Muscle Domination Wrestling fans take note that you’ve got just about 4 days left to take advantage of a special offer from the MDW boys. Specifically, VIP Members can purchase any new release from Season 20 of MDW and get any match from seasons 1-18 for free. Get a double return on your investment, no limit.
You may want to consider Oil Hunks 7 from the current season to get your qualifying bonus material. Bearded muscle monster Kevin James makes his debut in an oil stakes muscle match against the illustrated frat boy, Cal Bennet.
“All right, man, you look pretty good,” Kevin acknowledges right off the bat. Immediately, I like this guy, and not just because his upper arms are significantly bigger around that Cal’s neck. There’s still plenty of machismo ego management in this match, but I seriously appreciate it when an incredibly built, beautiful wrestler acknowledges that his opponent looks good. See, your masculinity remains in tact, and your gay audience gets to hear out loud what we’ve been thinking all along!
“You don’t look bad yourself, man,” Cal rumbles in those bass tones that barely register on the spectrum of sound audible to the human ear. “You look pretty solid, too.” Nicely put, Cal. Return the compliment, but so vastly understate Kevin’s superhuman physique as to effectively insult him with faint praise.
Cal is barely wearing the smallest patch of cheetah print cloth imaginable. There’s barely a thread visible disappearing down his crack. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but Cal brings to mind again that special allure of tan lines. The fratbro pin-up boy has clearly been wearing board shorts and nothing else this summer, leaving his upper thighs and lightly furry ass cheeks pale and oh, so pretty.
In what must be some sort of cruel rite of initiation at MDW, Kevin is sporting that bewildering super high cut singlet that I cannot imagine would look attractive on absolutely anyone. I’m pretty sure it comes from the same line of sportswear that Olympic gymnasts order from, and, of course, I’m talking about the women’s team. That said, the one thing that this unfortunate fashion statement says again and again is, “Look at that gargantuan muscled ass!” I don’t get the gear, but then again, if this is as close as I ever get to seeing Kevin’s ass naked, all right then.
The wrestling is sparse and mostly all about strength. Cal loses in arm wrestling, both right and left handed. He’s pissed about it, though, really now, can he not see that Kevin’s upper arms are each big enough to qualify for their own zip codes? “Let’ see if those muscles are real or fake,” Cal spits bitterly. He challenges Kevin to a “full body” test of strength. And once again, he loses. Will Cal never learn?
Yes, Cal learns! When the actual wrestling starts, he immediately drops the rookie with a blow to the balls. “How’s that strength now, big guy?,” Cal taunts, climbing on from behind for a choke. Kevin’s face flushes dark, dark red. Sweat breaks out across his forehead. “Go to sleep big guy, go to sleep.” There’s something powerfully compelling about seeing someone Kevin’s size really sell getting sleepered out cold. It’s exactly like Cal says, what was the use of those hours and hours (days, years) in the gym? All that intimidating, crystal carved muscle mass. All that cocky bluster. And then there he is, limp as a rag doll, out cold/hot, completely vulnerable. If only he was competing against someone with the good sense to take full advantage of that superhuman physique playground.
There’s a sudden camera cut for Kevin to wake up. Back on their feet, he’s pissed about the cheap shot. A little wiser, Kevin charges. They jockey for position, mostly struggling to grab hold of something they can keep hold of with so much fucking muscle bulging and flexing. Kevin muscles him to the mat and takes a sleeper from behind. “Who’s the winner now?!,” the beastly rookie snarls in his ear. Cal writhes and struggles, but slowly, surely, finally goes limp. See my comments above about the missed opportunities that a real audience pleaser would’ve pursued.
For the final fall, Kevin has blessedly changed into sensationally skimpy black posing trunks. As they go for the decisive 2 out of 3, it’s clear neither hunk is exactly a natural wrestler. The collar and elbow takes minutes, because they’re sorting their shit out, trying to figure out how to make an offensive move, self-consciously uncertain about how to pull the trigger. It’s entirely about muscle and mass. Kevin tries to cinch in a chicken wing, but no shit, Cal’s taut muscles are too much for the big man to pull back far enough to lock in (I really buy this, making me think Cal really, really needs to work on flexibility, or someone is going to seriously break this boy).
