I had no idea how much I needed to see Van Skyler square off against Fabrice until I was watching it happen in Undagear 29: Sock It to Me. I’m a fan of both of these beautiful men, but somehow it hadn’t really occurred to me to picture the magic that might be conjured by pitting them against one another.
I’ve talked before about the value added for me when contrasting bodies face off. Van and Fabrice stroke that spot sensationally. It’s definitely as big vs. little scenario, but who’s big and who’s little sort of depends on the camera angle. On the one hand, Fabrice towers over Van. A wrestler staring down from a 5 inch height advantage is so inherently domineering! Fabrice is his mysteriously frosty self, cocky and quietly fierce. On the one hand, Van’s lush lips line up in a perfect position to clamp onto Fabrice’s ten cent nips.
But on the other hand, Van weighs in at a reported 40 pounds heavier than the tall boy. I maintain a healthy skepticism about wrestler stats, but I buy these astonishing numbers. Fabrice is almost painfully lean, which he wears gorgeously. And Van is built like a Tom of Finland powerhouse. He earned a legitimate second place for Best Body in voting this year for excellent reasons. Frankly, I’ve suspected that Van may be significantly more coverboy than battle boy, but even if I still thought he was mostly glitz, I’d have to admit that his muscles are luxuriously thick and dense. So even staring eye-to-nipple with Fabrice, the gravitational force of Van’s vastly superior mass pulls the big/little contrast magnificently in his favor.
So the set up is instantly titillating for me. But the execution turns my crank hard with both hands. One reason this is the case is watching Van calmly, confidently, and convincingly assert a commanding offense. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this pretty boy to develop his wrestling chops. His Undagear 26 match with Payton Meadows shows some flashes of Van’s potential brilliance on offense. I’m guessing this match with Fabrice might have been recorded around the same time. Maybe it’s Fabrice’s thin man presentation that inspires the muscleboy to open up showing some sweet, powerful, gorgeous offense. He musclebullies the French beauty early and often. When Fabrice makes an effort to slip free at one point, Van growls, “I don’t think so, buddy,” and then presses Fabrice’s face against his taut hamstring and reaches behind him, pulling on his ankle and absolutely crushing the blond’s head in a vise. The harder Van squeezes, the more firmly this opponent’s face is smashed into the muscleboy’s gorgeous, mountainous glutes. There’s just so much right about this hold, but first and foremost, it’s an awesome glimpse into Van’s growing awareness of just what he can do with that drop dead gorgeous body of his.
The optics are similarly perfect when Van cinches on a dragon sleeper. I’ve never really considered the mechanical physics of this move nearly as much as I did watching this musclebound “little” guy lock it onto his long, lean opponent. The results are that Fabrice is laid out even more vulnerably than most in this humiliating hold.
The second biggest surprise to me in this match is how engaged I was by the sock kink angle. Perhaps what makes it such a turn on is discovering that the impetus behind making this a “sock fetish” match comes from Van. Fuck, he is into this! He makes Fabrice suck on his socked toes. He slowly, indulgently pins the Frenchman’s cheek to the match, quite transparently taking deep pleasure in using his socks as devices for debasing his deceptively delicate opponent. Fabrice seems irritated by it at first. Of course, being physically forced to suck on your opponent’s socked toes would be irritating, but even more than that, it feels like Fabrice is personally pissed to being made a prop in what is quite obviously Van’s kink for sock domination. So these are Van’s terms, and I am loving this implicit little insight into the lusts behind the muscle.
The biggest surprise, however, comes when Fabrice finally cottons on that Van is taking way too much carnal pleasure in using his socked feet as a tool for humiliation and domination. Honestly, I was already counting the Frenchman out about 2/3rds of the way through, because this was so completely Van’s match. The muscleboy, slicked up with sweat, starts flexing overtop of the opponent who he just had to literally capture and drag back to the middle of the mat before Fabrice could complete his crawling escape from the room. Fabrice becomes our avatar, obediently putting his hands on Van’s stunning muscles. I so fucking want to trade places with him right then. Perhaps that’s why I’m just as convinced as Van is that Fabrice is ready to concede, for the stark pleasure of worshiping the muscled god who so clearly has bested him. Fabrice milks it, stroking and exploring to do us proud.
But then, rising to his feet and abruptly towering over Van, he snaps on a sleeper from behind. That’s not really the surprise. We’ve seen aesthetic beauties like Van get suckered into their own hype, undone by believing the erotic control they have over us fans will automatically translate to every opponent. No, the surprise comes as Van starts to sag in the Frenchman’s arms. They slide to the mat, with Van nestled intimately between Fabrice’s super long legs. Van pulls at the arm pinching off his carotid artery. He struggles to maintain a desperate grip on consciousness, and frankly, he’s strong enough to prevent Fabrice from sealing the deal entirely.
It’s a stalemate moment, with Van incapable of escape, but Fabrice not strong enough to apply the pressure to finish him. The Frenchman slowly extends those super long legs and grinds his knees into Van’s tiny waist, using the extra leverage for more pressure on the sleeper. His legs are just so fucking long, though. Fabrice’s ankles cross directly overtop of Van’s swollen package. Tentatively at first, the Frenchman presses his socked feet into Van’s bulge to try to break the stalemate. Van groans, his face twisted in defensive strain or erotic pleasure or both.
And then Van takes one hand away from his defensive grasp on Fabrice’s forearm crushing his throat, and he grabs the Frenchman’s ankle, slowly and unmistakably pressing Fabrice’s socked feet pressed even harder into his bulge. Van groans with pleasure. He cannot get enough of his opponent’s feet manually stimulating his muscleboy cock! This isn’t torture. This isn’t humiliation. This is one of the most mouthwatering specimen’s of aesthetic muscle currently competing getting his buttons pushed so completely that he willingly gives up the fall to ride this ride to the very last split second of consciousness before gasping a submission that sounds like he was just about to cum in his undagear.
He likes it. He loves it. And now that Fabrice knows it, he’s going to carve up this beefsteak and serve Van on a platter.
This is momentous character development, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve always known exactly what it is about Van that gets me instantly hard, but now we know just a little of what drives Van over the erotic line.
If anyone sees Van, let him know that I’ve got a sweaty pair of socks and a bottle of lube with his name on them. In the mean time, I’m cuing up that epic moment once again where the muscled beauty telegraphs the biggest tell, the most sensational Achilles-heel-reveal I’ve seen in a long time.