My pilgrimage to the holy sites of BG East’s south campus was this fanboy’s dream. The sites and smells and vicarious thrills of walking in the footsteps of so many beautiful homoerotic wrestlers kept the pressure in my crotch dialed way up. And just when I was fully engaged, Drake Marcos slyly laid down the gauntlet, challenging me to wrestle. Just to draw out the tease a little longer, I suspect, he first took me to one of the local gay bars frequented by BG East boys. Seductively, the Cheshire Cat swatted my wallet away when I went to buy drinks, insisting on picking up the tab. Chauffeur, tour guide, and he pays for the drinks?! This kid is just way too generous to be anything but ground beef in the brutal world of BG East. Again: adorable jobber.

The Cheshire Cat left it up to me to pick the venue and gear for our little reckoning. Venue was, of course, the BG East ring. There are just way too many fantasies in my DVD collection and in my fondest dreams to pass up the opportunity to climb through those ropes. I’ve never been much into a gear fetish, so I wasn’t nearly as invested in that choice. I wore a simple pair of blue trunks. But I did request that Drake wear that pair of pink and white square cuts that won him a Friday Fashion poll victory a few months back. He grinned knowingly and fished them out of his bag. The very same trunks that he wore to defeat adorable Ty Alexander in Babyface Brawl X. The same trunks that he’s sporting in BG East’s current catalog release of X-Fights 38. Well, at least Drake wore them to start the match, before LJL ripped them off his body and choked him with them.

For the record, Drake is every inch and ounce the tightly packed stud that he appears on camera to be. He’s lean and strong from head to toe, of course, but it’s his long, strong legs that I’ve always appreciated most. I’m sure it was me staring at his hot legs that left me distracted enough for the sly punk to catch me off guard and shove me into the ring. Heel cred or just a bitch move? The jury was still out for me.

The Cheshire Cat has his own blog that he hollowly promises to update, so I’ll let him tell his side of the story, should he finally get around to it (blogging is harder than it looks, eh, stud?). Credit where due, Drake used his height, weight, and considerable experience advantages to rock me on my heels early going. I can’t say I was surprised by the intensity of the kid’s offense, because if you’ve watched one of his matches, particularly his thumping of Ty, you can’t miss how effectively he uses his long limbs to swarm a smaller opponent. I was anticipating a little “welcome to the ring, Bard” hospitality as I relished this moment of standing where so many erotic fantasies have occurred. Drake had been so damn hospitable all day, so unfailingly accommodating this entire visit. Tossed into the ropes and getting my abs pounded about 20 seconds in drove home that point that I’d begun to suspect. Adorable, attentive, overgenerous Drake was a set up all along.

I’m not ashamed to say I was flat-footed and, literally, on the ropes for a while as the Cheshire Cat smirked and taunted. “Where are all your words now, Bard?!” Trying to catch my breath, the sexy bastard threw me to the mat and snapped those hot legs around my gut and squeezed. No shit, that hurt. A lot. That fucking grin on his face kept hovering just overhead, because he clearly enjoys watching an opponent suffer as much as we’ve seen him clearly driven wild by his own suffering. Well, at least he enjoys watching a particular homoerotic wrestling blogger suffer. The pain was a bitch for real, but I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity presented by these long held body scissors to get a lingering feel of Drake’s thighs. Fuck, they rock.

Drake wins the tale of the tape when it comes to a lot of things (younger, much more experienced, trained by the best, longer limbs, more body weight), but I’ve got to be brutally honest here, I’ve got him beat in upper body strength. Sucking down a little air and getting my bearings, I pried his ankles apart and rolled out. Again, I should’ve known better than to expect a half a second to catch my breath, because I’ve watched his relentless offense plenty of times. Still, he knocked the wind out of me as soon as I was up on my knees, tackling me back to the mat and wrapping his arms around my throat, cinching up tight for a choke. Aw, fuck. I kept my chin tucked until those luscious legs suddenly snapped around my torso again, grinding into my kidneys. My reflex to arch my back earned me his forearm pressed squarely across my throat. I was toast. I held out awhile just to make the Cheshire Cat have to work a little longer, but soon enough, I tapped out.

Again, if he was half as generous as he’d been all day, I might have been extended the courtesy of a few seconds to catch my breath and nurse my wounded ego. Instead, Drake was on offense again about 3.4 seconds after releasing that chokehold. Seriously tired of getting my ass manhandled, I flipped the kid to his back and hooked one of those sexy, long legs, rolling him onto his shoulders. The punk taunted my offense condescendingly. “Seriously, Bard? You’re trying to cradle me?” He flexed his core, extending his legs in a bid to pop free. However, someone may need to do a little more core strength training, because although he rolled out of the pin, he didn’t fight his way free of the cradle. I let him writhe and wriggle futilely for a minute. When he settled down, I slid forward into a schoolboy pin. Drake Marcos, flat on his back, staring up at his opponent’s crotch. Yeah, I certainly knew I wasn’t the first to be taking that ride.

