Just a reminder that this is a work of fiction, the product of my homoerotic wrestling imagination inspired by the sensationally sexy wrestlers Drake Marcos, Trey Dixon, and Kid Leopard Happy New Year, readers!
I might be embarrassed to admit I jerked off to nothing more than the text of that email, but I know you, dear reader, popped wood just now, too. Trying to look cool, I managed to restrain myself exactly 13 minutes before replying to Kid Leopard’s email with a concise, definitive answer: Hell, yes.
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. If you’ve seen even half as many Kid Leopard matches as I have, you’d also be suspicious of any completely unsolicited, gratuitous, too-good-to-be-true offer of an unearned gift from the most diabolical character in homoerotic wrestling history. As we sorted out the details and travel arrangements, I nursed a thoughtful skepticism about what ulterior motives might be hidden behind this offer of a wrestling fantasy come true. But I’m pretty sure that I provide the Boss’ business one of the most prolific and enthusiastic sources of free advertising in the form of over 6 years of lovingly blogging about the sexiest homoerotic wrestling I’ve ever seen, most of which has been produced by Kid Leopard. I’ve even written a lot of the match descriptions you read of new wrestling products on the BG East website, taking nothing more than some advanced review copies of the DVDs as compensation. So sure, I knew there was much, much more than met the eye when I boarded the plane for south Florida. But of all the ways this could go terribly wrong, I honestly thought I was too much of an asset in the Boss’ business portfolio to get screwed over too much.
The last time I walked into BG East’s Florida facilities, I was all sorts of nervous about the prospect of getting schooled by a hot young pro homoerotic wrestler. This time, I was feeling significantly less pressure, but no less excitement. Drake met me in shorts and a t-shirt at the front door with nothing but a contemptuous snarl. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the ring room. I chuckled as I followed him, perversely pleased to see that our last encounter was still festering inside the Cheshire Cat. “Clean the ring!” I heard Kid Leopard bark angrily as I walked through the door. Drake seemed to sulk as he grabbed a bucket and a mop and climbed up to the ring apron, starting to sanitize the mat reluctantly, but obediently.
“Well if it isn’t Bard!” The Boss shouted, grabbing me by the hand and shaking it with uncomfortable pressure. It wasn’t the first time we’d met. I’d spent several awed hours with Kid Leopard and some of the back office boys a few years ago when I had an opportunity to make a pilgrimage to BG East’s main campus outside of Boston. “Of course, you’ve met this little punk already,” he hooked a thumb toward Drake, who was doing his best to ignore us.
We waited another half an hour for Trey to show up. According to the Boss, Trey had been showing up later and later in direct proportion to the number of fan letters he receives. Prima Donna or not, I was tongue tied and star struck when he strolled in and flashed those baby blue eyes at me briefly. Literally, I was a little weak in the knees just catching sight of one of my wrestling infatuations in street clothes. Kid Leopard gave him a cursory dressing down for his tardiness, but critical comments seemed to bounce off of the bronzed stud unnoticed. Soon enough, the Boss sent both wrestlers to the back rooms to get into ring gear and get this show on the road.
I’d received no instructions about what I ought to wear as guest referee. I can think of no more than about 3 matches that I’ve seen BG East bother with a referee, so this was sort of uncharted territory. I pulled a pair of black trousers and a white t-shirt out of my backpack and asked if Kid Leopard approved. “No,” he said with his customary bluntness. Without explanation, he left me alone in the ring room for a minute before returning with a stretch poly white and black vertically striped referee shirt in hand. “Wear this,” he said without any interest in my opinion. Not that I expected Kid Leopard to express a lot of interest in my opinion. The shirt was a size “small,” and I, dear reader, am not. “Go on, Mr. Abs,” Kid Leopard smirked, referencing my online avatar. “Squeeze those muscles in nice and tight.”
My shoulders and upper arms strained the seams, but I managed to slip into the skin tight top. It clung to my abs and molded across the expanse of my pecs. The Boss nodded approval with a smirk. I unbuttoned my jeans and slid them off with Kid Leopard watching appraisingly. Fuck, standing there in boxer briefs with the leading legend of the homoerotic wrestling industry watching me strip made my cock throb. My heart was pounding in my chest as I slipped on the tight black trousers I’d brought with me. “Mmm-hmmm,” The Boss grunted passing approval. “That’ll do just fine.”
