As anticipated, BG East has posted their poll for the Bestie awards, recognizing the fan favorites for their wrestlers and matches featured in 2015. Drake and I did our pre-scout report last week, but now that we have the actual nominees in hand, I wanted to do a quick comparison in the interest of aiding voters in making the best choices. I’ll just stick to the individual categories because you only have until midnight this Friday to submit your votes. First up, lets take a look at the faces of the nominees for Top Babyface.
Next up, let’s compare the awesome abs nominated for Best Abs of 2015.
I’m not the first person to note that a prominent 2-time champion of the Best Abs Bestie was not nominated this year, despite appearing on the mats in 2015 for BG East. I don’t know if the academy intentionally snubbed Eli Black, or if there was a calculated judgment that Eli’s killer abs were truly out distanced by the 6 lovely, lean hunks above. In any case, just a look at the abs that are not in contention this year…
I’ll take a look at the field for Best Body and Best Bulge tomorrow…
WordPress tells me that I this is my 1,295th blog post. No wonder I can’t remember what I’ve talked about over the past 6 years. Since I migrated the pages of this blog to a new server just over 2 years ago, over a quarter of a million visitors (statistically measured with replacement) have clicked more than 991,000 page views. For those curious about trivia, the most page views in a single day happened on September 3 of last year, when there were 2,845 views in 24 hours. Interestingly, the most popular time for people to check out what’s happening here is 11:00 am on Sundays (US Central Time Zone). Fascinating.
What summary cross-sectional statistics can’t say, however, is something about the landscape of the distance we’ve traveled over 6 years. So let’s do a longitudinal look and see what we may learn about how my attention has evolved.
Exactly six years ago I was obsessing about an enduring topic here, hot newsmen. Specifically, I was bitching about some transparent PR work to make sure viewers knew that hot Italian of my dreams, Chris Cuomo, was straight. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I was also raising questions about his bromance with weatherman Sam Champion, significantly before Sam came out publicly. Not like the sexual tension between the two of them, both featured on Good Morning America at the time, was difficult to notice. These days my morning newsmen obsessions tend toward desperately hoping to see more shirtless, soaking wet features starring Gio Benitez and Matt Gutman, preferably together. Oh, who am I kidding, preferably in g-strings and coated in sweat pounding the fuck out of each other in a wrestling ring. Maybe in 2016…
On August 13, 2010 I was reflecting on how hot verbal banter can make so many near misses a bullseye. This was back when I was actively subscribing, and sincerely enjoying, Naked Kombat. Specifically, their then-recent release of Brenn Wyson squaring off against Jack Hammer was on my mind. I mentioned in the post that I was in a pretty-boy mood, and neither of these battlers were tickling my bone. Yet it was Brenn’s aggressive, smart ass mat banter that was holding my attention and making me grab my crotch, demanding that Jack “call me fucking Daddy Wyson!” Yeah. Personality has been turning my crank for the duration of my blogging days. I miss those good old days when Naked Kombat had more personality.
If you checked in here this date in 2011, I was deep in homoerotic wrestling metaphor to make sense of riots around the globe. Sociological theory meets hardcore gay wrestling fetish. There’s still something bewildering to me about mass violence and killing. Of course, these days we have sanctimonious ISIS nut jobs quelling dissent with beheadings and institutionalized terror. I think, as I did 4 years ago, that there’s something in the human condition that can be pushed only so far, though. Bullies and oppressors are notoriously shit at gauging it, but it’s there, inside each and all of us, ready to go ape shit and fuck conventions and rules and throw our lot in with desperate chaos, when pushed over the line. Revolutions seem to always take us by surprise. But clearly, they shouldn’t.
On this date in 2012, my homoerotic wrestling imagination was still running wild from seeing so many Olympic athletes pumped and primed in competition. The summer Olympics were over, but my obsession with translating those stunningly world class bodies into homoerotic wrestling scenarios was still roaring full speed. August 13 was for crushing hard and imagining the pleasures of watching the Olympic decathletes climb into the ring and work their phenomenal cross training bodies. Damn, I enjoyed writing those Olympic Spirit stories! For the record, the singles homoerotic wrestling decathlete title went to hot daddy Czech Roman Sebrle, heeling his salt-n-pepper hotness all over golden boy American Trey Hardee. However, Trey won a taste of retribution, pinning the hot naked Czech ass to the sky for team America. Damn, I can’t wait for Rio 2016!
