"Are you ready for me?"
"I think I'm ready for you."
I am definitely ready for this. And lucky for me, somebody at UCW-Wrestling had the very fine idea of sicking the company's most brazenly homoerotic wrestler, CJ Devastation, onto its hot newcomer with the most brazenly homoerotic name, Lance Thrust. Thirty-four minutes of fun frottage for everybody, and bulges aplenty! And the wrestling suffers not one iota in being enjoyed unapologetically as sensual, heat-seeking body contact.
CJ starts things off by slamming Lance to the blue-tarped wall and battering him with three hard rights, then running his fingers over the man's temples and through his cropped hair. After slamming him to the mat, CJ caresses Lance's face, savoring the friction of bristles along the jawline, then letting his hand drift down over chest and stomach to caress his cock and balls. What's the point of beating a handsome young stud down if you can't cop a feel now and then, eh?
"C'm'ere, c'm'ere," CJ coaxes, in low tones. He wants to hurt Lance bad. He wants to feel the pain shivering through the man's bones. He wants to bask in the heat rising off his skin. Bending Lance backwards over one knee, CJ runs the palm of his hand over his opponent's taut abs. No connoisseur enjoys washing his tongue in a fine wine more than CJ enjoys steeping himself in Lance's lean, lightly-haired torso. He wonders aloud whether Lance can enjoy this as much as he does. Lance responds, moaning "ah ... ah ... ah," universal cries of agony and rapture alike. Believe it or not, we're not even two minutes into the action.
CJ can't decide whether to fight or fuck Lance. Lance's response is, let's say, receptive. As a college wrestling buddy once flirtatiously put it: "I give you thirty minutes to cut this shit out." Lance grimaces and struggles ... but not enough to spoil the moment. After letting himself be poked and fondled for three minutes, he fires back, and then, tellingly, his target is CJ's crotch. Once CJ is facedown on the mat, Lance pounds his lower spine with both fists clenched together. Then he crawls up behind him, locks the man's legs in a figure four, and reaches up to clutch CJ's head up to his chest, the lance in his crotch pointing to CJ's ass.
Unlike most UCW fare, this is a beatdown expressly designed to help you beat off. Typical UCW matches make you laugh, make you gasp, or make you scratch your head and go what the fuck? CJ, unique to the roster, presents himself as a surrogate for horny wrestling fans everywhere, us guys who watch wrestling videos with one hand down the front of our pants (if we're even wearing pants), who moan with the victims yet side with the heels, saying, "Oh, man, if I had him in that hold, I know what I would do to him!" CJ knows, too. And fortunately so does UCW.