Zack Novack is a 26-year-old New Jersey stripper, who looks some ten years younger and sometimes wrestles with the Beyond Wrestling guys. (I am pretty sure some of these shots were in fact taken some ten years ago.) He stands 5'10" and has the bearing of a tough-Jew wiggah. I like his navel ... a lot.
I have previously cited Chuck Palahniuk on the subject of skinny fighters:
Skinny guys, they never go limp. They fight until they’re burger. ... They never say, stop. It’s like they’re all energy, shaking so fast they blur around the edges.... As if the only choice they have left is how they’re going to die and they want to die in a fight.I would stick by these sentiments. Still, on the whole, I prefer and have always preferred muscle, the exhibition of some roundness of some sort, even fat, over skin and bones.
My earliest fantasy fixation in childhood was Mighty Mouse, followed by Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan, Steve Reeves' Hercules, Sean Flynn in The Son of Captain Blood, and Robert Conrad in The Wild Wild West ... an evolution from the comically curvaceous towards the streamlined, without any stops for pigeon-chestedness or pronounced collarbones and shoulder blades.
On the other hand, as noted in an earlier posting, I have in more recent decades broadened my tastes to include twinks ... or, to use the preferred classical expression, ephebes, those 18-20-year-old cadets the Greeks deified in statue after statue. As a rule, this sort of fighter comes slim, and the appeal, such as it is, is not only his almost otherworldly elegance (which the ancients preferred to bona fide girlish beauty) but also his brave, sometimes fervent struggle to vanquish his own effeminate attractiveness by proving tough in a fight.
A wrestler like Zack Novack draws my eye, but not so much my cock. I have no urge to jump in the ring with him or to throw him over my shoulder and carry him to bed. Even to do so in fantasy would require me to imagine myself as different, in age and physique and attitude, than I am. But I like to watch twinks/emos/ephebes fight each other, just as I get a certain hard-to-explain charge out of lady wrestlers and catfights (about which interests I may have more to say, in another posting someday). What it is I can't say, but it's not that I want to jump in with them.
I like boy fighters in contests with other boy fighters, less so against manly men or bodybuilders. It is, I think, the idea that they are proving themselves as men, as roughnecks, that so pleasingly distinguishes them from the usual vain, posturing, trend-obsessed, and prematurely jaded silliness of the twinks one runs into in bars, etc.
With this in mind, look at Novack in the ring against another lean and mean dude, Chase Burnett (via BeyondWrestling).
In writing about Zack, I reminded myself of something that happened to me in junior high school in North Miami Beach, Florida, over forty years ago.
After school, these jocks, big smiling guys with sinewy shoulders and arms, singled me out, cajoling me into a fight with this other slim guy (I was about 5'10" and under 150 at the time), a friend of theirs, a stoner with long scraggly hair and buck teeth.
I refused. I didn't like fighting at the time and didn't know how to fight.
A few days later they pushed this kid into me in the hallway. The kid had a straight pin ready in his hand and jabbed it in my thigh.
Thus provoked, I fought back. Actually I didn't do badly ... weed definitely slowed my opponent down ... but some other guys (upstanding jocks who ran for student government and sometimes looked out for brainy sissies like me) intervened and pulled us apart.
There was nothing the least bit erotic about the fight for me, though in retrospect it became a focus of a few masturbatory fantasies, not at all because of my opponent, rather entirely because of the leering, muscled guys looking on and licking their lips, touching their bellies under their sweatshirts, pushing me to punch the stoner and take some knocks in return.
It's this incident that my mind travels to when I see two slender kids fighting. The rite of passage of boys everywhere, I guess. To imagine myself in the ring with a skinny dude is to imagine myself at fifteen again, skinny too, proving to myself, as well as to others, that I am not somebody to mess with.