Friday, March 19, 2010
Who Thinks This Is Sexy?
This is Dave Crist. I think this picture is sexy. I've seen other pictures of him that aren't so sexy to me, but this one is. Everybody looks sexy from a certain angle, I bet, in a certain light, wearing just the right tight shiny briefs, just as every wrestle god--from Jason Hades to Mike Martin--has a shot somewhere hidden away on Photobucket or Flickr that makes him look bad ... except for Tyler Black--I've never seen a photograph of Tyler Black I wouldn't fuck, even though a few of them do catch his goofy side. I would fuck Tyler Black's goofy side. I would love to fuck Tyler Black's goofy side.
Dave, 27, 5'8", 198#, is one half of the tag team Irish Airborne, with his younger brother Jake. The two of them have been on the Ring of Honor roster since 2006. I am quite willing to believe that in the flesh neither brother would ring my chimes, and the probability is high, very high, that I would not ring either of theirs. I'm over twice this guy's age, I'm taller, and not as heavy, certainly not as strong. But this picture makes me want to do something.
The something that this picture makes me want to do is bounce off Big Dave's belly. That looks like it would be fun, fun in a sexy way. It's got a nice creamy glow to it, smooth, pink, a nice indention towards the top of it that echoes the cleavage between his solidly flat tits. When I crash against that stomach, I would feel it give and then I would hit that cuirras of hard abdominal muscle under the fat that would propel me back. The jiggling would be most intense down below the navel, where gravity has pulled a good thirty or so cheeseburgers and about two gallons of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The impact of my body against his would no doubt jar that highlighted bulge that currently nests between his thick strong thighs.
Bear with me, guys. I know how creepy this is. Let me embrace the creepiness of it all for just a second or two more. I know I will hate myself in the morning for being so bold and candid about my lusts this afternoon. I respect Dave Crist the man, I do, both what he's accomplished in the ring and his good taste in going to ROH, instead of WWE, but it's not the man I'm talking about here--it's this picture.
I think part of what I like about this picture is that it reminds me of the wrestlers I would watch when I was younger, feel a tingle of desire, but then convince myself that it couldn't be attraction at all because the guys were not gym-chiseled Adonises with waists one-fifth the circumference of their chests and backs that looked like steel girders. Guys like Dick Murdoch, Kevin Sullivan, Dory Funk Jr, and especially Cowboy Bob Orton ... tough, sadistic wrestlers ... strong, feral, mean, underhanded, aggressive ... but often also world-weary, assured, and street smart.
After I bounce off this guy, I'd want to grab him by his hair, close to his anachronistic sideburn, and pull his head under by armpit. Since I'm taller, by about four inches, he wouldn't have to bend down, but he would bend down a little, just to pouch out that gut a little more so I could feel it wobble against my hip. I'd bend my knees a little and squeeze harder, just so the camera could catch a shot of that sensual mound, hanging, dripping with sweat, as it shimmies beneath his ribs.
He'd thrust his hairless forearm against the small of my back, and the two of us together would collide against the turnbuckle, but I'd maneuver him, just so, so that his bulk would cushion the collision for me. He'd slug me across the mouth, but I'd aim my blows at his belly button. I'd pound so hard and fast my fists would be undetectable to the human eye ... only hummingbirds would see these fists as they fly into that pillowy flesh.
Then I'd catch him in an armbar and drive him to his knees. Sweat would roll off both our bodies and plash on the canvas mat at our feet. I'd command him to give, but he'd refuse. I'd twist his arm tighter, and he would groan, his lower lip quivering. Finally I'd rest my arm against his neck and shoulder, and with my free arm clutch him between the thighs and hoist up as high as my shoulder, and then slam him on his back on the mat. He would bounce. I'd like that. And then I'd toss myself on top of him, grab him under the knee to raise his leg high, my belly rubbing on his, and slap my hand to the mat for the three-count.
Maybe I'd make the pin, or maybe he'd thrust out at two. I don't really care how this story ends. The important thing would be the rubbery stroking of flesh on flesh, the heat rising off the two of us, the damp grunting weight of a powerful foe. We'd be like two locomotives crashing head on. Win or lose, I would walk out of the arena as hard as a railway spike.
[P.S. Just a quick apology here to Crist, his fans, the good people at Ring of Honor, and pretty much every visitor to this blog--I'm sorry, guys. Something got into me and I got carried away. It fascinates me less that I'm attracted to surfer gods and jungle boys than that, on occasion, nothing touches me off like a burly wrassler, who looks like he won't take lip from nobody, who looks solid as a brick shithouse, whose gaze looks right through me, and who sports, in addition to the usual brawn, a nice firm (not slack) bowl over his elastic waistband.]