It’s been a long time since I composed a post devoted solely to admiring a particular wrestling hold. I’ve been recently obsessing once again over my favorite wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker.
It’s such a massively dominating move. The pitcher often literally cradles the catcher like a child in his arms, clutching him across his chest, and then drops to one knee, pounding his opponent’s back across his thigh. I love the geography of this hold. The victim splayed out, his vulnerable core stretched wide, legs and upper body pressed backward such that he can’t assume the instinctive duck and cover defensive position to protect his internal organs.
I catch myself gasping in awe at high impact OTKs. There’s a raw, primal, intensely arousing aspect to watching a dominant hunk seriously pound his opponent down with authority, his knee driving viciously into the helpless stud’s spine. It’s magnificent drama when he scoops him directly back up across his chest, standing tall and hoisting the victim high to repeat the move again. And again. Total domination.
I also also love an OTK punisher with big, bulging pecs flexing powerfully, his face hovering so close to his opponent’s muscled torso and quivering crotch. Stretched out on his back, the victim of an OTK is flattened, the topography of his physique stretched out and impotent, in contrast to the flaring shoulders and pumped pecs of his tormentor.
Then there are the subtle variations and innovations that dial up the inherent eroticism of this hold in a homoerotic context. The stolen moments to take advantage of the victim’s helplessness, sadistically brutalizing muscled abs and pecs. Not content to just torture his spine, the man in charge pounds fists, drives in elbows, perhaps digs his finger tips into defenseless muscle and wear him out from every angle.
Ace Aarons handles Richie’s rocks
Richie’s balls demand Mason’s attention as well.
An OTK seems paradigmatically gay (or at least bicurious) when the dominant hunk pays serious attention to that tempting bulge at the apex of his opponent’s bridge. Frankly it doesn’t often go there even in homoerotic wrestling, but every OTK seems like a head nod to those sensational moments when a wrestler leans forward and sucks his opponent’s nipple, seductively slides the palm of his hand possessively across his lower abs, and appreciatively throttles and fondles his arching cock. That’s the heart of homoerotic wrestling for me, with the purpose of the battle to determine who gets to take possession of whose body.
Calvin’s muscle melt
Mitch stiff and in agony
I’m fascinated watching muscled hunks sell this hold. Clearly some wrestlers are built a lot more for strength than flexibility. A stiff, tabletop OTK actually works for me because it looks like it hurts just that much more. When a muscle laden stud doesn’t really have much of a lower back arch to bend across his opponent’s thigh, it also just seems that much more humiliating. But there’s nothing quite as arousing as watching a flexible hunk melt into the hold, bridging dramatically, as if his muscles are draped across a hanger. The submissiveness, the giving himself over blindly to man who’s claimed his body, is golden.
My gratitude to all of the homoerotic wrestlers who have recently fed my craving for OTK hotness. For those moments when you’ve reached through your opponents legs and cupped his beefy ass in the palm of your hand, I salute you. For your graceful bridge and packed, quivering bulge gasping in anticipation of whatever is to come at the mercy of your opponent, I applaud you. I realize this hold is not exactly intuitive to pull off, and for many of you it’s downright awkward as fuck to sell, so I appreciate the gorgeous erotic art of your human sculpture just that much more.
I continue to find Zip Zarella one of the most reliably entertaining and arousing wrestlers turning my crank in new releases these days. I love his body about 85% as enthusiastically as Zip does (which says A LOT). He has that kind of face that makes me unconsciously devoted to doing anything it takes to make him flash his boyish smile (seriously, anything, Zip). I love his combination of playfulness, dangerousness, and his unflinching nod to the gay gaze of a homoerotic wrestling audience.
I was also an early adopter for Zip’s tag team partner Cap Landon as well. Charlie Evans’ new releases are just too far and few between to fully satiate my sexy, skinny boy moods, and Cap fills that empty space nicely. Zip and Cap seem to bring out the best in each other in Zip’s Spotlight. They’re posing their contrasting bodies, flexing their mouthwatering muscles and practically licking their lips with hungry excitement upon learning that they get to sink their teeth into a solo Austin Cooper. “Oh yeah, easy night to night, brother, two on one,” Cap purrs, flashing his compelling, superlean double bicep side-by-side with his partner. Astonishingly, Zip shares the mirror, perhaps seeing what I see, which is some awesome complementary aesthetics, with his pale partner making Zip’s beefy, tanned double-bicep that much more stunningly sexy. “We’re green, and we’re mean, baby!” Zip crows, turning to the side and checking out his meaty ass in the mirror (me too, Zip).
