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.