Grunt and Groan
These are not muscle dudes spritzed with baby oil. Obviously. These are not teenagers with their dewy skin and raging hormones. These are not high-flying acrobats. These are not fitness models in elastane trunks. These are not depilated porn stars with $100 haircuts. These are not MMA fighters. (All these things I love, by the way, as other posts on this blog do testify.)
What this is, though, is the essence of Skull Island. This is catch-as-catch-can wrestling your grandfathers watched, some of them watching as they cupped their fingers over their groins, no doubt, some trembling with an inner tingle they could not give a name to. This is slow, grueling technical wrestling with a pinch of animal aggression and a pinch of showmanship.
This is the part of pro wrestling I hope we don't lose amid the high-def digital video, the gym-toned physiques and spray-on tans, and the endless debates on the message boards.
There's room for all kinds of kinks, tastes, and preferences. But I don't want wrestling, through self-consciousness, homophobia, or the urge to be "real," to banish the tight, fleshy, vehement squeezes that charge up my dick regardless of whether the contestants are fat, thin, young, old, smooth, hairy, tall, short, male, female, gay, straight, bi, black, white, masked, unmasked, in stadiums or in motel rooms, in singlets or in thongs.
I took these screen caps from two vintage matches posted on YouTube over the weekend by jellybeans178. I can't identify the wrestlers ... or the promotions ... or the dates of the matches.