Oh Daddy

Powergunz.

It’s all there in the name, really. Big powerful strong arms. A sexy black pelt of fur on his torso and his legs. Thickly muscled legs.

Yeah, daddy.

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I mean, seriously. How fucking hot is he? He’s like the definition of what I call a hot daddy.

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I mean, woof.

The erotic aspects of wrestling have always been apparent to me, even as a callow youth unsure what the stirrings in his loins whenever he came across a professional wrestling broadcast actually meant; I didn’t understand the appeal of wrestling to me other than that somehow it was hard-wired into a gay sexuality that I wasn’t completely aware of–but those stirrings of lust and desire activated by seeing men like Bruno Sammartino or Mr. Olympia in the ring with their sweaty hairy muscles and high-waisted trunks as they punished their opponents and were punished in turn eventually, as puberty arrived, began to make more sense to me.

I have often been accused, throughout my adult life as an out gay man and as an out gay wrestler, of being a body fascist, of only being interested in men with lean muscular bodies. Nothing could be further than the truth, because the bears always reminded me of the professional wrestlers of my youth–and that is both sexy and arousing to me. And Powergunz has that look, you know, of the brutal heels of the 70’s–not ripped and defined, but thickly muscled and hairy and the facial hair and…you get the idea.

I’m a fan.

And I wasn’t in such bad shape myself, either, when the Boss finally scheduled the match I’d been wanting for so long.

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I like wearing white; I’ve also always thought it was kind of hot when heels wore gear in colors other than your standard heel fare. This is the only time I ever wore all white for the cameras; there was another match where I wore white squares with blue stripes on the sides–that’s the only unreleased match of mine left, I believe–but neither one of us was really in standard heel gear…which made it all the more fun, you know?

But what a fucking brute. Brute strength, animal magnetism, and the kind of charisma that makes my dick pay attention. I wanted to wrestle him, but more than anything else I wanted to feel out bodies against each other as we fought for control.

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Yeah, it’s a bit frustrating to be pinned down by someone bigger and stronger than you are, even if it’s hot.

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And I got some shots of my own in, as you can see.

What was even more fun is both of us pushed the other to extremes–kind of getting off on being slammed around or punched or forearm smashed.

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I think we both like to give and receive pain.

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Oh, yeah, it was a fucking great time.

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And there’s nothing like a bearhug from a big strong motherfucker, is there?

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That was a lot of fun, seriously.

Taking a Beating

If you want to be a pro wrestler, you have to be able to take a beating. You have to be able to take a certain amount of pain, and it helps if, as I am, you are flexible. The more flexible you are, the more pain you can take and the more punishing holds you can survive.

If you can’t handle any of that, you have business getting in the ring. Because even the biggest, the strongest, the most skilled and bloodthirsty heel will have to take some pain at some point. You’re cruising along, having your own way with your opponent, and then the next thing you know you make a mistake and WHAM! You’re going to be on the receiving end for a while.

And if it’s a skilled dude who knows what he’s doing, you might not get back in control of the match.

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Jobe put me through the ringer.

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And I have to respect how much he enjoyed it.

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I mean, he really put me through it. He worked over my abs, my back, my neck, my head, and even my legs.

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And like me, he sweats a lot. There were sweat puddles all over the ring.

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But….you’ve always got to be on your guard, and never get overconfident–or things will flip back the other way.

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(to be continued)