I’ve had my eye on Mason Brooks from his debut in Gazebo Grapplers 15 around 10 years ago. He’s so damn pretty and he wrestles smart. I love that combination. It’s been part of the package all along, but it feels like he’s grown meaner, snarkier, and more sadistic over time. Mason has always known how clever he is, but the longer he works his craft, he gets more and more condescending. I’m not sure exactly where it happened, but at some point he definitely veered over the center line, and he’s gone from fierce, savvy competitor to full on dickish heel (said with the utmost respect and love!).
Last summer, Mason hit peak condescending asshole level when he stepped onto the mat with Lobo Gris in Gear Wars 9. Mason is sexy as fuck, as always. “You’ve got nice pecs,” Lobo says what I’ve been saying for 10 years straight about Mason. “Um, no shit,” Mason deadpans back with a bored smirk. “Tell me something I didn’t already know.” It’s cocky and clever and, frankly, objectively true. But when Mason asks newcomer Lobo where he comes from, it starts to make me uncomfortable, with that white American assumption that people of color or anyone with an accent must be “a foreigner.” However, Lobo proudly explains that he’s from Mexico. Mason stops him, to correct Lobo’s pronunciation of the name of his own country. And right there, fuck, Mason’s clever condescension wanders into full on cocky heel asshole territory.
Mason plays the snarky upperclassmen well, taking the initiative to pick out some gear choices for the new guy. “Yeah, just a couple of things that would look really good on you, when I’m stretching you out, like hanging you over my shoulders.” Lobo is clearly pissed. “Yeah, that is not going to happen, but whatever,” he snaps back. But, like a rookie, he agrees to strip naked and try on the gray singlet (Lobo Gris signature color, after all) that Mason picked out for him. Hello, Lobo’s sensationally furry, meaty ass! “How long have you been planning this,” Lobo asks as he slips on the skin tight singlet, noticing the massive pile of gear Mason has brought with him. The scheming, smirking veteran with magical nipples smirks at him. “We can try a couple of different looks on you. You know, see what looks good on you when you’re lying face down on the mat.”
That awkward clash of cultures and social power continues to make me cringe, like when Mason suggests he knows a little conversational Spanish that he’s just “picked up here and there on my weekends in Cancun.” Like, fuck. I’m a diehard Mason Brooks fan from way, way back, but even I’m really aching to see Lobo kick his gringo ass now. When they lock up by collar and elbow, Lobo explains, “that’s a Mexican hold, by the way.” Irritated at being schooled in wrestling knowledge, Mason reverts to his go-to trash talking mind games. “Are you going to show me the Mexican way to lose,” he asks with that fucking annoying smirk.
In terms of wrestling, these two are seriously competitive, which I love. We all know that Lobo Gris arrived on the doorstep of BG East as NO rookie, and he’s fast and strong and gives back every ounce of offense that Mason dishes out. And Mason is just so fucking aggressive, in that takes-no-prisoners way of his. He also gropes and strokes Lobo at every turn, which apparently wasn’t the way the Mexican hunk has planned this whole thing would play out. Mason riles him up hotter and hotter, slapping and kneading his ass, stroking his hairy torso, and squeezing his balls. When he wrenches out the first submission, Mason insists that he gets to pick out the bitter rookie’s next gear selection for the second fall. I’m not complaining with Mason’s choice to squeeze him into way too small teal briefs.
Lobo is a force of nature on the mats. Having taken the measure of his snarky, condescending opponent, he gets delightfully nasty in return. He shoves his socked feet in Mason’s face and claws Mason’s balls in revenge. The rookie locks on an expertly applied single leg crab, wrenching and twisting on the captured knee viciously. He bends Mason’s spine so far backward that he literally steps on the back of Mason’s head while he throttles his crotch. “Say it,” Lobo demands. “Say, ‘me rindo!'” Mason is sputtering and whimpering when he snarks back, “What the fuck does that mean!?” Lobo rolls his eyes, and then explains, “It means ‘I submit’ in Spanish. I thought you knew Spanish.” Turns out cocky cultural insensitivity and cultural appropriation don’t end up serving Mason all that well. When he shouts out “I give,” Lobo laughs, as he replies, “Sorry, no hablo inglés,” finally making Mason dust off his Spring Break Spanish.
The boys cycle through several more gear choices with each submission. Well, with gear choices that are, substantively, less and less really. Mason always pushes the boundaries first, like stretching Lobo out in a bow-and-arrow and massaging his heel in Lobo’s pouch. “That’s not really my thing,” Lobo gasps. Mason laughs at him, as he explains, “That doesn’t really matter, because it’s my thing, and I’m in control.” Two minutes later, when Lobo has fought his way on top of a surfboard, shoving his socked feet in Mason’s face before taunting and kicking his balls, Mason is eating a healthy helping of humble pie, maybe(?) regretting his bullying ways.
Fuck, this match is intense and does things to me that surprise me. I love Lobo. I love/hate Mason. I adore their intensity and curiously evenly matched aggressiveness. And, yeah, I have to admit, I love the ending.
Even when he makes me uncomfortable, I’m still a HUGE fan of Mason’s. I love the way he goes there, full throttle, into every match he’s in. And I’m growing more more infatuated with Lobo Gris. He’s got that same tantalizing mixture of pretty and clever that instantly grabbed me the first time I saw Mason wrestle. I look forward to seeing more of both of these fierce grapplers, in and out of any gear they’d like!