Thursday, October 31, 2013

Happy Halloween

A lover of horror and lover of wrestling, but I've never been too fond of mixing the two together. I appreciate that, deep down, both are about our queasy feelings about bodies and sex and violence, but wrestling has always produced the stronger erotic charge for me free of its Grand Guignol trappings. Also, pulling the two genres together has almost always struck me as over-the-top campy--and, while I like camp well enough on its own, camp rarely factors as truly sexy for me. Still, it's Halloween tonight, a time of excesses in morbid imagination and theatrical costumery. So whether your thing is crucifix-pinning vampires, staging all-werewolf hair-stakes matches, body-slamming zombies, or eye-gouging cyclopes, I wish you a happy and tricky Halloween.

Doink the Clown

King Curtis

Ox Baker

"The French Angel" Maurice Tillet

The Original Sheik

The Boogeyman

Tor Johnson (in Plan 9 from Outer Space)

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

The Gold Rush

The setup in #318 is that Axel agrees to wrestle Michael Hannigan to prep the less experienced wrestler for post-Twisted (and post-Damien-feud) challengers to come, but it really ought to be a match about the gold trunks (gold and black, to be specific). The way to go, I believe, would have been a match between these two doe-eyed babyfaces (with latent heel tendencies, the both of them, I suspect, but more pronounced in Axel at the moment) to settle who's the more becoming in lustrous yellow trunks, the loser having to trade off to silver or bronze, perhaps. Such a contest might have packed added pop with us fans since Joker's been holding the UCW title belt hostage for about a year now up in the cheese fields of Wisconsin, facing no challengers and refusing to vacate the title without a fight.

The guys go through the paces, though, running the gauntlet of kicks, gut punches, camel clutches, crab holds, snapmares, scissors, stomps, surfboards, stretches, bear hugs, and ball twists we expect of any quality UCW match. At first the 36-minute contest plays as pretty much what it is: a workout and training session, nothing too dramatic, yet neither wrestler exactly phoning in moves either. A third of the way in, however, Michael starts making Axel his bitch. Seriously. This, in itself, would be plenty interesting, knowing that these days Axel has been veering towards the dark side and, even at his pleasantest, was never one to let bygones be bygones before taking an overly aggressive opponent down a peg or two. Somewhat more significant is the sight of Hannigan holding his own against his mentor in a protracted give-and-take battle, refusing to roll over even for the boss's signature finisher, suggesting that maybe, just maybe he's ready for whatever pink-haired troublemaker decides to cross paths with him in the future.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Going Down for the Count

Earlier this month Cage Thunder unmasked himself (apparently unwilling to wait for some lame-ass babyface to grow the balls to do it). He officially revealed himself to be award-winning mystery writer and YA novelist Greg Herren. As he wrote on his blog, the announcement coincided with the publication of Cage's first book, Going Down for the Count (Bold Strokes, 2013), in which Greg fictionalizes an origin story for his fictional persona. The tone and setting will be familiar to any of us familiar with BG East and Cage's ten (so far) matches there, partly because, among his many other pursuits and accomplishments, Greg often writes catalog copy for BGE (as, in the interests of full disclosure, do I sometimes).

The novel opens with a prologue in which Cage, aka Gary Harper, wrestles a loser-gets-fucked match in a motel room in West Hollywood, a match set up and photographed by Harper's ex-lover and former mentor Bill. It's a hot match with a muscular punk up for anything, calling himself Billy the Kid Weston, and he is also, apparently, Bill's latest lover and wrestling protege. The scene is erotically charged, yet tinged with Harper's world-weariness, sadness, and sense of life being wasted. Leaving, he pauses in the motel hallway and thinks to himself, "Three years of this was enough ..." 

Flashback to Harper's college years, where the story begins. Home in Corinth, Alabama, for the summer, Harper hangs with his old friends from high school, with whom he no longer has anything in common. Together they go to a local wrestling event--Harper first having felt the fires of lust watching Florida wrestling on TV at age 11--and now, at his first-ever live event, Harper feels it again ("My cock stirred inside my shorts") as a big muscular heel chokes out a pimply jobber in the ring and then makes eye contact with the college kid in the crowd. 

