PWP

When PWP Wrestling started, sometime back in the '90s, I wrote a fan letter to the fledgling company.  The wrestlers, French Canadian exotic dancers were beautiful, fit, and generous in their display of their bodies.  I loved that they spoke French (almost all of them, back then), and I couldn't understand a word they were saying, and I even loved the background noise of other people at the club where the tapes were shot, grumbling and gossiping (I assumed) about the club patrons of the night before.  I quickly received a reply from the owner, whose name, I'm embarrassed to admit, I don't remember, but it was sweetly appreciative of having a fan and inquisitive about what improvements I could recommend.  I suggested that the wrestlers learn how to wrestle.  He responded almost immediately, concurring, with the virtual equivalent of a conspiratorial wink, and admitted that actual wrestling was not really the boys' strong point.  Since I was already on record as a fan, I don't think he minded the well-intentioned criticism at all, which was not even meant as a serious objection.

Time passed.  Somebody I hooked up with through GlobalFight stole my PWP tapes, among a few others, and as my attention was drawn elsewhere, I stopped paying the company much attention ... until a few weeks ago, when it occurred to me that I would like to repurchase some of the lost tapes, now available as DVDs.  Now PWP boasts almost ninety wrestlers on its roster, and has a broad assortment of specialty matches.  But the bread and butter of the company is still angelically inept wrestlers languidly moving from hold to hold, each one sustained, usually unconvincingly, for five or six minutes, as if moving from one yoga position to the next.  So glacial are these non-wrestling wrestling bouts that the typical PWP contest makes Krushco look like high-flying lucha libre.

But I do not really mind.  Sure, I'd prefer that the boys knew how to wrestle, freestyle or pro, that they would sell the moves with more lifelike grunting, and that the action moved with just a tad bit more brio, leading up to a climactic smashup.  But I love the body worship element in wrestling too, and at PWP that's what you get, pretty much that is all you get.  Sweatless bearhugs, scissors, head locks, and nelsons--each stretched to seeming infinity, until, as if cued by a dog whistle, the boys switch positions.  The fights, if they can even be called fights, play out like tableaux vivants at Radio City Music Hall over Christmastime.  

Two of my favorite model-wrestlers at PWP are Sexy Eddie and Kid Brandon, two stars of Sexy Eddie Succumbs and other titles.  Long before Justin Bieber jumped from YouTube onto Usher's lap, Brandon was working the flip and switch hairstyle, but with a much hotter physique underneath.  Both he and Eddie have skin as pretty as a French pop star's, as smooth and inviting to the tongue as taffy.  Eddie has a body that makes my tongue loll wetly out the corner of my mouth.  These guys would get squished like zits if they showed their pretty faces at Krushco or BG East or any venue where some effort is given to staging credible combat.  It's unfair that I hold the PWP boys to lower standards than I do Rio Garza or Z-Man, but then, such are the ways of the heart, I'm attracted to them but not to Garza or Z.  Can't help it.  No offense intended to anybody.  Brandon and Eddie do something for me, even as they hang limp as wet linens and limpid and still as the constellations at night.