Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Thomas and Brandon

The previous post today may leave some visitors thinking I never take time out for heavier musings addressing the pressing problems of today's world.

So I'm adding an excerpt from another story, this one co-authored with my friend and fellow North Carolinian Heath, as we tackle in tandem the weighty issue of America's failed economy, as it impinges on the lives of two young tycoons, Thomas and Brandon (think: "Cameron Mathison" and "Josh Duhamel"), who've decided to take out their frustrations over the fallout from the stimulus package in their own unique way.

By the way, this story fills 14 pages (so far), a length befitting an MBA thesis, only without footnotes or pie charts (so far).

Right now Thomas can’t think of anything he’d like better than to ram his nine-and-a-half inches right up Brandon’s ass.  Give the punk something to think about next time he tries to screw Thomas over in a business deal.  Brandon’s a twitching mess at his feet now.  Thomas drives his heel to the small of Brandon’s back and drives the man’s face to the carpet.

He grabs the tie round Brandon’s neck, the only thing he’s wearing now, except for a pair of oatmeal-colored Calvin Kleins.  He pulls Brandon upright on his knees.  Thomas positions himself right behind him, letting the bulge in his briefs bounce against the back of Brandon’s $200 haircut.

Suddenly clear headed, Brandon senses an opportunity, though, and seizes it.  He throws his head back and smashes Thomas’s cock and balls.  Thomas howls, doubles over, and stumbles backwards a good twenty feet, colliding with the bookshelves, toppling a couple of trophies, a framed 8x10 of Brandon posing with Obama, and some custom leather-bound copies of Adam Smith, Ayn Rand, and Trump’s The Art of the Deal.

Thomas’s body collapses and he lands on his ass.  Brandon’s expression is somewhere between a grin and a grimace, as he rubs his fingers over the back of his sore, belt-whipped thighs.

“Oh, dude,” he murmurs, “this is gonna be fun.”

He takes two or three long strides and leaps, driving his heels to Thomas’s bare chest before hitting the floor.  Thomas makes a loud coughing-and-choking-at-the-same-time noise.  His whole body bucks on impact.  The wet fleshy smack echoes cross the reinforced glass of the billboard-sized window to the Manhattan skyline.

Brandon pulls himself up to his feet, grabs Thomas by the elastic of his C-IN2s and drags him back to the spacious center of the executive office.

He flips Thomas over on his belly, squeezes the guy’s left foot into his armpit, plants his left knee into the small of Thomas’s back, and arches back, stretching his rival’s leg, giving it a slight twist at the kneecap.  Thomas screams through his teeth and pounds the carpet with his fists.  The shudder of pain he feels in Thomas’s body underneath him gives Brandon wood.  Niiice.

He grabs Thomas’s other foot and bends it back too.  He settles his ass down on top of Thomas’s in a full boston crab.  He rocks back and forth to rev up the pressure and hurt.

“Not what you were expecting when you decided to drop in, is it?”  Brandon smirks.  Thomas’s face is unrecognizably distorted in a show of agony, a noiseless scream, and despite everything, Thomas is still as hard as a platinum-plated billy club.


By the way, the real Cameron Mathison and I had a tense, heated telephone exchange about ten years ago, when I was working a part-time job booking airline flights for pocket money and free air travel (worse. job. I. ever. had.)  I like to think that had we not been separated by hundreds of miles of telephone cable at the time, some actual punches would have been thrown.

Eric and Matt

So far only Bard over at neverland has even attempted to opine on my question of which mma fighter would end up on top if Matt and Eric ever decided to throw down.

So my long-distance fantasy-writing pal and I decided to figure it out for ourselves.  We just hit page four of the scenario today.  I'm liking the way it's looking, so here's an excerpt, my most recent two cents' worth in the continuing bloody saga, in which our two strapping fighters have decided to take their bizness outside, alone and man to man, in a long alley behind the venue where other, less interesting contenders battle for a paying crowd.

Eric folds in two, cradling his ribs, pain shooting every which way up and down his bones.  Matt smells blood and it gives him a boner.  Total domination, what every alpha craves.  He lowers his shoulders and semi-circles Eric, looking for a spot to hit and finish his opponent.  Only, in his head, Matt substitutes the word "victim" for "opponent."

Eric backs up to the side of the loading dock, cornering himself but also limiting the angles the now more mobile and limber Matt can take him from.  He's in defense mode and he knows it:  buying time, clearing out the cobwebs, catching a second wind.

Matt feints a couple of charges, but bounces backwards, springing up and down on his toes, sweat streaming down his ripped chest and abs, his biceps twitching, ready to strike.  His thick cock has escaped the embrace of his jock strap, which hangs like an ineffectual harness off a wild stallion.  The hard tool cuts through the stale air of the alleyway.

Matt charges for real, but Eric meets him halfway, blindly driving his fists to Matt's ribcage and his knees to Matt's side.  Matt fires back with fists and knees flashing, almost faster than eye can detect.  Eric falters and falls to one knee. Matt's on top of it.  His left leg flies up and arcs, landing on the back of Eric's neck and driving the dark-haired stud to the asphalt.

Matt's cock slaps happily up against his lower abdomen.  Eric rolls on his back, his face now basically a red Rorschach blot.  It's an easy read for Matt, though—the blot looks like victory.  He swoops down towards Eric's blindly writhing, enervated, all-but-meat-tagged body.  What he doesn't expect, though, is the sure aim of Eric's heels driving their way up to Matt's dangling nads.

