Awards season always reminds me of the awesome diversity of tastes that co-exist among us wrestling fans. Sometimes my favorites get lauded. Sometimes wrestlers and matches at the top of my brackets don’t even show when the awards are dished out. And throughout the year, it’s not uncommon for wrestling fans and readers of this blog to give recommendations, some of which I’m instantly into, while others don’t do so much for me. I appreciate the evangelists who are convinced everyone ought to be as infatuated with a particular wrestler as they are. It’s that passion that’s at the fanatical root of what it means to be a fan, right? I’m totally okay with it, though, if others don’t dial in to Mitch Colby or Lon Dumont or Kid Karisma the way I do. And I respect the hell out of the passionate opinions of other fans that I don’t share. But sometimes, someone drops a recommendation in my inbox, and I instantly catch the fever.

That’s what happened when long time friend of Sidelineland, Alex, told me that I needed to check out one of Weekend Wrestling’s new finds, Stefan Stone. Alex and I have compared notes quite a bit, so it shouldn’t surprise me that one of his infatuations would totally be up my alley. And holy hell, Stefan Stone is way up my alley. He’s fucking pretty. Gorgeous, built, sexy body. He’s super handsome, with a tidy beard that frames a charming face and lends grit to his otherwise smooth, shaved, tanned and toned physique. I get it, why a Weekend Wrestling subscriber would pay for a custom match between Elite Eliot and Stefan. If you’re into hot jocks with serious pro wrestling skills to tell a story, this may be the most perfect casting possible.

I’ve been on the record as being way into Eliot. His attitude, his body, his face… Eliot’s got the corner on the market when it comes to being almost painfully pretty, as if born to be a babyface, but with sadist DNA that destined him to be a contemptuous bully. He’s almost immediately playing mind games, intentionally getting Stefan’s name wrong after specifically asking for clarification. Eliot is on brand from the start, smooth and punishing. He gets the jump on the handsome new hottie transitioning quickly and smoothly from a side headlock to a hammerlock, cranking on Stefan’s shoulder hard enough to make the handsome hunk dance on his toes.

Honestly, Eliot and Stefan are remarkably well matched on so many counts. Eliot may be a fraction more aggressive out of the gate, but Stefan’s got coldly confident escapes and reversals in his back pocket, and he milks a punishing hold with every bit of relish that Eliot does. They look nothing alike, but they’ve both got closely matched, gorgeously fit and toned bodies, smooth and aesthetic, with pumped and functional muscles that work up a sheen of sweat as testimony to their no-shit athleticism on display. The distance that distinguishes them is, on the one hand, super subtle. Like, Eliot sports that deceptively cute-kid face, whereas Stefan’s got more of a Colt male model masculine maturity. While I’ve argued in the past the Eliot’s ass may be the most underrated in homoerotic wrestling, I think (and I’m shocked to be saying this) that Stefan’s glutes may be even hotter. Eliot is, from start to finish, the contemptuous narcissist who can’t bother to remember how to correctly pronounce his opponent’s name. When Stefan points out that they’re all even at one pin a piece to start the third and decisive fall, Eliot rolls his eyes and snarks, “Maybe numerically, but calling us even is a stretch.” Stefan, on the other hand, is curiously complimentary. “Nice transition,” Stefan admits, grunting a little after Eliot has smoothly chained from a bearhug back to a side headlock. “I see why you’re elite.”

Fuck, I love so much the way Stefan hands out cred like that. On the one hand, it has this earnest babyface-ness about it, but on the other hand, there’s something hotly defiant about him measuring out precise quantities of apt praise. Eliot is slapping down “I’m out of your league” taunts, and Stefan just deliberately keeps offering these concise, totally legit, collegial gratuities that keep demonstrating he’s not buying it that he should just walk away with his tail between his legs after Eliot takes the first fall, like the Elite-One suggests. It’s all the hotter for those moments when Stefan starts building up a head of steam. He twists free from a hammerlock and winds Eliot seamlessly into a nasty wristlock, cranking on it like starting a stubborn snowblower in early winter. In the third and final fall, when things go off the rails and bruised egos demand satisfaction, I keep hearing those earlier, respectful compliments from Stefan echoing in my head as he crushes Eliot’s throat between his huge, sweaty thighs, milking it long a luxuriously, slapping Eliot in the chest and demanding the submission. Turns out a little respectful complimenting early on don’t cost a thing when you’ve got the strength and skills to put a major hurt on when it counts!

It’s the low blows that tip this battle of near equals over the edge. Stefan is literally begging, “Please, no more ball shots,” after he takes a solid jab to the crotch. Of course, his pleading earns him almost immediately a blindside knee to testicles from behind, that leaves the sweaty hot jock weeping, ready to get swept up and dumped in the trash can once Eliot’s soothed his threatened status as the nasty sadist in gorgeous babyface clothing. But holy shit, did Stefan Stone come from out of nowhere and out-pretty, out muscle, and nearly out wrestle Elite-fucking-Eliot!?

Like Alex, I am now officially a member of the Stefan Stone fan club!