Do you ever imagine a brighter, better world, in which a serious pro wrestling muscle hunk dips his toe in the world of the full on, no rules, homoerotic wrestling scene? Of course I do. All. The fucking. Time. Take Clark Connors, for example. Actually, keep your hands off of him, because that unbelievable ass is ALL mine. I’ve been obsessively checking the Upload Date filter on YouTube for new Connors matches since I was first stopped in my tracks by his made-for-porn muscle glutes. Fuck, this muscle hunk is a walking, talking, wrestling gay dream. But his erotic perfection will never, ever be appreciated in his indy pro wrestling circles like it deserves. So I’m irresistibly drawn to picture what would happen if Clark Connors knocked on the door of BG East, muscles bulging beautifully in gray sweats, with a duffle bag full of gear over one shoulder and an itch to ditch the training wheels and test himself in a truly no-holds-barred ring battle.
I picture The Boss insisting on an interview with the would-be recruit. He’d listen to the muscle hunk’s pitch for a shot, slowly walking around and studying the stretch of his sweat pants from all sides. Clark would be abundantly accustomed to getting eye fucked, so he wouldn’t even blink when The Boss insists on seeing what he looks like in wrestling gear. He’d take just a beat when, in response to asking where he can change his clothes, The Boss would answer that he can change right then and there in his office. But it’s not like Clark has anything to be shy about. So he’d confidently shrug out of his sweatshirt. He’d pause a few seconds, watching The Boss’ eyes widen a fraction at the sight of his muscle-stacked torso. Unbidden, he’d gracefully strike an archer’s pose, flexing hard until he hears the light, impressed grunt of approval from his interviewer.
Dropping his arms to his side again, he’d have a hint of a grin on his face as he bounces he pecs playfully. “So far, so very good,” The Boss would approve. Clark would pause just a fraction longer before digging his thumbs into his waistband and bending forward, sliding his sweat pants down his thick, gorgeous thighs. He’d leave them around he ankles, flexing his powerful quads in nothing but a heather grey jock strap. Seriously, 2 second later, at most, The Boss would say, “You’re hired.”
Newbies show up in the BG East ring room first. It’s a rule. There’d be Clark, in serious-as-fuck pro trunks, matching knee pads, and boots. He’d be lightly tanned and impeccably toned, stretching out in the ring, trying not to be distracted by his own, sensational physique screaming at him for acknowledgement from the wall mirror. On the one hand, he’d be cocky. He’d know enough about BG East fans to know that he’ll be an instant phenomenon the half second after this catalog is published. And unlike some pretty boys in the underground scene, he’d have years of international indy pro experience to back him up. On the other hand, this would be Clark’s first dabble into whole-hearted wrestling for gay eyes. His no-holds-barred challenge would mean something distinctly different here, than in front of crowds of screaming children and straight audiences. He wouldn’t know just how far his debut match might go, and that would make him both nervous and undeniably excited at the possibility of scratching that itch he’s never admitted to anyone. So he’d check himself a bit, scan down his muscled torso, adjust the elastic in his super snug trunks to barely, but not quite, manage to cover his astoundingly beautiful ass cheeks. I’m wagering he’d have done some homework, scanning the BG East website for likely challengers, sizing up the competition, making notes of other known indy pro stars in the stable. But his jaw would drop at the sight of his opponent who finally saunters in.
Kid Vicious wouldn’t even have registered on Clark’s radar in his prep work on BG East. All Clark would see would be a 6’1″, super lean white boy with a shaved head and a curled upper lip. Honestly, the rookie would literally laugh out loud, so unimpressed with his challenger. When KV steps up to the ring apron, Clark would stop chuckling, more soberly assessing the 5 inches in height advantage that KV has on him. Then again, Clark’s 15 pound weight advantage would just look that much more imposing. He’d be put off by Kid Vicious’ fixed stare. He’d try to make small talk once KV climbs through the ropes. He might even try a little trash talk, referring to the BGE veteran as a bean pole. KV would just take a slow stroll around the ring, soaking in the sight of every scrumptious bulge and crevice. His silence would visibly unnerve the hyperbuff newbie, who’d try to keep his eyes on his opponent at all times, without looking too scared to turn his back on him.
Kid Vicious would lash out first, with a drop to one knee and a silky smooth single leg takedown. The polish would totally catch Clark off guard. He’d be on his back before he knew it, and a half second later, KV would violently twist his foot in both hands. The indy pro would try to turn with it, but the notorious heel would stomp a boot into the side of his knee, pinning the yelping hunk like a butterfly. Clark would jerk his leg free and scoot backward into the nearby corner defensively. Kid Vicious would just watch him, with that upturned lip that may be a smile, may be a sneer. When Clark climbs to his feet with the aid of the ropes, his knee would briefly buckle. KV would definitely smile at that.