Any ideas on where it goes from here?  I'm open to suggestions.  My pal's the idea man (still, he likes his anonymity).  He keeps going all medieval on me, every story we do, so somebody give me some pointers on how to stop this hellfire in his tracks.  I need some fucking to come out of all this, but my pal has put the kibosh on all my sex talk and dirty mindedness.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Ricky Starr

Dory Funk, Jr., has an article on early British TV wrestler Ricky Starr called "The Gay Bit: Who Can You Beat?"  He tells an illuminating anecdote of 1950s pro wrestling.  Starr, a former ballet dancer, 5'10", 205#, and two rugged Texas wrestlers stood in a ring and issued a challenge to the crowd.  Audience members could wrestle any one of the three they thought they could beat.  Five guys chose to face off with Starr, and despite a Gorgeous George-inspired "sissy" routine, Starr made short work of all five in one night.

You can't judge books by their coups-de-pied.

Apparently the variant spellings of his name ("Ricki," "Star") were part of the schtick, too.  According to one rumor, the name was the inspiration for Beatles drummer Ringo Starr's moniker.

Starr, the wrestler, was born Bernard Herman.  He actually did dance with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and on Broadway in musicals like Annie Get Your Gun.  His background included amateur wrestling and boxing, too.  He debuted as a pro wrestler in 1953 (the year I was born).

Four years later, he appeared on the game show I've Got a Secret, attempting to stump the celebrity panel about his unusual career path.

What's all the more remarkable, considering his wrestling career spanned the 1950s and early 1960s, is that the "gay bit" did not make him a heel.  Audiences might have had some reservations about him, but apparently they accepted him for the baby face he was ... even in Amarillo, Texas!

Starr also appeared twice on the talking-horse TV comedy Mister Ed, as well as a late sixties movie called The Touchables.

... here he is, versus Frank Fozo ... via spiritofsylvox

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Ashton Vuitton

High style and all mouth, 6'2" 19-year-old Ashton Vuitton out of Chicago needs somebody to teach him a lesson ...

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Captain Lou Albano, 1933-2009

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Ringside Hits—No, It Snap-Suplexes—Its First Anniversary

 One year ago today I started Ringside at Skull Island with a YouTube video of King Kong beating the shit out of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  The idea was that Ringside would be a spinoff to my other blog, Kubla Kong, which I had started in 2007, shortly after buying the MacBook I’m typing on right now.

I never expected a readership, and I was surprised that a blog devoted to my private kinks would surpass the “general interest” blog on politics, film reviews, and the ups and downs of everyday life with my dog.  According to Google Analytics, this blog pulls in 4,300 visitors a month, undulating between 120 and 280 hits per day, while the other one draws 583 a month—not record-breaking, but better than I had anticipated.

I guess I underestimated the number of people who get a chubby over a good fight—or at least find it more interesting than my dog or my views on Obama. 

But it turns out that there are a few more people like me than I had imagined.  One reader, Tom, who wrote me an encouraging message over the weekend, said to me, “Follow your kinks …. I think we share similar interests.”

For the past twelve months, I have followed pretty much my own “bliss,” as Joseph Campbell would say—finding or creating postings that match the mood I’m in and reflect my peculiar kinks—not really catering to any audience other than my twisted desires and dark obsessions.

I have posted 350 entries on this blog, almost one a day, on average.  The majority of my visitors are right here where I live, North Carolina, a fact I'm proud of.  Close second, third, and fourth are California, New York, and Washington, respectively.  In fact, Ringside has reached 46 US states, plus the District of Columbia.  The only guys I can't (yet) get on the mat are in Mississippi, Nebraska, North Dakota, and South Dakota.

Outside the USA, Ringside reaches 74 nations, most prominently the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, Germany, Italy, Spain, France, and Japan.  In Chile, Thailand, Poland, Mexico, Israel, Afghanistan, Puerto Rico, South Africa, Algeria, the Cook Islands, Micronesia, and Angola, you can find kinky readers of this blog.  London is the city with the most Ringside visitors, beating out even my adoptive home town of Durham, followed by Seattle, Chicago, San Antonio, and New York.

Today, celebrating this anniversary on a budget of a Roadrunner bill and spit in my palm, I’ve decided to present my ten favorite photographs posted on this blog in the past 365 days.  I didn’t take any of these pictures, and I’m not in any of them, so nobody has to pretend to admire my artistry here.  But, for what it’s worth, these pictures, without nudity or cum shots, porn me up in ways that actual porn seldom does.



Monday, October 12, 2009

The Dump (16)

“Fuck him up, fuck him up …”

Vim backs away, stops in the middle of the ring, and turns to face down his opponent.   Lucas hangs there like wet laundry, arms stretched, eyes rolling, muscles twitching, sweat streaming down over his stomach, forming streaks in the messy coating of blood.  Patrons closest to the cage can even detect the movement of Lucas’s heart thumping rapidly next to his breastbone.

Vim charges back at him, plows his knee to Lucas’s thick gut.  Doug gasps, coughs, chokes, about to spew but doesn’t.   Just a couple dry heaves, then he settles down.  Joey grabs his opponent’s soggy hair and pulls the head up.  Vim’s hard cock—thick and stoked on fury and the rush of brute force—rests on Lucas’s cut-up chin.  Vim’s fist pounds down on Lucas’s face like bombs falling.

The crowd stops chanting and starts screaming, total bat-outa-hell apeshit pandemonium.

