Wrestling Videos I Watch Over and Over and Over (Part 15)

John St James vs Wyld Child, Canadian Musclehunk Oil Wrestling 4 (Can-Am)

For me the expression "guilty pleasure" brings one thing to mind, first and only: Wyld Child in CMOW4. I can't even put my finger on why this is so, but it is. Is it the long hair? His vague resemblance to Danny Pintauro? Is it the oil wrestling? For the life of me I can't imagine why any of these things would put me off. But then the trouble is none of them do--which is the "pleasure" part of the phrase, and I value pleasure highly. So why the "guilt"? I'm stumped. Still, if there's a corner of my wrestling fetish that still generates a modicum of guilty feeling, it is right here in this match, as St James and the Child flip and flop and moan and bone up in Tang-colored bikinis. I'm not worried about the "guilt" because, like many other ex-religionists, I realize how powerful an aphrodisiac it can be. WC frequently stars in the wrestling fantasies I work up online (for seven or eight years now!) with an Internet pal, who also finds pleasure in Wyld, though with none of the guilt. The gogo boy knows how to wrestle (so does St James), but few wrestlers have an affinity for oil matches that the Child beautifully demonstrates in this contest.

Ivan Gromov vs Iron Wolf, IWF Danger Zone #54 (Independent Wrestling Federation)

The polar opposite of Wyld Child's dancerly body is the lumbering bulk of Russian wrestler Ivan Gromov (6', 231#), for me the bigger boner-upper. Although this match against Iron Wolf (6', 216#), one of many run-ins between the two from 2009 to 2011, ends with outside interference, the struggle between youth and experience is as mythic and dramatic as it gets. This is the first Gromov match I saw, and it has haunted my imagination in positive though sometimes startling ways. Gromov proved himself more vicious in later matches, but his slow and taciturn approach to heel-playing introduced a new archetype into my wrestling fantasies: the burly young man as the portent of doom. His body and his movement (impressive, though hardly graceful) mesmerize me to the extent that I remember little about the other bodies in the ring except to the degree that they experience the impact of his. The Russian cross around Ivan's neck reminds me of Bobby, this Italian-American guy I used to roughhouse with in our twenties, whose cross would jab me as we tussled, even when his only other covering was briefs. That too came to symbolize something for me: the annoying pinprick of my gradually diminishing faith as I was coming to terms with my kinky sexuality.

Impact vs Mogly, Battlespace 34 (Thunders Arena)

Speaking of my memories of Bobby, you know who reminds me of him? Impact at Thunders Arena. Not so much in the face, but in his super-cool attitude and his solid physique. Others, wiser than I, might have predicted that his little brother Tak would eventually eclipse him on the Arena mats, but four years ago I thought Impact was the company's next big thing and, at best, Tak had a Frank Stallone and Stephen Baldwin career in store. Little did I know. This match opens with a prologue, which is a point in its favor, surprisingly, since talk is not my favorite thing in wrestling. Impact breaks down the third wall, sitting on the edge of a bed in just his baby-blue Diesels and, in his sleepy-time voice, inviting us to join him as he stretches and picks through a drawer of microscopic bikinis in preparation for his match with Mogly. Cut to Mogly, in his Arena debut, complaining about his opponent's lateness, flexing and dissing Impact's girlfriend. Impact then bursts onto the scene, and the fighting begins with a high takedown ending in a thigh-stretch on Mogly. Mogly isn't and never was much of a wrestler, but he did have a bland sort of cockiness that made me want to beat him up, which action Impact enthusiastically performs on my behalf. If Mogly has a hope spot in this match, I don't remember it, just a series of bear hugs, scissors, and chicken-wings through which Impact demonstrates how he got his mat name. As his chest gets sweatier, he pauses to show off the deliciousness of his well-defined muscles--perhaps the main reason I watch this video again and again.


  1. I love Can-Am's oil matches too. We all know it's almost impossible to secure a hold when every part of their bodies is so slippery, but I just can't tear my eyes away from these chiseled torsos gliding against each other, with bulges sometimes buried in muscular cheeks.

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