Yesterday was supposed to be about short, so today I'll spend a brief moment reflecting on sweet, which seems appropriate for those into the "treat" side of trick-or-treating.
Tommy Zenk (the original Z-Man) figured prominently in the development of my wrestling kink in my adolescence. As the inspiring figure across the banner of this blog illustrates, he was gorgeous and athletic, and he could make me deliriously aroused just by jogging up to ringside. He also had a long career with feet firmly planted in the babyface-people's-hero role, with an unwavering earnestness that was, for the purposes of today's blog, simply "sweet." He was an adolescent gay boy's knight in shining armor, frequently clad in ass-hugging white trunks and boots (and what... an... ass!). As I look back, I think how naive I was as a kid, lusting and pulling for the Z-Man to conquer the bad guys. There was something almost saccharine about Z-Man's character that today would make me long just as hard for a completely obliterating humiliation of him.
So, sweet today, like then, is something hot in the wrestling ring, but for entirely different reasons. Still, I like the earnest babyface in my homoerotic wrestling (as in, I like him crushed). In fact, I think the homoerotic wrestling scene could use some more sweet ingredients (to destroy, humiliate, and corrupt). Every so often, I get a little sugar high off of some of the boys here and there. "Tarzan" Tyler Reese was doing this for me bigtime for his brief incarnation in a loincloth. Tyler worked the feral, great white hope like a champion, if you ask me. His character was delightfully over the top. He wasn't a narcissist. He was no snarling corner-cutter, either. And the peek-a-boo gear was fantastically erotic and completely impractical. He was selling a primal, law of the jungle sense of justice, all-in. It always made me laugh just a little, and it made me crazy to see someone pummel him mercilessly, rip the loincloth off of him, and choke him with it. Now that would've been sweet in an entirely different sense of the word.
Watching Tommy Tara was like sucking on a Butterfinger for me. That handsome face FULL of teeth and that smokin', classic muscleboy body was the perfect container for a naive kid eager to pit his strength and skill against all comers as he charts his course into the chapter of his life where he figures out who he is as a full grown man. Tommy sold me on his bright-eyed, babyface confidence that right will win out. And when he wrestled Justin Pierce both in the ring and in Tommy Hilfiger tighty-whities AND boots... sweet Jesus he owned me hard just about as decisively as he laid out Justin's playgirl musclebod. Now, if only the exhilaration of dominating Justin could have just gone to his head a little... if he could have just grown a little drunk on the intoxicating buzz of first hurting, then knocking out cold his stunningly gorgeous opponent... if he'd have lost himself gazing down at Justin's helpless body, and then rolled him over to his stomach, yanked off Justin's underwear, and enthusiastically owned Justin's beautiful ass... well, the story of sweetness in the ring would have been entirely and fully consummated for me.
All right, damn it. This was supposed to be short and sweet. And I'm already completely distracted from the rest of my work, fantasizing about some sweet humiliation, sweet destruction, and sweet corruption. I really, really have to get back to work.