Vim lets Lucas’s head drop back down to his chest.  He circles the mat, shaking out his arms, shaking his head, rolling his powerful shoulders.  Groggily, Doug lifts his head—the face of a ghoul in a zombie film—and makes eye contact with the aggressor, splashed in crimson, muscles taut, buttocks clenched, spine erect—the very image of the conqueror, battered yet standing … and on top.  Tears flood Doug’s swollen eyes and roll down his cheek.  Vim grits his teeth, glares at him, no mercy in his eyes.

“Ya aint finished wid him yet, Jo-EEE,” some slavering drunk in the back of the room yells. “Gi’ him the fuckin drubbing he’s got coming to him!”

But Vim doesn’t hear him.  Every nerve in his body is tuned to Lucas’s body, badly damaged (badly!) but not  entirely broken.  Vim feels the killer rise up in his bones.  He doesn’t like it.  He doesn’t dislike it either.  It just is.   It doesn’t even enter into his thoughts.  Just a feeling, and it tightens every muscle in him.

Vim’s entire body tingles.  He feels his entire body alive with an almost electric sensation.  Even the parts that ache and the parts that a moment ago had no feeling at all are now alive with an energy fueled by his fury.  Vim’s cock is erect, hard, throbbing against his tight, wet thong.  His nipples too are erect and hard.   A shiver runs down his back as a drop of cold beer drips from the top of the cage.

Lucas’s bloated carcass hangs from the cage like a piece of roadkill tossed over a fence.  Doug is nearly unconscious, the bloody bubbles under his nose are the only indication he is still alive.

Vim moves in again, stomping his opponent.  His foot drives into Doug’s chest, then smashes down on his belly.   Doug's body wobbles and rocks as he is battered further.

Vim holds Lucas by the hair with his left hand, supporting his head.  His right hand strikes like lighting; the punches snap Doug’s face to the side sending bits and pieces flying.

Doug slips from the cage wall, plopping down to the mat.  His body lies in a heap, unmoving.  Vim struts across the cage confident in his victory.  His hard cock pointing down toward the mat as he poses, showing off his blood-soaked physique.

(End of story)

Sunday, October 11, 2009

The Dump (15)

Half the crowd can barely watch, but they can’t cover their eyes and ears at the same time, so the smack of knuckles against lips, again and again, is a sound many of them will never forget.

Doug’s fist pounds Joey’s face, opening him up.  Vim lies trapped under Lucas, arms at his sides as he endures the beating.   His body bucks and kicks as Doug continues to slam into Joey.  Blood flows and splashes both men as Lucas's attack persists.

The crowd gasps at the horrific sight Vim has become at the hands of Lucas.  For the first time in the history of fighting at The Dump, the owner considers stopping a fight due to the intense brutality and blood loss.  Doug leans in grinding his cast into the open wound on Vim’s forehead.

Vim struggles wildly and pulls his left arm free.  Miraculously, he manages to grab Doug’s right hand.  Lucas lets out a scream as Vim twists the fingers of the broken hand.  Doug falls to the mat holding his aching hand; he nearly pukes from the pain shooting through his right arm.

As Lucas lies on the mat, Vim manages to drag himself from under him.  He forces himself to stand, as blood rains down the front of him.  Vim stomps the back of Lucas’s head, driving his face into his cast.  Doug is dazed as Vim stomps him more, bouncing his head off the mat repeatedly.

Vim is a walking nightmare; his blood-soaked body grabs Lucas around the waist and drags him to the side of the cage.  He holds the cast and begins slamming it against the steel bars of the cage, dragging shrieks of agony out of Doug.  The crowd is screaming.  Vim threads Lucas’s wounded arm through the cage bars, kicking him, trying to break his arm in more places.

Doug is limp.  He hangs from the cage by his arm as Vim continues kicking his arm and body.  Vim presses his blood-stained thong into Doug’s face pushing him against the cage.  He slams his fist to Doug’s face, sending a torrent of blood pouring from his broken nose. “Payback time, Bitch!” Vim yells as he continues to hammer punches down on Lucas.

Vim kicks at Lucas’s cast. causing it to crack and chip.  The cast flattens slightly and presses down on Doug’s wrist.  Doug's screams grow louder as the support of the cast is gone, and his broken bones twist and grind together.

The crowd is entirely on Vim’s side. They chant—“Fuck him up, fuck him up, fuck him up, fuck him up …” in time to Joey’s bloody punches.

Joey kicks the cracked and soiled cast aside. Doug’s pale exposed forearm smells of unguent, sweat, and some sickly third odor. But the dominant smells in the cage are sweat and gore—both fighters’ sweat and gore.  Steam rising off their bright-lit bodies.  The crowd smells it, too.  Some of them even imagine they can distinguish the separate scents of Vim and Lucas.

(To be continued)

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Sibling Rivalry

Boys play ruff in these videos from Hairboatr927:

The Dump (14)

Doug rolls on his side trying to break loose. Vim rolls with him, but Doug’s greased up muscles are too slick and he slips free of the scissors. Lucas slams a punch to Vim’s chin and knocks him back across the mat.

The two fighters face off on opposite sides of the cage.  Panting. Sweat rolling off their foreheads into their eyes, making them burn and blink. Doug, bloody and sore all over, roars. The tendons of his neck swell out.

The yell gives him a hot jolt of much-needed adrenaline.

Joey swipes his forearm cross his forearm and then motions for Doug to come at him. Lucas slams his fist into the wall of the cage, pumping up, growling. Joey shifts his weight from foot to foot, staring his opponent down, waiting.

