Steve Simpson and Chris Walker vs Scott Anthony and Rip Rogers, 9 August 1991 (Global Wrestling Federation)
When I was young, I had a complicated formula for determining "my sexual type." Now it's a simple two steps: one, can he wrestle or attempt a reasonable facsimile of wrestling? two, can he look good in a loincloth? Here, in a nutshell, is why my attention is drawn to this insane 13-minute match, whose 25th anniversary is today. It looks like the wet dream I never thought to have. I look back on this match with some amazement that there ever was a time in mainstream pro wrestling that was this richly informed by kink. It brims with sadomasochistic imagery a la Conan the Barbarian and The Beastmaster, only with more body contact.
The match begins at the 18:00 mark on the video linked above. There's Steve Simpson, my favorite early 1990s wrestler. There's his partner Chris Walker, nicknamed "Conan." Walker's the main reason I reference Frank Frazetta in the title. He is especially fascinating in the context of this GWF oddity ("odd" even by McMahon standards). Then there are the bad guys. Rip Rogers is close to perfection as a platinum-blond heel in pink trunks. He could be a gay Flintstone. The other heel, Scott Anthony, later re-dubbed "Raven," is the most normal looking guy in the bunch. It's an almost genius casting move. He's like Marilyn on The Munsters.
It's hard for me to pinpoint what makes this supersaturation of machismo hot, unless the question answers itself. It's the total effect, probably. There are the luscious physiques of Simpson and Walker, of course. There's Simpson's trunks, which tend to creep up his butt cheek. There's the more-erotic-than-usual pinning positions. There's the romance of tag partnerships in general. For me, there's Walker's loincloth, also Simpson's red biceps sash--both of which suggest something primitive or tribal or wild. Side headlocks and arm bars usually "do it" for me, too. There's the sudden turnabout at the end, which almost always has a touch of the orgasmic about it, to my way of thinking, at least. There's the David Lynch-meets-Colt-Studio weirdness of the whole thing.