I’m a fan of Mark Muscle mostly for the aesthetics. He’s fucking huge and gorgeous, and what he has lacked in wrestling acumen, he has made up for in being game for the rough and tumble, ego bruising scramble of homoerotic wrestling. Seriously, a beast this huge with about half a day of pro wrestling training would fucking own this industry. But Mark has been mostly heel bait in the matches I’ve seen him.  He’s a little wooden. He’s lacked in charisma, putting out a pretty shallow wrestling character almost entirely defined by whether overwhelming muscle mass and fitness do, or don’t, trump a savvy underground opponent (I’m hard pressed to ever buy that it does, but I get the appeal for both directions). So Fantasy Heels 10 at Muscle Domination Wrestling tweaks my interest because clearly, Mark Muscle is the Fantasy Heel.  I’ll tuck in to see him turn on some heel heat any day.

Mark’s opponent (fantasy jobber?) is Damien Rush, who strolls into the middle of Mark’s mouthwatering posting routine and demands that the muscle beast beat a hasty retreat because the lighting is perfect for Damien to pose for the camera. “You’ve got to get out of here and wait till I’m done,” Damien snarls, stepping in front of Mark and flexing for the camera. Perspective would argue that Damien’s position closer to the camera at this point should make him seem relatively bigger and Mark relatively smaller than their actual proportions. In testimony to how fucking huge Mark is, he just looks like a mountain of muscle staring way, way down at daddy’s little rich boy. I instantly want to see Damien trounced. One reason is that he interrupts my adoration of Mark’s generous tour of his phenomenal physique. Fuck you, Damien. Get the fuck out of the way. A second reason is the auburn highlights in Damien’s hair. Sun bleached? Horrifying accident with a time machine to the eighties? Whatever accounts for it, the mop top of two-toned locks is atrocious. Fuck, I want to see him suffer for making me look past that hideous ‘do in order to keep trying to study Mark’s superhuman physique. Fuck you, Damien.

The match unfolds in relatively formulaic fashion. Bumping egos lead to a pose down. Mark stifles a laugh when Damien announces himself the obvious winner. “That all you got?” Damien deludes himself pathologically. “My muscles were that big when I was 12!” he snarls. I still think Damien needs to play up the daddy’s little rich boy angle, because his irrational self-love and deluded belief in his superiority in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary would be so much juicier if he kept having to pull the silver spoon out of his mouth. In this day of historically inept plutocracy, I’d love to hate on big D that much more, if he’d just be that overprivileged daddy’s little rich boy. Mark smirks when Damien can’t admit that he’s humiliatingly dwarfed by the giant bodybuilder’s huge, flexed muscles.

Following a well worn path, they move on to arm wrestle to demonstrate who is stronger. Mark doesn’t just own this hairy little bitch; he looks at the camera and smirks. He showboats. He leisurely leans back and points at the huge bowling ball of a bicep with which he is easily thwarting his huffing and puffing and whining bitch opponent. Damien can’t even cheat his way to a victory.

Mark indulges Damien’s insistence that the real test of strength is “mercy.” About 15 seconds later, big Mark has ground Damien to his knees, sniveling and whimpering and bitching about Mark cheating. They move on to straightforward wrestling, with Damien attempting to use chloroform to shortcut his way to the board room. Awkwardly, Mark turns to the camera and explains, “Luckily, I’ve built up a tolerance to chloroform.” And then he muscle dominates daddy’s little rich boy every which way for the next 15 minutes.

It’s a squash, which for regular readers will be an unnecessary point to make, because I already told you this is MDW. But a few things stand out to make this match provocatively arousing and powerfully pleasing to me. First of all, Damien. Damn. Although I’d prefer to have someone gag him so we don’t have to hear him over-narrate the product, I do enjoy watching him suffer. His golden trunks (see, come on, play up that daddy’s little rich boy angle!) are perfection. Watching his bulge quiver and swing side to side as Mark Muscle hangs him out to dry for a day and a half in a rear bearhug is downright hypnotic. When Mark applies a standard bearhug, he not only gives us a long, lingering look at Damien’s magnificently fuckable ass, he wedgies those golden trunks severely high up Damien’s crack for us. Damien screams and writhes; he twitches and chokes on the pain like the poor man’s Drake Marcos. For so many reasons beyond what I’ve already mentioned, Damien’s been a naughty boy, and watching him punished mercilessly is profoundly satisfying.

Another reason that Fantasy Heels 10 floats my boat is Mark’s eyes. I know, I know, you’re instantly dubious that I genuinely noticed his eyes, but you can’t miss them. Because Mark repeatedly looks directly into the camera. It’s a device that could easily backfire on a wrestler, but Mark is so consistent and insistent about making eye contact with the camera, that he manages to break down the virtual barrier between the action and the audience.

Now, sometimes it irks me when guys look toward the camera. Often, it’s quite clear that they are actually looking at whoever is holding the camera and taking cues from them. For all I know, Mark may have been doing just that. But his smirks, his cocky nods and winks are nothing short of magical. There’s a powerful intimacy he conveys, like he knows that we’re on this side of the screen jacking off in blinding lust for him. And he likes it. He tolerates Damien’s bluff and bluster with an eye wag at the camera, letting us in on the little joke that he can trash this smart mouth little bitch at will. He licks his lips and snarls and growls, not at Damien, but at us. Damien is just a fucking prop that Mark is using to grab us by the balls, to turn us on, to stoke us harder and harder. Like I said, looking into the camera can backfire on a wrestler. I’ve bitched before about wrestlers seeming distracted from the action because of where their gaze wanders, stretching the believability that this is an actual contest of strength and athleticism and wits. Mark works it sensationally, though.

My last comment I have to make is just a curios self-reflection that the more Mark Muscle dominates and destroys Damien Rush, the more I’m lusting like crazy to fuck Mark. This catches me by surprise, because often the heels that work me hardest star in my personal fantasies as tops. I want to see them whip out their dicks and powerfuck the losers at their feet. Whereas, with Mark, I’m crushing harder and harder on the fantasy of me, being there, whipping out my dick and fucking his magnificently muscled ass… with Damien at our feet. It’s something in all that mindfuck eye contact, I’m sure, that transports my lustful gaze to a point at which Mark drags Damien’s quivering, beaten carcass across the mat and drops him at my feet like a cat. And then he drops those skin tight black bikini briefs and insists I show him how proud I am of him by fucking him for days.

But maybe that’s just me. As always, I give my “buyer beware” notice that if you need some competitive heat to turn your crank, be warned that this is a squash. But if you want to see daddy’s little rich boy, who thinks he can get away with anything up to and including treason, get thrashed mercilessly and ripped apart until he’s crying and begging like the little bitch we all knew he was all along, this could be a timely match to saddle up with. If you get off on HUGE bodybuilders with superhero physiques crush the fuck out of hot little wannabes, this will definitely scratch your itch. And if you want to feel like you’re right in the room, on the mats, inches from the action, and your presence is inspiring one hunk to absolutely own another hunk… for your pleasure… this is a bullseye.