Lucas rushes him. Joey feints to the left, then roundhouse kicks Doug in the gut.  The THUMP echoes in the club, and the patrons go OWWWW. Doug doubles over. Vim hikes his knee into Lucas’s face. Lucas hits the mat, face down. Joey circles him like a predator on prey. Stomps on his shoulder blade. Backs up and stomps with both feet now on Lucas’s lower back. Doug howls. Somebody in the crowd yells, “Kill him Joey!"

Joey looks blankly up at the bright lights. He strikes a pose for the crowd. Hard sweat has stripped him down to just muscle—his magnificent body glistens in light. He drops his elbow down on the back of Lucas’s neck. He rolls Lucas over and covers him with a lateral press, his back and right arm over his opponent’s chest. He grabs Doug’s leg and pulls it up high. Joey’s face, exhausted and in pain, turns up to the ceiling, just inches above Lucas’s motionless face, apparently out cold.

The crowd chants, “ONE.” A beat. The crowd chants, “TWO.” A beat.

But suddenly Lucas grabs a fistful of Vim’s curly hair and wrenches it back and down to the mat. Lucas bucks, flipping Vim’s body over his head to the mat. Lucas rolls over and drives the top of his head into Vim’s exposed ribcage like a charging bull. Joey’s flat on his back, twitching in pain.

Lucas straddles his chest, resting his sweaty ass on Joey’s heaving diaphragm.  He grabs Joey’s right ear and tugs his head up by it.  He floats his huge fist about a foot from Joey’s face.

He says, “Mama always told me I was bad about busting up pretty things” … and then precedes to give the muscular babyface the drubbing of his life.

Friday, October 9, 2009

The Dump (13)

Lucas rolls and grinds Joey’s head, aiming to bust up his ear.  Second only to hurting people, Lucas likes to bust pretty boys up … Joey is certainly a looker, too … an almost irresistible temptation for Doug:  something handsome to mess up. 

Joey has the looks of a babyface, sure, but also the heart of a sadistic heel. 

Joey manages a grip on Doug’s leg below the knee.  He strains to pull it up, his fingers slipping on the grease.  So he grabs the bright pink string of Lucas’s thong and yanks it up.  He unbalances his opponent but doesn’t throw him—still, he does shove him a little closer to the wall of the cage. 

With great effort now he bucks Doug up against one of the steel poles.  He drives his full weight into him four or five times, till Doug loosens the hold on his head and he escapes. 

Loose, Joey explodes with a volley of punches to Lucas’s nose and mouth.  The back of Doug’s head clangs against the pole, and the crowd chants “Jo-EEE! Joe-EEE!” stomping the floor and pounding the tables.

Doug’s face is bloodied as Joey’s fists smash into him.  His arms spread to grasp the cage as his body slides down into the corner.  Blood dribbles from his lips as Lucas gasps for air.  His chest and gut are spotted red as the blood drips down the front of him.

Vim rears back driving his foot into Lucas’s chest forcing a loud bellow from him as the wind is knocked out of him.  Doug rolls forward onto his chest as he sucks in air trying to refill his aching lungs.  Vim drops his knee to the back of Lucas’s skull making his entire body jolt from the pain.  Doug lay face down on the mat moaning as Vim takes control of the fight.

Vim pulls Lucas up by the hair dragging him on his knees across the cage.  As they reach the far side of the cage Vim sets up to slam Doug’s face into the steel bars.  Before Vim can execute the move, Doug rams his cast into Joey’s belly doubling him over.  The cast then slams into the side of Joey’s head sending a flash of light across his vision, followed by darkness.  

Seconds later, Vim awakens, laid out on the mat with Doug standing over him.  Vim’s ears ring, and his vision is blurred.  He cannot focus on anything other than Lucas’s thick trail of hair stretching from his thong waistband and trailing off above his navel.  

Doug rubs his swollen belly as he watches Vim scurry backward trying to move away from his advance.  Doug stomps on Vim’s foot, trapping it and halting Vim.  Joey kicks up, ramming Lucas in the side of his knee, sending him crashing to the canvas. 

Vim slips his legs around Lucas’s torso, then slides them up under his armpits, locking them behind Doug’s neck.  Lucas yells as Vim tightens his scissors hold.  More blood splatters across Doug’s chest as his head is forced down by the hold.  Lucas struggles, trying to muster the strength to break free as Vim keeps his legs locked in place.

(To be continued)

Thursday, October 8, 2009

The Dump (12)

The cage door slams shut, trapping the two men inside.  Betting is allowed to continue until the first punch is thrown.   No introductions are needed, as these two guys are out for blood.

Vim wastes no time and charges at Doug, driving him back into the cage.  Vim is beaten badly as Doug hammers his ribs and spine with his plaster-covered hand.  A punch from Doug’s right hand and the plaster slices open Joey’s forehead.  Vim grabs Doug in a headlock, but Lucas is quick to slip free.  The oily-slick residue on Vim’s chest and arm tells him Doug is slicked up with Vaseline.  Greasing isn’t allowed in formal fights, but here at The Dump no one cares. 

Vim steps back blotting at his gash with the back of his hand.  He watches as Doug circles around him, calling him in again.  He studies Lucas’s physique looking for weaknesses.  Doug is a little bigger, he is muscular but not pretty.  He is big but not defined.  His chest is built but his waist is blocky and bulky, classic ‘roid gut.  He isn’t fat; bloated is the word that comes to Vim’s mind as he watches Doug preen about.