Austin refers to their simpatico as a “bromance” when he struts his legendary physique into the ring and snarls at the earnest twosome determined to pick him apart. “What do we got, a couple of leprechauns here,” Austin asks rhetorically, critiquing their matching, shiny green trunks. “Here are some real muscles come up in here,” Coop smirks, pumping his own fitness model double bicep intending to swipe away all memory of Zip and Cap’s gun show. “Moderate, at best,” Cap spontaneously disparages Coop’s legendarily hot muscles, not because Cap thinks his own muscles measure up, but as an almost intimate compliment to his partner’s heavy artillery. “You’ve got this,” Cap murmurs from the ring apron, with a little hero worship enthusiasm toward Double Z as Austin and Zip start to circle one another. “Your partner is fucking dead,” Austin growls at Zip as they crash their beautifully built physiques into one another.
Coop is a fucking beast in this match. I wouldn’t say he’s full-on channeling his heel master alter ego Dr. Cooper, but the seasoned veteran muscleman gets a solid grip on the initiative and wrings a whole lot of anguish out of aspiring “body guy” Zip. Now, I have more than a passing familiarity with Zip’s work, so I’m not too worried that the ring savvy pro can weather the storm and come back strong. But Cap seems a little worried. When Coop shoves Zip’s lower back violently into a turnbuckle, Cap bitches from the ring apron, “Get him out of the corner!” When Coop scoops Zip up into about the third of an infinite string of near coital rear bearhugs, there’s a twinge of desperation in Cap’s voice as he pleads with his partner, “You’ve got to stop letting him do that to you!” Zip’s jaw hangs open, struggling to endure the crushing embrace. “It’s so hard,” Zip gasps, which is lovely double entendre considering Coop has hoisted him off his feet and Zip’s muscled ass cheeks are pinned against Coop’s crotch. “He’s so strong,” Zip concedes with more than a little bit of awe for his opponent’s power.
If this were a straight up singles competition between Coop and Zip, it would be a great muscleman vs. muscleman contest. The wild card here is Cap, whose cheerleading for his partner and insults flung at their opponent is stirring the pot. “I”m showing him who Austin Cooper is,” Coop narrates his dominating performance for Cap. “Who’s that,” Cap snaps back with a lot of frustrated contempt. In a rage, Coop abruptly hoists Zip’s 205 pounds across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry in a stunning display of power. “Your partner is questioning me,” Coop says to Zip by way of explaining his growing motivation to break Zip hard. The more Cap spouts off from outside the ring, the worse conditions grow for Zip inside the ring. The 2-on-1 advantage suddenly seems to be backfiring.
Coop hobbles Zip like a boss and then sends him scurrying to the corner to tag in his partner. You can tell his vicarious torture of Zip isn’t going to be nearly as satisfying for Coop as it will be to bear down on 140 pound Cap directly. While Zip is licking his wounds outside the ring (I volunteer to help you with that, too, Zip), Coop unleashes a clinic of power moves on the lightweight smart ass. Cap’s feet don’t touch the ground for many minutes at a time. Coop hoists him up across his chest with absolutely zero effort and, with a flourish, pounds him down into a violent OTK. Cap screams and squirms helplessly as his opponent impales his lower abdomen with deep elbow strikes. When Coop scoops him back up off his knee, standing back up with Cap cradled helplessly across his chest, he asks, “You want to see how strong I am?” Now, in the moment, I’m thinking that it’s a rhetorical question. But Zip is so entranced by Coop’s power (perhaps still lingering on the memory of just how “hard” that rear bearhug was a few minutes ago), Double Z can’t help himself but blurt out the answer, “Sure!”
“No, no, don’t say that,” Cap protests in a panic. Coop fulfill’s Zip’s wish by gorilla pressing Cap straight-armed overhead, and then draping the skinny boy’s body around his neck like a scarf. Zip is visibly impressed with the move. Abruptly, Coop flings Cap around his neck and, in one motion, violently drops him into a tailbone-trashing atomic drop. Fuck, it’s such a high impact move I sort of wonder if Cap’s prostrate got a little thrill from Coop’s knee impaling him. “Are you okay,” Zip asks his bromantic partner with sincere concern in his voice. Cap literally can’t answer, clutching his ass and writhing on the mat breathlessly. Coop rolls on relentlessly, yanking the skinny boy into a kneeling surfboard, positioning the hold deliberately for Zip to watch the torture play across his partner’s face. “Oh, this is embarrassing,” Zip confesses.
