Fuck the Rules

Dante Bello vs Ken (Oil Bash)

Despite its importance in Ancient Greece, where it was linked to education and philosophy (pretty much the same thing back then), oil wrestling later became a Thursday night activity in which bartenders and strippers coyly pretend to wrestle in a shallow pool of oil - or, alternatively, mud, Jell-O, lube, et cetera. Usually drinks are half-priced, and servers circulate with plastic cups of Jell-O shooters. I'm dating myself, of course, since such "special nights" probably disappeared long ago, perhaps around 1999.

Underground wrestling has kept the pageantry of oil wrestling alive. It's a silly but potentially sublime entertainment. Dante and Ken have the right physique for it, though they flounder more than wrestle, limiting their assaults to chin locks, leglocks, and nelsons. Their smooth, sculpted, and glistening muscle, more than the science of wrestling, is the focus of this match. Both are walking-talking advertisements for gym membership. Dante also touts nose jewelry and  tattoos, which I have not yet closely studied, distracted by the young man's pecs, biceps, thighs, high cheekbones, and fulsome fuck-me lips. (Significantly, he has "Fuck the Rules" tattooed in gothic letters below his navel.)

Dante appears to be the better wrestler. Superbly cut Ken flails and grimaces and occasionally asserts his right to dominate his opponent, but there's not a second that passes that looks like he's doing more than winging it. Dante plays to the audience instinctively - as he should - flashing a self-assured smile from time to time or spreading his legs and thrusting his crotch towards the camera (I get shivers). Don't be fooled by my snide tone - the guy wows me. A slow, murderous, and potent choke-out decides the winner of the match, definitely the match's crowning moment.

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