No Love Lost

The beauty of a wrestling feud is the intensity of the emotion between two big men.  It's a stretch, I know, but a feud in wrestling is a little like going steady in high school.  The two men have eyes for  only each other.  They gun their way through whatever other competition the promoters throw in their way just to get another crack at the one true object of their rage.

All that energy, all that passion, all that shouting directed from man to man is viscerally exciting even for fans not ready to accept that it may be erotically exciting too.  It's a concentration of feelings that we do not often get to see in pro wrestling, where personal glory and arrogance and the spirit of competition give the wrestler's emotion no other object but a belt and a title.

Until the culmination of a feud--the final conflict that either forces one man to leave town or totally incapacitates him--the only thing on the wrestler's mind is getting his hands on his antagonist.  He will turn down a shot at the championship or even throw a fight, either move potentially career-killing, so long as it gives him the satisfaction of trouncing his archenemy.

As many of you know, I want all this drama to play out entirely in the ring.  I hate it when technicalities or contracts or behind-the-scenes maneuvering steals the thunder from two men with a grudge, staring holes into each other while the ref pats them down before the bell.  

To my admittedly fucked-up way of thinking, the only thing as romantic as (or maybe more romantic than) having a partner for life is having a perfectly matched nemesis, one whose face haunts your every thought, one whose submissive moans you crave so much you can almost taste them, one whom it is your destiny to fight.  Hector to your Achilles.  Villefort to your Monte Cristo.  Johnny Lawrence to your Daniel-san.


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