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I Want It That Way

I have often mocked Mitch the Bitch Colby for picking on guys half his size. I am not really a fan of matches where there is a huge size disparity; it always seems borderline bullying to me. And it seems like Bitch only books these matches so he can get some wins; he never manages to beat someone close to him in size.



See what I mean? His arms are almost Rees Wells' size. And yet the kid didn't go down easy; the big bully had to actually fight for it.

To be fair, Boyd Hicks wasn't exactly my size. But that match wasn't my idea; he fucking challenged me--and let's face it, he had a good time.



So, when the little punk Stinger wanted to get in the ring with me, I demurred. "Tell him to get a tag partner, and I'll get one," I told the Boss, "which will make it a bit more fair."



That's me, always trying to be kind to the next jobber about to get a beating, you know? I don't get enough fucking credit. I knew who I wanted as my partner--Maxx having retired from ring action by then--I wanted this sexy hunk of manflesh.



If you think the picture's hot, you should stand next to him sometime. He oozes sexuality and sensuality out of every pore. My dick gets hard just looking at him across the room. So, yeah, I always figured it would be awesome to tag with him sometime.

Stinger and his loser partner were the perfect targets.

And then of course, Stinger's loser partner--I won't reveal his cowardly name--didn't show.

And there we all were, amped up and adrenaline flowing, with no outlet.

"Maybe a three way match?" I suggested--taking on Lightning Rod was a wet dream come true--but Stinger would have none of that.

"I'll take you both on," he snarled, hurling insults and writing checks with his fat mouth that his body were going to be cashing...

and so it began.
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For Your Eyes Only

Ah, Jobe.

As always, he had victory in his grasp and yet let it slip away.



I mean, seriously. My back was screaming in agony to the point where all I could do was lie there, unable to defend myself. Through the pain all I could think was "Seriously? You're going to lose to that punk ass motherfucker? Get the fuck up, you little bitch!" Yet I continued to lie there, in agony, unable to do a fucking thing.

Seriously, I was going to have to leave the fucking country.

But Jobe is all about his ego, and all about his stupid fucking centerpiece. So he rolled me over and decided to do the arrogant pin count thing while straddling my face with his 'centerpiece' right there in my face.

Bitch, please.



Like I said before, it also makes a nice target.



And his screams of agony were all I needed to hear. Adrenaline rush, and bitch, you're mine.



Think about it, Jobe. You could have beaten one of the greatest heels in the history of BGEast if you hadn't been such a little bitch.



But thanks. I enjoyed SPANKING you.



Suck on these manties you love so much.



Just another notch on my belt.

Stupid little bitch.

Next up--Stinger.
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Moonraker

Oh, Jobe.

One of the things I love the most about wrestling is pushing my own limits. I am, as I have mentioned before, freakishly flexible; in my late teens and twenties I could have worked as a contortionist. When I first started training in pro wrestling, this flexibility--which I've retained a lot of, despite my age--made heels positively drool as they watched me stretch.

Well, that and my amazing ass.



Who wouldn't want to tap that?



Seriously.

But as I said, I like to push my limits. When I switched from jobboy to face to heel, that didn't change. I like to see what my opponent's got. If he can beat me, if he can make me submit--I kind of like that. And hopefully, he's got the balls to beat on me. And maybe, just maybe, I'll find a man who can put me away and make me his bitch.

For a while, it looked like it might be Jobe.



I got a little bored with wiping the mats up with him, so I thought I'd see what he had.



Like I said before, the bitch does know his way around the ring.



He did some things to me that no one ever had before--you have to admire that.



But just like everyone else...he got cocky before putting me away.



Seriously, those who don't study history are doomed to repeat it.

Idiot.

to be continued....
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Thunderball

So where was I? Sorry, bitches, Other Me got busy; went on a trip to New York and have been playing catch-up ever since. In other exciting news, I had a fucking hot as motherfuck match while I was up there. I may even turn it into a fucking story.

Oh yeah, Jobber Zander.



If anyone ever deserved a Cage beating, it was that bitch.

As I recall, I was down at the ring doing a photo shoot for the company. It was a pre-match shoot--Jobber was on the agenda for later in the day--and the Boss had picked out a pretty fucking cool outfit for me to pose in.



Pretty fucking hot, right? I think we were planning at the time on using it for a Dark Knights match for me, we just hadn't decided on a victim yet. But while I was back in the locker room, pumping up and trying on the outfit and checking myself out in the mirror to decide whether it was worthy of me, Jobber showed up early.

Unusual, right? He always is late. Another reason he needed to have his ass handed to him. Anyway, he was out there in the outer room, checking his 'fan mail' (bitch, please) when I came out--and in his usual way, said something charming like "What is this, Halloween?"or something like that.

I. Was. DONE.



So, I may have shut his 'centerpiece' in his laptop. I may have choked him with his towel and dragged him out to the ring.



I may have had some fun with his 'trunks--which were more like 'manties.'



I stomped on him for a while, then went back to the locker room to change into some pro gear--he totally was undeserving of the Dark Knights treatment (he didn't deserve my dick) but he definitely deserved a ring beating....

