Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Cam and Lex

Basically I like two kinds of wrestlers. I like sadistic heels, preferably the strong and silent type, and I like happy-go-lucky babyfaces who play rough and sometimes lose their tempers. My ideal, though, is the man who takes on either role, as circumstances dictate.

Cameron Mathews and Lex fall into the latter category, primo babyfaces, though at times both will talk trash and play the badass, and not at all badly. I am a fan of both, Cameron for years now, and Lex, for only the last few months. In Battlespace 22, Thunder's Arena brings the two together, and the chemistry between them is explosive.

The match opens with some smart, even revelatory repartee. Cameron kids Lex about his shiny nipple ring. Lex replies, stating that he used to have a matching pair of rings, but then Cameron's mom ripped one of them off. Cameron shrugs and says matter-of-factly, "My mom's a whore." To which, Lex blinks, smirking: "Yeah? Well, she's good at it." Cameron comes back with a real eyebrow-raiser: "Runs in the family." And, with that, the two lock up, collar and elbow.

The mom gibes run through this video like references to rosy-fingered dawn in Homer. This kind of comic banter is the Arena's house style--its virtuoso is Big Sexy (who's set to wrestle a midget in his next outing--again the Arena pushes the envelope in underground wrestling entertainment, God love them), but Lex and Mathews take to it easily, with remarkably fine timing. Comedy, I have heard, is hard, and doubly hard, I would think, while performing a piledriver.

Mathews, 5'11", 189#, has never looked better than he does these days. He has packed on muscle over the last two years, and his face now has the chiseled obtuse angles of a 1920s Arrow collar man. Lex, 5'10", 170#, is still honing his friendly punk look, first seen in his December match against Z-Man. Here, a wildcat-print bikini, mohawk, tattoos, and toothy aw-shucks grin once again achieve the desired effect. 

Both men radiate confidence. They are athletic and game for roughhouse. We get fast-paced and evenly matched wrestling of escalating intensity, which in time gives way to sharp, hot-tempered kicks and punches. It's the type of oneupmanship and frolicking sadism that, I think, define American masculinity today. Typically, for the Arena, the talk is only suggestive, with sexuality well-marked as hetero and anything gay-ish gently and genially deflected. But the vigor of these men's competitiveness pass for sex in my book--a bit better than the average fuck, I'd say ... and, from what I hear, twice as good as fucking your mom.

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