeding, the dry blood on his body had cascaded from his brow to his cock. Everyone was peacefully chatting with beer or spiked seltzer — presumably they had all already fought downstairs and fucked up here.

“The primary bedroom’s available unless you wanna do it out here,” said the muscle beast with the bloodied brow.

Zayd and I, walking past the primary bedroom as he said this, dipped into the room.

We left the door open, though.

Zayd pushed me back onto the bed and loomed over me.

“What hurts?” he asked as we both removed our shorts to reveal our already-hard cocks. Our shirts, of course, were long gone — and lost somewhere downstairs.

“Everything,” I said with a smirk. “My head. My guts.”

Without speaking, he brought me up to the end of the bed so that I was sitting on the edge of it. He pulled my head forward and slid his uncut cock into my mouth. As he fucked my face, he gently massaged my temples and the sides of my face, miraculously alleviating some of the pain.

He removed his cock from my mouth, now lubricated with spit, and pushed me back onto the bed before climbing into bed with me.

He took my cock in his mouth and gave it one long draw through his lips before letting it slap down against my belly. From there, he kissed his way up my stomach and pecs.

As he did so, he said between kisses on my body, “You’re really tough… I’ve fought for years… and usually get a guy to tap out way more quickly.”

I smiled at him, blood quickly drying on my face.

“Can you take more?” he asked, his face right in front of mine as his wet cock pressed against my ass. He had a slight, barely noticeable smile, as though he expected my answer.

“You can beat me up all you want,” I said. “Just keep the abuse to my stomach.”

“Fuuuuuuck yeah,” he said as he sat up away from my face and began slowly sinking his cock into my ass. The feeling of his dick working into my body and nudging my prostate almost sent me over the edge already, but fuck I wanted to feel him punching me in the gut before I came, so I did my best to resist it.

I put my hands behind my head and flexed my massive biceps for him, and he leaned back over top of me while his hips continued to thrust his cock into me.

With his left hand holding himself up on the headboard, his right squeezed my biceps as he kissed me. His mouth was dry after the heavy breathing downstairs; instead, our makeout was flavored with the iron of our bloody faces.

He continued to make out with me as his right hand left my biceps and felt its way down my pecs to my abs.

I relaxed my six pack for him, and he felt it go soft.

He didn’t even entirely stop making out with me when he said, “I’m going to beat your stomach until you cum.”

I moaned into his mouth and replied, “Yeah, you fuckin’ better.”

Zayd was nearly laying on top of me as his hips still continued to pump his cock into my ass. There was just enough space that my belly could be exposed to his fist, which he raised up behind him, and brought down hard into the center of my gut. Totally relaxed for him, his fist drove straight to my spine and flattened my loose intestines. My baritone grunt, my moan of pain, and the breath forced from me filled his mouth as he kissed me.

He moaned, too, as he ground around in my innards, filling my gut with his fist as it crushed and moved my intestines. “Oh, you like the pain, okay,” he said softly. “I want to hurt you. I want to feel your soft belly under my fist.”

My body stirred with erotic desire as Zayd’s cock played with my prostate, his fist continued to ground up my intestines, and the musk of his pits wafted right into my face.

“Please, Zayd,” I begged, eyes locked into his in the darkness of the bedroom, “hurt my guts.”

He drove another fist into my soft bowels, the outline of my relaxed six pack enveloping his fist the moment he drove it into my body. The impact rocked my bowels and added a certain pressure of displaced guts into my lower belly, adding to the building sensation of his cock in my ass pounding my prostate. The sound of his solid fist plowing into my soft guts made a hot, cock-twitching thud, followed by a moan from my throat into Zayd’s mouth as he ground his fist around again.

“Oh fuck, your belly is soft.”

“Punch it, man. Hard. Hurt me.”

He pulled his fist back for another thud into the spongy pit of my gut, and another moan. And again, he pulled his fist back before driving it into my spine, again, this time through my lower intestines.

His demeanor changed suddenly as he began breathing heavily through his mouth. He sat up away from me while continuing to fuck my ass, before it was apparent that he was orgasming. He moaned hard as he thrust his last couple thrusts into me — but the face of his orgasm was so hot, and the pain in my intestines so deep and throbbing, and the feeling of his cock in my ass so euphoric, that the moment combined to find me shoot my own load handsfree onto my red abs.

Zayd caught his breath and lightly laughed as he leaned back over me to kiss me again, deeply massaging my liquid-soft stomach with his free hand, despite the mess of my cum all over it.

He sat back up, but as he did so, I realized that about 10 of the men who’d been hanging out in the living room were in the bedroom with us, standing near the door, watching.

A couple of them had their drinks in hand still. A handful were actively jacking off as they watched us. All of their cocks were hard.

We said nothing to them as we got off the bed, blood dried on our sweaty bodies. My stomach red from the pounding. Our hair tousled. Our pits and cocks radiating warm musk.

In front of the men, I pulled Zayd in for one last makeout session standing at the foot of the bed. As we kissed, we moaned, and felt each other’s pecs and biceps, exploring our muscular bodies once more.

I feel a few of the other men have now surrounded us; one or two of them feel and massage my belly while one of them comments on how hot my tough guts are. I just makeout with Zayd.

As he moans into my mouth while we kiss, I think, I ought to come back next week.