Cautiously, Clark would circle the ring, gingerly working out his knee, reassessing the threat. The pro newbie would break the tension with a swift lunge to one knee. Kid Vicious would take a half step backward to avoid the single leg attempt, but the savvy pro would suddenly rise from the feint and snap his massive arms around his opponent’s torso. With a grunt, he’d bear down on the bearhug, leaning backward. The height difference would mean KV would just rise up to the toes of his boots, but but when Clark really locks in and shakes him side to side, KV would lift his legs and defensively squeeze Clark’s hips between his knees.
Clark would stomp around in a tight circle, grunting and growling as he digs in. With curled lips around gritted teeth, Kid Vicious would fight through the pain, clench a fist, and be just about to punch the pro’s pretty face, when the muscle man would charge forward and pound KV’s back into a turnbuckle. As Clark steps back, the infamous heel would drop breathlessly to his knees, one hand clutching his lower back.
There’d be a satisfied smile on Clark’s face when he drags Kid Vicious by the ears to the middle of the ring and shoves the heel’s rattled head between Clark’s huge quads. The pro stud would just stand there, showboating, flexing his biceps, with Kid Vicious on his knees, helplessly stuck in the stocks. In his own good time, Clark would lean forward and drag KV’s hips upward with a savage yank on the back of his trunks. He’d lean forward and hook his arms around his waist, hoist him violently off his feet, and slam KV’s head and upper back brutally back to the canvas. With gloating deliberateness, Clark would drop to the mat, hook a leg, and slap down 3 slow counts. “Fuck,” Clark would sneer. “I thought this was supposed be hard.”
Clark would take a breather perched on a top turnbuckle, oblivious to his shockingly unprecedented achievement. He’d just watch, unconcerned, as Kid Vicious painfully, slowly peels himself off his back, gingerly rubbing at his neck and shaking away the fog. When KV would finally reach his feet, fury would pulse off of him in waves. Clark would hop off of the turnbuckle to pace defiantly in front of him, hands on narrow hips. “What do you think you can even do to me?” he’d ask.
Kid Vicious would answer with a sudden knee to the groin. Clark’s jaw would drop open silently. He’d start to fold forward, but KV would push him back upright to take another knee to the balls. The hunk’s knees would buckle, but KV would catch him in his arms and hold him upright, probably even pat him lightly on the back consolingly, before jamming his knee into his balls a third time. Then I picture Kid Vicious letting go, allowing Clark to crumble to his knees, clutching his balls and whimpering, his face sliding down KV’s torso. On his knees, the stunned pro would be sucking air. KV could grab Clark’s head with both hands and slam his crotch into the handsome hunk’s dazed face. As Kid Vicious’ legendary billy club grows hard, he’d keep pounding, breaking out into a sweat, that look of sexual pleasure washing across his face. Welcome to the homoerotic wrestling ring, muscleboy!
When Kid Vicious finally lets go, Clark would collapse in a heap on the mat. I picture KV landing boot stomps all over the pro’s magnificent body. Clark would bounce and writhe on the mat as his punisher makes a full circuit to tenderize every inch. KV would mount the hunk in a school boy pin, pausing to enjoy the view, before digging his claws into Clark’s thick pecs. Clark would cry out and clutch at his opponent’s wrists. Ironically, he’d cry even louder when KV releases the claws and just starts stroking his throbbing chest, teasing Clark’s taut nipples. As Clark athletically bridges high, lifting his opponent off the mat still riding his torso, Kid Vicious would smoothly slide to the side and snap on body scissors. The heel would knead the muscle boy’s internal organs savagely between his knees. Clark would initially buck and writhe, shocked by the power in the crush, but as KV tightens the vise slow and hard, the muscleboy would grow still, choking and gasping. With closed eyes, Clark’s hands would absently wander across his opponent’s sweaty thighs, just feeling the flexed muscle punishing him. “Give up?” KV would finally ask, the first time Clark would have ever heard his opponent’s voice. Eyes squeezed shut tightly, through gritted teeth the muscle hunk would gasp, “no!” The answer would make Kid Vicious smile. He’d bear down that much harder with his long, lovely thighs. Sitting up, the heel would punch the trapped hunk’s pecs. Clark would cover his chest defensively with his thickly muscled arms. Which is exactly what the heel would have intended, because he’d quickly turn his attention southward, grabbing the hunk’s balls in one hand and yanking, stretching the seams of his trunks. Clark would scream. SCREAM. In a choking break in the screams, as Clark gasps for air, KV would demand that his opponent submit. Without pause, Clark would gasp, “IgiveIgiveIgive!!!”
