Bitches Cut Loose

One of the intriguing wrinkles in my erotic interest in wrestling is the appeal women's pro wrestling has for me. It's the only situation involving women that has ever aroused me. I have no explanation why that might be so. Unlike male wrestlers, I tend not to distinguish women wrestlers individually--that is, I do not find myself particularly wanting to know any of them in person, nor am I the least bit interested in posed (i.e. non-wrestling) pinup pictures of them. It's solely the fight aspect, isolated from individual personalities, that excites me. 

As I have noted elsewhere, women's fearlessness in a fight exhilarates me, be it in a ring or a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. They have no qualms like those of some male fighters about body contact. And they are vicious--pulling hair, scratching, kicking the twat--and vocal--screaming, cursing, squealing, hissing. Their fights are, typically, stereotypically, more laden with emotion than those of their more stoic male counterparts. Some even weep openly as they fight, and that emotionalism excites me, too, perhaps because of its abject vulnerability. I don't know.

Rob Brazier's typically Caravaggesque shots above, capture for us a tag-team bout pitting Britani Knight (in leatherette two-piece) and Sweet Sarayi (Britani's mother, in fishnets) against Allison Danger (in black and red) and Liberty (in gray two-piece) in a World Association of Wrestling show last fall.