I would not at all mind losing a hot and sweaty erotic ring match to BK Jordan. The man is fast, funny, fit, and fuckable. But more than anything I’d like to rough him up … rip his baby-blue tights down to his knees, string him up on the tree of woe, and smash my knee to his soft round gut a couple thousand times.
It’s his arrogance mostly … all the more enticing to me because he looks like a regular asshole you might know in real life. The preening salon-tanned, bikini-waxed, and bottle-blond heels of the Gorgeous George and Exotic Adrian Street variety don’t really do it for me, even though my hat’s off to them for showmanship and, frankly, in some of my favorite fight fantasies I pretend I’m one of them.
Jordan represents some of the heel qualities I most admire … a cheat, a coward, a blowhard, an egoist, an exaggerator of his wrestling prowess, and a bit of a dimwit. And then there are those thighs. Yuh-umm. And the buzzed pud-like pate has so many delicious Freudian overtones I can’t even count them all. Sumptuous is what he is.
Listen to me, BK, Mister Burger Kid. I want you so bad I can taste it, man. I don’t know where you’re hiding, but if I run across you, you better hope and pray you’re in my blind spot, cuz if I EVER get my hands on you, I will thrash you six ways till Sunday. Nothing I’d like better than to bust that stupid smirk off your face and wear that big mouth of yours for a mitten. Your ass is mine, Jordan, and don’t you forget it. Run away if you can, but you’ll have bruises you’ll have to give names to, next time I catch you within even spitting distance of me.
[All pictures the product and property of the ever-reliable Christine J. Coons, accessed on Flickr via my new best friend ddude95.]