Body Heat

Alex Costa vs Quin Quire, Catalog 10 - The Muscle Boys Get Naked (MuscleBoy Wrestling)

In 48 sweat-soaked, groaning minutes, Alex and Quin engage in the hottest erotic combat of either man's career and, quite possibly, of MuscleBoy's amply sweltering (though short) history. So much depends on the action and soundtrack of this match that still shots cannot fully convey its force, but this is the fight Quin and Alex were made for - a naked tango of orgasmic struggle and pain. 

"You look strong, huh?" Alex asks at the beginning, his accent almost as charming as the longing in his eyes as he watches Quin do push-ups. He licks his lips and strokes his crotch, one shoulder resting against the wall. "Yeah, so do you," Quin replies. Side by side, the two complete perfectly formed push-ups in slow motion, their eyes locked together. "I can't wait to beat all the shit out of you," Alex says in a tone less threatening than inviting. Quin suggests they try a little arm wrestling first.

With more effort than he probably expected, Alex pushes Quin's hand to the mat. The sides of their faces touch, and they turn towards each other and kiss. It's a long kiss, and wet, and audible. Quin wonders out loud how much of a beating Costa's body can take. Once again, the words sound like an invitation. They stand and lock arms. Quire backs Costa to the wall and plies his hairy chest and belly with punches. Alex sells the blows with appropriate grunts, but his eyes light up with excitement. Quin drags him down to the mat, where his punches are louder, swifter, harder. "Had enough yet?" he asks. As I see it, it's Quire's coded signal that now is the time for Alex to "beat all the shit out" of him.

The chemistry between the two is hypnotic yet sharp as a needle. Quire's performance is masochistic perfection, yet he is far from passive, loading enough punishment on Costa to inspire the brutal rounds of retributive justice that soon follow. The comeuppance is swift and formidable - slams and slaps and moans echoing off the walls of the black-box fight space. Costa has never been more self-assured and imperious. He soundly delivers the ravishing reprisals Quin craves.

Now it is real. The give and take is largely performative, a mating ritual that nevertheless is solid enough to be convincing. About 12 minutes in, the streaks of pain that flash across Quin's face are proof that, though it may be ritual, the roughness is 100 percent real. The pain transubstantiates into the dark ecstasy I'm perhaps a little too obsessed with. Their bodies sparkle with sweat. The lungs feel like they're on fire as they suck in air, the hearts beating like talking drums.

In the last 14 minutes, the bodies are stripped clean of gear, and the theme has turned from competition to sex, but it's ravenously hungry sex, light years away from mom-and-dad sex. It's sex without gentleness, beyond consent, violating, desecrating, penetrating sex. No sooner am I done with the first viewing, I am certain this is a contest I will be returning to. I want to drink it all in, savor it, revisit it when I need to rekindle my murky and infernally unwholesome fantasies.

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