Scrappy – 5’7″, 165 lbs
Skrapper – 5’10”, 145 lbs
Despite wrestling under similar names, Skrapper and Scrappy are a study in contrasts. To my knowledge Skrapper is a BG East exclusive, appearing in 15 matches between about 2008 and 2016. Scrappy, on the other hand, has wrestled in more than 50 matches for Thunders Arena, 9 matches for Muscleboy Wrestling, and 6 matches for Wrestler4Hire, to my knowledge. Scrappy is a luscious aesthete, whose curly locks and baby face contradict the erotic art of his luxuriously thick, impeccably sculpted, compact muscle physique. Skrapper, on the other hand, is severely lean, like a barely legal endurance swimmer, stitched together with homespun, taut muscle, bone, and sinew. Skrapper is as serious as a heart attack, with his deep, rumbling baritone layered atop the stunned whimpers of his opponents, who are absolutely never prepare for the mountain of merciless hurt he buries them under; whereas Scrappy’s 2nd tenor is irrepressibly playful, more unselfconsciously dangerous than driven. Both stunning studs make me swoon, but with Scrappy, it’s because he’s so frivolously fuckable, like he could make macrame dizzyingly homoerotic with nothing more than that impish grin and a knowing look over his shoulder as he catches the camera seduced by his relentless, cock tease ass cheeks. Skapper, on the other hand, seems unaware of his inescapable erotic allure, dripping with an intoxicating mix of aggression, passion for competition, and sexual pleasure derived from conquering a combatant, the bigger the better. Skrapper is like the meat and potatoes of the diet. Scrappy is the mouthwatering confection at the end of the meal.
This is the point at which, in past blogging experience, I would start obsessing over every detail of a fantasy wrestling match, struggling to get down in print the erotic pleasure playing out in my imagination. This would send me spinning for days on end, making every post a belabored (if loved) odyssey. In the interest of self-care and not burning out too, too quickly again on blogging, I will try to stick to just the broad strokes (pun intended) and overall outline of why this fantasy match is a winner.
Scrappy and Skrapper would, most naturally, need to square off on the mats. Neither of these storied wrestlers ever hit their strides in a wrestling ring. For the sake of fair play, let’s just say the venue is a generic Florida sun room, since both hunks have abundant experience in that general genre. The opening minutes would epitomize the inherent conflict between their two natures. Scrappy would flex and preen and toss disposable trash talk all over the place, particularly expressing contempt for his opponent’s “swimmer’s build.” Skrapper would be happy enough to take in the spectacular sight, but would quickly enough grow impatient with the preener. Scrappy’s trash talk would bounce off Skapper unacknowledged and apparently unnoticed. Sooner or later, Skrapper would exploit the narcissist’s self-love, coming up from behind the bodybuilder’s dazzling double-bicep as if in admiration, only to grab him around his tiny waist and suplex the mother fucker to the mat unceremoniously.
I see the first fall playing out in rapid fire succession, with Skrapper initiating offense every fucking second. There’d be a lot of scrambling across the mat. Skrapper would lock down full and half nelson’s, stretching the dumbfounded pin-up out viciously. Scrappy would repeatedly bear down in a flex, slowly, but surely, popping free from one Skrap-trap after another, but like a chess master, Skrapper would already be two steps ahead. The first fall would be all about wiping the cocky grin off of Scrappy’s cherubic face. Skrapper’s hammerlock on the hunk would press the bulging shoulder joint a fraction too far, sparking desperate screams to punctuate Scrappy’s petulant whimpers. Between cries of agony, Scrappy would snarl and snap out promises of retribution on the “skinny little fucker,” which would make Skrapper smile. He loves wringing astonished respect out of beefy muscle hunk like this. Skrapper would keep snapping shut traps, like an ankle lock transitioned into a bow-and-arrow, a muscle-wasting rear-naked choke, and an early-gambit camel clutch. They chip away at the bodybuilder by inches, making him suck down the humiliation and power free time after time, only to fall face-first into another trap. Skrapper would just be too fast, too focused, and too well-executed. Finally, I see the Skrapper-swarm landing Scrappy in a deep-seated Boston crab. Scrappy would refuse the demand that he submit, until Skrapper unhooks a leg to free one hand, and reaches down and throttles Scrappy’s dangling balls. The neighbors would hear those screams of animal agony, when Scrappy screeches out an enraged first fall submission, pounding the mat.
