Sunday, June 30, 2013

June Hits (Recent Popular Posts)



Saturday, June 29, 2013

Notes on a Classic: Can-Am's Kick-Ass Bodybuilder Feud 2






Hard to believe, but I'm now teaching college students who were born the year Can-Am shot this classic: 1996. Although the first Feud (cousins Paul Perris and Roman Stone going at it) has been in my collection forever--first in VHS form, then DVD--I saw #2 (Perris versus Billy Vochek) for the first time a few days ago. 

Paul Perris Exposed had been announced as Perris's last fight video for Can-Am. But after he toured with the roadshow of Mortal Kombat (sort of a fight-fetish version of the Ice Capades--sorry I missed that one), he agreed to one more fight for producer-director Ron Sexton. This is it.

For years I asked fellow kinksters online what they thought of the sequel and received varying responses. Nobody hated it. Nobody thought it was better than the original. I remained curious, but hesitated to buy. Complicating matters, Can-Am sells two versions of K-ABbF2, shot back to back. This review focuses on the second of these. 

According to the online catalog, the same storyline is followed in both versions, with slight variations in moves and expressiveness. First, we see Vochek and Perris working out with weights. Then they climb into the ring, remove their shirts, and stretch each other out, Perris in long white tights, Vochek in purple. 

Perris looks thicker, with a world-weary look in his eyes that suggests that he saw things during his 200-city Kombat duty that he'd never be able to get out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. Vochek looks fresh, a bit like a young Dolph Lundgren. 

The two slip on boxing gloves and drive them into mitts and a heavy bag hanging from a hook over the ring. Then the two spar with each other, punching and throwing high kicks, pecs bouncing, Billy getting more hits in than I expected.

When the gloves come off, I get more interested. Both knock each other to the mat several times before the tights come off too, revealing Perris in a yellow string bikini and Vochek in pink. At long last, the two wrestlers lock up, and Perris throws Vochek to the mat for an armbar. 

Perris is more sadistic here than in his early matches at Can-Am. His aggressiveness, always on the showy side, is overtly sexual here, more so than his fight with Roman, in my opinion. Here he focuses his attention more on his opponent's suffering, less on trying to impress the fans with his physique and agility. He mounts Vochek's back and full-nelsons him, face to the mat. Vochek elbows his way loose, but Perris gets him down again, this time clamping both wrists to the small of the newcomer's back.

He pulls Billy up by the hair and thrusts him forehead first to the corner ropes for some pro-style punishment. Then he schoolboy-pins him at the center of the mat. Vochek thrusts out and starts dishing up some payback. But Perris doesn't like being on the receiving end, so the situation switches back, with Perris in control, crushing the blond's waist between his powerful thighs. 

The sexiest moments are Perris's SBPs, pressing Vochek's wrists to the mat above his head, the crotch of his yellow trunks occasionally skimming Vochek's bottom rib. Vochek's escapes and retaliations are brief, only succeeding in giving Perris time to concoct a more humiliating entanglement than the previous one.

Each wrestler dominates a round in the ring, with the second round ending with Vochek binding Perris's wrists together and hanging him for a punching bag. From here, they go to the oil pit for Round 3, where Perris once again asserts control. 

Perris knows how to play this format for all it's worth, maximizing our exposure to his and Billy's slick, slippery flesh, while grunting insults and barking barely intelligible commands. Here I'm reminded (if I needed reminding) why I mark out for Paul Perris.

His training has taught him to strike hard and fast, but his instincts, which by this point in his career were finely tuned, tell him to take it slow, to gradually grind Vochek down to a dry-heaving nub, to make every strenuous hold a painful lesson for the newby, who never showed his handsome face at Can-Am again, and, at last, to put the kid out of his misery with a climactic choke.

I did not hate this match. I can see myself getting many years of use out of this video. On the whole, I did not like it better than K-ABbF1, mostly because I like what Roman Stone brings to the original--which is not, however, a whole lot of dramatic intensity, but rather thighs and shoulders that can make a fella drop down in a swoon.

But in most ways, Part 2 gives us a much better performance out of Paul Perris--more focused, more strategic, more volatile, with noticeably more erotic heat. It turns out to be an essential match for fans of Perris--and a varied joyride for anybody with a wrestling kink.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Explosive!










