Clean Cut and Rotten
Small-town boy Dylan Bostic, 5'11", 203#, has been training to be a pro wrestler since he was twelve years old. His ring debut was at age 15, five and a half years ago. Despite his all-American choirboy face, for almost three years now Dylan has been a dirty rotten heel. Everybody loves to hate him. He hits girls. He flees the ring when he faces stiffer opposition than he likes. He cuts some corners, rules-wise. When he's on top of his opponent, he likes to shout out, "Who sucks now?" Sometimes the crowd replies, "You!" and sometimes the fans wait till the tables turn and the hero has Dylan backed into the corner to echo his question, mockingly chanting, "Who sucks now?"
His face is suntanned blond angelic. His physique might be described as doughboyish (if you don't know what I'm talking about, read Wrestling Arsenal's definitive posting on the subject). Often he enters the ring, glistening with oil. He can manage a halfway decent Jason Hades impression (fourth photo, above), and like a whole slew of local bad boys, last summer the WWE fed him raw to their new giant Ryback (fifth photo, as "Brendan Burke," along with Dan Barone). I like him best in innocuous, silky Carolina-blue trunks (bottom photo, versus Kharn Alexander). He's on the roster of Ohio Valley Wrestling and Frontier Elite Wrestling.
The image he projects resonates with me. He embodies a type I've always been ambivalently drawn to: the boyishly handsome villain, mainstream, often affluent, often the son of a pillar of the community, a promising youth who has gone bad (real bad) but thinks that, because he looks good, is all-American, and has reputable connections, he's somehow exempt from all the rules the rest of us have to follow. I have personally known these guys--preachers' sons, bosses' sons, scions of local political families--and in movies he is the suntanned golden boy that Billy Jack or the Karate Kid or Dirty Harry is going to have to kick shit out of in a climactic act of justice that invariably makes my dick hard.
For a majority of gay wrestling fans, beauty and muscle are reason enough for punishment. I think I understand the sentiment, though more often than not I like to see beauty and muscle triumph in the wrestling ring--if capable and if virtuous. I'm not sure why it is that my dick has a "justice fetish," but it just loves to see bad boys, handsome or not, dominate the good until a sudden reversal of fortune lands them flat on their backs with their legs in the air. The moment when the hero revives and is ready to give the villain a taste of his own medicine, when a tormented good guy is rescued by a tag partner with a mind towards vengeance, when the villain slips under the ropes and makes for escape only to be chased down, caught, and humiliatingly roughed up by the hero, almost always that's when Mister Chubby lifts his shiny mushroom-shaped head.