Kid Vicious would disentangle his legs and kneel next to his opponent. Clark would think he’d have a couple of minutes to recover… because Clark doesn’t know Kid Vicious. Instead, he’d take several vicious knee strike’s to his lower spine, making him arch and writhe on his side. When KV eventually climbs to his feet, his trunks would be hugely tented. He’d grab Clark’s ankles, spread those muscled thighs wide, and stomp boot strikes to his balls. Letting go of one ankle, he’d step over and squat into a single leg crab, leaning way back. Clark would pound the mat, clenching his teeth to hold in more cries of pain. That resistance would, of course, crumble when KV reaches down with his free hand and throttles the boy’s balls again. Clark would scream his second submission unprompted.
The master heel would give him no break, just transitioning to a bow and arrow, stretching Clark’s magnificent muscles out from head to toe. When Clark’s whimpers die down, KV would wind them back up with stomps into his lower back. Every hold break would give the muscle pro false hope of reprieve, only to be dashed moments later with a new form of corporal punishment. KV would snap on crotch pillow headscissors that would make Clark see stars. The pro hunk would try to pry his opponent’s legs apart, but when that proved futile, he’d leave his hands resting on the punishing legs, just appreciating the astonishing power crushing his skull. A gasping transition to face-to-crotch headscissors would once again introduce the pro stud to KV’s daunting power tool. Every chapter and verse would grind forward at that deliberate, unhurried pace this heel enjoys. He’d roll his prey over, still locked up tight in the face-to-crotch, and press his hips forward, grinding his erection into the muscle hunk’s helpless face.
Now, I’ve got say that I would fully expect a muscle rookie rally around the 15 minute mark of the match. Clark’s got too much pro experience to not have deep reserves. I’d say it’d be in one of a half dozen schoolboy pin positions, right as Kid Vicious tugs down the top of his trunks and pulls out that huge, gorgeous cock of his. It’s not like Clark wouldn’t have known this was on the table. He’d have done enough of his homework to know what no-holds-barred would mean. In fact, it’d be a prime reason he darkened the door of BG East, to get up close to the full potential that wrestling offers a magnificent specimen like him. But staring at KV’s gorgeous, glistening, naked hammer coming for his face would, understandably, give the pro hunk a turbo boost of adrenaline. He’d hook his huge legs and catch the heel’s arms. KV would try to lean into it, to hold him pinned to the mat, but have you seen Clark’s legs? Fuck, no. He’d flip KV to his back and roll on top, folding the heel over. Riding that wave of adrenaline, he’d muscle the heel into a cradle and just hold him there while he’d catch his breath. KV would obviously put up a fight, but with more than a little rage, Clark would bat away his hands and land a nasty punch to the face that would make KV’s eyes roll into the back of his head.
Clark would drag him to his feet and catapult him slamming into a corner, only to grab his wrist off the rebound and catapult him slamming into the opposite corner. The entire ring would shimmy an inch that direction from the power of the impact. Off the rebound, Clark would scoop KV up and powerslam him with authority. He’d feel the momentum turning his way, so wouldn’t let up. Bodyslam after bodyslam,
He’d use all of that muscle just right. Kid Vicious would be getting buried under, getting bounced off the ropes and bearhugged; bounced off the ropes and belly-to-belly suplexed; bounced off the ropes and clotheslined. When KV’s steel cable muscles start to soften up, the muscle pro would go to his signature fisher, climbing into the saddle of Boston crab. Clark would be so fucking proud, so fucking relieved to be snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He’d squat low, planting his gorgeous, meaty, muscled glutes hard onto KV’s ass. He’d lean way, way back, sweat pouring off of him now, teeth gritted in effort and anticipation, feeling his opponent’s spine straining, stretched to the bitter limit. Clark would take that wide stance, placing his center of gravity right on his tailbone. You just don’t survive Clark’s Boston crab with your dignity in tact, and he’d just be listening to KV’s agonized grunts, waiting for an articulate submission to pop out. But KV would finally shimmy forward a half an inch and stretch his lovely, long arms forward. His fingertips would brush the bottom rope at first, but he’d finally latch on. “Rope,” KV would gasp. “Rope!” Clark may be a seasoned pro, but in the BGE ring, he’d be a total newbie tool, so he’d let go of the crab and throw KV’s legs down in frustration.
Clark would be huffing like steam engine. He’d be disheartened that all of that high impact offense and his signature finisher couldn’t seal the deal. Visibly exhausted, it’d be a huge effort to circle back and drag his opponent off the mat. Out of sheer frustration, he’d land a windmilling slap to KV’s face. It’d just bring the heel’s eyes into laser focus. Clark’s follow up forearm to the chest would knock the heel back a step, but he’d come right back with a chop of is own to the muscle man’s meaty pecs. They’d trade chops in the middle of the ring, looking like they’re barely managing to stay on their feet. Finally, KV would rake Clark’s eyes savagely. Blinded, the indy pro would be defenseless as he’s Irish whipped, at a full sprint, chest-first into a corner turnbuckle. He’d bounce backward and into his opponent’s waiting arms. Kid Vicious would scoop him into a cradle and plant him in a tree of woe, Clark’s knees hooked across the top turnbuckle. The rain of stomps and punches to Clark’s muscled torso would go for days.
