Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Decrotchery 2

Typically, I have shied away from matches defined by a specific type of hold or tactic. Like anyone, of course, I have situations I like better than others--arm bars, chokes, mounted corner 10-counts, crabs, figure-fours, and bearhugs--but I am not normally drawn to a title like Jockstrap Airplane Spins, however much I like the visual it brings to mind. My fantasies are narrative, with beginnings, middles, and ends (thanks, Aristotle) and two equal, fleshed-out characters, protagonist and antagonist. I may mentally slow-mo a favorite hold (especially if it's climactic, in every sense), but the fantasy doesn't begin and end there, and it's not over until I or my foe has foot planted firmly on the other's chest. (In my revels, usually courage and justice ultimately prevail over cowardice and wrongdoing--for some reason, the triumph of good over evil, even as humdrum as it sounds, is a huge turn-on for me.) 

Decrotchery 2 does not wander far from the implications of its title. Like its predecessor, which I saw a year or two ago, most of the focus is on debauched abuse of the ... ta dah! ... crotch. Jobe Zander kicks Derek Fox in the balls before Fox has got through the ring ropes. Then, a beat later, he drives his arm through Fox's thighs from behind and thrusts upward, smashing the tender nards yet again. More testicular abuse ensues. One has to wonder whether it's possible to endure these rapid and persistent jolts to the jewels without eventually passing out. The good news is that Can-Am wisely (to my way of thinking) mixes things up a bit. It takes Jobe about five minutes before he starts interspersing nelsons, chokes, gut punches, headlocks, and chicken-wings into the crotch chastisement, but eventually he does. However, what makes this virtually one-note assault not only bearable for me but also ecstasy-inducing is, quite simply, its target, Derek Fox. 

Fox caught my eye first in his one other Can-Am project, Pro Sex Fight 11, which I reviewed on this blog last month, here. It was a no-brainer for me that I would buy Decrotchery 2 as soon as I could afford to. Derek is my fantasy of an ancient Greek wrestler come to life, curly short-cropped hair, squat and strongly built, with a hairy ass of comfortable shape and volume. He has some of the brute handsomeness of indy wrestler Davey Richards. I don't need to look at him in skimpy trunks for long before I start revving up. I loved him as a just-asking-for-it heel in PSF11. I love him even more in this match--but it's hard to say why. 

Although I would love to trade places with Jobe Zander, mostly when he's straddling Fox, bulge to bulge, still it would be nice to see Derek rouse to give the big-mouthed blondie a taste of his own medicine now and then. I don't mind so much the video's dogged attention to Derek's groin. As I just said, in time Jobe targets a number of different body parts in his mission to dismantle his opponent. But I would like to see Derek take the upper hand. Once, anyway, even briefly. There's not even a "hope spot" to tease me into believing that Derek might, just might, have a shot at turning this beatdown around.

For all its one-sidedness and focus on the victim's cock and balls (never put on full display, by the way), Decrotchery 2 succeeds like gangbusters in getting me hot and bothered. Derek suffers melodramatically, often convincingly, though it's a performance that, because unvarying, turns a little stale at times. Jobe is endlessly inventive in finding ways to punch, pinch, squeeze, and twist Fox's family jewels--using the bottom of his boot, his hands, his elbow, the ring ropes, and Derek's own silken purple trunks. I would prefer that Derek not be so unfluctuatingly helpless, since a little oomph would increase his sex appeal exponentially, but the action, most of it, does hold my attention. Fox's physique and performance do the trick for me, as much here as in PSF11. In the end a rear naked choke mercifully provides Derek with the only rest he gets after half an hour or so of being dragged around by his bulbs, by which time his bronzed skin, now slick with sweat, practically pleads for me to hop on top of him. 

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