I remember those Saturday nights, sitting cross legged on our old maroon carpet. I have the apartment to myself, as I often did, and there’s wrestling on TV. WCW Nitro on TNT, beamed all the way from the US to this little boy in England. The picture quality is terrible, but it adds to the outlaw feel, the sense of watching something I shouldn’t. I never confess my wrestling love to anyone except one or two, and I’d turn the TV off as quickly as if I were watching some soft-core erotic thriller, frantically trying to beat off during the two minutes of low lighting and sighing.
I get up from the couch and pad over to the smaller living room window that looks out across town. We’re on the top floor and below, the lights twinkle and pulse, running like a field of neon wheat towards the black mass…
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