A splash of a cold cup of beer hitting the cage snaps Vim back to the fight.  He steps in toward Lucas, slamming a hard left-right combo to his abs and jaw, which knocks Doug back against the cage.  Doug responds with a knee lift to Joey’s ribs.  Doug comes off the cage, slamming his chest into Joey’s.  He wraps his arms around Vim’s ribcage, squeezing him tight, bringing a grunt of anguish from Joey as their sweat-soaked bellies slap together.

Joey writhes in Doug’s bear hug.  Lucas balls one fist into the other and grinds them to the mid-spine.  Vim’s groaning turns to roaring.  He feels his ribs giving a little under the pressure.  Lucas’s breath suggests he’s been drinking heavily—maybe to work up his nerve earlier that evening. 

Joey’s knees slide up Doug’s hips and rest on his ribcage.  He raises his arms, driving his elbows down on Lucas’s shoulders, breaking the hold. 

Joey’s feet hit the canvas and in a flash propel him back against Doug’s body.  He tries to shove the big guy up to the side of the cage again, but Doug’s feet are planted firmly. 

Doug shoves Vim back with his hands.  Vim charges back, but Lucas cuffs him cross the mouth.  Vim spits several specks of blood that land on his chin. 

The two men circle each other, taking wild swipes at each other that only whoosh through the air without landing.  Finally they lock up, pro style, shoulder and elbow.  They push and shove, bodies twisting—like surfers riding their boards, only these two ride each other. 

Doug slips Joey into a headlock.  Joey hears the dull thumping of Doug’s heart against his ear.  His nose full of Doug’s Vaseline glaze.  Doug pulls Joey in circles trying to disorient him or trip him up.  Vim squints, keeps his equilibrium, and jabs same hard ones to Lucas’s thick, sagging mid-section.  Doug grunts every time Joey’s fist lands on his pale gut.  The crowd is noisy, but Vim still hears the smack of knuckle on flesh and the delayed contraction of Lucas’s abs—music to his ears—he could listen to this all night. 

(To be continued)

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Midnight in Swansea, Wales: Shirtless Stud Picks Fight with the Wrong Drag Queen

The Dump (11)

 The figure strides closer to the lights, and it’s clear the dude is dressed in only a hot pink thong (matching the one Fister wore in the fight), black wrestler’s boots, and knee and elbow pads.  A cast on one arm rises halfway to the elbow.  He’s big.  His face looks like it’s welcomed a few punches in its day.  The hair is dark, the pale but beefy skin glistening with oil.  The crowd begins to murmur—some faces gasp in recognition. 

The figure grabs up a metal folding chair and holds it over his head.  Vim squirms in his seat as the guy struts towards the ring. 

You have to be shittin me, Vim mutters under his breath; It’s fuckin Doug Lucas! 

Lucas’s lips curl wickedly as he hurls the chair up to the ring, smashing the back of Lynch’s unsuspecting head. 

“Hey, champ,” Doug roars, “don’t forget your trophy!” 

Lynch’s legs crumple, and the shining handsome victor collapses on the mat.  Lucas grabs the bottom ring rope to heft himself up on the mat.  He’s not through the ropes before Vim is charging towards the ring, ripping his $700 shirt off on the way.

Lynch’s body is pulled from the ring leaving a bloody smear across the canvas.  Doug stands mid-ring, holding the metal chair in one hand as he watches Vim circle the ring.

“You want a piece of me?  Come get some!” Doug taunts Joey as he paces around the ring.

Vim climbs up on the ring apron, shirtless; in jeans and boots he stands threatening Lucas.  The crowd can barely hear the exchange between the two enemies, but they sense the tension and dislike between these two men.  The air is electric; the whole room buzzes as if about to explode.  As Vim begins to go through the ropes, he is tackled by a security team.  Vim and Lucas are pulled to opposite corners as they struggle to get at each other. 

“I understand you each have a score to settle … Doug, your wrist was broken by Greg.  And Joey, your friend was attacked from behind.”  The crowd roars as they kick and claw at the air trying to land a blow.  “If you too want to fight, then by all means … How about a cage fight, folks?”  

The crowd goes wild at the announcement of Vim fighting Lucas in the cage.  Vim settles down, knowing he will have to change into fighting gear.  Vim heads into the locker room as the cage is prepared for them.

Minutes later Vim emerges from the back room dressed only in a navy thong.  He heads for the cage to see Doug Lucas awaiting him.  Doug has stripped off his boots and pads; he stands mid-mat, wearing his gaudy pink thong.  Vim notices the plaster cast on Doug’s right hand and wrist.  Vim steps up into the cage, motioning Lucas to back up, allowing his entry. 

(To be continued)

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Live Wire

Monday, October 5, 2009

The Dump (9)

Vim settles back down in his seat and motions for a handsome young server to bring him another drink. 

Again Lynch, wobbly, shaking, gushing perspiration, pushes himself up on all fours.  He makes a sudden lunge for Fister, prepared to mount him for a pin or a series of punches, but Fister, with unexpected speed, lifts his knee and jabs it to Lynch’s groin.  Greg howls.  His whole body quivers and then collapses back to the mat. 

Fister rolls over and covers Greg’s face with his torso while pulling Greg’s right leg up to his shoulder.  It’s an easy pin, and Fister weakly counts out by slamming the palm of his hand on the mat … ONE … TWO … but in yet another surprise move this evening, Greg calls up the energy to arch up and buck Fister clear of him. 

The two fighters roll over to the nearest ropes and pull themselves up to their feet, but for two or three loooong minutes, they just stand there, propped up on the ropes, breathing deeply. 