Here’s where I think it’d get particularly interesting. Sooner or later, Kid Vicious would yank at the waist of Clark’s trunks. It’s not like you or I (or KV) didn’t see this coming, but up until this point, the likelihood of getting stripped in the ring would have been purely theoretical for Clark. KV would yank his trunks down (up?) the pro’s meaty thighs to reveal that heather gray jock strap now dripping with sweat. Clark would squirm and curse, but I picture him gasping, and then silent, when the heel slides his hand inside Clark’s pouch and starts massaging. In a twist no one might seeing coming (except Clark), I feel like his cock would spring to life in an instant. Seriously, as in seconds, KV would be manhandling a raging pro erection that would stretch right out the side of his pouch. Clark would groan and moan in time with KV’s hand pulsing around his meat. I just don’t think anyone is servicing Clark’s magnificence the way they should, so being brutalized, his rally dashed, strung up completely helpless at his tormentor’s mercy, I think it would take just a few seconds of tender enthusiasm from KV to get the pro’s concealed weapon locked and loaded. When KV slows down, the muscle hunk would quietly beg for him not to stop.
But he would. Kid Vicious would suddenly release Clark’s legs from the tree of woe, dumping the wasted muscle man in a heap. Clark would take forever to peel himself off the mat and get to his hands and knees, during which time, KV would nearly rip the pro’s trunks apart at the seams yanking them off. Without a frame of reference for homoerotic wrestling, Clark would probably think of this as his moment of defeat, the laying bare his last vulnerability. He’d think this hell is over, but he’d be wrong.
Kid Vicious would take a couple wet smacks at Clark’s fantasyman ass cheeks framed so perfectly in his straps. But he’d ride a tilt-a-whirl when KV scoops him up in a cradle and pounds him down into an OTK backbreaker. All that gorgeous muscle, glistening with sweat and fear, would be laid out before the heel like a feast. KV would hold him there, working the spine brutally awhile. Clark would scream, but it would be halfhearted, because he’d have finally figured out that no one is coming to end his terror. Again, the muscle monster would be lulled to moans when KV starts massaging his cock. Yet again, he’d be pushed right to the brink of cumming, wanting it really, but denied when Kid Vicious shoves him off his knee.
Clark would lose his jock strap fast. He’d be clearly terrified, but he’d stay hard. He never felt this much jeopardy in the indy pro ring. He never felt this vulnerable with an opponent. He just never felt this fucking alive before! KV would drag him to his feet by his cock and lead him shuffling around the ring breathless, like he’s on a leash. Clark wouldn’t have much fight left to prevent himself from being strung up in the corner, spread-eagled across the middle ropes, taking knees to his naked balls. Still fucking hard as granite. KV would stretch him out backward in a dragon sleeper, stroking the stud’s glistening torso, jabbing punches into his big pecs and upper abs. That big, liberated cock would still be at full attention. When KV holds him up by his hair and makes him stare in the mirror, watching himself obediently flexing his internationally adored muscles, so utterly humiliated tears would be streaming down his face, without a doubt, he’d be awestruck at the simple truth told by his perma-hard erection staring back at him.
Kid Vicious is the master of self-control, obviously, but even he would finally reach the point where he’d peel off his own trunks and measure his own internationally adored cock inch-by-inch beside the pro hunk. Even there, fuck, especially there, the indy pro beefcake babyface would be put in his place like the jobber newbie he is. KV would have his run of the place, but I think it’d all reach climax on the mat. Clark would be prone, wasted, weeping. KV would straddle those glorious ass cheeks and lock on a full nelson. Feeling KV’s power wedged into his crack, there’d be a look on Clark’s face as his shock and despair melts into pleasure.
I think KV would shoot a massive load up Clark’s perfectly proportioned, deeply muscled back. Clark would be defenseless, just used and owned. When KV finally climbs off, the muscle pro would roll to his side and look up at him, resigned, trying to read on the heel’s unreadable face if this is over, or if he’s got more suffering ahead. He’d look long and hard at KV’s outstretched hand when the heel offers to help him to his feet. He’d know not to trust it, but in the ultimate sign of submission, he’d take the hand offered and whatever else came with it. That’d be enough for KV, I think. He’d hoist the muscle beast up to his feet and let him lean against him as Clark gets his bearings. Clark’s cock would still be rock hard, and he’d gasp when KV wrapped his fingers around it. But there would be a look of hope on the hunk’s face as he realizes his opponent is just tenderly leading him from the ring by it, tugging him through the ropes, off the apron, and out the door. His huge arms at his side, Clark would follow willingly, wherever this leads.
That’s where my imagination takes me, at least.