Two years ago today, I was fixated on hotly muscled backs as wordplay on celebrating being back from vacation and getting back to updating the blog. This reminds me of the way that continuing this blog has been about ebbs and flows, sometimes finding a ton to say and time to say it, sometimes not. Over the years I’ve often emphasized that this is truly just at the edges of what pays my bills. So life often keeps me from musing further. But I always miss it when that happens. And as much as I mull over whether I’ve said absolutely everything I have to say about the topic of homoerotic wrestling, I keep finding more to write.
If you tuned in exactly one year ago, you’d have found my grand finale of my Making Jake series. It took over a year to work my way through the alphabet, marveling at how pleasurable it is to watch opponents bring out so much, such variety, and every bit of hotness from Jake Jenkins. Of course, the end of the alphabet sucks, but still, I was pretty pleased to call out the joys of seeing opponents make Jake unconscious, vertical, wet, x-rated, yelp, and zealous.
A lot has changed in 6 years. A lot hasn’t. Looking forward to seeing what next year brings!
Is there anyone else who gets off on that moment when a wrestler just totally fucks around with his beaten opponent just because he can? Of course there is.
Personally, I prefer that little bit of juicy drama to cap off a suspenseful back and forth battle of brawn and brains. I like to be kept guessing, tempted back and forth to jump to the conclusion of which hot hunk is going to reign victorious, only to have my assumptions and predictions called into doubt over and over. Then, once one roaring stud is driving that bus all over his opponent’s bested body, it’s incredibly provocative for me to watch him just mess with the defanged loser. You know, flex in his face. Rip off his trunks. Or, and here’s the topic I’m working a head of steam up about today, toss his broken, once dangerous body across your shoulders and take a victory lap around the ring.
I’m certain that the most satisfying victory lap I’ve ever witnessed is from the opening match of Wrestlefest 2. Moments before being awarded rookie of the year, Brad Rochelle is in a surprisingly tough tussle with then notorious jobber, sexy Patrick Donovan. The stakes are higher than normal because there’s a packed audience of fellow wrestlers watching, critiquing, urging on the boys from ringside. Brad is the it-boy. He’s tanned and phenomenally toned. Fans have been popping their corks uncontrollably for the past year since Brad debuted at BG East. Patrick has been racking up loss after loss, each one seeming to inspire yet a longer line of prospective opponents who want to dig their fingertips into his luscious pecs and make the pretty boy scream. There’s some sweet back and forth to start the match. Patrick is no pushover. But Brad folds baby cakes up like a peanut butter sandwich, pinning Patrick’s shoulders with his noggin nestled nice and tight between Brad’s muscled thighs. Someone eagerly urges Brad to make him squeal. Brad takes the first fall to the applause of his peers, giving the jobber a light slap in the face somewhere between playful and insulting. The fan favorite babyface rising looks like he’s got the jobber’s sweet ass tied up in a bow.
And then suddenly Patrick pounces. The lean, handsome stud with mouthwatering pecs flips over his opponent, folding Brad up in the very same, humiliating hold he was just submitted to. Patrick is raging, punching Brad’s ass, calling the jock stud a pussy. There’s laughter from the audience, as it starts to sink in that it-boy Brad Rochelle is currently getting his fantastic ass beat bad. Patrick refuses to relent until Brad is tapping, yelling out his humiliated submission. The boys ringside can hardly believe it, as Patrick pumps his fist in the air and then strolls over to take a seat on the top turnbuckle, soaking in the sight of Brad flat on is back in a pool of sweat, nursing his abused shoulder.
What happens next? Fuck, I love that suspense. As it turns out, Brad opens up a can of testosterone fueled, face-saving whoop ass to what climaxes to a standing ovation from the hooting audience. He’s working out a little rage at being publicly humiliated. He’s gratuitously brutal, egged on by his bruised ego and the cheers of the audience. Patrick is laid waste, and Brad hoists pec boy across he shoulders and jogs around the ring as the boys at ringside go wild. Brad’s face beams, feeling the victory deep down. He laughs at his total mastery, his complete ownership of the hot punk who a few minutes ago was calling him a pussy and punching him in the ass. Shimmering in sweat, flexed, magnificently victorious, he takes another lap just because the moment is so fucking sweet he needs to savor it.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more titillating victory lap. But I typically love one when I see it. It’s less compelling for me in a squash. When a boy’s been owned from start to finish, there’s less plot, less resolution of homoerotic wrestling tension wrapped up in a victory lap. But yeah, when all is said and done, it’s definitely value added for me to see a winner just fuck with his battered prey. Just because he can. Just because it feels good to demonstrate that he can do whatever the fuck he wants with all that potential, all that bluster and posing and prospective danger wrapped up in the muscled beauty beaten and now at his mercy.