Vim fidgets nervously.  The once-frenzied crowd has settled to silence … even a few coughs are heard.  Vim looks around at the faces in the crowd, nine-tenths of them have never stepped into a ring—to box, to wrestle, or to fight—fewer than a third of them have any fight experience at all—whether in dorm rooms or the back alleys of bars.  Most of these assholes, he thinks, have never taken a punch in their fuckin lives. 

Slowly, Vim rises to his feet.  He begins to clap his hands together, slowly but rhythmically.  The pace of his clapping picks up as scattered onlookers join him in applauding the two men in the ring.  The rest of the crowd soon picks up on the cadenced applause, and the room reverberates with the roar, crashing like ocean waves, and visibly the sound heartens the fighters, bodies bruised and glistening in the harsh lights.  They begin to stand erect, pull away from the ropes, shake loose their muscular limbs, and take one or two steps in and face each other down.

The fighters move closer.  Their fists rise as they approach each other.  Greg shoots a glance towards Vim followed by a smile.  Fister sees this and glares at Vim coldly. 

Greg grabs at Tom’s head in a collar and elbow tie up, wanting to continue the wrestling aspect of the fight.  Fister responds with a solid fist to Lynch’s abs.  Greg curls and crouches as he holds his aching belly.  A knee to the chin snaps Greg backward knocking him against the ropes.  Fister grows more confident as he watches Lynch fumble to remain standing.  The cheering crowd is behind Fister as he slams Greg in the ribs with side and crescent kicks.

Greg is rocked by the body blows sending gobs of blood flying as each one finds its mark.  Vim leans forward in his chair watching as his buddy takes another beating.  He ignores his drink delivery; even the flirtation of the young, shirtless waiter who brings it goes unnoticed. 

(To be continued)

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Stronghold (DVD Review)

“Why do we like beating the crap out of each other?” director Victor Rook asks us towards the beginning of his intelligent and informative documentary Stronghold: In the Grip of Wrestling.

If you want the answer, you should see this remarkable movie, available for download or DVD order here.  I’ve never seen a better movie about wrestling … never ever.

With its elegiac opening, harking back to the careless physicality of boyhood and an earlier time in American society, with few or no hang-ups about rough horseplay and physical contact between males, Stronghold explores the mysteries and gradual social rejection of male-male bonding and intimacy.  It’s a story nobody, gay or straight, has previously had the nerve to tell—and this movie is all the more remarkable because it gets every bit of it absolutely right.

An artful mix of archival footage—everything from old wrestling instruction films to Hercules and Tarzan movies—and interviews with wrestlers, both gay and straight-identified, the movie presents wrestling as both masculine role-playing and a primal urge we males are naturally drawn to from birth.

The movie covers the sport of wrestling as both a historical phenomenon, adapting to changes in individual societies and cultures, and a psychological phenomenon, in which aggression, drive for alpha-dominance, and sex drive merge.

Wrestling has existed in every society and in every period of society—from Gilgamesh to Georges St Pierre.  Rook jokingly theorizes that in ancient times wrestling evolved from running, as pushing and pulling between competitors brought both of them to the ground.

George Washington and Abraham Lincoln wrestled well into middle age, but later when Teddy Roosevelt attempted to purchase wrestling mats for the governor’s mansion, his request was firmly denied on the basis that the sport was an inappropriate pastime for an elected head of a U.S. state.  Billiards, yes, but not grappling.

Wrestling then became all but invisible.  Few sporting goods stores carry wrestling gear, even though demand is fairly high, and eBay relegates non-nude male-male wrestling to the porn section (while blithely accepting female-female and female-male wrestling as wholesome mainstream fun).

What happened?

Well, according to this film, a number of things:  civilized behavior came to marginalize and denounce anything primal (and a fight between male equals is definitely primal); the rise of feminism and the decline of all-male institutions likewise changed popular notions of appropriate masculine behavior; and the public’s growing awareness of homosexuality—in psychology and in the growing visibility of gay issues in politics—began to make any show of physical intimacy between men suspect.

For me, the more interesting parts of the film focus on wrestlers’ explaining what wrestling means to them. Their boyish enthusiasm for the sport is infectious and sexy.  These men are immensely likable, all the more so in their honesty about their feelings about the sport and their willingness to address candidly the reasons our society looks down on the sport and the adult men who like to wrestle for fun and exercise. 

Part of the reason is the circus atmosphere of pro wrestling on TV.  The WWE has made the once revered ancient sport ridiculous, with soap-opera plots, insultingly juvenile characters, and the gradual disappearance of actual wrestling holds in the ring, replaced by high-flying acrobatics (minimizing body contact) and endless jawing and cavorting outside the squared circle.  As a result, even wrestling fans have become less respectful of and less knowledgeable about wrestling.  One serious pro wrestler states that he’d rather wrestle for an audience of just ten people who are into it than for a crowd of a thousand who aren’t.

On a deeper level, homophobia is to blame.  And the film rightly observes that heterosexuals are more contained and limited by the society’s homophobia than homosexuals.  The roughhouse and horseplay of boys and men, the essence of male intimacy and bonding, are denied to straight and gay alike.  The public’s suspicion of wrestling as “gay” has become something of a self-fulfilling prophecy, relegating the sport to gay and bi men who have reached a point of self-assurance that permits them to explore their masculine sides through intimate, quasi-erotic contact with other men.

The film also explores the deeper psychological appeals of wrestling.  Friction feels good, plain and simple.  It’s sensual and sensuous.  But beyond that, the brain centers that trigger aggression rest side by side with the parts of the brain that trigger sexual desire—hence the erotic component of wrestling that gay and straight wrestlers alike acknowledge.  The hormones released when the human body fights are the same hormones that pop up when one is having sex.

