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?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.
--Georges Bataille, L'Erotisme, 1957, English translation by Mary Dalwood
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.