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.