The film’s exploration of these and related issues touch on not only the recreational pastimes of those who enjoy wrestling for its sexual or competitive (or both) aspects, but also the self-crippling condition of a culture whose fear of and shame over eroticism (of any type) has seriously thwarted the normal, healthy development of its male population—isolating it and proscribing male-male intimacy.

After answering the question about why we like beating the crap out of each other, Rook asks another intriguing question—one that hints at utopian possibilities in the equal brotherhood of men and acceptance of their physical bodies: 

“What would the world be like if men greeted each other with wrestling holds?”

The Dump (8)

He places both ankles under his armpits and begins to spin.  Fister is lifted off the mat as Greg turns in place.  He releases the hold, sending Tom sailing under the bottom rope and out onto the floor.  The crowd responds as if it’s a lumberjack match, as they hoist Fister back onto his feet and shove him back into the ring for more punishment.

As Fister staggers forward, Lynch dives at him; Fister drops to the mat barely evading the clothesline.  Greg slams head on into the corner post.  His body folds onto itself as he crumbles under the impact.  Greg sinks to the mat, blood flowing down his face from a cut across his forehead. 

Fister wobbles across the ring, closing in on Lynch.  Both men are clearly tired and injured; the pace of the fight has slowed drastically as Tom jams his fingers under Greg’s jawbone forcing him to his feet.  The crack of a vicious backhand chop fills the air as Greg’s chest is sliced open and the fighter is sent sprawling backward into the corner.

Lynch leans on the ropes slipping down onto his ass as blood runs down his abs from the gash across his pecs.

Tom lifts Greg’s head up enough to get a good look at his face.  He slams his fist to Greg’s jaw, knocking his head side to side as blood flings in all directions.  Greg’s left eye is nearly swollen closed as Fister continues pounding him down in the corner.

Vim gulps the last of his drink, slamming the glass down on the table.  The loud bang goes unnoticed, lost in the buzz of the crowd.  Vim begins to rise from his chair when a change in the mood of the crowd turns his attention back to the ring.  Vim stops to watch the action in the ring.

Greg had delivered a kick in the gut to Fister, dropping him to his knees on the mat.  Slowly Lynch is pulling himself up, using the ropes, as Fister kneels face down, arms wrapped across his waist, legs kicking as he fights the pain.   Lynch throws himself onto Fister’s back.  He wraps an arm across Tom’s throat as his legs squeeze the blond's torso.  Greg catches Tom in a rear choke hold.

Fister coughs airlessly as Lynch tightens the squeeze on his neck.  Lynch pulls the stud up to his feet and pushes him towards the turnbuckle.  The crowd is revved up, thirsty for blood, even as the match is slowing down. 

Sloppily yet viciously, Greg arches back, lifting Tom’s feet off the mat.  Tom’s tongue lolls out between his lips, and his feet kick spastically outwards.  As they near the corner, Tom’s foot strikes solid wood and ricochets off the turnbuckle, and the force knocks the two exhausted fighters to the mat and loosens Greg’s murderous choke. 

The fighters lie on the mat, not moving, except for their stomachs heaving as they gasp for air.  The crowd quiets to a murmur, still yearning for more aggression and bloodshed, yet, through a drunken haze, realizing the heavy toll the fight is taking on both combatants. 

(To be continued)

Saturday, October 3, 2009

The Dump (7)

Lynch drives his knee down on the blond’s lower back, forcing his ass to the mat and protracting the stretch from the neck to the groin to its limits. Fister screams out, and the crowd gasps. Lynch grabs a fistful of long, wet hair and yanks back—Fister’s back arches, his chest and belly curving out to the crowd, thick veins erupting along the sides of his neck and the tops of his pecs. A shower of sweat and blood speckles the spectators closest to the ring.

Greg smashes his right fist down across the bridge of Tom’s nose. He climbs up on the bottom rope, the back of Tom’s head against his belly, and metes out a dozen lightning-fast jabs to Tom’s nose and mouth. Tom’s face is a bloody mask, streaked with tears.

Temporarily sated, Lynch backs away and stomps round the four corners of the ring. Fister’s body sags, crucified on the ropes, his chin falling down to his breastbone. He might be unconscious, but in a flash his body spasms and his bloody face howls when Lynch knees the back of his neck while pulling the top rope in towards his chest.

Greg unties the blond stud’s arms and drags him by the head to the center of the ring.

The pink thong, soaked with sweat, is now eight shades darker than it was when the fight broke out.

Tom is kneeling before Greg, his forehead leaning against Greg’s crotch, visibly swollen, the cut of his hard-on clearly embossed on his tight baby blue briefs.

Greg backs away, leaving Fister kneeling at the center of the ring. Greg bounces off the ring ropes and drop kicks Fister’s chest. The blow knocks Fister to his back and his legs snap out like a switchblade opening. He howls in pain.

Greg plants his left foot on Tom’s right calf and jerks Tom’s right leg up to his chest. Legs stretched out, showing off his pink-wrapped package, Fister pants for breath. His manhood on humiliating display in the ogling gaze of the drunken crowd, Fister tries to concede, but Lynch’s having none of it:

“I’m not finished with you yet, punk. Not by a long shot.”

Lynch stomps the inside of Fister’s exposed quad sending sharp pains shooting through his leg. Tom’s screams of “No…no…no” turn into a cry of pain as Lynch rams Fister’s knee down to the mat, as if trying to drive a stake into the ground. Fister lurches on the canvas, attempting to drag his battered body to safety.

