I was wrestling Scott Williams a few weeks ago. Fuck, I love dropping that into absolutely any conversation I possibly can. But, anyway, I was wrestling Scott again, seriously enjoying wringing those bitter, frustrated submissions out of him. After a while, at one point, he snagged me in a side headlock. He was cranking on it, really grinding the side of my face into his meaty, hairy pec, trying to claw back a little of the dignity that he’d been hemorrhaging earlier. And I made the mistake of honestly saying out loud what I was thinking. “Not exactly the worst place I can imagine being stuck.” Sensing weakness, he proceeded to take every chance he could to give me a face full of those fucking gorgeous pecs, knowing just how ambivalent I was feeling about the idea of escaping and climbing back on top.

It was genuinely news to me when I first learned that some guys are specifically into being dominated. I think I had such a steady diet of pro wrestling kayfabe when I was growing up that it took me a while to catch on to the fact that some guys “into wrestling” are specifically turned on by being controlled and conquered. The pretense of wrestling is built on the idea that both wrestlers want, maybe even expect, to be victorious. The suspense and drama come from watching whose strength and skill are proven to be superior. In terms of watching, it’s hot to witness a once-proud hunk crushed and humiliated, forced to recalibrate his ego and reconsider how confident he has a right to be. I think, though, that I always bought into the scenario from the perspective of wanting the guy I identified with to be the one climbing on top and doing the dominating.

I mean, I understand it now. Watching homoerotic wrestling, I’ve seen plenty of evidence that some wrestlers get seriously turned on the more they take a beating, the more they’re overpowered and wrung out. Like, you can watch Brendan Byer’s erection inside his trunks flex with excitement when Brooklyn Bodywrecker slaps down the final 3-count after absolutely bulldozing Brendan for 40 minutes in Jobberpaloozer 5. My best wrestling buddy is someone whose personal wrestling fantasy is always (always) getting dominated.

However, this same wrestling buddy and I both wholeheartedly agree that the pretense of hot homoerotic wrestling comes crashing down if one wrestler obviously wants to get his ass kicked. The turn on in watching a match is in the conquering (whether you’re fixated on the conqueror or the one getting conquered). The whole thing falls flat if a dyed-in-the-wool jobber shows up begging to get thrashed and humiliated, or even if he just shows up not even trying because he’s so hungry to be possessed. And there, right there, is that curiously delicate fine line dividing my wrestling kink from an interest in BDSM. At the end of the day, both might end up in similar places, with one stud calling the shots, having his way, dishing out humiliation and pain in precise doses according to his sole discretion. But the journey to get there makes all the difference to me. Even if you deep down want to get crushed by your opponent, even if you show up planning on submitting because that’s what turns you on, don’t just give it away for free.

Scott’s pecs really are sexy, though, right? Fuck. Getting my hands, my face, fuck, any and every part of me squeezed tightly against top quality, gorgeous muscle like that is a pleasure. I’m not even hating the fact that Scott knows that in his arsenal is just how distracting his fucking hot body is to me. And, honestly, it’s probably good for both of us when he gets some riding time in. Scott’s crowing trash talk when he gets a glimpse of daylight and he starts counting chickens before the eggs hatch only makes fighting back on top and punishing him for it that much more deeply satisfying. And by “satisfying,” I mean an incredible turn on.