Friday, November 12, 2010

Words and Silences


It doesn't take long reading this blog to realize that I am a big fan of dialogue. It's one of the texts that makes a homoerotic wrestling scene sparkle. I'm not a fan of a wrestling scene filled with silence broken by only the occasional grunt or gasp, even when the combatants are doing everything else that I love (yes, Enforcer, I'm talking about you!). Some sweet, snarling, domineering dialogue makes the contest more than just about the bodies. It should be about heart and soul and ego and will, and that story can get a major assist with letting the boys say something about what it all means. I've been fishing through my collection of inspiration lately, and a couple of snazzy talkers have made me smile (and swoon) all over again.




In Gear Wars 1, Kid Karisma shows that he's all about dialogue-as-humiliation as he and Rocco go for broke to be the first to strip the other wrestler's gear off of him. From start to finish in his match, Karisma offers a running commentary that's every bit as arousing as the visuals (and that's saying a lot!). For example, at one point Karisma is, for the moment, having his way with Rocco, claiming his back at will and choking him to submission with Rocco's own shoulder strap. Karisma is loving the moment. He's loving himself. He's loving being in total command of Rocco's body. He flings him to the wall and stands up, flexing and admiring himself (get in line, Kid K!). Rocco coughs and gasps, clutching his throat, causing Karisma to laugh derisively. "Oh, you don't want to get choked any more? Cute... cute. How's that look, huh?" Kid turns his back on Rocco and peels his singlet down, leaving his world class muscle ass bare in his jock strap. "Yeah, oh, I think you want to get choked by something else, don't you?" Turning around to face Rocco, he pulls the front of his singlet down and bounces the pouch of his packed jock-strap in the palm of his hand.




It's poetry, I tell you! It's nothing that I expect to find in straight up wrestling, and it's everything and more that I look for in full-on, no apologies homoerotic wrestling. It's like performance art mashed up with poetry slam mashed up with my fondest locker room fantasy.




Rusty Stevens still holds possession of the title as my favorite homoerotic wrestling pornboy these days, in no small part do to his lightening fast, razor sharp, verbal wit on the mats. One of the many  moments that Rusty has Mitch Colby on his back, schoolboy pinned in the Breaking Point, Mitch is squirming and gasping for air as Rusty sits on his chest and slides forward, shoving the pouch of his sweat-soaked jock-strap onto Mitch's face. Mitch's muffled gasps are cut short by Rusty's package pressed against his lips, "I... I can't...."



"What!? You can't what?" Rusty delights, looking down. "You can't breathe? Losers don't get to breathe!" Rusty snarls, slapping Mitch's face with his cock and pulling up on Mitch's head, shoving it harder into his crotch in complete humiliation.




Again, I say: it's poetry. Sweaty, muscled bodies clutching, squeezing, grinding and controlling one another to the beat poetry of verbal domination. Fantastic. Simply fantastic.

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