If it’s all about muscle and mass (and like I said, it is), then it should come as no surprise that the doe-eyed illustrated fratbro goes down hard. It takes a while, in part because Kevin is struggling to actually apply another sleeper. Cal simply tucks his chin, and no harm, no foul, the only thing going for the rookie is him, bearing down like an avalanche on top of his lighter opponent. At one point, Cal is on all fours and Kev is still struggling to seal the deal of this elusive sleeper (harder than it looks eh, Kev?). Suddenly, he climbs on top of Cal’s back, and it is quite a sight to see! All that mass of this ripped muscle monster entirely riding the sexy young punk struggling not to collapse underneath the weight.
Eventually, Cal goes all the way down and that gargantuan forearm finally starts actually grinding into his throat. The fratbro struggles to pry a little airspace between Kevin’s vice and his carotid, but fuck no. Give him a humungous weight advantage and an extra 10 minutes, and the massive rookie can pull it off. “Shhhhhh,” Kevin whispers seductively in Cal’s ear. “That’s right,” he coos, as Cal’s arms go limp. He cradles the kid’s head, pulling him into his massive pecs for just an extra couple of seconds, feeling the hot stud totally under his control.
Once Kevin rouses his fallen prey, Cal sounds all sportsmanly all of the sudden. With good nature, he concedes as Kevin insists that the loser oil up the winner’s gargantuan physique. “For the record, I give it to you, you won fair and square, man,” Cal acknowledges, pouring baby oil onto Kev and rubbing it in. It’s such a twist of attitude, I honestly expect Cal to punch him in the balls again. But he doesn’t. He takes his medicine like a big boy.
“That’s right, show off the muscles,” Kevin demands. “Make them look pretty.” I’m thinking that’s a tall, tall order. Kevin is many things. Magnificent. Terrifying. Overwhelming. Mouthwatering. But it would take a whole lot more than a bottle of baby oil to make this bearded behemoth qualify as “pretty.” Cal does his best to comply, though. Well, perhaps not exactly his “best.”
Tragically, Cal only slicks up Kevin’s upper back, arms, and chest. I think if he really respected Kevin, he’d have been on his knees and obediently lubricated those tree trunk thighs and behemoth muscle glutes. Kevin does take the suggestion to show off some mandatory poses for the camera, and you, and me (thanks for the suggestion, Cal).
“So… carry me off the mats, or what?,” Cal asks. Again, thanks dude. Cal makes sure the rookie victor hits all the mandatory notes that make this homoerotic. Who’d have thought it would be fratbro Cal mentoring a newbie into the business like this? Our little boy is all grown up!
The victorious rookie hoists the beautiful loser over one shoulder, giving us one last lingering look at Cal’s gorgeous ass before Kev takes his trophy off camera.
In summary, Oil Hunks 7 is light on wrestling and perhaps a little skimpy on the oil, for my tastes. I’m still hankering for a retro early-90’sish full on oil wrestling match someday. This isn’t that. But I like the tone. I love the genuine admiration expressed between the two hunks. I’m intrigued by the sheer magnitude of Kevin James. If you like your wrestlers with acres of rippling back muscles and a sick, crazy tapered V to a glorious, ripped set of muscle glutes, Kevin probably needs to be at the top of your watch list. If you’re like me and simply cannot help yourself but be wooed by a blue-eyed, aesthetically marvelous, impetuously tattooed fratbro with a silky, sub-basement bass voice and possibly the most fuckable ass currently in play, then Cal in that cheetah print thong, walking the newbie through his paces even as he loses spectacularly, is like catnip. Now if we could only see a scenario like this culminate in sincere, full sell muscle worship, even a raw rookie wrestling bout like this could approach perfection.