Look at me, turning myself on just trying to narrate this sexy, sexy bit of this match. Before I get further carried away, let me pan back and just say that I stand up and cheer when Coop basically insists on taking the both of them on at the same time. It’s a great bit of hubris-meets-instant-karma when team leprechaun starts to beat the shit out of him in tandem. Personally, I would have been profoundly satisfied to just watch Zip and Cap rip apart the legendary Austin Cooper and enact a perfectly synchronized muscle mauling. Coop has the elusive power to make me lust to see him dominate as Dr. Cooper, and yet crush like hell on seeing him plowed under as the babyfaced golden boy. “You’ve got nothing, big man,” Zip crows, kicking him to the mat so the two of them can make Coop’s juicy ass jiggle as they stomp him from head to toe and back again. Zip snaps his gargantuan thighs around Coop’s gut, forcing the air out of his lungs, a second before Cap zip ties his legs scissored tight around Coop’s throat, refusing to allow the muscleman any chance of replenishing the oxygen in his lungs. “Come on, tap out, bitch,” Cap snarls in his face.
That, in and of itself, is worth the price of admission. 140 pounder Cap Landon calling 170 pound fitness phenom Austin Cooper a bitch and, successfully, demanding that he tap out is all I need. It is not all we get in this match, though. Hubris-turned-instant-karma strikes again as team leprechaun celebrates a little too much, giving Coop the chance to rally. Coop demonstrates why he’s a legendary fan-favorite, starting to handle the both of them with power and precision. He isolates them in turn, seemingly feeding off of the reserves that he’s siphoning off of each of them.
You know from the DVD menu that Cap and Zip finish off this collection with a grudge match, so it shouldn’t be too much of a spoiler to reveal that all of that tag team partner love and mutual admiration comes crashing down around them as Coop manages to single-handedly dish out heaping helpings of humiliation. Blame rains down on everyone except for the man who rightfully deserves the credit for the undoing of team leprechaun.
This could so have gone a totally different direction. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but honestly, the chemistry between Cap and Zip was a thing of beauty. I seriously wanted to see their post-victory love fest, Cap leaping into Zip’s big arms, hugging it out, slapping each other’s asses appreciatively. Cap as the Bruce Wayne’s ward and apprentice, hero worshipping the muscleman in this dynamic duo, could have been so right. Fuck, Cap being unable to restrain himself from treating Zip to an enthusiastic muscle massage as thanks for saving his bacon and captaining a successful campaign to fuck over a legend would have made such perfect sense.
But alas, bitter betrayal as a set-up for a mismatched grudge match comes in a close second.
Of course, I like them blond, tanned, and pretty. I like a wrestler with massive, broad pecs and a muscled ass. I like them confident and earnest. But then comes along someone like Royce Perry and I just can’t help but take an instant disliking to him. He’s too blond. He’s a fraction too tanned and pretty. His pecs are too perfect. He’s tilted just over the edge of too much confidence, too much earnest attention on the overall arc of his wrestling career. A little like I have a raging desire to watch Kirk Donahue get broken in half, I’m developing a taste for watching Royce’s dazzling beauty and obvious pro wrestling skills take a humiliating kick up that glorious ass of his.
I was surprised by how much satisfaction I took watching Zip Zarella beat the living shit out of Royce in their debut. And showing up for his follow-up match in Ring Rookies 5 on the heels of that first outing, Royce just keeps rubbing me the wrong way. There’s a bully-quarterback vibe about him as he scoffs and smirks at his newbie opponent, handsome lightweight Cap Landon. I immediately translate this confrontation to the über-popular prom king jock cornering the skinny, adorkable president of the AV club out back behind the bleachers, intent on tormenting the nerd.
Maybe that’s what Royce had in mind stepping into the ring with whittled down, painfully pale, handsome Cap. They shake hands, and then instantly the pretty boy starts to muscle bully the lightweight. Cap doesn’t go down willingly, and so abruptly, dazzling Royce grabs the newbie by the hair and slams him face-first in the mat. “Give up, kid,” Royce advises half-heartedly, like he’s clocking in at the assembly line and already half-bored with the inevitability of his victory. So when Cap shimmies into position to snap those lean, pale legs around Royce’s head, I’m pulling hard for the revenge of the nerds. The headscissors are lush and lingering, grinding into Royce’s excessively pretty blond head. “Yeah,” Cap spits and sneers, “how’s that for a kid?”
