I hate the comments on almost anything OTHER than this blog. If you’ve skipped the comments, I sympathize, but I also have to tell you may have missed the super steamy heat that ignited after I posted my News Year’s look-back, when I wondered out loud if Scott Williams’ teasing offers to test drive my legs would actually amount to crushing his handsome face between my quads in 2023. Nobody has ever challenged my assertion that I am THE #1 Scott Williams fan… nay, fanatic. I think that’s wise of the rest of you, frankly, because I’ve got years of pent up lust and a reservoir of adrenaline stored up. I have not been coy about my adoration of Scott over the years, and I get a little star struck anytime (any. fucking. time.) Scott posts a comment around these parts. I do my best to keep my fanaticism for Scott’s smoking hot bod, and his fucking sensationally sexy way of milking a hold, just this side of full-on Annie Wilkes. I’ve tried to lure him into making an on-camera BGE comeback, but he just pshaws me. But when he floated the idea of him giving me a shot at the man of my dreams, one on one… holy shit, I’ve been feeding on that almost exclusively for a couple of years now. As the self-appointed and undisputed (?) #1 Scott fan, I can tell you that what Scott respects more than anything is a headscissors bear trap that can make the handsome hunk see stars. Thus, I’ve been doubling down on leg days and wracking up frequent flyer miles on my bicycle for the past couple of years, getting ready to make him beg. In his last reply to that post, after (once again) promising to make this happen, Scott chided me for being “WAYYYY too cocky,” and assured me, “You’re lucky that I find your confidence, like Rochelle’s and others….. VERY entertaining.”
That sent me combing through the archives of this blog for my review of Ultra Fight 2, to check out that chemistry again between Scott and Brad Rochelle again. Which then left me shocked when I realized I’ve never reviewed that match! Holy fuck, how did THAT happen? Honestly, scenes from that match still today suddenly intrude on my waking thoughts, some 15 years or so after I first saw it. I’ve never, ever made it through the entire match in one sitting without needing to towel off and re-hydrate. Fuck, who am I kidding? I’ve never made it through more than 5 minutes at a time of the 40 minute mat marathon without needing to towel off and re-hydrate.
That chemistry between Scott and Brad is lush. The cockiness that Scott finds so entertaining is seriously compelling. It has that feel of the freshly minted young buck on the scene (this was early in Brad’s BGE days, long before the Contract), setting his sights on knocking a seasoned alpha off his throne. “You’re not wasting my time or anything, are you,” Scott demands to know as they’re warming up. “Absolutely not,” Brad chirps back with a smirk. When they start to circle, the tension building for their fucking SENSATIONAL muscled bodies to finally come into contact, Brad slaps him in the face with a taunting sneer. Oh, fuck, you can see the irritation and bitter determination settle on Scott like a winter chill.
The submissions are fast and furious, and I mean genuinely, fucking, furious. Literally in under 15 seconds, Brad swarms him in a rear naked choke and Scott taps out. Slower and more indulgently, Scott roars back to life, locking on a side headlock and hip tossing gorgeous Brad to the mat with authority. He locks Brad’s left arm between his sensationally sexy legs and stretches him out, not really threatening the elbow, but just teasing it, like he wants Brad to know he could snap him, but just wants to milk the moment as the tanned, toned, babyface beefcake writhes and wriggles on the hook. “You just stay there for a while,” Scott taunts. Finally, he cranks on the side headlock like he’s yanking on the pull cord of a stubborn lawnmower, crushing Brad’s pretty, pretty, pretty face against Scott’s gorgeously hairy chest. He flexes his mile long legs, slowly hyperextending the captured elbow, and twists viciously on Brad’s neck. “You’re looking really good down there,” Scott says what every fan who’s watched this video was thinking at that very moment. He wrenches a squealing submission out of the young hunk a few moments later. And… fuck, I think I need to towel off and rehydrate now.
This is peak Brad. He’s got to have just come back from a beach vacation, with a bronze glow and a well-rested pump for getting down to business. At one point, Scott is working figure-4 headscissors, alligator rolling the coverboy across the mat at will. He punches those smooth, never bigger, never more beautiful pecs on Brad, before leaning back on one elbow, crushing his skull, looking like he’s the one enjoying a leisurely day stretched out on a beach towel. When Scott lets the stubborn punk up without wringing out another submission, Brad turns absolutely feral. He snaps on an armbar of his own and threatens to snap Scott’s elbow, making the man of my dreams squeak and tap out in panic. “You shouldn’t have let me up,” Brad snarls, climbing onto his back and wrenching Scott’s right arm so high between his shoulder blades in a hammer that Scott can actually scratch the back of his own head. When Scott gasps another submission out, like he’s sucking on a torment lollipop, Brad lets him go magnanimously and paces around the mat. “I’ll give you some time to glue that arm back on,” Brad taunts.
Okay, so this is a marathon of a match, as I said, and I’ve got SO much to say about every 5 minutes or so of it. But in the interest of not losing myself entirely in this post, let me just speed things along by saying Brad dominates… DOMINATES Scott in the final third of this contest or so. Fuck, Brad’s bronzed, pumped muscles are glistening with sweat as the flexes his most muscular pose over top of Scott, looking like he wants to fuck somebody right then and there, he’s riding that pump of domination so hard. “What’s the matter, boy?” Fuck, when Brad calls him boy, I swear the temperature instantly rises on both sides of the screen. “All that shit you were talking, it amounted to NOTHING!” He’s screaming, as he pumps his fantasyman bod in victory. “Look at this,” he demands that his stunning physique be acknowledged.
But then there are those last 3 minutes. Shit, Brad keeps trash talking. Scott can’t help himself but trash talk back. “I’ll be fucking nastier next time,” Scott promises. “You can be as nasty as you want,” the young hunk snarks right back, getting pissed that the beast he just bested still won’t shut the fuck up. “Please,” he snarls, when Scott is about to charge back to his feet for more, right here and now. “You think you’ve got enough gas in the tank to fuck with me?!” Fuck, that final fall. Fuck! One gorgeous hunk’s voice is an octave and a half higher, whimpering and crying, giving up that last and most humiliating submission of all.
The camera loves these two gorgeous bodies almost as much as I do. This is pre-HD, and I’ve got a young friend who complains about the relatively grainy resolution and low light and dark shadows in matches like this. But I don’t know if I’ve ever seen two wrestlers look better AND deliver authentic, exhausting, dehydrating ego-fueled bitterness and snark.
Apparently, dialing up ego-fueled bitterness and snark is entertaining for Scott. I’m practicing channeling my inner Brad now. If there’s one thing I want to come out of what would be THE fan fantasy face-off of the century, it’s that I want both Scott and me to be entertained!
“All that shit your were talking,” Brad snarled. “It amounted to nothing!”