I typically take the time around the 4th of July to point out my lack of patriotism. But this year feels different. I know that I’m not the only one who feels a little more like a proud American this 4th of July. Such a major, seismic shift on marriage equality certainly doesn’t protect everyone’s rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, of course. LGBT Americans can legally be fired, denied housing, harrassed by both public and private authorities in a whole lot of places in this country still. But access to marriage is pretty cool.
I’ve been fascinated to watch the strong and conflicting opinions the SCOTUS decision has sparked among my friends and colleagues, who, generally speaking, tend to pitch their tents in the same political camp. Straight people shamed for flying the rainbow flag. White gays shamed for celebrating marriage while people of color and trans folks are continuing to get fucked up and gunned down. Marriage advocates shamed for distracting us all from other problems like poverty and racism and gun violence and sexism.
I’ve got my own opinions, of course, but I have to say that I can’t help but be pleased that we’re talking a little more openly about a lot of things that ought to be complicated and unsettled. I confess a little thrill that bigots are feeling compelled to have to state their bigotry and try to rationalize it as something else, rather than just silently assuming that they’re the moral majority. And I really like that a lot of people I know who have long assumed that we all think alike are realizing that one particular decision or policy or issue that we all may endorse to some extent doesn’t erase the rich diversity of who we are, what we value, where our priorities lie, and how we think.
It’s not uncommon in homoerotic wrestling to see American flag wrestling trunks. This gear typically signals that the wearer is a babyface hero, handsome, virile, and virtuous. And in the homoerotic wrestling matches I watch, those guys get their stars and stripes clad asses handed to them 9 times out of 10. Not always, I know, but most of the time.
The hunks in American flag trunks most often embody a naivete, a simple minded faith in things like hard work, strength, and sincerity to tip the scales of wrestling competition and justice their way. Their virginal earnestness is saccharine sweet, a glossy glaze over the realities of the homoerotic wrestling ring where things aren’t always (or even often) fair. Their wide-eyed, muscle bulging innocence seems to make them blind to a world where cheating, unsportsmanlike behavior, and ferocious mercilessness more often than not spank the ass of righteous, rule-abiding reverence for an honest battle of strength and skill.
I don’t know if this trope still plays the same way in mainstream pro wrestling (because I haven’t watched mainstream pro wrestling in forever), but I think it’s a particularly engaging narrative for homoerotic wrestling audiences. We know that survival often goes not to the fittest, but the most cunning. We know that when the rules are stacked against you, sometimes the most appropriate response is to fuck the rules. We know that often our most important assets in the battle against those who revile and oppress us behind a veneer or virtue and righteous indignation is to turn the repulsion right back around on them, to throw what they despise most in their faces, to metaphorically grab them by the balls until their self-righteous, “hard earned” privilege and power melts into weeping, impotent, contemptible helplessness.
Because more often than not, it isn’t their righteousness that has propelled them forward in good fortune. It isn’t their hard work. They haven’t just wanted success more, as if their will power is superior to those who haven’t prospered and been rewarded as much. It’s just those fucking rules that have made the difference, that have been slowly (sometimes quickly) tipping the scales their way from the moment they were born, that have advantaged them not because they earned it or deserved it, but just because they were born into families with a particular hue and history, because they effortlessly found their affections drawn in the socially acceptable direction, because they had that silver spoon in their mouths all along. So, many of us with an eye for homoerotic wrestling have learned that it’s those fucking rules that are the problem, and watching a homoerotic wrestling heel fuck the rules and humiliate a stars and stripes clad goldenboy is deep down satisfying.
I’m sure there’s much more to the American flag jobber narrative than that, but what I’m left wondering this year is whether my new found investment in my citizenship, riding this wave of judicial victory and the turning tide of public opinion, may make me, and perhaps you, a little less cynical about the American flag. I’m sure it won’t happen anytime soon, but is there a place in homoerotic wrestling iconography somewhere down the road for a sneering, contemptuous, irrepressible heel decked out in stars and stripes? Might finding myself embracing a little patriotric pride for being welcomed a little more into the fold of mainstream America shift my tastes for enjoying the sight of the American flag, strapped to the ass of an classically hot pretty boy, trampled and trashed for the poor excuse for institutional oppression it has so long seemed to me to represent? May I want to see an American patriot savvy and sly, queer and cunning, as vicious and vile as necessary to pound… who?… into tantalizingly sexy mincemeat?
