A Boy Who Won't Be Good Might Just As Well Be Made of Wood*
In the early 1970s there were just too few gazebos equipped with wrestling mats. I wrestled my friends in bedrooms and dorm rooms, sometimes in motel rooms or vacant apartments to which a friend who knew a realtor could steal the keys. What fascinated me then was the opportunity to be a "real boy." Or pretend to be. In reality, I was a tall and sturdily built egghead with ambitions of rising above my trailer-park and military-housing raisings. I was as different and inauthentic as Pinocchio, who went to greater lengths than I did to prove himself brave, truthful, and unselfish. I hung around with athletes, who were my gods as I was their workout, a living grappling dummy. To my knowledge, all these guys were straight. At an even six-feet, I was the shortest of the bunch. But they knew no one else so tirelessly available for some roughneck fun. If they noticed my occasional erections, they almost never mentioned them, and when they did, they offered words of comfort that such things happened sometimes and that I shouldn't worry about being a homo. I did, however, worry about being a homo. I shouldn't have, and not for the reasons my buddies offered.
When I look at a young (and youthful looking) underground wrestler like BG East's Jonah Richards, 5'9", 148#, I do (I admit it) feel pangs of guilt for the lust that wells up in me. Not that I ever imagine taking a tumble with the guy myself, but the thought of him playing rough with one of his peers (in this case with Timmy Cox, 5'9", 140#, in Undagear 18: Hot, Hotter, Hottest!) does excite me. Behind the mask of suburban wholesomeness, Jonah hides a cruel streak that draws me in, irresistibly. If the boy didn't wrestle--or if the thought of him wrestling had never entered my imagination--I doubt I would feel the same tingle. He looks a bit too much like many of my students in college, sullen and pampered, with few interests beyond video games and what strike me (as an outsider) as steady room-temperature libidos. When I was a twink myself, way back when the word was "chicken," Jonah and his tribe of BGE wild boys would not have appealed to me as much as they do now. Back then, I mostly lusted for wrestlers like Jack Brisco and Ron Fuller, big brawny guys with bovine eyes and curly hair, like my football-playing friends. So I credit a good bit of my interest in Jonah and others like Eli Black, Jayden Mayne, and Attila Dynasty to nostalgia. All of these named wrestlers, in fact, bear a passing resemblance to friends of my late teens and early twenties, not all of them wrestling buddies, and I pine, in part, for the lost days of boyish horseplay--and (for me, back then) its privately eroticized subtext.
In this match, Tim is eager to fight Jonah from the get-go. His eyes are fired with lust and pent-up aggression. Jonah appears less enthusiastic, at first. He's done this so many times already that it's become just another paycheck. But Tim's fire seems to catch with Jonah, and in no time, the two wrestlers are engaged in a give-and-take struggle, all the more perfect for their similarity in age, height, and weight. Lots of choking and hair-pulling, and plenty of opportunities for getting even. Jonah is quick to bring the eroticism of the match to the surface (and to a full boil). He wants to prove himself better than Tim, if necessary, by sexual humiliation. Clothing gets shed, and at one point a split lip colors the front teeth of one wrestler. We expect Jonah to eventually dominate Tim, but nobody seems to mind much, least of all Tim, who's stoked by the exertion, by the proximity to another pretty boy, perhaps by the soapy smell of young skin. The guys finish with a jerk contest, which, opposite the ones I remember from way back when, the first guy to shoot wins.
* Spoken by the Blue Fairy in Walt Disney's Pinocchio (1940)