There’s an old adage that a sexual encounter is like a pro wrestling match. They’re both passionate, physical struggles with climactic finales and, most of the time, are at least 60% bullshit.
I always thought that comparison was just a way for dirty old vets to find an excuse to say “pussy” or to find out if any rookies liked it in the Backlund, but the more I performed both, the more startlingly similar they became.
Certainly, being a wrestler has advantages in the sexual sphere that I wouldn’t have otherwise. Professional grade maintenance of all my body hair certainly comes to mind, as well as a certain comfort with my appearance. There’s something freeing about presenting yourself in spandex to a crowd of people, who can see enough to wonder why they weren’t invited to the bris. Also, if a girl sees you wrestle, she gets a pretty explicit exhibition of you sweating in every position imaginable. If she still finds you attractive with another guy’s balls in your face, she’s pretty much down for anything.
One of the biggest advantages, thanks to 50 Shades Of Greatly Unrealistic Expectations, is that girls (who like to watch shitty movies about shitty books) apparently “like it rough”. If you’ve tested this theory, you’ll quickly find out that girls who say they “like it rough” don’t actually “like it rough,” you maniac. So, as a wrestler, the skill of feigning physical aggression is priceless. Appearing to pull a girl’s hair without actually pulling it proudly sits atop my erotic resume.
Of course, there was one time I met a woman who not only knew the definition of real roughness but liked to dish it out too. To be absolutely clear, just because I have long hair does not mean I enjoy having it pulled, in fact, I find it incredibly annoying. And what is with the nail scratches? Who are you, Julie Newmar? Nothing sexier than looking like I just had an allergy test. Needless to say, I scoffed and backed away like Bette Midler finding a hair in her mimosa. Sorry, lady, you see how soft my hands are? That’s because what I do is for show. This isn’t Fight Club, you barbarian.
Outside of these initial advantages, there are tips and tricks I’ve discovered in the ring that can easily be applied by both wrestlers and non-wrestlers alike in the bedroom. So the following tutorial will either make you a better love or wrestler or, ideally, adequately average at both.
Make An Entrance
Your first impression must be your best one. Pageantry never hurt anybody, so peacock it up a little. Wear something eccentric, strut a little and, for the love of God, put on some decent music. It’s the difference between entering like Randy Savage – who managed to marry Miss Elizabeth while wearing glasses he clearly couldn’t see out of – or his Saturday morning jobber opponent, already in the ring, who is so ashamed of his milk bag body that he avoids eye contact when they announce his name.
Take Your Time
There’s a saying amongst the old school vets; “if you think you’re going too slow, go even slower.” In regards to female foreplay, you might as well consider your partner as old school as George “the Animal” Steele (there’s a green tongue joke in there somewhere). Remember when the Rock and Hulk Hogan just stared at each other for a minute and a half and you assumed it was epic just because of the time they took to do anything? Kind of like that.
Pace yourself, focus and build anticipation, don’t rush through your routine like a karma sutra flipbook. If fast food was good, it wouldn’t come so fast.
Every Man For Himself
Having a good match between two people is hard enough, adding more participants is dangerous roll of the dice. Three-way matches are never seamless – there’s always one person on the outside and four-ways are quite literally a clusterfuck. But, please, whatever you do, don’t tag team. The Jannetty Rule; no tag team is ever equal. One of you will look like the most talented performer in history and the other one will look like a really chill guy who always likes to have a good time and wear a lot of tassels.
Remember in the late ‘90s, when wrestlers would take unprotected chair shots to the head on an hourly basis before they realized the brain-scrambling effects would turn them into intellectual omelets? That’s the wrestling equivalent of when STDs halted free love. In hindsight, both results were entirely inevitable considering the unhealthy amount of bodily fluids they involved; yet impressionable people still take these inane risks in the name of…being cool? If a limping, joint-worn, drooling man-child whose has more cases of gonorrhea than pairs of Zubaz is your idea of cool, your future is looking mighty bright.
Grab A Hold
You know that point in every ‘80s match, somewhere near the middle, when the bad guy stops, sits up his opponent and gently holds his jaw for 60-90 seconds? What the commentators described as a “devastating chinlock”, was actually more of a “I’m way too tired and currently have the meat sweats so lets rest for a minute before we kick the finish into high gear lock” and surprisingly, it was super effective. Psychologically, it was the perfect dip in the action to rally the crowd back to their feet. Similarly, when you’re in the throws of passion and need a little breather before the grand finale, grab a hold. Especially if you have the meat sweats.
Being a “heel” has afforded me admission into a society of devious individuals always looking for the cheapest route to success. As such, invaluable tricks have trickled down through the ages, only one of which I will share with you (I’ve got a society to protect). In the bottom of the 9th, when all else fails and the end still isn’t in sight, when the ref/lover is not looking, reach under the ring/bed and sneak in a foreign object of your choice (ironically, dildos are acceptable in either context). The important thing is that she never sees it coming, or else she’ll scold you and you’ll have till the count of five to drop it or the match will get thrown out. But if you sneak it in, boom, 1-2-3 and you can literally be the dirtiest player in the game.
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