Jake Jenkins has captured the hearts and stoked the crotches of countless homoerotic wrestling fans in the past few years. His charms are both obvious and subtle. He’s gorgeous to look at under any circumstance. But he’s also prolific and varied in his delivery of wrestling drama. So I’ve strolled through the many splendored thing that is JJ’s wrestling filmography and finally arrived at the really tough part of the alphabet. Some of these final entries in Making Jake are weak, I’m the first to admit. But cut me some slack. The options for descriptors that start with the letter X are x-tremely limited. From U to Z, here’s my take on Making Jake…
…unconscious. Perennially dangerous and with inexhaustible tenacity, many opponents have been simply stunned by the energizer-bunny quality of Jake. Even when you’ve got him down, just try counting him out. With the muscle and the body awareness he’s got, he’ll slip out of your fingers 9 times out of 10. What’s an opponent to do to once and for all not just put, but keep him down? An elite few know you very well may have to make Jake unconscious!
…vertical. Jake fans know that his athleticism is second to none. JJ flies. He does handstands. He flips and twists and slams and stomps. He’s perfectly balanced between grace and brutality. That goes for both pitching and catching. Opponent’s can do astonishing things with JJ’s incredibly fit, flexible, agile, compact muscle body because he’s in such incredible shape he can take astonishing beatings and live to tell the tale. For example, Jonny Firestorm managed to contort JJ’s body into positions and shapes I’ve never seen before, each one more breathtaking and beautiful than the last. There’s something just awe inspiring about watching that moment when an expert heel doesn’t just control Jake’s body, he doesn’t just hold JJ’s life in his hands, he makes Jake vertical.
…wet. I’ve got a major thing for wrestlers that work up a heavy lather of sweat, and Jake can definitely get there. When droplets make his muscles twinkle and his bulges glisten, Jake is transported into another realm, joining a pantheon of immortal gladiators demanding to be worshipped as celestial beings. As Ethan Andrews proved, JJ also looks damn good with a bottle of water poured onto him in the middle of the ring, piling humiliation onto defeat. Thankfully it’s never come to this, but it just wouldn’t be a full on JJ match if his opponent didn’t make Jake wet.
…x-rated. Okay, so here’s where you must cut me slack, because I know full well that Jake’s wrestling filmography is PG-13, at best, and that’s only if you have a fundamentalist Christian prude on your ratings board. True, JJ did dally briefly under another name in some full frontal solo work for a beefcake company, but formally speaking, that wasn’t “Jake.” But thank the wrestling gods JJ has been wrestled out of his singlets and trunks on just a few occasions, leaving him in nothing but a sweat soaked jock strap. The briefest glimpse, barely more than innuendo, of his exposed hole exponentiates JJ’s overall homoerotic sexiness across the board. There’s not an inch of him that doesn’t deserve awed worship, but there’s something just for gay wrestling fans when a match makes Jake x-rated.
…yelp. I’ve said it before, but let’s review it again. Jake is a cool customer. He’s got a sharp wit and a razor tongue, but the quantity of what comes out of his mouth in a match is perpetually restrained. He sells pain most often silently, or at most, with anguish welling up behind a wall of ironclad self-control. So it’s a special treat when an opponent not only drives Jake to the edge of busting through that wall, but managed to squeeze just right and make Jake yelp.
…zealous. Jake embodies many different characters. At Rock Hard Wrestling he started as a brutal heel. At BG East, he’s been a beautiful babyface, a stern initiator and a stunned jobber in various combinations. There’s something achingly hot, though, about Jake as a valiant jock, as certain in the virtue of hard work as he is in the scales of justice tilting his way in bringing victory as reward for his earnestness. On just a couple of occasions, JJ has flashed that wide-eyed, broad smile, wrapped himself in patriotism, and flung himself face first into harm’s way trusting in the rightness of his convictions to weather the storms of dirty tricks and dastardly deviousness hurled back at him. That earnestness is misplaced, of course. This is professional wrestling we’re talking about. But there’s something deeply evocative when a certain gear choice, or a particular partner, or specific opponent manages to make Jake zealous.
Well there you have it. I struggled to select among many excellent option for most letters of the alphabet in attempting to capture the range and depth of Jake Jenkins, so I may very well go around the circuit all over again some day. But first, there’s a certain 3-time homoerotic wrestler of the month who has his own parallel series that I need to pay attention to. Now that I’ve found Eli Black’s most recent work at UCW, I’m obsessed with exactly what it is that evokes the enthralling essence of Eli.