I was, however enjoying the view of that shit-eating grin struggling to stay in place in this humiliating position. In fact, I was enjoying it a little too much. My weight too far back, the Cheshire Cat snapped those fucking long legs around my ribs and rolled to his side. Back in yet another bone crushing body scissors!? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I did treat myself to squeezing the boy’s flexing glutes. If I’m going to get wrung dry by those legs, I might as well get a little (lot of) brief thrill from the predicament. His knees dug into my lower rib cage hard. He snickered right about the time my eyes were rolling into the back of my head, sucking down a whole lot of pain. I held on a while, but those scissors took me right over the edge this time. I tapped out again.

I was feeling seriously dehydrated. I called for time to suck down some water. Not to toot my own horn, but when I’m not on pilgrimage to BG East, I lift weights 3 days a week and swim at least a mile and a half every other day. So I was genuinely shocked to find that about 15 minutes in the ring with Drake was pushing my endurance hard. I knew this was going to be hard work, of course, but damn it all if it wasn’t tapping my reserves fast. Drake, however, was fresh as a daisy and tackling me to the mat again about 4 seconds after I finished my cup of water.

So did Drake turn out to be something other than the jobber I’d flattered for so long, or was he a different creature all together? That depends on how you deploy the term. If by jobber you mean a pushover, no contest, lamb to the slaughter, then absolutely not. Drake is not a that species of wrestler by any stretch of the imagination. If, however, by jobber you mean a wrestler who however much looks like he’s got a fighting chance sooner or later is destined to get crushed and humiliated, well…

After the water break, the match turned back and forth a lot more evenly than it started, thankfully for me. True, I was introduced to Drake’s balls in more than one face to crotch headscissors. Then again, I returned the favor, and before the Cheshire Cat choked on my balls, I’d slipped around to his sweat soaked back and snapped on a sleeper. If you know Drake’s work at all, you know the kid has a major weakness for being sleepered, not because he can’t defend against them, but because he just plain gets off on them so hard. The punk was visibly ambivalent about being unable to escape, and when I added a little leverage with some scissors of my own, Drake took a brief Cheshire Catnap. I finally enjoyed the opportunity to catch my breath, stretched out across his back.

When he roused, the energizer bunny was back at it soon enough. I lost my grip at one point (the punk sweats like Niagra Falls), and found my way briefly into a camel clutch. The boy couldn’t maintain it, though. He stopped me dead in my tracks several times once he discovered that working my nipples just right can momentarily paralyze me. The bastard was like a dog with a bone once he figured that out. But this was heading one way, and I’d already long known a few of Drake’s override switches. With his noggin trapped between my knees and my hands around his throat, the BG East battler lost all self control and couldn’t keep his hands off himself. And once he was careening down that path, he was wide open to find himself dragged to his feet and trapped in the ropes, spent and helpless.

So if by jobber you mean an earnest wrestler who, even when he starts strong, ends up his opponent’s plaything on a string, then perhaps you might have to agree with me that Drake is, indeed, a very sweet jobber. If you by jobber you mean a young stud who, regardless of all the advantages in the world, ends up hung out to dry in a tree of woe, well then, I think you and I are are talking the same language.

And if by jobber you mean a confident young scrapper who, nevertheless, gets owned, flat on his back in the middle of the ring, too wasted to notice his opponent is documenting the moment to provide evidence of precisely who is the sweet jobber in this blogger v jobber scenario, then sure, I think we are coming to an agreement here about the Cheshire Cat.

And finally if by jobber you mean a conquered stud who is so thoroughly owned and laid waste that those fashion forward pink square cuts get ripped off his bod and stuffed in his no-longer grinning mouth, then put a fork in it. And Drake. Because that jobber looked sweet enough to spread on buttered toast by the time I was done with him.

Once roused and able to climb back out of the ring, Drake was again hospitable and gracious. Of course, having just been force fed his humble pie, that wasn’t so surprising after all. I just need to say two things to Drake now as I wrap up my reflections on my pilgrimage to BG East South. 1) Thanks so much, buddy, for everything, because this was an unbelievably enjoyable visit from start to finish, and that’s entirely due to my sexy ass, sly, handsome host. And 2) I so very much told you so, sweet jobberboy.