When Naked Kombat puts new man Jackson on the mat against Brenn Wyson, my attention is grabbed the way it is when the guy at the pet shop puts a mouse in the tank with the corn snake. Sure, Jackson has about twenty pounds on Wyson, as well as a couple of inches in height. But Brenn is undefeated at NK, he's a trained professional boxer and MMA fighter, and, the clincher, he's got a buzzcut and tattoos. It doesn't bode well for Jackson when he boasts of preparing for this fight by working on his cardio and reading through the rule book. Yikes.
Lovers of squash matches, especially ones featuring a big, beautiful Apollo getting owned by a hard-looking tough, must be salivating already. Wyson promises to wear the big man down in stages, yet he makes it clear he's the alpha dog in this fight in the first five minutes. He pulls Jackson's tool out of his red trunks and, as quick as that, Jackson is paralyzed with shock and rapture. It's not so much that Jackson just rolls over and plays dead. It's mainly that Wyson's attack is quick, sharp, and assured. Jackson, poor kid, is a deer in the headlights.
I confess I have profound respect for the skilled tenacity of the rodeo calf roper, of the cop dragging a burly perp down to the asphalt and cuffing him, of the whole Patrick Swayze school of taking out brawny lugs at the roadhouse with just an efficient flick of the wrist. Watching Brenn get on top of Jackson and control him, then, is three-quarters of the pleasure this match gives me. Jackson struggles--and even fleetingly dominates his wiry opponent--but on the whole he seems at peace with his helplessness at the hands of so seasoned and intense a coercer.
And unlike so many of the minimalist control techniques of martial-arts experts, Wyson's skills depend heavily on skin-on-skin grating and stroking. When, in the middle of Round 1, Brenn has Jackson on his back in an arm bar, he makes sure that his man's tricep brushes up against the firm bulge in his blue tights. Round 2, the jockstrap round, gives us plenty of sweaty friction as Brenn rides Jackson's back, a torment made sweeter and bumpier by Jackson's vigorous thrusting and squirming as he attempts escape. And by the third (nude) round, Brenn can't stop himself from grabbing fleeting licks at what he'll get by rights as victor in the sex (fourth) round, getting his mouth on Jackson's stiffening cock even while he struggles to finalize the win.
There's a predictability about Naked Kombat, ensured by the eccentric rules and the formal four-round structure. This is the ritualistic element of wrestling I have written about elsewhere, and I find it as satisfying as the motifs in a great symphony. As I have said too many times now, I like to watch evenly matched fighters, but Wyson and Jackson hit their marks well in this match, and I recommend this contest to anybody intrigued by the photos above or by my descriptions of the hot and furious action. Under the groping and the grinding, at its most fundamental level this match is the drama of a man bending another man to his will.