To be continued....
Sitting On Top Of Turnbuckle

The Man with the Golden Gun

Hey there, bitches.

I've been having issues with my Facebook page lately--the bastards have decided that I need to prove that I'm Cage Thunder in order to keep using their services. Fuckers. Anyway, I am working my way through the process right now--I suspect the documentation proving I am actually Cage Thunder probably won't be good enough and this will go on for a while.

Someone needs to pile drive those assholes, frankly.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah, Jobber Zander.

Bitch, please.



One of the many shitty accusations Jobber flung at me before our match was that I was so damned ugly I had to wear a mask. He also compared our bodies disparagingly.



Yeah. I needed to get in better shape, didn't I?

Him and Bitch were comparing notes, clearly. Some of the smack Bitch was saying on-line around the same time was pretty similar.

I've always hated bitchy queens who think they're better than other guys because their bodies might be better sculpted, or more aesthetically pleasing, or whatever reasons they have in their little pea brains. Whatever. Just because you figure out how many calories you can have with every meal, figure out what the best snack is for you, and spend ridiculous amounts of time in the gym doesn't make you better than anyone else. I used to be a personal trainer. I used to teach aerobics. I used to dance on bars in thongs to get tips. I used to be that guy, who worried about every fat gram and eating carbs after five pm and blah blah blah.

I like food. So fuck me for enjoying my life and liking food and getting off the self-obsessed bandwagon.

And really, how much better would I look?



I think I look pretty good. So I don't look like an anorexic or like I puke up every other meal.



There are worse things.

There also is this weird idea out there that I'm somehow jealous of other wrestlers' bodies. Newsflash! I am not. I admire and appreciate other men's bodies. I can look at someone and not only appreciate how their body looks but also the work and dedication that went into looking like that.

It's when that hard work and dedication turns into arrogance that I get turned off.

Nothing is uglier than arrogance.

So, Jobber Jobe definitely had some beating coming to him.
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Live and Let Die

By the time the weekend came when Jobber and I were both in Florida to tape our match, he'd already been used by a vast array of heels as a ring towel, used to wipe the mat up over and over again.

Didn't stop him from being mouthy and arrogant, tho.

You kind of have to admire someone that delusional, in a way. I've often wondered what color the sky in his world was.



He fought Mr Joshua in a so-called 'battle of the bulges' in the gazebo. *eye roll* We all know who has the best bulge at BGEast.



Yeah, hold on to that big handful of nothing, bitch.

But I have to say--again, giving credit where it's due--Jobber's look has changed over the years. He was never in bad shape, nor was he ever especially ugly (when his mouth was closed, that is).

But this new look of his is pretty nice. Bleached blond works on him.



The new look has even helped him win some matches. Granted, he gets to beat up people like pretty boy Rio Garza.



Oh, Rio. DAMN that boy is pretty. But even pretty Rees Wells got a chance to make a mockery of the Centerpiece.



The list of his losses just goes on and on...odd, because the dude knows how to wrestle. He's probably one of the best wrestlers I've ever gotten into the ring with.

But he just can't ever seem to keep his goddamned mouth shut.



So, I had to shut it for him.
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Thrown Down

So, having artfully disposed of one Goldenrod, who was up next?

Oh, yes, Jobe Zander.

Or should I say, Jobber Zander?



Jobe and I got to BGEast around the same time.

We hated each other from the start.

(All right, this seems like the proper time to have this conversation with you bitches. Who we are in front of the cameras, in the rings, when we step on the mats--not the same person we are in our normal, every day lives. It is entirely possible, for example, for two guys who are really good friends when they are themselves to absolutely hate each other as wrestlers. Jobe is one of those cases for me. The other Jobe, real life guy? Absolute sweetheart, great sense of humor, one of my favorite people from BGEast to kick back and have a beer with. Wrestler Jobe? Hate him with the white hot passion of a dozen burning suns. That's just how it is. So when I talk about Jobe and I hating each other--Jobe and Cage hate each other. Our secret identities? Are buddies.)

Jobe is an arrogant asshole, and his whole ring gimmick--the "Centerpiece"--well, I've never felt the need to put a prosthetic cock-and-balls inside my trunks to get fucking attention. My bulge is my bulge, and when genetics has blessed you, you don't necessarily need to always be drawing attention to it. Centerpiece, shmenterpiece.



In the interest of fairness, I will say this: Jobe is a talented, skilled, well-trained wrestler. But I also, sadly, have to add the truth that he always, always, ALWAYS loses. Sadly, when your core skill is an ego the size of Brazil...it always does you in when you wrestle. He can take a beating, but when he gets the upper hand, he's so fucking arrogant that he can't help but preen, posture, and pose and make a complete ass out of himself...which gives his opponent the necessary time to recover from the beating he's dished out, and enough time to get pissed and figure out how to bring him low.

Some people NEVER fucking learn.

Our egos clashed from the very start, and we started trash talking each other on some of the message boards. He's clearly overly-sensitive about his rather lengthy losing streak. So the Boss decided that the best way to settle this was in the ring in Florida.

