My Eye Is Caught
I can remember a time before men this swole stood in pro wrestling rings, a time when not even bodybuilding events had men this huge. Are they good wrestlers? They are certainly spectacular, and a good ninety percent of professional wrestling is spectacle. They could get the job done, even if, as in the days of Steve Reeves and Brad Harris, all they did was strike poses and hurl hydrofoam boulders at each other.
Fuckable? Well, I'm too much of a wuss to try to tumble with something this big. I might want to start with something smaller first, like horses. I don't mean to suggest that they might not be great in the sack or that, by some miracle given the opportunity (and I'm not holding my breath), I would not at least give porking one of these guys the old college try. But, no, these guys do not inspire ordinary lust ... or even much desire to watch them fight each other.
What they do inspire is awe. I can't take my eyes off them. Pictures of vulcanized beefcake, ripped and glistening in oil, invariably draw my attention. They are architecturally fascinating. Visually they pull me in like an Escher drawing or a woman with eighty-pound tits; my mind bends around the impossibility of their magnificence ... and yet there it is! I am hypnotized.