What can somebody tell me about Fightplace? With an annual membership fee of 699 euros--that's nearly a thousand US dollars (or five and a half years on Naked Kombat)--it is well out of my price range, making me thankful I'm a perv in the good ole US of A.
I love the meaty little scraps Fightplace throws to us YouTubers every once in a while--the slim, attractive but regular-looking white kids who swim, bike, and leap hurtles but have never seen the inside of a gym and who meet wrestling opponents under highly unlikely circumstances. Now, picking fights with the guy who gives my car an oil change or with random picnickers off whose faces I want to wipe away that arrogant look is something of a daydream of mine.
The wrestling is not bad, from what I can tell from the tightly edited excerpts, but, then, MTV has taught me that tight editing and a jittery zoom lens can make Stevie Nicks look like she is dancing. These Fightplace guys are scrappy, and I like that, and cute in a pasty Bel Ami sort of way. My favorite matches are the ones that look like Wolfgang Tillmans shot them in an IKEA warehouse.
The quality of light over there really is unique. And the boys' poreless skin makes me wish my mother had raised me on fish heads and Nutella, too. And the fighters, though untrained, really act like they want to win the matches and almost never attempt, with the cheesy affectations we wrestling kinksters are all too familiar with, to be pointedly "homoerotic."
At the same time, they appear boyishly comfortable with their bodies, both the showing of and the touching of against others'--a matter-of-fact openness rarely seen in even sex workers in North America. It appears that playfully tormenting each other bodily is much more common in that part of world, to which I say, "Hooray for Europe." Intermural meets and WWE are fine and all, but Americans need to integrate much more informal roughhouse into their daily lives ... if not, perhaps, at the JiffyLube.