After the show, Harper works up the nerve to speak to the attractive wrestler, they retire to a small trailer hitched to a pickup truck, and soon he enjoys his first sexual experience with the man who will be his future lover, Bill, and, shortly thereafter, gets his wrestling name: "Cage Thunder," along with Big Bill's promise to teach him the art and science of ring wrestling. Among other things. 

From there, our protagonist and narrator enters the world of Southern (Gulf Coast) professional wrestling and eventually the highly specialized world of gay wrestling video production and private matches for hire. The plot follows the familiar trajectory of gradual disillusionment with lust and the quest for something more substantive, profound, and lasting (i.e. love). My feelings about this subject are various and inconsistent (perhaps because I've never experienced endless love), but as a narrative device in erotica it is, in our culture, damn near compulsory.

Greg's lucid style makes the emotions of his main character transparent and real, especially for those of us who share Harper's (and Greg's) feelings for wrestling. He has an eye for the telling detail and manages to express, in the most straightforward way, ideas that I might have to leap through Foucauldian hoops to articulate. The wrestling scenes are no less sexy than the sex scenes because they are both charged with the same sensibility--the thrust and pull of manly affection, the fetishization of muscle, and the drive to fulfill one's ideals of masculinity against (and inside) a truly manly body. (For me, the story resonates too on other levels of personal interest as its setting turns to Pensacola, Florida, where I taught for five years, where I first heard about BG East, BG Enterprise, Can-Am, and Old Reliable, and began ordering VHS tapes by mail.) 

People who are better at this sort of thing than I am may enjoy reading this book as a roman-a-clef, decoding character names (Gary Harper = GH = Greg Herren, obviously) and appreciating the story's veiled references to real life. As for me, when a wrestler at Can-Am (for instance) wrestles at BG East under another name, I will often not pick up on the fact that they are one and the same--or, if I do, I willfully ignore it, preferring the fantasy to the reality--but even I gathered that the handsome von Speer brothers in the novel are mirror images (even if in funhouse mirrors) of the Von Erichs of Texas wrestling in the 1980s (though, yes, "This is a work of fiction, any resemblance ...," etc.). You'll be happy to note that the roles of BG East and Kid Leopard are played by ... themselves!

Every chapter of this seductive book features erotically charged wrestling. And it's all well written without being cheesy or camp. Greg writes of the sado-violent roleplay of kink wrestling with the same explicit yet matter-of-fact style of the late John Preston in his "Master" novels of the '70s and '80s. The language is polished without being dishonest or squeamish. The conclusion seems to nip the idea of a sequel in the bud, but there are always ways of getting around conclusions like that if a sequel should ever need to be written. (Anyone ever see a Godzilla movie?) Happily, we have already been promised another novel from Cage Thunder, to be titled Muscles.

Going Down for the Count is the book I have wished for years existed. Wishes do come true. This is a book I will return to. I know it. Already I'm looking forward to a second reading. Cage Thunder slash Greg Herren speaks with a familiar and inviting voice, and I want to hear it again, talking about wrestling, talking about the love of wrestling, talking about love and wrestling. 

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Kris Vs Chris

This week I got around to watching this great match from 9 December 2012 between Preston City Wrestling champion Kris Travis, 6'1", 172#, and US challenger Chris Masters, 6'4", 265#. (The match is also available on DVD and Blu Ray from PCW.) The crowd is equally divided between agile young Kris and American powerhouse Chris. Masters is the heel here, pulling the lad's hair, shamelessly flaunting his muscle, and even threatening the ref, but there's redemption for him after the battle's over.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

The Well-Tempered Masochist

Billy Lodi's forte is not just in withstanding pain but in luxuriating in it, enlarging upon it, emotionally and dramatically--and in communicating the right amount of sass and brattiness to motivate a receptive sadist to give him "what he is asking for." It's a skill that requires as much toughness as sensitivity. It's also a game of cat and mouse--every good masochist having, I believe, an inner sadist, and vice versa. You look at Billy's other work at BG East and see the leer of the fiend as often as the grimace of the martyr, a ritualized mirror to the joys and anguishes of love.