At last night's match on Impact, Magnus, 6'3", 240#, faced off against Bobby Roode, 6', 240#. Commentators used the word "explosive," and I'll admit to doing some exploding while watching this video this morning. The wrestling world needs more wrestlers like Roode and Magnus: ruddy, brawny, tightly wound. Even the ref looks fight-ready. 

Since cutting his dark hair close to the skull, Roode epitomizes my idea of how a heel should look: thin severe lips, a head cut out of cinderblock, tiny lobeless ears, a jawline where it's always five o'clock, a flat no-nonsense stomach. 

The match is fairly "textbook," but textbook is good when it means "classic" instead of "rote." My complaint is that it might have been longer and sweatier ... and might have wedged me somehow between these man-size grapplers.

Petersen













Mike Petersen, 25, 5'11", 220#, currently holds the championship belts at Melbourne City Wrestling and NWA: Warzone (based also in Melbourne). He is magnificent. I am enthralled.

Thursday, June 27, 2013

Bloodlust





Some movies I watch because of my love of the art of cinema.  Seven Samurai, Nashville, Goodfellas, and Amour rank high on my list of personal favorites. I watch other movies for reasons that are harder to defend. I'm thinking about 2011's Arena, whose current Rotten Tomatoes Tomatometer score is 26% (better than Identity Thief, worse than Gangster Squad). I'm watching Arena because of Kellan Lutz. I feel especially lutzful this week for complicated biographical reasons (which I'll spare you). Also, this movie interests me as kink fantasy and guilty pleasure (always a delight to watch Samuel L. Jackson phone in another performance in a made-for-crap movie). Since this blog is about kink, let's stick to the fantasy.

The fantasy is high-tech gladiatorial competition--illegal fights to the death--blending The Hunger Games and any Jean-Claude Van Damme movie you might still be able to name. It's the kind of lurid martial-arts movie the 1980s churned out like popcorn, gradually fostering straight-to-video marketing. Lutz plays a war vet turned suicidal by the sudden death of his pregnant wife. Now he's coerced into a series of death matches shot against a green screen in an underground soundstage. It's pretty much a fun and silly mess--with bloopers like Mandarin-speaking Japanese office clerks and steering wheels on the wrong side of vehicles, given the supposed geographical setting. It's 80 percent cliched tropes like "this time it's personal" and Starship Enterprise-inspired computer consoles, 20 percent full-frontal nudity and maraschino-cherry-colored gore. If that, in addition to Kellan Lutz's sweaty torso, fails to pique your interest, you need to give this movie a pass.

This kind of stuff can be classed-up in the hands of directors like Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez. First-time (and, so far, only-time) director Jonah Loop simply keeps the camera lens clean and lets Lutz's stained, glistening pecs do all the work. On this count, I have no complaints. Earlier this week I talked an online buddy into coauthoring a fantasy involving Lutz in a ring contest against my buddy's choice of opponent. I decked the actor out in shimmering silver-gray trunks and red boots. I am, as I said, in the midst of a Kellan spree. The fight choreography in Arena looks fairly standard--and I find no MMA training listed in Lutz's IMDb credits. The pleasures of this movie depend, to a large extent, on your ability to reprocess its set pieces through your own imagination. (Try your hand, for instance, at revamping the staple-gun-versus-circular-saw match, shown briefly during a montage of the hero's "rise to the top" of the Death Games series. My cock's personal favorite, though, is the climactic shirtless bare-knuckles showdown between Lutz and head-henchman Johnny Messner, against a backdrop of burning Kuwaiti oilwells!)

What is the appeal of the fight-to-the-death scenario? Let me state, right off, that real mortal combat and  gladiatorial contests do not interest me. What fascinates me about the staged, phony kind has to do with intensity, grittiness, romantic vigilantism, and sadism, which I enjoy in fantasy but not in actual life. The mortal aspect appeals to me because of its moral magnitude--deeds that cannot be undone, committed purposefully and unmercifully, usually in the name of "Justice." (Justice is an idea which obsesses me but in which I don't, in fact, actually believe. Like "Purity," it's an ethical ideal that has caused more evil than it has put to rest.) There's a dark beauty in all that--and no doubt it appeals to some un-evolved part of my brain, which has fused to the libido part of my brain, for some reason. My punishment kink is more tightly attached to the concept of justice than it is to pain, domination, or ownership. That link is probably why, unlike so many other wrestling fetishists, I prefer matches in which the heel is ultimately put down.

