I must admit, it was satisfying when Drake Marcos authored a piece of homoerotic wrestling fiction to concede the bitter truth he’d been denying for over a year: a certain blogger had, indeed, owned him in the ring. In some twisted art imitating life imitating art (ad nauseam), Drake’s last chapter in our tag team writing effort left him precisely where I’d had him IRL a year and a half ago, hanging like a Christmas goose from the ring ropes. So charmed was I by his implied confession, that I was inspired to take the tag and author still another chapter in “Drake Marcos: Larger than Life” homoerotic wrestling saga. And in yet another art imitating life imitating art imitating life imitating art iteration, let me just be clear, the following really is how I’ve seen the the grinning grappler all along.
Drake Reborn – by Bard
“We don’t do rematches,” he interrupted me.
“Look, Boss, this is different.” I switched the phone to my other hand. “This isn’t a rematch, because I’m talking about a whole new Drake. He’s…”
“I don’t want to hear that name again, blogger boy,” he interrupted me again. “I refuse to waste another minute on that waste of space.”
I felt my throat tightening with frustration, but I intentionally kept my voice even. It never pays to raise your voice with Kid Leopard. “What if I told you that I had a fantastic new recruit? He’s young, fit, and hungry for competition. And best of all, he’s got the finest pedigree you’ve ever seen. Ring experience, mat experience, erotic experience, and extensive one-on-one training with the best wrestler in the business.” I didn’t know if the Boss would see through the flattery. He’d taken a personal interest and put Drake through the ringer on countless occasions when Drake first arrived at BG East. That was also what seemed to piss him off most, all that time and effort “wasted on a simpering jobber,” as he’d put it earlier in the conversation.
For the first time in the phone call, the Boss didn’t interrupt me, so I continued. “This new kid is 5’10, 155 pounds. He has long, punishing legs and disarmingly handsome face. Let’s call him… Daemon.”
“Demon?” He snorted, unimpressed.
“Daemon,” I repeated, spelling it out. “It’s Latin for ‘divine fate.'”
“Daemon what?” Kid Leopard snapped. I had him on the hook.
“Just Daemon. No last name.”
“Sounds boring,” the Boss muttered, but I could hear it in his voice. He was almost ready. “What’s in this for me?”
“Other than a sensational new wrestler to sell the shit out of?” I asked.
He snorted with contempt. “Dime a dozen, blogger boy,” he snarled.
“If Daemon fails to impress you, he’ll scrub your toilets for a week,” I started.
“A month.” Kid Leopard interrupted. “What else?”
“And… I’ll write all of your product copy for the next BG East catalog,” I offered. I’ve been writing match descriptions for the BG East website for years. The Boss always asks me to write more than I have time for, so I know this tempts him.
“The next 4 catalogs,” he demanded. I had him.
It had been just over 4 months since things took an unexpected turn between me and
Drake Marcos. For my part, things hadn’t changed all that much. Fuck, I’m a major Drake booster from way back. I am now every bit as much a fan of the Cheshire Cat as I ever was, despite the little drama that went down at BG East South 4 months ago. He’s a handsome stud with equal parts personality, body and passion for wrestling that I respect so much. I continue to count it as one of my very favorite moments getting to climb into a ring for the first time and have Drake initiate me into harsh realities of pro wrestling. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me how deeply wounded I’d left the Cheshire Cat that first time, when I played the game a little better than he expected, and my initiation ended up with him out cold, at my mercy, and extensively documented with photographic evidence.
Clearly, I had a better time than Drake did, because the stud went ape shit all over me 4 months ago after I had the distinct pleasure of refereeing a fabulously sexy match between him and the goldenboy Trey Dixon. Okay, sure, suffering the humiliation of not only getting strung up helplessly in the ropes, but having the ref accept an invitation to join in the fun was probably overstepping things. A bit. But holy shit, the Pearl Harbor job he did on me afterward was over the top. Seriously, I always thought big D was secretly enjoying my good natured ribbing as much as I. Obviously, I was mistaken, because the kid nearly ripped me to pieces.
