Sometimes, I wonder what in the hell a wrestler is thinking. Take little Nino Leone. Baby Boy Leone is reported around 60 pounds lighter than his Catch Weight 8 opponent, Calvin Haynes. It isn’t just the raw size differential that defies belief, though. I’m pretty sure Nino’s waist is no bigger around than one of Calvin’s gargantuan, muscled thighs. The astonishing contrast is in obvious strength. Calvin could snap Baby Boy like a twig.
Where they may diverge when it comes to body types, there’s something sensationally congruent about the pairing of these two relative newcomers. I like to think (though I have no evidence) that Nino signed up for this catch weight match because he wanted a taste of that 2016 Hottest Liplock that Calvin slapped down in his debut match. I further would want to write the backstory that Calvin signed on the dotted line on the promise of getting to suck down the supercharged erotic passion that Nino burned up the mats with in his debut match. Sure, on the one hand, this is a total mismatch. On the other hand, Baby Boy and Calvin seem cut from the exact same cloth.
Calvin creeps as Nino stretches out his beautiful, lithe body in the matroom. The voyeur hot-button in my master mixer of erotic tastes is already dialed way up. They’re both in singlets, both tasty as fuck, each in his own way. When Nino finally notices he’s got an audience, Calvin strolls in and smirks. “Where’s the rest of you?” Nino doesn’t skip a beat, replying “I don’t think you can handle the rest of me.” Where the fuck does little Nino find the balls!? “Can you handle this grade-A beef?” Calvin asks, flexing a magnificent, huge double bicep down like a total eclipse of the sun. Again, without skipping a beat, Baby Boy replies confidently, “Definitely.” Nino gets to his feet and doesn’t wait for an invitation to get his hands on the flexing filet mignon. “Do you like this?” Calvin asks, with a smile that says he already knows the answer. “Oh, yeah,” Nino coos.
My reluctance to tuck in for another all out squash starts to make me worried as big Calvin immediately and thoroughly muscle bullies little Nino all over the mat. It’s not like the bambino doesn’t try. In fact, it’s pretty compelling, watching him throw himself into the bodybuilder with everything he’s got and get swatted to the mat like a fly. Calvin molds his opponent’s lithe body into position for a schoolboy pin, time and time again, at will, completely in control. Every so often he flashes one of those mountainous biceps in Nino’s face and chuckles. “Are you enjoying the show?”
The first redeeming quality about what appears to be a total mismatch squash-in-the-making is the earnest, almost desperate muscle worship Nino engages in even while he’s getting buried. He’s gasping a lot, and sure, it’s at least in part due to getting squeezed and crushed and ground into dust. But there’s a little more to Baby Boy’s breathlessness. He’s sucking on air because Calvin is turning his dial to 11, also. Nino is palming every inch within reach. He cups the softball sized biceps. He slips his fingers inside the edges of Calvin’s supertight blue singlet. If he’s going to get crushed, Nino is clearly going to grab every opportunity to enjoy the ride.
The other redeeming quality about this squash-in-the-making is that, no shit, it’s not a squash. Not even fucking close. And it doesn’t quite follow the script of barely plausible narratives of little guys impossibly overpowering big boys. No, seriously, Nino’s got moves. He’s wrapped up tight in Calvin’s swallowing full nelson, with the bodybuilder just lying on his back and ripping the bambino’s shoulders out at the sockets. Out of nowhere, incredibly flexible Nino pulls his knees to his chest and reverse summersaults backward, over Calvin’s face, popping his arms free and instantly snapping down sexy, hairy headscissors. True enough, Calvin keeps marshaling all of that muscle and powering his way free, but Nino is undaunted, as if every grunt and power escape is exactly according to plan.
Astonishingly, it’s Calvin who throws the first ball claw. What a bitch move! I mean, you outweigh your opponent by 60 pounds, but you’ve got to be the one to fight dirty first? He makes little Nino cry in a way that all of his size and muscle advantage just wasn’t able to pull off. What the fuck, Calvin?