Exploring UCW is like trying to enter a complex conversation already well underway. UCW has a championship title, which is a bit of drama I love. I enjoy keeping the competitive angle in even the most homoerotic of wrestling. At the moment, Eli Black is the “All-Star Champion” of UCW, which is hardly surprising. Eli has always been up front about his designs to conquer homoerotic wrestling, not just by beating every opponent he can get his hands on, but by singlehandedly taking over the back offices as well. Eli’s ambitions are matched only by his extreme dangerousness in combat. Just ask Michael Hannigan and Johnny Deep.
This is way back in match #332, mind you, but I’m still making my way through the UCW catalog, so excuse me for reporting old news. I infer from the opening dialogue that Michael Hannigan was, at the time, the championship title holder. I also surmise that guest “referee” Johnny Deep is a past opponent of Eli’s. In short, from the start, Eli is staring down two opponents that despise him (the feelings are completely mutual), with the title belt on the line. If it were any ordinary mortal, I’d say bad fucking luck, buddy. But this is Eli we’re talking about, so let me turn my attention to Michael and Johnny when I say, bad fucking luck, buddies!
Not really knowing the full blown characters in this mix (and they are definitely a set of characters!), I’m guessing that this was always going to turn nasty and unfair. So perhaps it’s not so much that Eli deserves the blame for going dark first, as much as he did unto others before they had a chance to do unto him. In the opening moments of the match, Eli absolutely devastates his actual opponent and the referee. I mean, completely destroys them. I’m discovering a hardcore intensity to UCW that Eli embodies beautifully, delivering strikes and take downs that don’t just level the other boys, but make me gasp as well. Damn, I’m pretty sure a couple minutes in that Eli is going to literally wipe the mat with both of these boys without breaking a sweat.
A word about the eye candy before I continue on with what moves me about the action. Eli is pristinely Eli. It’s not for naught that Eli keeps winning Best Abs at BG East. As I watch him take on two punks simultaneously, I keep marveling at his incredible athleticism. He’s whittled down to steel muscles and skin, although his ass (as Eli will be first to tell you) is a perfect balance of form and function. The “ref” (in name only) Johnny Deep wears baggy shorts and a referee shirt throughout, so I can’t say anything about his bod. He is a despicably punk ass bitch, however. I’m just fine saying that. He’s a vile opportunist, jumping in at only the moments when either 1) he can tip the tables in Michael’s favor, or 2) Eli is helpless to defend himself against a smirking, chuckling, sadistic interloper. Michael Hannigan, however, is a bit of an epiphany for me. He’s long and lean. Not nearly the world class leanness of Eli, of course, but a pretty thing to look at nonetheless. But when he turns around… bam! That ass! Holy shit! It may not be as brutally honed for combat as Eli’s, but it is a mouthwatering work of art. Turn the champ back around and it’s impossible not to notice that he’s got a protruding package perfectly accentuated by his trunks. His cheating viciousness doesn’t make me despise him as much as Johnny, and I’m just guessing that my infatuation with everything stuffed in Michael’s trunks are what is swaying my opinion.
My favorite moments in the action include Eli grabbing Michael by the hair and flinging him face first into Johnny’s crotch. I’m also infatuated with the sequence that starts with Michael and Johnny applying side-by-side single leg crabs on Eli, with vile Johnny adding insult to injury by reaching down and twisting the fuck out of Eli’s balls. Eli screams and writhes, until suddenly he reaches back with both hands and simultaneously claws both tormentors by the balls, flipping them over to their backs.
Another highlight for me is when Michael is controlling Eli’s legs from behind and Johnny slides into place with glee to slap on a humiliating face-to-crotch head scissors. The ref is quite literally in mid-laugh, with Eli’s face buried deep, when Johnny abruptly starts to scream in a panic. Eli has chomped down, teaching the ref just how dangerous he can be!
The pace is exhausting. The hits are brutal. The egos are bashed and bloodied. Those who follow UCW more closely than I have already know that the title does not change hand in this match (though since Eli is currently listed as the champ, I surmise it does eventually). But this is all about the incredible sell of Eli Black, as far as I’m concerned. “Do you not know who the fuck I am!?” Eli screams near the end of the match after deftly dodging a standing drop kick from Michael. “Are you fucking serious!? You dumb piece of shit!” This reminds me of a truism that Eli texted me once. This is Eli Black’s world, bitches. We’re just living in it.