I was more than happy to agree to give the little bitch the beating he deserved.
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Beauty and the Beast

The beast, naturally, is me.

Sorry to take so long to continue with the story of the sad but thoroughly enjoyable destruction of European muscle boy and sexy god, Goldenrod. To sum up so far, I was suffering from a mild flu and had over-medicated, plus I was wearing a mask that was too, too tight for wrestling in. I couldn't breathe through my nose, so was having to gulp in air through my mouth. Most unpleasant. As such, what I was able to do to Goldenrod's beautifully sculpted body was severely limited.

I mean, look at him.



The body is a thing of beauty. Those legs! I'd hoped to feel their power as the thighs, wrapped around my head, flexed and contracted to force me to, after letting my hands slide up and down their thick muscularity, submit. The bulge straining the seam of those golden squarecuts, the beautifully proportioned torso, the handsome face with thick sensual lips, the curly hair...oh yes, even now looking at his picture I find myself inspired to thoughts of lust and brutality, of domination and passion...

And of course, next to him I am, indeed, a beast.



Unfortunately, being unwell limited the extent of the fantasies I could visit upon his physical magnificence. I couldn't bare hug him, I couldn't lift him, so all I could do was low blows, forearm smashes, and some torture while he writhed in agony on the mat.



Okay, I could bearhug him, but I couldn't lift him and shake him like a rag doll. But I could pull him close, tighten my arms around his back, feel him pressed up against me...and look at the shape of that ass.

Day-umm.



As is my wont, I eventually stripped him of his mask before torturing him some more. I wanted, a la Boyd Hicks, to engage in some cockfighting, but ...there was something about his physical perfection, his beauty, his claiming the right to wear a championship belt as he faced off against me...I decided to leave my own trunks on and show him off to the viewers...and since he hadn't fought back hardly at all, he didn't deserve my cock.



His muscles were hard, gorgeous, mouth-watering.

As was everything else.

I took the trunks from him, and forced him to jack off in defeat and for all of our viewing pleasure.

Looking back now, I'm not sure I made the right choice...maybe like the others, I should have stripped down and rolled around with him as I ran my tongue down his body...as I blew my own load on his chest...I'd better stop now.
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You Ain't Seen Nothing Yet

So, where were we, bitches?

Oh, yeah, I'd taken Goldenrod's 'championship belt' away from him and was getting ready to beat some muscle ass.



I gotta say, bitches, I do love the feel of a championship belt around my waist.



There was a problem, though. As I mentioned before, I was sick and had overdosed on OTC medicine. So I not only had fucking medicine head--feeling light-headed and dizzy--the combination of meds and being sick had made me weak.

As awesome as it felt having Goldenrod's body pulled in close to me, I couldn't dominate him the way I'd planned. Lifts were fucking out. Hell, even a standing full nelson wasn't as brutal as I wanted--I wanted to be able to lift his sexy ass off the ground and spin him around.



To make things worse--the meds had cleared out the congestion in my head, but the mask wasn't big enough for my head. When I was posing for pre-match portraits, I had noticed the mask was kind of tight but I figured it would be okay. Once the action started and the cardiovascular intensity of wrestling got going, I realized that the mask was so tight that I couldn't breathe through my nose so I had to breathe through my mouth--which meant gulping in air--and the mask's tightness was so intense that I couldn't really open my jaw very far. So, in addition to being sick and overmedicated, I was having trouble breathing.



So, the original match game plan had to be discarded completely. Fortunately, like most muscle boys, Goldenrod's physical perfection came at the expense of the third, and most important for a wrestler, measure of fitness: flexibility.

The bitch had none.



Which meant camel clutches hurt like a motherfucker.

To be continued...
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24 Karat Gold

Sorry, bitches, it's been a bitch of a week and I am still trying to play catch-up this morning.

Where were we when I left off? Oh yes, Goldenrod.



Look at that fucking body. Gorgeous, absolutely fucking gorgeous.

Unfortunately, as I said in my last post, I had come down with something on the trip over to Florida to fight him, and in an incredibly stupid attempt to feel better, I'd take too much over-the-counter medication. The end result of that poor decision making was serious medicine head; I would have been much better off not taking anything. I also felt like crap, and weak.

Yup, I said I was feeling weak. This meant I knew I wasn't going to be able to use any power moves on Goldenrod; no lifts, and even any bearhugging I might do on him (and trust me, I wanted to do a lot of that) wouldn't be as dominating as I would like because I wouldn't have the strength to pick him up. Even if I were able to lift him, I wouldn't be able to keep him up.

As I also mentioned, the gimmick was that he was the masked European champion, come to America to put his body and manhood on the line against mighty Cage.



His package was a nice target, one too delicious to pass up. Besides, it put him on the defensive almost immediately, which made it easier for me to work him over.



Really, European champion? What kind of wimps were you fighting, bitch? Taking your belt was ridiculously easy.



How could I resist bearhugging him? The body was so fucking maginificent, and his huge pecs felt amazing pressed against mine...just remembering how his body felt against me is getting my dick hard now.



That's right, bitch, that's where you belong. On the mat in front of me....

to be continued