Nice Guys Kick Ass
The adorable sadists over at UCW-Wrestling are at it again. In release #307, Pippin takes to the mat with Axel, who's packed into lip-smacking briefs that will make you think long and hard about wrestling him--if you catch my drift.
At the start, Axel tries his hand at braggadocio, reminding Pippin that only one of them was UCW's original champion (hint: it wasn't Pippin) and only one has forgot more about wrestling than the other ever knew.
To the man's credit, Axel's natural modesty undercuts his attempts at trash talk. He can't disguise the fact that, deep down, he's a pretty nice guy, albeit one who can execute a dozen or more crippling holds. Gentleman in spite of himself, Axel wishes his opponent good luck in their upcoming match. And he sounds sincere, not a sarcastic bone in his beautiful body. (For my money, it's Axel's homespun integrity that accounts for 80% of his sex appeal--the other 20% is, of course, that cock!)
Pippin's another sweetheart, a good ole boy from the South with manners and a generally sunny disposition. Glowering is just not one of his trademark looks. But neither is he intimidated by Axel's size, muscle, and experience. I don't think Pippin's shown fear in facing any of his adversaries, no matter how big and bad they are.
Behind the guileless decency, though, both wrestlers pack a lot of fight. The other day I sang the virtues of the babyface-versus-babyface match, and this contest is even a better case in point. What ultimately matters is not who's playing the good guy and who the bad guy, but rather how much wallop a fighting man's punch carries. And this is coming from a man who worships at the shrine of heels. Once the bell sounds, Axel and Pippin hold nothing back.
And I mean nothing. Hell's bells, these boys are brutes once the brawl starts rolling. We get ab punches, body slams, nard grabs, and chokes. Pippin even bites. He bites! The match doesn't end with a sportsmanlike no-hard-feelings handshake because it ends with one of these sweeties knocking the other one clean the fuck out. And it's a huge, delicious finish that orders up a round of boners for the whole house, proving once again it's not so much the swagger but the whoop-ass that counts.
At the start, Axel tries his hand at braggadocio, reminding Pippin that only one of them was UCW's original champion (hint: it wasn't Pippin) and only one has forgot more about wrestling than the other ever knew.
To the man's credit, Axel's natural modesty undercuts his attempts at trash talk. He can't disguise the fact that, deep down, he's a pretty nice guy, albeit one who can execute a dozen or more crippling holds. Gentleman in spite of himself, Axel wishes his opponent good luck in their upcoming match. And he sounds sincere, not a sarcastic bone in his beautiful body. (For my money, it's Axel's homespun integrity that accounts for 80% of his sex appeal--the other 20% is, of course, that cock!)
Pippin's another sweetheart, a good ole boy from the South with manners and a generally sunny disposition. Glowering is just not one of his trademark looks. But neither is he intimidated by Axel's size, muscle, and experience. I don't think Pippin's shown fear in facing any of his adversaries, no matter how big and bad they are.
Behind the guileless decency, though, both wrestlers pack a lot of fight. The other day I sang the virtues of the babyface-versus-babyface match, and this contest is even a better case in point. What ultimately matters is not who's playing the good guy and who the bad guy, but rather how much wallop a fighting man's punch carries. And this is coming from a man who worships at the shrine of heels. Once the bell sounds, Axel and Pippin hold nothing back.
And I mean nothing. Hell's bells, these boys are brutes once the brawl starts rolling. We get ab punches, body slams, nard grabs, and chokes. Pippin even bites. He bites! The match doesn't end with a sportsmanlike no-hard-feelings handshake because it ends with one of these sweeties knocking the other one clean the fuck out. And it's a huge, delicious finish that orders up a round of boners for the whole house, proving once again it's not so much the swagger but the whoop-ass that counts.
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