Photos: Lodi versus Cameron Matthews in Mat Brats 2

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Rubbed the Wrong Way

It's no surprise that UCW's horniest wrestler would team up with its most adorable preadolescent mischief-maker to attempt to massage the co-owner of the company ... to death. 

Really, it is not. 

The surprise is that we didn't see this one coming. The folks at UCW are known for embracing the absurd, the limits of which they have pushed further and further beyond over the years. First, it was Joker who was the wild card of the bunch. Now everybody at UCW is in the business of crazy. Video #316, one of the "lost" matches, adds deep-tissue massage to the company's trademark mix of bizarrities, nard blows, unlawful restraint, and stiff welt-raising punches. 

And it kinda works!

The premise is that bossman Axel and Johnny Deep agree to wrestle each other for use of the mat room. If Johnny wins, Axel has to scram and let Johnny use the room for his stretching exercises. If Axel wins, he gets not only the room to himself but also a massage from Johnny, who's training to be a massage therapist. 

Then Axel, who used to be such a nice by-the-rules kind of guy, sucker-kicks Johnny in the diaphragm and systematically attacks the boy's limbs one by one. (Keep in mind that at UCW the word "limbs" no longer refers to arms and legs, but to cock, balls, nipples, abs, and butt cheeks. It's a different culture over there. They have their own ways.) 

For the next 21 minutes, Axel, the more experienced fighter, mercilessly beats, humiliates, and emasculates Johnny. (Sidebar: For my money nobody snapmares anybody quite so well as Axel snapmares Johnny. Just my opinion.) CJ Devastation enters the scene later and strikes an alliance with Johnny to help give Axel the "massage" he deserves.

It's all good, silly fun, depending on your sense of fun, of course, with enough ball-grabbing, gut-punching, and cock-yanking to keep you wincing even after the show is over.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Notes on a Classic: Chuck Young versus Paul Perris in Canadian Musclehunk Oil Wrestling 2

When Paul Perris strides out onto the blue oil-wrestling mat, wearing the tiniest purple bikini available in 1992, and glances at the camera, with the short clubby haircut he wore at the beginning of his Can-Am days, the world seems bright and wonderful to me. His physique was not as stridently "chiseled" back then, so there is a glowing softness to it that's still sexy to me--he actually had cheeks then (on his face, I mean ... I mean cheeks that were part of his face ... sheesh, you guys). He kneels spreadeagle at the center of the tarp and squirts baby oil over, which runs poetically down the tan curves of his body. His deep breathing at this moment gives me the first tingle of what will soon be an erection. If somebody would only make lollipops of this man's DNA, I would suck on that candy all day long.

His competition, Chuck Young, is an all-American type in a thong, whose face looks like it's waiting to be stamped on a coin. He appeared in several other videos of the Canadian Musclehunk series. He bears a resemblance to BG East's Max Dare--cropped curly hair, smoky tan, cheekbones and jawline befitting a Roman busily nailing Christ to a cross. He's built more sturdily than Perris, the kind of opponent Perris shines brightest against. The two wrestlers, unsteadily upright on the slick tarp, seize each other and immediately collapse, with Chuck on top. Happily Chuck wastes no time before straddling Paul's torso, skimming his crotch down to Paul's while clutching the man's throat in his two bare hands.

Perris tries to grab Young's head and ends up slipping over to his belly, where Chuck pulls the man's knee clear up to his armpit, his chin digging into Paul's fleshy shoulder. He flips Perris over and onto himself (as would I), and Perris quickly takes the opportunity to claim a cross-body pin (as if anybody keeps score in oil matches). Young groans an outraged "Fuck You" and rolls back on top of the beautiful god he's so lucky to be covered in oil with. He grabs Perris's wrists and slides his legs on either side of Perris's, resting his balls upon Perris's, while Perris stretches himself out and arches his midsection up towards Young. My cock is humming.

