I’m a little surprised by just how much BG East rookie Fabrice turns me on. His build is severe. Not a lot of guys could wear 145 pounds on a 6’1″ frame and fail to look downright skinny to the point of starving. It takes me about 2 minutes into Gear Wars 5 to decide, but no doubt, Fabrice pulls it off for me.
He’s an anatomy chart at that BMI, of course. But once I get over my initial skepticism about how his super lean build might perform in a wrestling match, there’s an unbreakable vibe to him. I stop worrying about what isn’t there, and start to really appreciate this kid’s aesthetics.
Ben Monaco appreciates them as well. I knew he would, because Ben seems to never have met an opponent he wouldn’t want to fuck. The sexual tension always runs high in a Monaco match, and Gear Wars 5 is no exception. Delightfully, however, the homoerotic gaze first belongs to the lithe rookie. Fabrice arrives on the scene instantly infatuated with Ben’s muscles. He can’t keep his hands off of the veteran, stroking and palming the Canuck’s big biceps (fuck, Ben’s been working out!). For a few moments, I’m left wondering if Fabrice is done for before this even begins, because he looks like he’s gagging for it.
I need not have worried. Ben is every bit as turned on by the rookie. There’s precious little dialogue, too little for my tastes because the character motivation is borderline opaque. But looking back from the tail end of this confrontation, it was always about one thing: who’s going to be in the driver’s seat once the post-match sex breaks out.
Not that we see any post-match coitus. This isn’t an X-Fight. But the heavy doses of body worship injected throughout the match are sexy as fuck. The erotic attraction is so thick that the competition part of the narrative veers dangerously off course on several occasions. But then, repeatedly, it’s Fabrice that slaps it back on course, typically by snapping those incredibly long luscious legs around Ben and squeezing until the beefy bear whimpers.
This is a Gear Wars match, so be prepared for the initial gear, as sensationally sexy as it is, to get ripped off. In particular, the astonishingly tight tights on Fabrice are a marvel of modern technology, painted in place despite covering no more than 2/3rds of the beauty’s lovely ass cheeks while somehow managing to stay up. Ben’s red singlet is frankly utilitarian in comparison. But the playing field is evened out once they’re both stripped down to g-strings worthy of a Chippendale.
Fabrice’s balls never quite manage to fit inside his pouch, and for that, I salute him. That’s quite a problem to have to contend with, balls too big to squeeze into your gear. Ben somehow seems not to notice. He does, however, clearly notice the amazingly fuckable ass on the rookie, as evidenced by him digging his fingers in deep and often. In his more vulnerable moments, Fabrice is forced to flex. Ben domineers over him, demanding obedience, taunting and teasing.
But in the battle for the driver’s seat, Fabrice is more than capable of punching things into overdrive by grabbing the bull by the horns, or, in this case, the Ben by the balls. The match turns slowly throughout, momentum ebbing and flowing, both boys taking turns on top to feel out who really belongs there when all is said and done. Hardcore wresting fans may find the diversions into intoxicating muscle worship distracting. There are bearhugs and a beautiful camel clutch, and every stripe and variation of torturous scissors that 2 pairs of hot, punishing legs like these can manage. There’s wrestling enough to stoke my kink, but the drama is psychosexual more than anything. The decisive, final submission is all about that concession. The winner force feeds his opponent his bicep, hypnotizing him with every inch of his hot body stretched over top of the loser like a blanket.
Welcome to our world, Fabrice. You’re a fine, fine addition to the diversity of talents and bodies populating homoerotic wrestling fantasies these days. I get the impression English may be a second language for you, but what you do on the wrestling mat requires no translation. When you shove Ben’s head between your legs and make him cry in crotch-to-face headscissors, your talking my language!