Thursday, March 31, 2016
With his Little Lord Fauntleroy looks and tight ass, Ian is unlikely to garner much sympathy, no matter how roughly Richie treats him. He has the bearings of someone who needs a good kick in the pants, and the effusive, cowlick-y Brooks seems tailor-made to do the honors. Almost anything Richie does can be forgiven as high spirits or rambunctiousness, but Ian's reserve, with his straight hair and clean part, makes him seem cold and unsympathetic. His tactics look more calculating and sadistic, whereas Richie's just a husky lad who likes to play rough.
By the second part of the match, the fans and the commentator are apparently on Richie's side against the increasingly short-tempered Ian. Richie is ahead in points, and Ian is frustrated, an attitude that robs him of his youthfulness and makes him seem prematurely middle-aged. He seems almost too smug as he grinds Brooks in a side headlock. That's exactly the attitude that makes me crave the moment when Richie cuts loose and (I hope) kicks Ian's ass. I admire Ian's finesse, but I root for Richie, the regular bloke. Ian evens the score and begins to pull ahead. Now more than ever I pull for Brooks. In the end, both wrestlers are sportsmanlike and skilled, but it's hard not to pick a favorite.
Thank you to Sid, whose comment on last Friday's blog recommended a closer look at pre-Apollon Richie Brooks.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
"In the year 2025, every professional wrestling federation on the planet has acknowledged [its] homoerotic nature and encourages wrestlers to use sex as a weapon in the ring."This is the premise of Rowdy Armstrong: Wrestling's New Golden Boy, David Monster's 300-page wrestling utopia, set in the near future. The novel, published last year, with the promise of a soon-to-be-released sequel, portrays the life and loves of Rory Pedersen, from fandom at age thirteen to the verge of fortune and fame in the ring by age eighteen in a world where mainstream pro wrestling has become unashamedly homoerotic.
It's pulp fiction through and through and not for the kids (of course, it all depends on the kids). The emphasis is on blow-by-blow description of the matches, which feature a few dirty tactics you may want to highlight in red for easy reference later. You'll meet an array of talent: rookies and champions from around the world, wrestling and fucking their way to the topmost title, All World Pro Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Champion.
Here's a taste, from the book's climactic midpoint, a championship match between the reigning world champion, Dyer Anderson (6', 285#), and the challenger and ex-champ Chris Enos (6'2", 235#):
Enos slid one hand down Anderson's muscle belly and burrowed his fingertips down in through the waistband of his trunks. He fumbled around, and untied The Champ's trunks, then pulled them down, and lodged them up under The Champ's balls. Anderson's boner sprung to attention, and he tried to cover his erection with his hands. The Crowd on that side of the ring stood up. Rory got a close-up shot of it on his virtual TV, and he couldn't help but manipulate his own excited penis.
Anderson tried to pull his trunks back up just as Enos rammed his hips forward and pulled up on the middle rope, grinding it into The Champ's balls.
Enos grinned, "Wait, one more second." He kept pulling up on the rope with one hand, and pushed his other hand into the pubic bone just above The Champ's erection, then slowly moved the heel of his hand down.
The Champ's erection, and balls, were now in a vice created by Enos's hand, and the middle rope of the ring. Anderson's mouth hung open, and his hands shook, as he held them out just in front of his throbbing manhood, immobilized by pain, and a fair amount of pleasure.If it all sounds like Spartacus Meets Huck Finn in the Valley of the Dolls, with a touch of Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg's Candy, that's because that's exactly what it is. And if the excerpt above awakens a taste for literature deep inside your pants, the rest of this entertaining hoot of a book may be what you need to finish you off.
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Jessy Sorensen vs Joey Ryan, 10-10-15 (Paragon Pro Wrestling)
I used to call these blog postings reviews. I shy away from that language these days. It implies I have some credibility on the subject of wrestling, pro or otherwise. I do not. Furthermore, readers often assume a review is objective. I don't do objective. I don't in any meaningful way evaluate wrestlers or their matches. What I do is more interpretative and intuitive. I write about what interests me in a wrestler or a match, and I wonder aloud (or in black and white) why on earth he or she or it interests me so much. If something doesn't interest me, I don't write about it, which means some very fine wrestlers and important history-changing matches get ignored in these pages, and some fairly insignificant stuff (insignificant to other people) gets pored over like it was the Talmud. That's what a blog is, in my opinion. It's not journalism. (Readers of political blogs would do well to recognize the difference, too.)
What interests me this morning is the Lalique shine of Jessy Sorensen's body, the pouty but tough swell of his lower abdomen, the pedestal solidity of his thighs. Before he does anything else, Joey Ryan sells the magnificence of the champion's physique by shrinking away, cowering between the ropes, as if reluctant to engage this towering body (in this, his third contest against Sorensen in a year*--lucky Joey). In response, Jessy's lurching but graceful swagger pantomimes his eagerness to get his hands on Ryan. Of course, since he covets the man's belt, Joey wants this fight, too, but in the manner of all cowardly heels he wants it in the easiest (cheapest, dirtiest) way possible. Honor means nothing to him, whereas Jessy is the very picture of honor.