Michael “wins” by having his unconscious body dragged on top of Eli by the ref for the 3-count after Johnny has, yet again, sucker punched Eli and knocked him out cold. In other words, by the skin of their teeth, both Michael Hannigan and Johnny Deep were just barely able to squeak out a victory and escape entirely in tact. The personalities are massive. The wrestling is over the top and deeply convincing at the same time. And I am totally provoked by all three of these game young studs, in different ways, for every second of the 28 minute match.
Eli Black pretty much owned neverland about a year ago. The incredibly dangerous stud was the first ever to claim the title of homoerotic wrestler of the month here 3 times. I wondered what had happened to him after what seemed like a drought of Eli releases for several months. Then BG East releases their newest Eli feature, going undie to undie with underwear model pretty boy Z-Man in Undagear 21. And around the same time, out of the blue, Ethan “Axel” Andrews contacts me and offers to introduce me to UCW.
I’ve enjoyed Joe’s coverage of UCW for years now. He has a special relationship with the UCW boys, it seems. For some reason, I’ve never sampled them. I think it’s the aesthetic of the blue tarp covered walls. But Ethan assured me he believed I’d like what I saw, so he gave me some complimentary review copies of a few UCW matches that he personally picked out with me in mind. How could I say no? And, of course, Eli Black plays a prominent role in this sexy ass mix tape.
So THAT’S where Eli’s been! The UCW files show Eli with more advanced ink than his BG East appearances, so I’m deducing that his UCW work has happened since he first taped with BG East. Over at UCW, Eli appears to be a notoriously underhanded heel. And, ironically, Ethan “Axel” is apparently a notoriously aboveboard face. Welcome to Wonderland, Alice! They’ve apparently been calling each other out for months by the time they face one another finally on the UCW mats. The opening trash talk is angry and vicious (like I love it!). Both boys are in very brief blue trunks. Ethan’s pouch is gargantuan, which is a detail that comes back into this story pretty damn quickly.
Early on, this appears to be a mugging. Ethan is all over Eli like a bad rash. Honestly, it’s a mugging when Ethan (who is determined NOT to be a bully?) zeroes in on Eli’s bandaged, injured arm, viciously cranking, punching, and kicking it relentlessly. Eli is stunned like I’ve never quite seen Eli stunned before. That right arm hangs lifelessly at his side. He’s nothing more than a mouthwateringly hot plaything for furious Ethan to torture. With rising confidence, he starts to focus on Eli’s pride and joy (not his ass, his other pride and joy), his abs. Kicks, punches, even a headbutt to the gut delivers the contempt that Ethan feels for Eli’s ripped 8-pack. But even without ever seeing a UCW match, I could’ve told Ethan he was barking up the wrong tree. A mountain of gut bashing is what Eli refers to as a breather. Sure enough, Eli roars back, scoops him up, and slams Ethan to the mat with authority.
“My turn!” Eli crows, going to town on Ethan’s also impressive, but let’s face it, nowhere nearly as ripped abdominal wall. Ethan’s got his sights set farther south, though, quickly turning to crushing that humungous pouch of Ethan’s with the heel of his barefoot. Then both feet. Holy shit, Ethan screams.
There’s a ton of ass slapping and ball abuse traded between the two of these studs. It’s astonishingly evenly fought, both in athleticism, fitness, and viciousness. Neither of them can quite believe that their tried and true finishers simply cannot seal the deal. They get angrier and more frustrated by the minute. The pacing is surprisingly engaging. The personalities are huge and hot. And I don’t even mind the blue tarped walls, particularly when Eli has Ethan scooped up in his arms and pounds him over and over into the cinderblocks.
This is careening into a blue-ball stalemate when Eli proposes a gut punching contest to settle their score. Gut punching contest with Eli!? What the fuck is Ethan thinking? Oh, that’s what he’s thinking. When it’s obvious he’s never going to make Eli’s impenetrable armor quiver, he delivers a low blow, swarms all over Eli’s gorgeous ass, and puts him down for the count.
“This is the ONLY time I’m going to cheat to win!” Ethan promises the camera as he leaves the mat. But somehow, it feels like Eli’s loss may be even a bigger victory for the dark side of the force. Who can resist that feel of dominating power that comes from a shocking low blow? Who can pick up the mantle of bad ass bully and then, voluntarily, set it down again to play it straight? The force is strong with this one, and I suspect that Eli may not exactly consider this entirely a “loss.”
Me? It’s a winner in my book, and I’m thrilled to get another Eli Black-fix in my system.