Wednesday, March 31, 2010
I love pro wrestling. I love the opulent manflesh on insouciant display. I love the naturalistic drama of male-on-male aggression. I love the wisecracks. I love the arrogance. I love the haughty when they are taken down. I love the righteous who, after many a hard ordeal, finally cut the haughty down to size. I love kayfabe. I love shoots. I love the scrub of skin on skin.
For about five minutes I listed "Pro Wrestling" as my "Religious Views" on Facebook last week, before deciding that, no, nothing less than stark "Atheist" will do to show the bible thumpers of America that my faithlessness is unabashed.
I love guys who wrestle. I love their attitudes, their sense of roughneck fun, their odd, earnest, even touching zeal for the sport. I love the smirking smarks, the blind-as-bats refs, and the sniveling valets. I love the street-smart pseudo-intellectuals who think Ayn Rand had all the answers and publish Shatner/Nimoy slash fiction online under their wives' names. I love guys who take their time to work an opponent over, who take a little pride, who make sure the hurt gets done just right.
I hate WWE. I'm sorry. It doesn't work, though they've had some real beauts on their roster over the years. Last night I could force myself to watch only ten minutes of WWE NXT, all for the sake of beautiful Justin Gabriel (the "rookie" with a mere 13 fucking years of pro-wrestling experience) before facing the reality--again, for the thousandth time--that WWE has refined television wrestling mainly by whittling down the wrestling part to almost zero.
I love the words "work over." I love "turnbuckle." I love "squared circle" and "beatdown" and "heel." I love "body slam" and "cheap heat" and "finisher" and "parts unknown" and " rasslin." I love and revere the memory of Gordon Solie (1929-2000), Florida's premier wrestling commentator, who could wax poetic over two sweaty oafs slugging it out, who gave us phrases like "foreign object" and "Pier 6 brawl," who gushed, on many occasions, "Now he wears the crimson mask of ignominy and abject defeat!" He was the man who sent me scurrying to the dictionary to look up "solar plexus." He was our Homer, before the tycoons turned the sport into a travesty.
I love the rhythm of a two-and-a-half count.
I love the splat of sweat on spandex. I love the double bicep pose. I love wrestlers, on the verge of being pinned, who manage just barely to stretch and rest their boot on the bottom rope. I love the heel who suckers the face into shaking hands before the match. I love the half-second it takes a handsome stud to peel off his jacket or shirt. I love the clang of the opening bell--as a teen it gave me instant wood (I even turned down the volume on my bedroom TV for fear that that sound would be enough by itself to betray my unnatural self-pleasuring crimes to the world). I love the arms raised in victory, the sore loser, the baldy claiming his hair was pulled, the stunned amazement on the manager's face when his own fighter accidentally slugs him in the jaw. I love the universally recognized hand signal for "That belt will soon be mine!"
I love the sleeper hold. I love the ritual of lifting the victim's arm and letting it fall limply to the mat. I love the way a victim's well-developed pecs droop languidly atop a slack stomach. I love the jobber who sells it by letting a silver thread of drool stretch off his lower lip.
I love the sissies. I love the jungle lads, skinheads, and Svengalis. I love the Indian braves, the midgets, the billionaires, and village idiots. I love the mysterious men in masks, the golden barefoot boys, the ex-GIs with short fuses. I love the rival brothers. I love the father-and-son tag teams. I love the seasoned veterans and cherub-faced rookies.
I love pro wrestling. If it was a woman, I'd marry it. If it was a man, I'd fuck it till it screamed bloody murder. And if heaven was a nine-zillion-year "I quit" match, no DQs, each contestant glistening with baby oil and sweat, I would run not walk up the aisle next Sunday morning and claim Jesus for my personal lord and savior all over.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Here are some shots of Ring of Honor wrestling champ Tyler Black, taken at an event earlier this month. (Photos by Scott Finkelstein)
Well we're doin mighty fine I do suppose
In our streak of lightnin cars and fancy clothes
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back
Up front there ought to be a Man in Black.
-- Johnny Cash, "Man in Black" (1971)
Monday, March 29, 2010
I bought this guy's book, Being Moore (2008), a while back, mainly on the strength of the photo of the hot body on the cover ... Christian Moore (Ben Puttmann). I haven't read it, but I'll get around to it one day. He's retired now, but in his day he was the shit ... young, built, aggressive, smalltown Iowa ploughboy, my idea of the perfect babyface.
Christian Moore - [Highlight Video]
Ben Puttmann [Christian Moore] | MySpace Video
Gilles from Paris has just opened a new gallery (222) of vintage American wrestling photos and videos. If you like your kink aged like a good Bordeaux wine, Gilles' site is a find. I found all the classic shots you see adorning this blog (top and right) there.
Un lutteur et d'une grande influence sur ce blog, Gilles est un homme a qui nous devons tous beaucoups.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Here are some shots of a match between Chrisjen Hayme and Matt Boyce for NWA Main Event.
Need to toughen up a babyface with golden locks, bright innocent eyes, and dewy pink cheeks? Throw him in the ring with a slightly older ex-male-model who turned heel a year or two back and watch those flaxen sparks fly. Blond versus blond is as close to a m4m catfight as we can get, guys.
Claw that bitch's eyes out!
Mike Bennett caught my eye in fights against Matt Taven and B.K. Jordan over at Top Rope Promotions, where he's held the heavyweight championship since last spring. He looks a bit like a frat jock, a bit like an extra on Spartacus: Blood and Sand, a bit like the guy hogging the free weights at the gym, and a bit like a day trader or a sales rep for a major pharmaceutical corporation. In short, he looks "all American," topped with a dollop of "bully," if that's not redundant.
There's a certain smirk that marks off white American jocks, especially those raised in gated communities. Part of the trick of it is to keep the eyes looking vacant, capable of anything, while the corner of one's mouth climbs up the canines in an aw-shucks manner. The American jock can balance arrogance and regular guy-ness mostly on the weight of that smirk. Bennett is a master of that look--he just looks to me like the kind of guy who could trade faggot jokes and favorite verses from the Book of Proverbs over the ninth hole at the country club.
Mind you: that's a look that gives me a certain frisson when combined with pugnacity and good looks.
On top of that, he has what I have tried many times to describe as the perfect catch-wrestling body. Thick necked. Broad shouldered. Biceps you can crack nuts on. Hard, inexorable pecs and firm, protruding belly. Perpetually erect nipples. An insolent, finely sculpted navel. Massive thighs. Adamant buns.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
The "German Highlight" 24-year-old Michael Knight, 5'10", is hot and tough, and as these fifteen pictures attest, he's got the moves too. He's wrestled in the US and France, as well as in his home country, Germany. Built like a brick shithouse and with a darkly handsome face that eerily resembles that of an old friend of mine (hmmm ... um ... care to wrassle, F?), Knight is a popular fighter in Germany, with all the agility, grit, ferocity, and animal magnetism of a legend.
Versus blond heel Steve "The Vision" Douglas, 9 May 2009, Lübeck, Germany, in a ladder match for the International Mad Wrestling Association Championship (via MWALuebeck)
Settle in, fellas, this is gonna be long and tasteeee ...