Paul rolls over while Chuck stands up to bash his body down on top of him several times. Then both men rise to their feet, gingerly balancing themselves on a blue frictionless surface (like Heaven). They fall into each other, and Chuck wraps both sets of his limbs around Paul's beauteous torso (as would I), his butt snug up against his opponent's moist pouch. Perris is on top, and both wrestlers are groaning deep down, apparently from their scrotums. Chuck screeches "Fucker!" at the exact moment when Perris is in position for that shoe to conceivably fit. The two struggle, and Young rolls over into top position again, his butt cheeks like Telly Savalas and Yul Brynner tete-a-teting in the pouring rain. Strangulation ensues, and my cock stretches up the fly of my shorts, hoping to catch a glimpse of what I'm watching on TV.

Young goes for a full nelson, but they're both too slippery for conventional wrestling holds to matter. So again he uses his whole body as a kind of battering ram against Perris's lower back. Somehow, weakening Perris gives Young the traction to finalize the hold, and he uses it to pull Perris over on top of himself (as would I), releasing the nelson just in time for the man to climb on his back and start elbowing him in the ribs. Chuck asserts his topness once again and traps Paul in a rear naked choke. Paul muscles out, and the two bodies spring up like dolphins leaping, only to land at a sharp angle, causing Chuck to yelp in a high pitch, like a loinclothed Ashuba native just stabbed in the gut by Tarzan. (Just now my cock is incredibly busy and will return your call when it finds the time. Don't wait up.)

Perris squats across Young's lower back, his wet purple trunks barely able to hold onto his voluptuous ass (thank you, Stay Puft, for suggesting exactly the right word), and he starts bouncing up and down on his opponent's lower vertebrae, making him grunt deeply and eventually spring up and start choking Perris again. Perris punches his way free of Young, only to get caught in a long side headlock, during which Perris inexplicably performs a perfect leg split (explication is not needed, as I'm quite happy to accept it as one of life's beautiful mysteries). Perris frees himself and starts choking Young. There's more rolling, and thrusting, and squeezing, and flipping, and straddling, and punching, and pounding, and moaning, and twisting, and strangling, and writhing, their bodies shiny as the plastic tarp they're bouncing on, until Chuck at last squeezes a submission out of Paul. End of Round 1. (Are there rounds in oil wrestling?)

The rest is more of the same, and that's not a complaint. Round 2 repeats all the good parts of Round 1--and every one of them was a good part, I thought.  This time, early on, Perris delivers two of his delightful jujitsu high kicks that knock Young on his ass, both times. Young executes a neat over-the-head flip that turns the advantage back to himself. The two engage in some serious-looking bare-knuckle fighting, a significant intensification of machismo over the first round. At last Perris submits Young with a surfboard hold. The decisive third round begins with a test of strength, hampered by the ease with which their feet slide on the plastic mat. The action is slower now, as exhaustion begins to take its toll, but the slow-motion writhing and strangling is ridiculously sexy. Just as I hoped and expected, the match is resolved with a really juicy chokeout, leaving one shiny corpse face down and spreadeagle at the center of the mat, the focus of the closing closeups.

Saturday, October 19, 2013


Talky, ebullient Claymore Kenneth Alexander, 5'10", 175#, makes a flashy debut against the hardy Travis Carter, 5'8", 186#, in Movimus's latest new release. I love the vibrant red curtain, by the way, but what steals the show for me is the high-contrast struggle of ego versus muscle. 

Reportedly coming to Movimus with a reputation of a giant-slayer of sorts, Claymore takes on one of the company's beefiest wrestlers in Travis. Claymore shows off for the fans' attention, willing to go the whole you-love-him-or-hate-him route too, and demonstrates amazing perseverance against Carter's thick muscle. 

It takes him eleven minutes to do it, but dadgummit if Claymore doesn't make the big man tap out with a choke, even if he must suspend his whole body weight off his opponent's adam's apple to pull him down groaning and gasping. The contest between gumption and protein powder lasts a full 22 minutes, with Claymore's mouth working for a good bit of that time and the sweat pouring off both men's bodies. Are Travis's stoicism and bulk enough to subdue the recruit's self-confidence and verve? Is Claymore's positive thinking enough to take down the iron man? It's a tough contest all right, between two submission wrestlers with a whole lot, even if very different kinds, of star power.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...