For the record, Royce rides roughshod over Cap a lot of this match. The kid is reportedly giving away around 40 pounds of weight, which is surely mostly accounted for in Royce’s massive, meaty pecs and magnificently round ass cheeks. But what I particularly like about Cap is that he’s not the fresh meat that Royce clearly thinks he is. He’s astonishingly skilled, executing reversals and neutralizing counters like a seasoned pro. And he’s got and adamantium-coated core, because the more Royce bullies and dominates him, the more Cap gets smart-assed and determined not to give the quarterback the satisfaction. Royce snap suplexes him, and drags him up by a barehanded choke. “Now you’re done,” Royce announces. “No I’m not!!!” Cap growls past the choking hand around his throat. Royce flexes his bulging biceps seductively, hips twisted slightly to the side to show off his incredibly lean waist, washboard abs, and tapered V torso. It’s so douchey. “You look like shit!” Cap snarls, and it makes me crush on him that much more. “Your body sucks!” he insults what is obviously the quarterback narcissist’s most vulnerable attribute: that annoying ego. Royce shrugs and smirks. Again. That fucking smirk. “Your mom loves it!” Royce pulls out that old douchey yo-mamma angle to insult the kid he’s bullying.
At this point, it should come as no surprise to learn that I’m hard as granite and ready to pop a load right around the time that Cap suddenly leaps on Royce’s broad, muscular back, and wraps his lean right arm across the quarterback’s throat. His lean, stark white legs wrapped around Royce’s Coppertone torso dig in tight, latching on and locking down the stumbling jock good. “Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Cap taunts, his lips hovering near Royce’s ear, “just tell me you give.” Of course, there is something for Royce to be embarrassed about. He’s getting owned by the president of the AV club. He’s got a two and half stone weight advantage, and he’s been told by everyone, his entire life that he deserves everything, that slapping around the plebes are just part of the privilege of being the top jock on campus, that his ascendency is foreordained. Honestly, I’m already cumming when Royce half sags under the weight of Cap and chokes out the first fall, totally shocked submission. I’m still shooting when Cap doesn’t let go for a few more seconds, dragging Royce right to the edge of getting choked out cold not 5 minutes into the match. But he lets him go finally, and walks away slowly, hands on hips, cocky as fuck. Nice work, Cap.
Lest I leave you with the mistaken impression that Cap does to Royce what Zip did, let me be clear: Royce wears the ghostly pale lightweight down to a nub in the end. But I love it that losing that first fall is so clearly, irritatingly way up underneath Royce’s skin the entire time. “You got lucky!” he bitches and whines like a spoiled rotten daddy’s boy. He keeps pounding him, keeps flexing, keeps taunting. Cap splayed out and completely vulnerable in an OTK backbreaker deserves a sculpture in the Louvre. Even a bitter case of “fuck-you” stubbornness and shockingly compelling ring skills can’t keep a rockin’ sexy nerd with a plan like Cap in the mix for long.
If I’m being completely honest here, I have to admit that the second hottest moment of this match is right around the time Cap is actually dragging his battered body as quickly as possible to the ropes to try to flee the scene of the mugging that this has become. Despite myself, my cock aches as Royce drags the skinny nerd back by a fist full of hair, flinging him into a turnbuckle and flexes in his face. “You…” Cap gasps for air, eyes half-lidded, knees wobbly, hanging from the ropes, “you… flex like a bitch!”
Fuck, I feel a little guilty for how much satisfaction I take at Cap remaining a smart ass to the bitter end. It earns him a brutal ass whooping. Royce crushes him and then rubs salt in the wound with a slow 3 count final pin. Probably just for that last burst of smart-assness, Royce circles back and heel stomps Cap in the balls before exiting the building.
So Royce is supposed to be the pretty one, the body beautiful. He’s supposed to be the looker, the headliner. But honestly, all I can think as this brutality comes to an end is how much I just want to rub down Cap’s bruised muscles with baby oil. Don’t get discouraged, Cap. In 10 years, Royce is going to have a bear belly and will still be living off adolescent glory of beating up the AV nerds behind the bleachers. And if my prayers to the homoerotic gods are answered, you, Cap, will have been eating right, lifting weights, and expanding your arsenal to drag Royce’s hot ass kicking and screaming back into the ring for an epic revenge of the nerds, homoerotic wrestling style.