A Piece of Bobby Rose

I'm on record as preferring a well-matched fight, a bout either contestant has a crack at winning, a match whose outcome becomes apparent only in the final minutes ... or seconds.  The word "jobber" does not chime with me the way it chimes with many of you.  And although I have learned to appreciate the art of the squash job, the prospect of watching one does not automatically excite my interest.  Fine.  I can live with that, and you may as well learn to live with it too.

But if ever there was a wrestler predestined to get the shit kicked out of him, each and every time, who nevertheless could catch and hold my interest, it is Bobby Rose, 5'10", 155#.  Rose shot at least five matches for Can-Am, most of them involving nudity and oil.  With smooth, peachy skin, big dark eyes, and a gossamery mullet, he was, for some reason, the kind of kid I would enjoy shoving face first into a bare ring post--or at least stand by while somebody else did the honors for me.  The darkly brooding Dillon Reed, 5'11", 165#, hosted two such bashings, giving Rose's plump, boyish bottom a thorough drubbing, and personally I find both matches wood-worthy.  (An aside:  In high school, during one of our many spacey and meandering late-night conversations, one of my jock friends told me I had the kind of face he just wanted to punch with his fist.  After a slight, fleeting tingle in my groin, I decided to take the remark as a compliment--as, oddly enough, I think it was meant to be.  That said, you should not assume my remarks about Rose are scornful or demeaning.) 

I'm a bit--a wee bit--troubled by why, possibly, I want a piece of Bobby Rose.  He is boyish and not, to judge merely by appearances, as mannish as I usually like wrestlers or sex partners to be.  He looks vulnerable, pliable, and, tattoo and lubrication aside, naive.  Is my yen to pounce him a shadow of internalized homophobia, an attack on effeminacy, or ("and/or") does his particular look and styling excite some kind of rape fantasy in me?  Do I, in other words, yearn to overpower him by violent force in order to have my way with him against his will?  Serious considerations.  But I say I am only a bit troubled because I have come to realize over the years that cock follows its own set of rules, rules that have very little to do with one's intentions or principles or proclivities outside the realm of erotic role-playing.  If I have some residual homophobia in my psyche, should I be surprised?  I mean, just look at the society I grew up in!  There were bound to be some battle scars.  And if my fantasies sometime include violence and rape, so what?  They have included murder and sprouting wings and flying--but these hardly make me either a killer or an angel in real life.  I find the boy attractive, though I can't pinpoint the exact nature of his allure--but the origins of lust are nearly impossible to chart with accuracy.  He appeals to something in my dark side--and yet, for whatever it's worth, my dark side is a part of me and a part of my sexual makeup--and, though it is always in me, it is something I feel at ease with, and it poses no threat to anyone.  Unless, that is, Mr. Rose should ever take a notion to step out back one day.