Holy crap! It’s been a month since I had a chance to post anything. Time flies when life is full and busy. I have managed to squeeze in a little time writing a few match descriptions for the new release of BG East’s catalog 128. So even if you don’t know it, you very well may be reading some of my writing in that format. As so often happens with big pauses in my blogging, I’m now facing a backlog of intentions and plans. I’ll do my best to backfill, but hot new wrestling releases wait for no blogger.
With that in mind, I want to describe the sweat soaked pleasure it was to watch one of my longstanding obsessions climb into the ring again in the new release of Ringwars 29: Steeped in Sweat. Honestly, all it took was watching Mitch Colby stretching before the match to get me dizzyingly aroused. Over the years we’ve seen Mitch in various states of fitness. There is no version of him that fails to turn me on, mind you, but in RW29, he is mind bogglingly gorgeous, primed and pumped, tanned and toned, with mile wide shoulders and an impossibly narrow waist like Clark Kent at a day at the beach.
There’s something coolly majestic about Mitch. I suppose if you look like he does, and you’ve hammered your rockin’ muscles so sweetly out on your 6’2″ frame, you can afford to be chill as fuck. He’s self-possessed and confident, this side of cockiness. I always get the impression that Mitch wants a challenge. He gets a little contemptuous if it’s too easy. Mitch appreciates serious competition. He wants to prove himself.
“Serious” is not a word that jumps to the front of the line when Jobe Zander struts into the ring room. Fuck, I hate this guy. And by hate, I mean, fuck, I ache to see someone beat the living shit out of him and strip him naked. He’s always a contender for biggest bulge in the business. And he enthusiastically puts his most prominent feature forward in every match, calling attention to “the Centerpiece,” and taking every opportunity to shove his massive package in an opponent’s face. Jobe is loud and over the top and almost comical, which is clearly his modus operandi. He struts and barks and presents himself almost as a caricature of the narcissist pro wrestler, invariably disarming his opponent who struggles to take him seriously.
Do NOT fail to take Jobe Zander seriously! Mitch learns what most of Jobe’s opponent’s learn. Underestimate him at your peril. He takes it to the beach body beefcake with authority, and I love watching Mitch struggling to dig himself out of a hole. Even before the low blows and dirty tricks take over the narrative, Jobe quickly outhustles my fitness model infatuation and works him over like a boss.
As is almost always the case, inexplicably, it’s Jobe who’s first to attack his opponent’s balls. I’ve got all sorts of feels about watching him claw the fuck out of Mitch’s bulge. First and foremost, just getting a feel of what Mitch is packing is a vicarious thrill. In particular, this reach through the legs from behind with a subtle twisting chaser is as if I’m remote controlling Jobe. Mitch, with his glistening, superhuman muscles quivering in agony and whimpering, is a work of art. But I’m also rolling my eyes at this move because you know, for a fact, what happens next when Jobe, possessing arguably the most massive crotch in competition, flings open the door of crotch attacks.
That shit just got real, now, didn’t it, Jobe? I’ve been taken to task before for crushing hard on a classic babyface disciplining a vile heel. But I can’t help it. Sometimes I want to see an earnest, magnificently muscled jock slap a loudmouth cheater down and make him regret it all. I know, I’m such a mark. When I’m pounding one out in ecstasy watching Mitch make the previously cocky bad boy weep and beg, I don’t give a shit. These two hunks can manipulate me any way they want.
Jobe make SUCH a huge deal of his HUGE deal, it’s no wonder that, yet again, this match really becomes all about “the Centerpiece.” He shoves it in Mitch’s face. He demands that the hunky heart throb pay homage to the legend that is straining the seams of Jobe’s pouch. “The tide has turned, Mitch the Bitch,” Jobe snarls down atop the schoolboy pin, smothering Mitch in his ball gag. “I’m the Centerpiece here,” he monologues like a Batman villain. “Nothing can stop me now!”
It turns out, a 6’2″ fitness competitor in the best shape of his life can, actually, stop Jobe Zander. Mitch milks the babyface retribution to perfection. He scolds Jobe mercilessly for his greed and self-centeredness. He punishes him brutally, employing all of those stunningly gorgeous muscles to accomplish the task of dominating and destroying this quite serious competition. It’s not as if it had to go this way. It’s not as if Mitch is, by his nature, hell bent on humiliating and bullying an opponent. He’s just cashing that check that Jobe’s been writing all along, piling on complete domination to not just beat him, but to disprove every taunt and brag and unnecessary act of poor sportsmanship along the way. “How about that for a Centerpiece,” Mitch demands to know, resting his balls on Jobe’s chin and anointing his own big bulge the new title holder.
There are a lot of familiar components to this match, if you’ve watch many of Jobe’s more recent bouts. But there are a few delightful innovations in this pairing that I have to mention. One such innovation is that Jobe makes Mitch scream. I mean, really scream. Mitch typically is the type to screw up his face and put a cork in it when he’s suffering hard. Agony paralyzes and gags him most days. But when Jobe really cranks on his balls, crushing and twisting and dragging him around the ring by them, Mitch lets loose with some crotch tingling screeches of pain. Fuck, I love that chink in the muscleman’s armor.
The other notable part that I want to mention is all the trunk pulling. It’s like Mitch knows how much I’ve been wanting someone to finally rip Jobe’s trunks off and show us what the heel has been teasing for years now. That doesn’t quite happen, despite my longing. Nor does Mitch bend him over the top rope with Jobe’s anaconda in his hand and Mitch’s manhood up Jobe’s round ass. But both wrestlers give us peekaboo glimpses of the underworld, dragging each other around by a fist full of trunks and showing off just a little of the astonishing beauty both men criminally cover up with their gear.
Mitch’s bearhugs are sexy as fuck. If watching his gargantuan deltoids flex and swell as he crushes his wailing opponent suspended a foot off the ground doesn’t get you off, then it is a complete enigma to me why you would read this blog.
This match pushes a ton of my buttons, so if we share any buttons, I recommend you tuck in. My infatuation with magnificent Mitch has only grown with his latest display of his power and beauty. If the wrestling gods ever bother to hear our prayers, then please, oh PLEASE, let’s see Mitch pit his mouthwatering muscles again another longstanding infatuation of mine, Scott Williams. That would be the headliner match to the “Masters Division” matches I’ve been fantasizing about for so long now.