Even the rules and regulations at Naked Kombat give me wood. The rules may be the sexiest part of it.
Round One lasts for eight minutes. Not a second more, not a second less, thanks to a no-nonsense ref who barks commands like a drill sergeant.
The fighters (in lycra briefs of contrasting colors) introduce themselves and tersely state what's on their minds about the guy they're about to fight, how they have prepared for this moment, and what they ultimately plan to do to him ... "Ride him like a pony" being a popular choice.
Then they wrestle, closely observed by the ref, who calls the start and finish of the round and announces each wrestler's point-making moves, the common ones being for control and standard wrestling holds, but a NK fighter also gets points for kicking, gut punching, and pushing his opponent's face to the mat.
Round Two lasts for eight minutes. Again, precisely. The fighters wrestle in jockstraps now. They notch up points for grabbing or stroking their opponent's cock and balls, for slapping the guy's butt, for ripping the strap off and putting it over the guy's head, and for exposing an opponent's anus to the fresh air and the camera lens.
Round Three lasts for eight more minutes. The fighters wrestle naked, sometimes in oil or mud. Points accrue for fingering or licking an opponent's butt crack (3-second minimum), for sitting on the guy's face (cock and balls must directly align with the down guy's nose and mouth ... yes, even the fine points give me a chubby), and for having the most awe-inspiring erection.
At the end of Round Three the ref announces the points earned by each wrestler. He turns to the winner and says something like "He's all yours now," a sentence which in this context fills me with inexpressible excitement every single time. During the ten-minute sex round, the winner pushes the loser around some more, makes the loser submit to the glory of his engorged cock, and finally thrusts his lava-hot meat into the loser's quivering hole.
My main man on the NK roster is Rusty Stevens, 6'0", 190#, with four wins, zero losses, since his debut last spring. Stevens has tattooed shoulders and a hairy chest that look lifted right off the cover of Stag Magazine, circa 1960.
Rusty is all swagger before a match. Not an ounce of humility in him. Recently, he bragged that his only fight preparation had been to laze around for a week and eat junk food, knowing the chump he was set to wrestle would be a pushover.
Between rounds he glowers at his opponent, as if the one thing he wants most in all the world is to cut him down to size. You gotta like a man like that.
In my own fantasy tangle with Stevens, he would take me down and make me his bitch. Repeatedly. Sure, in many of my fantasies I'm the man on top, but with Stevens, what would be the point? Who would I be kidding anyway? You? I don't think so.
That the matches at Naked Kombat are conducted with such high style and Olympic ceremony is part of their appeal. It's almost as if everyone involved senses that the fight is some kind of ritual to the gods of hyper-masculinity. Watching one of these fights, I almost come to believe that our kinks have the power to bestow on us some measure of dignity and heroic sense of honor, if only we conduct ourselves with some decorum, however makeshift, and let our male egos soar to heights that make ordinary guys titter self-consciously.
In the sex round, after the points are tallied, the winner makes all the rules for himself, and the loser gets to be the focus of his ire and appetite and to lose himself for a few minutes in the erotic drama of aggression and abjection. My egalitarian principles to one side, for ten minutes anyway, there's something immensely satisfying and just, even glorious, in that arrangement.