Sometimes a single shot, at the correct angle, objects framed and lit just so, can launch me into a thirty-minute sex fantasy. The image above, taken during the shooting of BG East's Fantasymen 27, is a case in point. In it, we see Mike Columbo, 175#, military haircut and rubber trunks, flexing in front of Jordan, 189#, masked, glimmering, waiting.
The match in motion measures up to the still shot. Under the black tights, Columbo wears a leopard-print thong nearly identical to the one Jordan wears. The idea of two men wrestling in exactly matching trunks does it for me somehow. Funny how an innocent detail like similar gear can pack so much heat. The more two wrestlers match each other--in physique, prowess, complexion--the easier it is to coax me into watching the action. Usually I'm not a fan of lengthy prologues that suspend the openings of pro matches*, sometimes (it seems) indefinitely, but in this case, the spectacle of these bodies on theatrical display for the camera is a contest in and of itself. Jordan makes a grand entrance in a cape and hat, a la Zorro, which he doffs, leaving only the domino mask to be torn off in the fury of combat.
But even after I have watched the whole bout, I come back to the image above. It distills everything that excites me about the match. The arrogance of might, the rapt attention a fighter pays to the body of his opponent, the knotty musculature of a fit man's back, the roundness of strong buttocks and thighs, the chest and belly open and vulnerable to assault, the simple, natural cosmetology of sweat. All that's needed is to close the distance between the two bodies, to draw them together to the inevitable impact.
* I only appear to be a patient man. I am voracious and sudden, having never mastered the arts of flirting, teasing, and foreplay. My motto is Jump those bones on the hoof. Time enough for lovey-dovey as we cuddle, exhausted, licking the blood off our claws, sweat cooling on the skin.