Fall 2 would start out with a much wiser, more cautious Scrappy reassessing the situation. He’d still have that look on his face that makes Skrapper hard, namely the look of disbelief as the muscle hunk stares in shock at the ultra lean, juvenile-looking “skinny” kid who just kicked his ass at will. Scrappy would have broken out into a sweat after all of those hard-won flexing escapes. Skrapper would be chill as fuck, just returning the gaze with a look that says he knew all along he’d make this muscle hunk his bitch. Scrappy would bitch and moan about fighting dirty, as if there are any rules, as if Skrapper hadn’t mopped the floor with his sweat soaked body unchecked before he wrung the beefcake out with that ball claw. Scrappy would be the one with the unexpected lunge to start Fall 2, catching his gloating opponent flat-footed with a vicious knee into this balls that hits so hard Skrapper is lifted off his feet before crumbling to the mat. There’s nothing quite as tasty for a homoerotic wrestling fan as the sight of babyface muscleboy going dark and offensively offensive. This not being Scrappy’s first rodeo, he doesn’t give his winded opponent time to recover. He’d have to demonstrate that all of those endless hours at the gym were worth it, of course. Dominating hold after hold, power move after power move, the inherent message would be to demand respect for the muscle. He’d pick Skrapper up like a rag doll, cradled across his magnificent, broad chest, and parade the lightweight around the mat. He’d pound him down in an OTK backbreaker, but muscle him back up cradled across his chest the next second. Down again, up again, down again. Finally, he’d leave Skrapper hanging on the line like wet laundry, prying his chin backward with one hand, and pressing down on Skrapper’s knee with the other to fold the grappler sickeningly in half in the direction his spine isn’t made to go. Skrapper isn’t one to vocalize easily, so it would take Scrappy wringing the trapped stud’s cock and balls out ruthlessly in hand to make the bass rumble gasp and bite back the words, “Oh, God, no.” Frankly, Scrappy could probably take fall 2 any time he wanted, once he’s low-blowed his opponent into a pulp. But Scrappy has a point to prove. No skinny kid, no matter how fierce an attitude, is going to dominate a gym-honed, genetically gifted, lovingly crafted muscle physique like his. He’d body slam Skrapper with authority, which is a serious bitch, because it’s just a couple inches of wrestling mat padding over slate tile to break the fall. Skrapper would arch and writhe in almost incoherent agony, but Scrappy would just stomp him down flat with heel strikes to his gut. He’d drag Skrapper up by his hair, just for the humiliation, before driving a knee strike to his lower abdomen (clipping his crotch intentionally), doubling the stud over before he snaps his gargantuan muscle quads around Skrap’s ears and squeezes. Scrappy would flex to the accompaniment of the low rumble of bass agony between his thighs, flashing double biceps and most musculars for the extravagance and gratuity. Skrapper would try to climb off his knees, but a fresh wave of quad flexing would repeatedly drive him back down again. Finally, Scrappy would bend forward and hook his arms around Skrapper’s midsection, pull him off his feet, upside down, and hoist him up in the air to suspend him across one massive shoulder in a backbreaker. Skrapper would bite down the pain for a while, refusing to give the satisfaction of a quick submission to the hold, but he’d give in the end. Scrappy would fling him back to the mat in a heap and, of course, flex victoriously over his opponent’s motionless body.
To start fall 3, you’d have both wrestlers now wiser, more cautious, and with just enough of a taste of the decisive fall to make them salivate. Scrappy would be back to delivering taunting, laughing trash talk. Skrapper would be deadly silent, head down, eyes up, coiled. The taste of the second fall victory would still be on the tongue, making Scrappy a half a second slow to defend himself from a shoulder block to the gut. Skrapper would charge forward, lifting the bodybuilder off his feet and skewering him to the wall. Scrappy would fling the lightweight off of him, which would launch Skrapper across the room to land on his fine, fine ass. Give and take, back and forth, they’d trade gambits. Scrappy would feign a slow step to draw a single leg attempt, only to come down squarely with a brutal double fisted chop to back of Skrapper’s neck for the trouble. Skrapper would let the bodybuilder charge 3 words into a compound sentence of gloating trash talk, just to interrupt him with a jab to the gut and a huge uppercut to the balls. Scrappy would try to be telling the end of the story of might-makes-right, working to domineer over his slighter opponent with mountainous muscle mass. Skrapper would weave his hero’s tale of potently underestimated threat crushing oversized ego to match a superhuman physique. Scrappy would rip Skrapper’s tight trunks off first, with that locker-room bully chuckle, as if Skrapper’s nakedness would just further reveal his impotence in the face of a muscle god. Skrapper’s unsheathed power tool, already swelling with excitement, would give the muscle god pause, though. Skrapper would take advantage of his hypnotized opponent to grab him by the trunks and literally rip them off at the seams. By now, we’ve all seen Scrappy in that particular glory that is his beauty in nothing but sweat and a jock strap. Fuck, he knows how insanely sexy his naked ass is, and he’d have that twinkle in his eye as Skrapper soaks in the sight and smell of him. Scrappy would sense his victory at hand, his mere mortal of an opponent laid bare before him, his own divine muscles sucking his opponent into his thrall like gravitational pull. But fuck, have you seen Skrapper naked and backed into a corner? Shit. He’d sweep his legs and punch him in the balls before Scrappy’s back hit the mat. Talk about a swarm, just picture Scrappy on his back, taking knee strike after knee strike to his balls, sweat pouring down from the badger bearing down on him from above. A figure-4 leg lock would make Scrappy scream (scream!) a humiliating submission, but fuck that. That’s just to make sure the demigod doesn’t try to run away before all the fun has been had. Wrapping his lean, tightly coiled naked body around his legs, Skrapper would rip him open in a spladle.
The submissions would start raining down like a thunderstorm, but they’d fall on deaf ears. Skrapper would coil his ripcord legs around Scrappy’s midsection to knead the air and fight out of him like bread dough. Then he’d work his way north, locking down face-to-naked-crotch headscissors, squeezing so long and hard that Scrappy’s alabaster visage would turn plum. This is all Skrapper’s story to tell now. It’s a story of tenacity and self-confidence that spit in the face of long odds. It’s the story of ruthless, merciless, depraved punishment that makes an invincible god shatter into a writhing mass of picture perfect helplessness. It’s the story of 7 throbbing inches of explosive power sliding almost frictionless between two of the most sought-after, rock hard, muscled glutes in the business, before erupting in a jet of ecstasy arching it’s path up an astonishingly wide back and into the sweat soaked curly locks of a downed angel.
Oy. See what happens? Well, in case you’re a new reader, welcome to what passes for brevity and self-restraint from me. For the record, I’d see this fantasy match of contrasts heading inevitably into Skrapper’s advantage, and I’d picture him pounding out a cum shot victory having punished Scrappy’s delicious ass for having teased all of us gay wrestling fans for far, far too long.