For me this film (kinda) works because of Kellan Lutz. His full-lipped, serenely angelic face atop his mannish but hairless 6'1" physique, accentuated with cosmetic scarring, makes him the image of an archangel of justice, like Michael in the Book of Daniel or on the wall behind the Sistine Chapel altar, or Paul Bettany in the 2010 schlockalyptic thriller Legion. In Arena, he takes on the demons of media-saturated culture and hyperreality, along with the criminal underworld. Innocence and cruelty bond in his character in an appealing way for me, even in a film that clumsily rips off Enter the DragonCool Hand LukeRoadhouseSpartacusSilence of the LambsKill BillThe Truman Show, and who knows what else. It never quite lives up to its potential as a camp classic, but it's easy to imagine that the filmmakers were shooting for a testosterone-charged version of Showgirls (almost certainly another of the movie's inspirations).

Oh, and here I'm throwing in some gratuitious non-film-related shots of hot young Kellan ...



Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Finisher!

Who's the Champ?











Here's a title match from last October for NWA Warzone in Melbourne, Australia. Champ KrackerJak, 5'8", 209#, takes on the challenge of muscular stud Mike Petersen, 5'11", 220#. The twist is that the husky champion with the shaggy hair and big mouth is the good guy. The tight-lipped, cleancut (and rather awesome) bodybuilder is bad. Roles are reversed for the "bastard" and the "kid." Both guys have their fans this night, but, physical attributes aside, the behaviors mark the scruffy blowhard as the hero, the smooth hottie as the villain. 

For one thing, apple-cheeked Mike has a sharp-dressed manager named Lord Mark Williamson, who sticks his nose where it doesn't belong--and, in a sweet moment at ringside, KrackerJak cracks the two baddies' heads together. Knocking people's heads together, I mean literally, is a surefire pleaser for me. Why? I don't know, and perhaps I'll need to explore the point further in some future posting. But it packs more erotic punch for me than even ball-grabbing. (Maybe it's because I'm a pretty cerebral guy.) 

This match also comes equipped with a corner mount, some two-counts, a craven flight from the ring, rope-choking, biting, a crucially timed distraction of the ref, and other stuff that pushes my chimes. KrackerJak sustains a running harangue against his jacked opponent from beginning to end, while Mike lets his heel manager do the talking (and interfering) for him.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Ties That Bind










Nick Diesel told me that he entered the world of erotic wrestling to win converts to bondage. Watching live the filming of his UCW-Wrestling match against wild man Quinn Harper [#290, released this past weekend] is already near the top of my "Best of 2013" list of personal experiences. I'm pretty sure my tongue was lolling out for most of the fight. I remember crossing and uncrossing my legs a lot too. (When the shoot was over, I excused myself to go to the john, and Bodyslam quietly asked if I needed some lube.)

I like this fight because Quinn and Nick are both heels, but polar opposites in attitude and style. Quinn foams at the mouth, eyes gleaming as he rips into an opponent and makes him scream. Nick is deadpan-sadistic, toying with a victim like a cat with its claw in the chest of a flailing mouse. (Nick similarly compares the erotic thrill of bondage to the cold awakening of a rat dropped into a python's glass tank.) Nevertheless, as cool and expressionless as Nick tends to be, Quinn knows tricks for making any opponent expressive, as you can see in some of the screen captures above.

I like this match also because it captures a moment of discovery for both heels. Quinn has fought some tough competition at UCW, but not anybody like Nick, who comes closest to matching his capacity for malevolence. At first, he was wary of the rope gimmick, but it didn't take him long to learn how to make the ropes work for him--and to use them fiercely and recklessly, as suits his amok character, in contrast to Nick's serene but insidious turpitude. (The contrast is a bit like putting a Mad Max villain in a cage with a James Bond villain, I think.) After the match, I asked Nick what he took away from the fight. Some ideas, he said. What kind of ideas? Forcing water down the throat of an opponent, using a chair, not just as a weapon, but as a tool for intensifying pain, two innovations he improvised in the middle of his battle with Quinn.

Do I recommend the video? Hell, yeah, I do. The close-up camerawork and occasional edits turn it into an even hairier ride than it was for me, having to sit quietly away from the mat. It's another new step for UCW, who has been stepping lively and daringly for the past year. Watching a company and its wrestlers evolving and rapidly coming into their own is exciting and crazy entertainment.

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