Friday, June 25, 2010

Loser Leaves Town


I’m going away, but I’m probably coming back.  The blog should be up and running again well before the end of July. 

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Ryan Taylor


Before he lost some of that baby fat in the face, I was pretty lukewarm about Ryan Taylor.  John Savage over at Rants Roids n Rasslin recognized what was special in him long before I did.  Not too long ago, in fact, I thought Taylor looked too other-worldly to be tough--somewhere between Harold in Harold and Maude and that boy preacher in There Will Be Blood.  But in more recent photos, he is a wrestling god.

It helps that his hipness quotient shot up with me recently over the discovery of his appearances (as El Presidente) with Lucha Vavoom and some derring-do he performed at the Folsom Renaissance Faire in San Francisco.  And he's got quads like fire hydrants and biceps that get as hard as Wham-O Superballs.  Six-foot-nothing and 185 pounds is just my size, too.  Then there's that V-shaped back.  And it's always a plus for me when a wrestler keeps some fur up in his armpits.

Hot


Two weeks ago, "Hollywood" Hades' cronies saved his butt from Steve Boz, 31, 5'11", 222#, by interfering and thus prompting a DQ.  Now bets are on Boz to rip Hades a new asshole when they meet again next month.  On July 9th, Boz and partner Mr 450 Hammett will face Hades and A-List partner Nick Brubaker.  Watch the June 12th match here, and here, and here on YouTube.  Hades is as hot as ... well, you know ...

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Goner


This brief moment of agony is, I think, exquisite.  I am not a particular fan of squash matches (some of them I like; I'm indifferent to most).  However, I am a huge fan of long, seemingly endless tight clenches, and if the fight must ever come to an end, I like the ending to be decisive--no disqualifications, no interference, no technical ruling by a ref, no technical anything ... no anticlimax.

Worse, at the risk of sounding depraved, I am a fan of "two men enter and one man leaves."

In fiction, and only in fiction, the words "fight to the death" thrill me.  Even I find that confession disturbing ... I, who still shudder and flinch at Animal Planet footage of predation.  But I want to reiterate--I have no love at all for actual violence, particularly violent death, mine or anyone else's.

When I was young, too young probably to be reading what I was reading, I was entranced and disturbed by Georges Bataille's Erotism, in which he links erotic sensuality not with procreation, but with violence and death.  In fact, he rather convincingly points out that historically eroticism in art, language, and literature preceded the scientific understanding that fucking causes pregnancy.

In ordinary human development, erotic sensations arise before an understanding of the birds and the bees, but no doubt after the experience of hurting and striving, after a child begins to think, though immaturely, about death.

I was especially mesmerized by Bataille's use of pictures of martyrs, their faces flaccid and beatific, as if they had just experienced orgasm.  The medieval euphemism "the little death" refers, of course, to cumming.  Every English teacher knows this.  No wonder, then, that "sex and violence" go together like "salt and pepper," "love and marriage," and "heaven and earth":
How can [the feeling of transgression in sexual pleasure] be understood, unless we go right back to the inevitable agony of the discontinuous creature doomed to die, that violence alone, blind violence, can burst the barriers of the rational world and lead us into continuity?
--Georges Bataille, L'Erotisme, 1957, English translation by Mary Dalwood
In these pictures of two young men fighting to submission, I can almost feel the long-haired wrestler's body tense and quiver, his skin go from feverish to clammy in a second as he gasps for air, his muscles loosen in the victor's steely grip.  Perhaps the victor's cock thickens and stiffens as he anticipates conquest.

The long-haired guy survives, of course, but the guy with the short dark hair, wiry arms, and sinewy thighs does manage to crush something inside him--only his pride, perhaps, or, as I like to think, his hopes of later being the top.  It is a moment of mortality tasted--and yet outlasted--which is the way sex and wrestling alike may represent a triumph of life over death.

In this blog I am trying to be transparent in describing my kinks, not to write some sort of sexual manifesto, so I won't say I altogether approve of my feelings in this respect, I most certainly am not pushing them on anybody else, but I can vouch for their authenticity.  And I don't disapprove either.  They are what they are, regardless of my values and my feelings about them.

But, again, these five pictures--and the short video from which they were captured--are, I think, sensuous in a way most outright porn fails to be.  And they are sublime in a way that most art and poetry fall short of.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

The UK Kid


The UK Kid (Thomas Jones), 6'0", 185#, wrestles for his own promotion, Varsity Pro Wrestling, and runs a school for pro wrestling.  With his neo-Teddy-boy haircut, dark chin strip, brooding good looks, and mean lean frame, Kid plays the heel against some of the very wrestlers he has trained.  He himself trained in San Antonio, Texas (under Shawn Michaels), at the age of 18, and then returned to the UK in 2006 to operate VPW.  The VPW School of Excellence is located in Fratton, Portsmouth.

Z


Zack Johnathan, aka Z-Man, 5'10", 175#, is something of an anomaly in the world of kink wrestling.  He does not, for instance, touch on any of the darker colors of erotic combat, such as sadism or the urge to subjugate and dominate.  Even his arrogance comes across as genial, not nasty.  In demeanor, then, he does not fit neatly into existing categories of heel and babyface, but comes off, even in the midst of a brawl, kind of like a zesty aerobics instructor.

Still, he could be a ZAI-ILF.

Physically he reminds me of two guys I knew in my twenties, both of them into recreational wrestling, coincidentally.  One was a northern Italian jock, 6'2", with the most perfect physique I ever had the privilege to tangle and sleep with.  The other was a guy, Hollywood beautiful, at a Christian college I attended for 15 months, who once, outside in the cool night air (ah, I remember it well), after I told him how "perfect and untouchable" I thought he looked, said, in a matter-of-fact tone, "I can tell you want to fight me, Joe.  Okay, take a swing at me."  What followed was less a fight than slow-motion choreography.  And it was memorable and fun, even though it was a one shot deal and even though nothing much happened.

Like these two guys, Zack has the porcelain complexion and mannequin poise of an overindulged rich kid--the first in high school to get a car (and a brand new one), the guy who was class president and homecoming king.  The guy you probably wanted to date, but couldn't ... more to the point, the guy you probably wanted to hate, but couldn't.

That's probably Zack's only flaw--you want to hate the guy, but you can't do it.  He doesn't touch that raw nerve the way other sexy jobbers sometimes do, yet he doesn't exactly seem like the kind of guy you can identify with or imagine being either--he's too far removed from guys like me with pores and body fat.

And in a fight, even apparently in this one against tattooed and sexy-as-hell newcomer PitBull, 5'5", 172#, at Thunder's Arena, he seems to float above the fray, almost as if his perfect body had been superimposed, sweatless, hair unmussed, into it via Photoshop.

Johnathan is dewy, dreamy perfection.  Stretched out here, he looks like a rich and whipped-up dessert.  He's the reason we have the phrase "eye candy." 

Monday, June 21, 2010

Arsenal

Ought not somebody, in the most respectful manner possible, light a match under Wrestling Arsenal's ass?  It's been almost a year since the last posting on the site--and four months or more since the blog was active.  It's been too long now, and the Arsenal is too valuable a resource to just let wither away.

Does anybody know what the story is here?  Why the sudden dearth of new hot action shots?  I can speak only for myself, but I'm going into withdrawal.  Help me, somebody.

Whom do we have to fuck to get more wrestling pictures like these--any one of which is enough to make me spill my gravy?  You won't find shots like these all together anywhere else, and these are just the tip of the iceberg of the treasure trove (mixing those metaphors!) that Arsenal compiled from 2000 to 2009.

Come back, little Arsenal! Come back!

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