A Lover, Not A Fighter

I blame the air conditioning. It isn't working. The hall is so hot that I can feel my skin redden and cover itself in a film of sweat; not glowing but drenching. My white karate uniform, wet through, clings to me. My anxiety level soars. I know it's a self-fulfilling prophecy; I believe that I get stupid when I get hot, therefore my mind ensures that it happens, each time. Self-consciousness alone will do it, I suppose. I'd like to lose it, but some things can't be changed.
Stupid, wet, red and hot. Great. We've been warming up for about half an hour. There are profuse apologies for the heat, but they don't make me feel cleverer. I check my breathing, to see if I'm hyperventilating or anything else alarming; no, I'm at the peak of health and fitness. Bugger.
We are asked to pair up. To my horror, I end up facing one of the black belts, and me just a beginner. Immediately I'm back to being the clumsy, shy, last-to-be-picked-for-the-team little boy, stuck in goal, praying that no-one comes within a million miles of me. I shrink in size, as I wipe the sweat from my brow.
He, on the other hand, seems to assume Goliath proportions. No-one knows much about him. He trained for most of his adult life in karate. Once, stuck for conversation while ordering drinks beside him, I asked him had karate changed him. "Karate is my life," he said. And that's all I could get out of him.
A loner, he is bigger and more skilled than anyone else in the hall; so much so that he's let do his own thing sometimes, for no-one matches him. He's a striking figure, as he goes through the motions of the advanced katas, or ritualised fights, in front of a mirror.
He's probably very shy, but it's a close call, because he could be simply very rude; he doesn't look you in the eye. You don't know whether he's seething with ill-concealed resentment at the plebeians he's forced to deal with, or whether he's burning up inside with exquisite crippling shyness, and karate is the only thing that has given him the confidence to exist in the world. The romantic in me would of course imagine the latter; but there are no clues.
Romantic? Oh yes, I forgot to mention. He's the sexiest man I've seen in a long time, in a rough, raw, animal sense. Practically everyone in the group goes silly over him, but no-one has managed to get close to him. Blond and blue-eyed, he drives a fuck-off sports car, and works in the City. And that's the beginning and end of the gossip about him.
And so, dear reader, it is this man that I am standing opposite. As usual, his eyes are averted. He's standing in front of me, breathing like a bull. I cannot do what I usually do, which is exchange a smile or a look, to see if anyone's home. This unsettles me even more. I cannot remember which is left or right. The basic stances and moves, which I knew the previous week, have deserted me.
The leader calls out what we're to do; and he might as well have called out Bingo numbers, for I could not connect the words with actions. I follow what my neighbours are doing. It's my turn to "defend". It's fairly simple, supposedly; I simply repeat a blocking move as my partner attempts to strike me. And he proceeds to do so. Ten times in a row. Each time I feebly respond, as his fists come thundering towards me with the force of a train, stopping a hair's breadth away from various parts of my body, accompanied with the most intense guttural yell. Somehow I manage to cope with the onslaught. Then it's my turn to "attack" and my world begins to melt. Each time I lunge, he grabs and yells and pushes me. And then he tells me I'm doing it wrong. I'm standing in the wrong way; I'm not punching from the hip; I'm forgetting the basics. Gamely, I persevere. And still I get it wrong.
But I forget one basic thing. I'm as transparent as glass, when it comes to how I'm feeling. People can read me like a book; it shows on my face. Despite the fact that I believe I'm doing the best I can, others around begin to take an interest. The leader asks me if I'm alright. In what I believe is a calm voice, I assure him that I'm fine; but, of course, I'm beetroot red and about to float away in a river of my own sweat, so I'm not believed.
Someone beside me offers to take my place, to face Goliath but this is not the done thing, in karate. His offer has me twice as self-conscious as before. The focus of the group's attention, I decide to carry on, as my brain gives up the ghost and goes home. I cannot remember a thing, except that the last time I faced such naked violence was when I was queerbashed and had my nose broken and my teeth chipped. The memory keeps floating back. I know that this time I'm not in danger, physically; but the sounds and force emanating from my opponent are horribly reminiscent.
I stubbornly decide to continue, getting it wrong every time. I dream of a time, sometime in the future, when I've got over this brain-scrambled ineptness; but there seems to be nothing I can do now. I know it's not going to go away if I stop; I'd like to master it. But it seems that I have an effect on people around me; people want to step in, and stop what appears to be a total humiliation. I can't explain the reasons why people keep on intervening; they don't do it with anyone else. "I'm just a beginner, what do you expect?" I want to yell. But I don't. And I know the one thing that would relax me more than anything else, would be if Goliath would look me in the eye and make contact. I would feel more like a man. But he doesn't. And I don't.
The meeting ends. I don't remember the drink afterwards. I go home. At my door, a Spanish man, whom I've been with a couple of times, is there, leaving a note for me. I invite him in, put on the kettle, and put my feet up. I am as weak as a kitten. He doesn't know what to do with himself; he's in the mood for sex, and I'm not. He's classically macho, but with a saving sense of humour; and I've enjoyed having sex with him in the past. Now, though, it's the last thing I need. He sits on the edge of my armchair, smoking nervously. We chat for a while. After ten minutes, he says he's going. I get up to give him a hug; he doesn't reciprocate.
On Jerry Springer, another man gets thrown to the lions. Having professed his undying love to his wife, she then tells him he's a waste of space, and she's found love with her best friend Karen. His face is a picture of frozen cool.
Be a man. You can take it. n