I'm also interested in Jessy's grip on Joey's head. His belly flat against the ring floor as he presses Joey's nose into the canvas. He lies there as still as a lion with a warthog in his jaws, contemplating what to do with it. A minute later, I detect (or project) the same meditative mood as he stands with an all but paralyzed challenger clamped in a side headlock, giving the neck a good crank to let Joey know who's boss. This kind of confident, heroic sadism (the right word, but the wrong connotation) reminds me of the wrestlers, like Jack Brisco, who worked their opponents till the poor schmoes were nothing but a big wet spot on the floor.
In a real sense the outcome of this contest makes no difference to me. That part is just stats on a win/loss scorecard. Whether Jessy keeps or loses the title or belt is less consequential (to me) than the beauty of the moments of body-to-body stasis in the midst of titanic gestures of self-assured dominance and control.
* The other two are here and here.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Eagle vs Profiteer, Battlespace 86 (Thunders Arena)
The full thirteen minutes of this short video is a hard-on, but especially the first three. The opening minutes of the actual wrestling captures the easy, unadorned joy of two real-life friends grappling, teasing, basking in each other's closeness in spirit and flesh. Perhaps it is too much to ask for the whole video to be like this. There is more of it, though, sprinkled through the rest, when what we're looking at becomes mainly theater, with setups that seem invented to satisfy us paying customers. It's not bad, the rest of it, but the first three unaffected minutes is magic.
Eagle and Profiteer are close. Their comfort level with each other belongs to a different category than the guarded feeling-out that transpires between most hired opponents. There is trust here and a bond. Eagle, of course, looks fantastic. Profiteer is new, and he's a revelation. I'm immediately smitten. It's sort of obvious that these two see themselves in each other. There's chemistry. This chemistry and the pure frolic of the opening minutes would charm me even if the wrestlers were not beautiful--but, God, are they beautiful!
Sunday, March 27, 2016
Max Ryder vs Malik, #459 (UCW)
Max and Malik don't have much to say to each other, but they sure make some noise. Max especially does some butt-drumming that fills the fight space, accenting the heavy pounding he deals his opponent right off the bat.
This is Max's seventh appearance at the company (his fifth singles competition). Malik has had eight previous matches. Both are great in this match, lending the UCW brand some fresh new attitude. The fight nevertheless maintains the company's penchant for gut punching, spine snapping, and nipple tweaking (and biting!), which the wrestlers spin in their unique ways.
Max is part of the new wave of meaty muscle at UCW (a match against Derrick Cole is soon in the works, I truly hope). Malik gives the big guy a hard working over, and the give and take are fairly evenly divided. It's difficult to say how much weight Malik is giving up to Ryder, but his mat savvy serves him well, whereas Max benefits from his brute strength and instinctual meanness (good boy).
There's plenty of boner material here, enough to satisfy the most discriminating UCW fan. Lithe Malik strikes like lightning but has a velvet touch that keeps things sexy. Max is a powerhouse, still a bit too camera-conscious, but his imperturbable attention to the business of demolition is smoking hot. These journeymen are not yet big names at the company, but this battle proves that the potential is definitely there.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Krush vs Gaz, Gutpunch Grappling 2 (Krushco)
One-third of the way through Gutpunch Grappling 2, Krush and Gaz are tied 1 to 1. Two-thirds of the way through, they are tied 3 to 3. These two guys are perfectly matched in body, skills set, and orneriness. In the video's final third, the fight gains momentum and intensity, leaving us with eleven groaning submissions in all.
It's too soon to tell, but this may be my favorite Krushco release ever, with the kind of grinding, thrusting intensity that defines my wrestling fantasies. For those whose tastes never venture from the squared circle, I won't try to sell you on this contest--if it's not your thing, it's just not your thing, I guess--but for the life of me I can't see how the incessant wriggling body contact combined with brute force can fail to turn anybody on.
Gaz is already booked as my fantasy man for the weekend. He's tough and sexy and strong. I appreciate his fearlessness against a legendary man-crusher like Krush. He gives as good as he takes and appears oblivious to the roving cameraman and the prospective audience, 100 percent focused on dismantling his opponent, both the man and the legend surrounding the man. And Gaz is a mere hair's breadth away from achieving legendary status of his own.
Friday, March 25, 2016
Marco with toy
Paul Hudson and Greg Garrett
Bryan and Matt Logan
Bryan and Matt Logan
Mexx(berg) and some poor schmuck who probably deserves this
It's my birthday. I want a party. Who am I inviting? Hot wrestlers! What do I mean by "hot"? I guess I mean "sexy," like everybody else does. The question I ask when I evaluate any good-looking man on the street: Would I like to see him fight? That's usually the first question, with a Part B that goes Would I like to be the one to fight him? I've put a hundred names on my guest list. Feel free to add more in the comments section below. Interesting party crashers also welcome.
Danny Duggan, crushing skull
Mitch Colby (and breakfast)