I think of Kid Vicious, in all his later work, as a performance artist whose art consists of digging into rather important, though typically taken-for-granted questions, such as
- What is and is not sex?
- Is love a power, a survival instinct, or a romantic sentiment?
- What does it mean to be a man? or, for that matter, a human being?
Instead of words, Vicious and his cohorts use partly choreographed gestures and emblematic props (including their own bodies) to explore and dramatize the dynamic interactions between men, in a word, "ritual," perhaps a ritual that's at the extreme of "male bonding." Wrestling, likely the first game in human history, has its roots in pagan ritual. Brutal and high risk, wrestling was originally about hierarchy, patriarchy, heroism, and justice, attributes of the god Zeus. Greek religion begins with a wrestling match between Zeus and his father, the Titan Cronus. Wrestling was later refined in the ancient Greek gymnasium, a facility for combat training, in the nude, also used for socializing, cruising, and the debating of new ideas (all considered manly, back in the day).
Wrestle X (BG East, 2005) begins with a closeup of Rick Hunter's boner vividly outlined against his pink and black bicycle shorts. He is stretching his limbs in a motel room, ostensibly to loosen up for the upcoming fight, but also doing everything in his power to keep himself firm and erect. Vicious enters, mutters, "What have we here?" and strips off his black shirt. Without prelude or fanfare, Vicious throws Rick down on the mattress and applies a series of wrestling holds, sexy ones that maximize body contact: body scissors, thigh stretches, face locks, full nelsons--forcibly applied as Vicious controls the jobber by chicken-winging the right arm. Rick's moans are as ecstatic as they are agonized. KV mixes wet lip-locks and crotch-fondling with the wrestling moves and calls for the boy to submit, to which Rick responds, when he's good and ready, "Yes, sir."
After a number of submissions, already too many to count (as if I would even think to count), Hunter dares to fight back, wrapping his legs around Vicious's waist and squeezing tight. The gesture is feeble, intentionally so, a sign of the boy's swooning weakness, overcome with lust. The attack barely fazes Kid Vicious, who snarls "you fucking bitch" before landing a series of forearm chops to the jobber's smooth chest. KV lifts Rick off the mattress, daring him to "give it your best shot," before dropping himself on top of the boy, landing (no accident) in the missionary position. Pelvic thrusting ensues and more juicy kisses, just in case the viewers have forgotten that this is something more than an athletic contest.
Hunter's mouth tries to envelop the nightstick now stretching the front of Vicious's yellow trunks. "You think you've earned that, do you?" Hunter says yes, but Vicious doesn't buy it. He teasingly pushes Rick's head away and traps him in a reverse bear hug, forearms to the ribs, cock to the butt, as he backs to the wall. Hunter squirms like a worm on a hook. Released, he drops on his back and Vicious rests the sole of his boot on his cock--a sign of absolute mastery as easy to read as a boot on the head or the heart. He pulls Hunter up to his knees, face to Vicious's crotch, both arms cinched behind him. Rick's mouth lunges for the bulge again, but Vicious tantalizes him, keeping the rookie's face a few unbridgeable inches from the goal.
Later, Hunter submits as Kid Vicious bends him backwards in a Boston crab hold. The heel releases only one of the legs, using his free hand to grope between the jobber's thighs. Touch signifies authority and command. In undemocratic times, underlings could not touch (often, could not even gaze upon) their superiors, though respected superiors could touch them freely--a friendly hand upon the shoulder or, despicably, rape. It's worth noting that this passionate game is BY NO MEANS a so-called "rape fantasy." Hunter is vocally consenting every step of the way, even pushing for more body contact than Vicious will condescend to give ... not just yet anyway.
Vicious peels off Rick's shorts but lets the purple briefs remain (for now). The deepening of color from pink to dark purple signifies a surrender to darker, more primal urges. He grips and massages the jobber's cock, pulling it up over the waistband, while resting his own crotch on Rick's mouth, which meditatively laps at the lycra covering the master's balls. Vicious's cock remains covered as he strokes it over the boy's face. After the jobber says "I submit" enough times, KV pulls his cock out and feeds it to the boy. Meanwhile, the master heel clenches his fist and studies his biceps, as if disinterested in the rookie's insatiable lust.
We are a third of the way into this feature-length "match" when Vicious puts on a leather glove. He announces the glove, the way a physician tells the patient what is about to happen next, or the way a narrator leads the reader to the next scene. KV punches the rookie on the navel as the brimming boner wobbles just out of striking distance. "You're in trouble, boy," Vicious murmurs, "big ... fucking ... trouble." Hunter breathes a deep sigh that seems to rise up from his nuts. Vicious backs the jobber to the wall, holding his fist to the kid's jaw as he kisses him wetly. He holds the cock with his bare hand, protectively, as his gloved fist slams the abs. Then the glove covers Rick's mouth as if to silence the boy's screams. Vicious kisses the back of his own hand, and, presumably, Hunter licks its palm. Vicious lays Hunter back on the mattress, straddling his neck. "Yeah," he coos. "That's what you want, boy. You know what's good for you. I could have knocked you out an hour ago, but instead I took you for a ride, yeaah." Sure, this is smut talk, but what's amazing is how classy and passionate KV makes it sound.
So far most of the sexual pleasures have been oral (and manual). Halfway through, though, Vicious mounts the rookie from behind, his cock pressing the seat of the boy's purple briefs, a ritualized dry hump thinly disguised as wrestling at this point. Though the motions of combat persist to the end, the fight is over. The victor of this match has already been identified. Every sexual advance from now on is stylized as a coercion of the (voluntarily) disempowered by the super-empowered master, who wants to give pleasure no less than to receive it.
Only in the final act are the wrestlers stripped entirely bare, the jobber first, of course, forcibly by the heel, who states literally, without exaggeration, unlike in pro wrestling, "Your ass is mine." The gloved hand applies the iron claw hold to Hunter's face as the jobber falls in slow motion to the mattress. The two veiny cocks coast against each other, thrusting together like the horns of rutting rams. Kid Vicious commands the boy to undress him, which the boy does willingly, sliding KV's yellow trunks down thighs, knees, calves, pausing briefly to stroke his cock against the side of the master's boot.
The buttfucking, when it happens, is surprisingly tender and sweet, in contrast to the practiced tone of menace up to this point. For gay men, the tenderness of a buttfuck is no surprise. Porn tends to depict the act more aggressively and noisily. I like the slappy, punishing fuck as much as anybody. Perhaps this is the way some porn stars signify their macho virility. But after an hour of sweaty wrestling, Kid Vicious has nothing left to prove. He slides into the boy the way he previously slid into his leather glove, confidently and a little in awe of the power he wields. He is the conqueror and a life force. He is taking a prize not only that he has justly won but also that Hunter willingly surrenders to him.