Lately I've been itching to beat up some guys. Platonically. I like these guys, the two or three I have in mind. I see them in the neighborhood and at work and want to drag them into an alley and let loose on them. I don't want to bloody anybody, but if busting a lip or two is what it takes to subdue these dudes, let the gravy flow. I may not want to fuck them--I can't say for sure--though odds are that, once I force a squeaked submission out of them, my dick just won't know how to back off--but I certainly want to be on top of them and make them squirm. Some guys I want to fuck. Some guys I want to fuck me. Some guys I want to wrestle as an equal opponent, happy to win or lose. Then there's this category, relatively new to me: guys I want to beat up, squash, for whom I have neither lust nor antipathy, not consciously anyway. Just let me at them so I can get a sense of the weight and slip of their bodies and confirm that I can take them--and delight in their panicked groans as I cash their checks. Some men my age handle midlife crises with a Maserati; me, I want to sit on a young dude's chest and thump him on the nose.
These guys are straight, reasonably but not exaggeratedly fit, late 20s to mid thirties. Guys I know and like, who know and like me. I'm bigger than all but one of them. No way in hell am I confiding my dark thoughts to these guys. I may be perverted, but I'm not crazy. And, no, I'm not mentioning their names. No hints, even. You may know them, and they are not going to find out about this new itch of mine. What I'm going to do is change the subject. Fast. Here are new feelings I'm not sure I can squeeze into words any better than I already have done, feelings not so easy to defend or explain, feelings that could cause real trouble if misunderstood. So I will sublimate them by watching BG East's Ruff N Raunchy 2: Cockfight, a bargain for under twenty bucks, featuring a two-man card: Dane Tarsen, 5'10", 178#, and Mickey Rollins, 6', 170#. I'm going to dive into that juicy fantasy and push my daydreams of unjustifiable violence back to the id.
I am kind of surprised that Tarsen has had merely two mentions on this blog so far. Back in the 1990s, the Belgian wrestler's hairy chest, firm convex abs, and receding hairline provoked raging spasms of lust in me. Mostly I knew him from the catalog pictures for various companies I followed back then, including BG East. He epitomized my idea of the virile, tightlipped hero. This blog has not given Rollins his due either. His long, tightly wound body, as white as if it had been carved out of a mastodon tusk, capped with a face like a Guy Fawkes mask, lips perpetually upturned in a devilish smirk, he conveys keen intelligence and animal magnetism all at once. He always struck me as probably both a good lay and an aggressive fighter, a dynamite combination, in my opinion. In the hugely undervalued Ruff N Raunchy 2, these two go after each other, stripping off street clothes to trunks and ultimately to bare skin and alternately wrestling and having a go at it. Lots of asphyxiation, frottage, and smooching. A classic for those of you who, like me, look for a smorgasbord of sensations--salty, sweet, rude, tangy, hot, slippery--in a roll in the hay. Of its sort, RNR2 is a classic. The wrestling itself is on the sluggish side, but the men keep it intense enough--and a good share of the tension comes because, clearly from the get-go, these dudes want to get into each other's pants. It may not be exactly what I'm looking for today--frankly, what I'm looking for can't be found in virtual reality--but Ruff N Raunchy 2 soothes the nerves and releases the pent-up stress.