So I’ve climbed aboard team Baby Boy, for better or worse, well before Calvin sneeringly opens his arms and gives Nino a “free shot.” “Anything you want to try,” Calvin offers like the preening, overconfident muscle beast he is, “just try it.” Even I can see that Nino’s first impulse to lock down a bearhug on the bodybuilder’s massively wide upper torso is a misfire. Calvin literally just exhales, and he pops free, laughing at the frustrated lightweight. But when the air comes rushing out of his lungs as Nino starts punching the fuck out of his gut, the laughing stops. Nino pins him against the wall and lands punch after punch, making Calvin’s handsome face screw up in humiliated pain.
Calvin’s abs are a brick wall, so you know the punching bag offense won’t keep Nino in the driver’s seat for long, once the bodybuilder catches his breath. Happily, Nino knows that as well. So just when Calvin looks like he’s about to, yet again, fling Nino’s hapless body from one side of the mat room to the other, Nino reaches down, wraps his fingers around Calvin’s balls, and twists hard. Mind you, Calvin started this shit first, so Nino is still the bigger man, at least when it comes to ostensible pro erotic wrestling decorum. Calvin is just getting served what he dished out first.
Well, and then some. Nino doesn’t just twist the bodybuilder’s balls. He yanks on them. He throttles them. He pries at them violently forEVER, as big Calvin whimpers and snivels and spasms like a bowl full of jello. I’m getting a whiff of a giant-killer in the making as Nino refuses to let up on the ball torture, even as he uses his free hand to keep worshiping hungrily at Calvin’s magnificent physique. “Flex for me,” Nino barks like a boss. Calvin’s upper lip curls in defiance as he refuses. “You flex,” Nino instructs calmly, like a physics teacher explaining the laws of nature, “or I’ll pull it off.”
And, holy shit, Calvin flexes for him. He’s reluctant, which makes it that much sweeter. He repeatedly tries to refuse to continue to feed Baby Boy’s hunger for the muscle show, but another twist of Nino’s wrist puts the bodybuilder right back into his rightful place. The bambino owns the muscle beast. He strums him like a guitar. Like a pro with plan all along, Nino slips behind and snaps on a sleeper, barking commands for more of that gargantuan gun show, even as shocked Calvin goes limp.
The homoerotic wrestling universe is overdue for another giant killer. I am crazy in love with a catch weight match that features a lightweight out thinking his opponent and legitimately and totally selling me into believing that he can tame the beast and turn a muscleman like Calvin Haynes into a slack jawed, compliant play thing. And I love how the camera lingers well after Nino has put the big man down. There’s something even more intimate about watching Baby Boy stroke and savor every bulge. He kisses and caresses Calvin’s biceps. He rouses the big man by sucking hard on his nipples. He strokes and playfully teases Calvin’s pouch, and as the big man regains consciousness, he’s instantly returning the adoration, squeezing and stroking Nino’s thighs and ass hovering just overhead.
This did NOT turn out the way I expected, and of course, I’m thrilled by that misdirection. Judging by the all-in making out as the scene closes, both of these boys are pretty fucking happy with how this “mismatch” plays out, because despite the stark difference in the packaging, they’re both equally and passionately turned on by wrestling underneath it all. And just to drive home the point that this sport plays by its own rules, big, bulging Calvin Haynes continues to struggle to get traction on his foray into homoerotic wrestling, while sexy, ultra lean little Nino Leone is, yet again, on top and calling the shots at the end of his sophomore match. I’ve got a hard, hard spot for a inked up, buzz cut blond, blue-eyed bodybuilder with perhaps a secret-no-more passion for getting played and turned into putty. And I’ve got an even harder spot for a dazzlingly pretty, delicate little 140 pound boybander who can turn the big boys into puddles at his feet.