While we waited for Drake and Trey to return, Kid Leopard filled me in on the background of this match. It was a special request match for a wealthy fan. The wrestlers were custom ordered, and, to my surprise, so was I. “He insisted,” Kid Leopard assured me. “Trey and the punk, in the ring, no-holds-barred, with blogger Bard as guest referee.” Setting aside the momentary swelling I got from the ego stroke of being in someone’s fantasy line up, I asked what, exactly, you need a referee for in a no-holds-barred wrestling match. “To declare the winner,” The Boss snapped impatiently, clearly bored by my ignorance. The match would be recorded by none other than Kid Leopard himself, for just one pair of eyes to ever see.
When Trey and Drake were ready, Kid Leopard ordered me to climb into the ring as he pulled a small handheld camera up in front of his face. “All right, kiddies, make this a good one!” he shouted. Trey strolled into the ring room first. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Kid Leopard announced from behind the camera, “arriving at 5’10” and 155 pounds, Golden Boy Trey Dixon!” My jaw dropped to the floor. Trey wore the matte yellow wrestling singlet he rocked so sensationally in Gear Wars 4. Holy fuck, it was painted on and edged into every sensationally sexy crack and crevice of his insanely fit body. Honestly, there’s not a spare ounce of anything on his shredded physique. I had to adjust my cock pressing at a painful angle in my tight trousers before Trey had even hopped up to the ring apron. He ducked underneath the top rope and turned to the camera, flexing a double bicep and pursing his lips seductively. Barefoot, bronzed, dirty blond and blue eyed, he was sexier in real life than on video, and I for one would not have been able to imagine him being any sexier than what I enjoyed of him on video. He flexed and preened as Kid Leopard zoomed in on his stunning display of muscle and beauty. When Trey finally concluded the pre-match muscle show, he turned and strolled confidently across the ring, subtly, almost too quickly for me to catch, giving me a sly wink as I openly stared at him. He hopped up and sat his muscled ass across the top turnbuckle in the next corner to the right of the one in which I stood.
Drake marched into the room with an unmistakable chip on his shoulder. He wore that sexy white singlet with blue and black trim that he sported in Mat Scraps 2, at least until Ray Naylor ripped it off of him and used it to choke him. His pale skin and hairy chest were a stark contrast with his perfectly smooth, bronzed opponent. His lightly hairy legs were noticeably thicker than when I’d felt them squeezing the air out of my lungs a year earlier. Barefoot and babyfaced, Drake’s sweet ass stretching the seat of his white singlet made my cock twitch with the tactile memory of feeling those glutes squeezed in the palm of my hands. Today, the Cheshire Cat refused to spare a half second for a flash of that handsome smile that always turns me on. He also didn’t waste a second for the camera. “And now arriving ringside,” the Boss announced, “at 5’10” and 165 pounds, the Cheshire Cat of wrestling, everyone’s favorite jobber, Drake… Marcoooos!” Drake visibly bristled at being announced as everyone’s favorite jobber. He slid underneath the bottom rope and backed warily into the corner opposite his opponent, refusing to tear his eyes away from anything other than the Golden Boy.
Frankly, I expected a pro wrestling match to be more scripted than this, but I took the bull by the balls and decided to call the competitors into the middle of the ring to give them a lay of the land. They were almost exactly the same height, about 4 inches taller than I am, bumping pecs and staring angrily into each others eyes. “This is what you’ve got to work with today,” I explained, looking up at them. “There are no fucking rules.” I said with a smirk. “Trey, you want to twist his balls off, go for it,” I said with a chuckle. “You want to pull his hair, be my guest. You want to tie him up in the ropes, and take my word for it when I say that’s fun to do with Drake, so, make it so, big boy.” Drake tore his eyes away from his opponent to stare down at me indignantly. Trey also glanced at me with a wry grin. “The winner,” I continued, “will be the first to pin his opponent’s shoulders to the mat for a count of three, or make his opponent tap out, or force a verbal submission. I’d say, ‘fight fair,’ but in this case, fighting fair is for chumps. So…,” I paused for comedic timing and stared back at Drake glowering at me, “…fight fair, Drake.”
Trey chuckled as he turned and strode back toward his corner. I backed quickly out of the way, just in time for Drake to attack his opponent from behind. He closed the distance in a sprint and swung his right knee savagely into Trey’s side, before quickly grabbing the back of his head and charging toward the corner. Trey’s beautiful face was pounded viciously into the top turnbuckle. The bronzed beauty’s knees buckling underneath him made me question if this match might just be over before it started.
Drake was like a dog with a bone. As Trey sagged to his knees, the Cheshire Cat pounded the golden boy’s face into the middle turnbuckle. When Trey collapsed flat out on the mat, Drake mounted his back and pounded his face into the mat. Holy fuck, I’d never seen Drake so vicious or in such total control.
(Continued in Part 3)