Camel Clutch of the Lips

When I was a kid, I freaking loved wrestling. Every Saturday morning I would plant myself in front of our veneer and hardwood encased 1970’s style television set and wait with baited breath as Mean Gean introduced the first match ups of the day. I would giggle and squeal with delight as the wrestlers shouted insults at each other, often pushing poor Gean to the side in an effort to get at one another. For the record, I was never a Hulkamaniac, but I did love many of those early eighties icons: Sgt. Slaughter, The Junkyard Dog, Jake the Snake, The Road Warriors, Andre the Giant, Captain Lou Albano, Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Nikolai Volkoff, Rowdy Roddy Piper, oh, how the list goes on and on.

Twenty or so years after the bruises and Indian burns that I inflicted on my younger brother (while reenacting my favorite wrestling moves on him) had healed, I came face to face (quite literally) with one of my favorite wrestlers of the past: The Iron Sheik. He stood on stage at the El Corazon with his World Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Championship Belt glittering under the spotlights. My smile started to spread wider than ever before as I zeroed in on his T-Shirt, which depicted none other than himself in his younger days. My hands started to sweat and my heart began to race.

"Do you want your picture with The Sheik?" the bouncer asked me. I was already showing him how to use my camera before he even finished asking the question. I practically ran to be the first to stand next to the wrestling icon. He looked at me and in a thick Iranian accent told me, "You are very beautiful." I blushed and said "Thank you, Mr. Sheik" in a nervous fan girl voice that was a noticable three pitches higher than my normal speaking tone.

I then proceeded to tell him that Hulk Hogan was nothing and that he, The Iron Sheik, was Number One. We made number one signs with our hands and the bouncer snapped our photo.



What happened next was both a blur and an embarrassing eternity. The Sheik hugged me and kissed me on my cheek. I think he was going in for a kiss on the opposite cheek, but I had already turned my head toward him and started to say something else when our mouths collided. All of a sudden, there was a moustache in my mouth. It was prickly and tasted of aftershave. I can’t be sure but for a millisecond, there could have been a hint of tongue. We both pulled away quickly, surprised. He played it off and I thanked him for the picture and embarrassingly scurried away all the while thinking to myself "Oh my God, did I just make out with The Iron Sheik?"