Female Mud Wrestling.com

At ten sharp a DJ, incongruously dressed as a magician and full of bad comic lines, jumped onto the floor and began to hype the crowd while a guy in referee zebra set the stage: a six-foot square ring, sheeted and filled with brown mud, and two chairs, one in each corner. The crowd chanted: "more mud, more mud." There were three matches that evening: a light-, middle-, and heavyweight, though the six women were all about the same size. In fact, they were all well-built, but looked more like cute topless dancers than mud wrestlers.

At the beginning of each match, the two contestants entered wearing fantasy costumes (librarian, cheerleader, infantryperson, etc). Each then stripped to a bathing suit as the music pumped and swelled. The most popular model was a one-piece wrap-down-under-back-up-and-around number that couldn't be easily yanked off. Only one wrestler wore a bikini, and her bra predictably slipped once, driving several young males into a frenzy. Each match consisted of three 60-second rounds in which the wrestlers started on their knees and were encouraged and allowed to do anything except stand up, pull hair, or deliberately kick. The ref counted the number of pins per round, and the winner was determined by audience response.

The quick transformation of an attractive, nubile, half-dressed woman into a mud-covered, hair-matted, half-dressed, snarling female mud wrestler was a bit of a sensory rush, but the actual wrestling left something to be desired. In the first two matches, for instance, I detected the contestants furtively whispering mutual strategy to each other. The refs calls were sometimes fast, sometimes slow, and the dippy MC yelled over the music at the crowd. But most of the people didn't mind. They had not, after all, come to see competitive wrestling.

They loved the show and cheered constantly. I did, however, spot a few women and men wearing that mixed mask of fascinated revulsion we normally reserve for snakes, sharks, political enemies and other aliens. The last match was the evening's erotic and competitive climax. The challenger, a sexy blonde mud wrestler with athletic legs, proved a formidable opponent for the reigning champion, Miss Cocaine.

The Pope's recent warnings about male concupiscence (intense sexual desire) came to mind as the stunning Miss Cocaine hit the floor, stripped to a bikini topped by a Fredrick's of Hollywood garter belt, hose and heels outfit. She reminded those of us old enough to remember Candy Barr or Chris Colt just how erotic a strip tease can be, even a modified one.

The younger crowd caught on real quick and her number produced bedlam: airborn hats, knocked over beers, concupiscent moans like "Cocaine Poontang" -- well, you get the idea. The leggy blonde truly went after the champ and almost beat her; an extra round was needed to prove Miss Cocaine's dominance. Both women looked whipped when it was all over. The flushed crowd scattered into the night quickly, having briefly sated their senses.

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