Getting It

I’ve prepared myself for what’s about to happen.  It’s like clockwork, so I’m absolutely certain I know what comes next.  Every time I take the opportunity to acknowledge my lustful appreciation of the unique wrestling talents of Skrapper, there are readers who instantly start trashing him.  Honestly, I just do not get it.  I understand that not everyone will enjoy the same styles, body types, personalities, etc., that I like. I sympathize when a fan reflects back to me their apathy about a wrestler that turns me on hard. But I just don’t get the vitriol that Skrapper inspires from a certain segment of the audience.

Skrapper turns me ON!!!

Just to put you on notice, I screen out attempts to trash the bodies, intelligence, or general attractiveness of wrestlers in the comments of this blog. That obviously doesn’t stop anyone from flaming up elsewhere, but here at neverland, my intent is to make this a gay-positive, wrestling-positive, wrestler-positive space for those appreciating homoerotic wrestling. So if you don’t agree with my estimation that Skrapper is, pound for pound and inch for inch, one of the hottest, most arousing wrestlers currently in competition, do be polite if you want to start a conversation about it here. As for me, I grow a little more infatuated with his sensationally sexy body every time I see him. In his newly released Matmen 26 match against that adorable jobber, the Cheshire Cat of homoerotic wrestling, Drake Marcos, Skrapper is meatier than ever. He’s not huge, I understand. But his veiny, bulging biceps are making me a little dizzy with desire. And that ass is such a piece of work.

“Don’t call me a jobber, darn it!”

Drake is as adorable as ever, looking lean and mean and earnest as fuck. He’s downright solicitous as they arrive on the mat, praising Skrapper for leveraging his middleweight physique into a wrestling machine that’s quite genuinely made heavyweight muscle hunks 50% heavier than he is cry. Those are precisely the steps Drake would love to follow. He asks Skrapper for pointers in order to dig himself out of the “everyone’s favorite jobber” hole he’s dug for himself. Drake suggests they’re about the same size, similar physiques, so he’d love to learn from Skrapper how to finally earn some respect around here.

“Smell my pit.”

You get a strong whiff of what’s to come when you see Skrapper’s face reacting to Drake’s claim that their bodies are similar. “You think so?” he asks rhetorically, flexing those juicy, softball biceps I mentioned earlier. Ostensibly, he agrees to give the Cheshire Cat some lessons. They start with forcing Drake to smell his armpit.

“Kiss the mat!!!”

For a moment there, I think Skrapper is literally thinking that if Drake takes a deep inhalation of his musky, masculine sweat, it will work like an elixir and transform the adorable jobber into a force to be reckoned with. But the more Skrapper works his would-be protege, the more convinced I get that Skapper’s real intent is to demonstrate that Drake is not now, and never will be, in his league. And let’s talk about the metaphor I use so often around here: taking possession. Holy fuck, he ties Drake up in such knots that it’s almost not a metaphor any longer. I seriously wonder at times if he very well may successfully rip one or more limbs off of the Cheshire Cat.

Drake is put on lock down.

He’s intent on making Drake kiss the mat. He wants to use Drake’s quickly sweat soaked bod to mop the floor with him, and this time I’m talking literally. He pulls and pries, rips and stretches, and overwhelmingly punishes the jobber boy like a maestro. When it comes to wresting personas, I don’t exactly think of Skrapper as a face or as a heel, and never a jobber. He’s a homoerotically charged scrapper who just fucking loves to wrestle. But with the point to prove that Drake needs to step the fuck back and stop trying to compare himself with the skrappy one, I get a strong hit of a sadistic, ego-fueled heel bubbling just under the surface of Skrapper. I pray to the wrestling gods that some day soon we will see this amazing mat warrior translated full blown into the vile, hungry, domineering pro ring heel I’m absolutely certain he is, deep down.

Drake enjoys the unfamiliar feeling of being on top.

Never let it be said that I don’t give Drake his due, though. First of all, look at that sexy body of his glistening with sweat! The boy’s got abs that make me want to jump on like a hotel mattress.  And his long, sexy, punishing legs have never failed to make me weak in the knees, though never quite as much as when I was delighted to get to feel them wrapped around my own torso and squeezing every ounce of air from my lungs. To be honest, I totally thought this was going to be a squash. I thought Skrapper would crush his fawning would-be-protege like a grape. But it seems as if that air of inevitability about Drake perpetually sucking on a mouthful of humiliation may have finally pushed everyone’s favorite jobber over the edge.  Because he takes a mountain of punishment from Skrapper and then opens up a can of whoop ass that lasts for days!

He seriously, seriously enjoys making Skrapper scream!

I’m not sure I’ve seen Skrapper suffer quite like this since Kid Vicious got his hands (and mouth and cock) all over him. Drake rips his opponent’s street clothes off. He grabs hold of the advantage and milks it for every ounce of punishing torture at his disposal. He rides Skrapper’s gorgeous ass with conviction, and there’s an all too unfamiliar look of shocked delight on Drake’s face as he seriously starts savoring how the other half lives. He makes that steel core down Skrapper’s spine absolutely melt with the heat of his offense, ripping out a screeching, scream of submission completely uncharacteristic of Skrapper’s normally earthquake rumbling bass. “That first time wasn’t real!” Skrapper spits angrily, trying to re-write history, trying to salvage the humiliation of having been tossed over the edge of pain tolerance by one of the most notorious jobbers in the business. “That scream sounded pretty real,” Drake instantly slaps down lightning quick, razor sharp trash talk like a seasoned heel.

Drake running on fumes.

I love suspense, so I’m infatuated with the unpredictability of this battle. They strip each other naked and still just keep pounding, scrambling, squeezing and stretching one another. Drake is focused, dangerous, and clearly executes an expertly devised plan to make a bid at climbing out of that dark, dreary jobber hole of his. But in the end, he runs out of gas. They’re both at the point of complete exhaustion, but it’s D who finally can’t defend himself any longer.  And having tested and taunted Skrapper as brutally as he has up to that point, Drake is in for a sensationally sexy world of hurt from a vengeful badger like Skrapper, once he’s defenseless.

They get us.

These two sensationally sexy middleweights inhabit the same world you and I do. There’s no doubt that they are every bit as turned on by the pressing flesh and battle of wills on the wrestling mat as you and I are. Even if you aren’t as completely turned on as I am by this match (and don’t even try to tell me you aren’t if you haven’t seen it), I insist that gay wrestling fans owe the utmost respect to these two battlers, not just because they’re phenomenally arousing to watch go at it, but also because they so clearly get it. They get us. They are us, damn it.

They are us.

And nothing transports me so completely into a full throttle, sweat-soaked, naked finish homoerotic wrestling match as much as two wrestlers who want it to happen every ounce as much as I do.

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