Stan Lee


Elite Wrestling Entertainment operates out of Ripley, Tennessee, north of Memphis.  No offense meant to anybody, but this outfit is not much in terms of pretty faces, lithesome youths, or big muscle, but it's got catch wrestling action to rival anybody's, anywhere, to judge by its stash of 150+ YouTube uploads, shot (brilliantly) with a single handheld camera that not only captures every move but also throws the viewer into the ring with the combatants.  (And, to be fair, EWE has offered up goodies like Ty Hamilton and Greg King Jr. in the past.)

I have long contended that the erotic allure of wrestling centers more in the heart of the fight and the fighters than any measurable GQ or Blueboy or Mr. Universe factors.  Now everybody here knows I am a respecter of handsomeness in a man, and round firm muscle--not to forget huge cock--gets my heart to beating faster, just as it does anybody else's, and these, by themselves, carry a lot of sexual heat, to be sure.  But in wrestling, even chubby or skinny fighters, even (as I have said elsewhere) lady wrestlers, if they have the fire inside them, know the moves, move from one hold to the next with a certain amount of fluency, carry the drama of the program, and don't shy away from body contact, even the homely can give me wood if they put up a good enough fight.  I can't explain why this is so, but it is.

Take the match above, shot last winter, pitting "Golden Boy" Greg Anthony against Stan Lee--in a hair versus belt match.  Lee, then heavyweight champion, is a handsome young fighter with a thick, hardy body--and tight skimpy trunks--with the crowd firmly behind him.  He's beefy in a smooth attractive way, with shoulders and arms that speak more of ploughing or construction work than of three-hour workouts at Gold's Gym.  He hasn't a mark on him--and that smooth, cherubic whiteness is a signifier of his basic decency, perhaps even the innocence and aspirations of youth (and, oh, for the record, haters, by "whiteness" I'm referring to color as in paint and baked goods, not color as in race).  He fights with a stern, determined, no-nonsense expression on his face--and doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word "gimmick"--except that his whole boy-next-door bearing is a sort of gimmick, of course--and it works.

He fights well against Anthony, a good villain, universally loathed and ready to take the easy, cowardly shot to win the match and save his long hair.  For much of the match, Lee suffers--and suffers beautifully--at the hands of the heel, which only sweetens the paybacks, however intermittent and brief.  Both fighters seem to know that the match is really all about the marzipan smoothness of Stan Lee's thighs and the tempting jellied defenseless curve of Lee's belly.  So the action circles in on the champion's body, in torment and in victory by turns--a ballet of American masculinity and a melodrama of ruthless guile coming to blows with honest youthful enthusiasm.  And what is sexier than that?


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