I just didn’t know he had such a delicate ego. I know it now. When Kid Leopard climbed back in the ring to tape the blogger-versus-wrestler grudge re-match, Drake put me through the fucking ringer. Not that I didn’t score some satisfying riding time of my own. For my first match ever recorded, I was pretty proud of myself. The seasoned pro pushed me to edge repeatedly, but I refused to give. It’s true, I was completely at his mercy there at the end, but then that whole bruised ego factor came back into the picture. So sure, I apologized on command, with my spine nearly snapping in the Cheshire Cat’s rack. But with his ego assuaged, Drake forgot all about the fact that I DIDN’T FUCKING SUBMIT! As he monologued for the camera like a Saturday morning supervillain, it was nothing but a thing to pull my shit together and choke the grandstander out cold.
It was Kid Leopard who suggested I give him some gratuitous glam shots after it was all said and done, so I acquiesced (have YOU ever tried telling him no?!) and let him tape me as I hoisted the limp sack of potatoes up and tied him hanging from the ropes. Again. Mmmmm, fuck. Totally at my mercy. Naked. Cold sweat glistening on his gorgeous body. He deserved to get messed with more, for taking himself way too fucking seriously and taking it out on this novice wrestler’s body. But I just slapped him around a little for the Boss and taunted him for the camera and whatever private customer had wanted to see the two of us in the ring at the same time (hello, I’d love to know who was the fan who custom ordered that little bit of heaven!).
I asked Kid Leopard if we should rouse the kid, but he snorted with contempt. “I’m done with that piece of shit,” he muttered. “Lock the place up once you’ve showered off,” he instructed me, tossing me the keys to the kingdom and strolling out of the building without a second glance. After a long, hot shower, I couldn’t help myself. There Drake was, literally snoring as he hung from the ropes, still locked up tight. He was so fucking pitiful. And sexy. I untied him and roused him from the sweet escape that was sleep.
He was a broken man. Not literally, mind you. Trey Dixon had just about ripped his balls off, and I had choked the kid out cold, but physically, he was still entirely intact. The nasty bruises across his back and legs were already turning from dark red to a greenish black, but everything was still attached and functioning. But he was a ghost of a man. I led him to the showers, and he just stood there, staring blankly at the wall. I finally stripped back down and climbed in with him just to clean him off. It would’ve been super sexy, except that he was just plain hollow inside. He’d snapped, and no praise, no prodding, no playful taunts or challenges got even the smallest rise out of him. I got him dressed and dropped him off at his place, but he was sleep walking through the front door without a word.
I’ve always been a sucker for lost lambs. I was supposed to be on a plane home the next day, but I postponed my return trip to check in on the boy again. He answered the door, looking marginally more aware than when I’d left him the night before. But he was still mostly MIA, in spirit if not in body. I finally got him talking. He was aimless. Humiliated to be turned out by his mentor. Ashamed to show his face in the wrestling ring ever again. Woe is me, woe is me…
Fuck, what a Debbie-Downer. I told him to pull his shit together and stop whining. It somehow seemed like that just made him shrink even more. I assured him his best days were ahead. Get back up on the horse again. Lost the battle, not the war. Seriously, I was completely out of cliches, and they bounced off like he was bullet proof glass.
He only made eye contact when I started describing how I saw him. Not “the Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.” True, I’d given him that moniker early on in his BG East career, but that’s not what I saw in my mind’s eye the first time I saw a photo of Drake. Before I’d ever exchanged an email with the kid. Before I’d seen him step foot on a wrestling mat, and long before I ever had the pleasure of seeing him climb into a wrestling ring. Before I got to know the frustrated jobber he became, I pictured him as a smart, savvy, sexy-assed heel.
He perked up when I told him that I used to picture him as a lean, mean, balls to the walls erotic sadist. Clearly, Drake never pictured himself that way before, but he was a blank slate now. He was in the throes of a soul wrenching existential crisis, and seeing himself through my eyes, reinvented in the depths of my twisted imagination, something took root. There was a glint in his eye and a determined clench to his jaw, and I could tell that the picture of himself as a fully formed, gay wrestling fan’s vision of a devastating psychological and physical wrestling dominator was taking on a life of its own where his delicate ego strength use to live.
———to be continued————-