Lynch grabs Fister by both ankles, pulling him back. Fister’s blood-smeared torso leaves a red smudge as he is towed along. Greg spreads Tom’s legs open before slamming his foot down, digging his heel into Fister’s spine. Tom screams as his legs go numb.

(To be continued)

Friday, October 2, 2009

The Dump (6)

Fister stops to pull Greg up by the hair, his brief pause gives Lynch a moment to capitalize on as he drives his knee into Fister’s inner thigh muscle dropping the blond stud to the mat. Lynch headlocks Fister delivering a flurry of punches to the side of his head. Tom is stunned but manages to wobble away as Lynch sets up a haymaker punch.

Lynch’s fist finds its mark as Tom is struck square between the eyes. Fister stumbles backwards as his eyes roll in his head trying to focus. Bloody trails run down Tom’s face as his forehead oozes a patch of crimson. Fister drops; he leans with both arms hanging over the top rope, still trying to regain his senses. Greg grabs the back of Fister’s hair whipping him around to face him. Almost as if by instinct, Fister whips out an elbow, slamming into the side of Lynch’s face. Blood sprays across the ring as Lynch’s lip and cheek are sliced open.

Before Lynch can attempt to control his bleeding, another elbow connects with his temple. The room is dark and spinning as Greg finds himself rolling on the mat trying to determine which way is up. Fister jerks Greg to his feet and slams his back against the ring post. Tom’s big hands slam into Greg’s chest and gut as Lynch remains trapped in the corner.

The crowd roars as Fister and Lynch exchange punches. Greg looks to be making a comeback as he again rams his knee into Tom. Only his rock-like abs save Fister from puking, as he turns the tables and slams his knee to Lynch’s gut. Greg is reeling after a series of knees to the body, followed by a European uppercut that nearly takes Greg’s head off.

Vim is worried and orders another drink; this one is a double.

He watches as Fister lifts Greg overhead, tossing him across the ring onto his back. The ring shakes as Greg hits the mat. Much to the amazement of many in the crowd, Greg staggers to his feet, shaking his head to clear it, and turns his burning glare towards Tom.

Lynch’s quick rebound startles Fister, who backs off, hands outstretched before him. Greg looks like a mad bull. The crowd practically sees the steam rise off his forehead, chest, and shoulders as he stalks the beefcake blond.

Tom backs against the ropes. He sticks his left leg through the top and middle ropes, pleading for a time out—his attention divided between the advancing fighter and the faces in the crowd, to whom he seems to look for help … or mercy.

No ref to stop him, Lynch plows right into Fister—for a second it looks like the whole ring could tip over from the impact. The smashup thrusts Tom far into the ropes and off his feet, his armpits snagged on the top rope. Greg pulls the middle rope up against the back of Fister’s neck, his biceps now pinched between the twisted top and middle ropes. His perfect Michelangelo torso is stretched out towards the crowd, thrilled to see the agony writhe through his taut sweaty muscles.

(To be continued)

Thursday, October 1, 2009

The Dump (5)

Saturday night and The Dump is packed. The owner even paid off the city and county to exceed fire-code limits for one night only. So the place is surging with loud, drunken, boisterous fight fans—mostly men, with a few women interspersed. Tickets are being scalped for well over the $50 cover—some hitting as high as $775.

The monitors intercut music videos with surveillance camera footage of the original fight, including the shit talk between the two wrestlers held back by the security guards. The crowd cheers when their favorite fighter gets a close-up, shouting obscenities at his opponent. This time the crowd is evenly divided, Fister fans and Lynch fans.

“I’ll kick his fucking ass,” the monitor replays Lynch’s red-faced threat. “I will kill the mofo with my bare hands.” Lynch’s fans wear T’s with his photo—shirtless, pumped up, and raging—emblazoned on the front, the words “Kick His Fucking Ass” on the back.

“That bitch is mine,” Fister growls at the shaky handheld camera-phone that captured the moment last week. “Gimme the fuckin papers. Sign me on. I will tear the dumb bitch a new asshole.” His fans wear matching T’s with the words “That Bitch Is Mine” in metal studs.

The owner quietens the crowd gathered round the ring and introduces the fighters, who enter simultaneously from opposite ends of the club. Fister in a flamboyant pink thong—an electric green feather boa strewn around his neck and trailing behind him. The stripper gear nicely offsetting his smooth, chiseled physique. Greg Lynch in skintight wrestling briefs and a Lynch fan T-shirt that he rips off before sliding between the ropes to the ring. His muscles shining with oil and sweat.

The two fighters don’t even wait for the bell. They charge each other, fists flying. Fister’s feather boa is shredded, green feathers floating over the crowd’s heads like coyote night in a hen house. The club owner barely escapes the ring without getting punched. The crowd screams. Deafening excitement all round.

Lynch is first to land a series of blows as his fists hammer Fister in the face and head. Fister is knocked back, but not for long, as he counters with punches of his own. A kick to the ribs has Lynch clutching his side. There is no showboating tonight as Fister keeps his full attention fixed on Lynch’s rippling abs. Lynch groans and stumbles as Fister jabs his foot into Lynch’s belly, just above his pube line.

Sitting at a nearby table is Lynch’s buddy, Joey Vim. Joey is sipping his jack and water as he watches the exchange in the ring. Vim squints recognizing Greg’s pain as Fister slams a fist to his jaw.

(To be continued)


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...