Hey everyone. A new story! This one’s a bit quirky. But all of the same elements as before. Hope you enjoy!
JOBBER FETISHISM CASE STUDIES
Hello. My name is Doctor Paul Richards. I am a psychiatrist at Georgia Tech in Atlanta and am chair of the Human Sexuality Center. Over the course of my career, I have specialized in a little-studied area: Jobber fetishism. In fact, I’m the leading expert in the world on this disorder. Actually, I might be the only doctor studying it, I’m not sure. But anyone can study masochism or sadism or foot fetishists. I study a much more exciting perversion.
I first became aware of jobber fetishism in the mid 1980s, when a young man came to me with a disturbing problem: He could only get off while watching a wrestler get beat up on the Saturday morning wrestling programs. I didn’t even know what he was talking about — all I knew about pro wrestling was Hulk Hogan was involved. So to better understand my patient, I started watching some wrestling on Saturday mornings and late afternoons, specifically matches of guys like Tommy Angel, Trent Knight, and Red Tyler. Interesting viewing.
Since my early work with that first unfortunate gentlemen — he eventually could only orgasm while watching Nikolai Volkoff military press someone in skimpy trunks — I’ve helped many people understand their situation while also helping them learn the origins of their fetish. People came from across the country to spend time with me as they tried to understand their addiction. Here, then, a few case studies about jobber fetishism, specifically the trigger that launched a thousand jobber fantasies.
Subject: 70-year-old white male from Texas. First name: William
William came to me from Texas. 70 years old, he’d been married for 40 years, widowed for 10, had six kids, 13 grandkids. Worked in a factory his whole life until retiring at 65. Smoked, drank, ate a lot of red meat, loved football. Man’s man. He’d watched the occasional wrestling match on TV but never really had any interest in it. Until he was 68 years old and took his 10-year-old twin grandkids, a boy and a girl, to a night of matches.
The first match of the night changed his life. Kevin Sullivan against Bob Emory. He had no idea who either man was, but he noticed the grandkids cheering Emory and booing at Sullivan as each man entered. The contrast between the two contestants was jarring. Emory was tall, muscular, fit, clean-shaven, clean cut, smiling as he shook hands with the crowd all around the ring. He was also decked out in what were, frankly, the smallest set of wrestling trunks William could imagine anyone ever wearing. He hadn’t seen many matches in his life on TV but the guys always wore more than this. Emory sported blue trunks that looked more like speedos than wrestling trunks. Were these legal wrestling gear? He could see Emory’s package and his tight ass and William’s granddaughter laughed as Emory walked past and she told her brother, “He’s wearing panties.” Emory looked back quickly when he heard the comment and appeared to be taken aback but continued on his way into the ring.
Then Sullivan came out. Short, fat gut. Cruel-looking, black trunks, sneering at the crowd who jeered him or cowered in fear. William looked at Emory in the ring as Sullivan approached and saw the man swallowing deeply, nervously, scared. He watched the young gentleman in blue reach in the rear and adjust his shiny blue trunks out of his ass.
Something was triggered in William. It wasn’t an attraction to men. No, not really. But he felt a stirring. And he, inexplicably, felt his cock growing hard, something that hadn’t happened in, oh, 10 years. He figured those days were done. But watching that terrified young guy as the chubby mean guy in black climbed into the rim stirred an emotion he never knew existed. The terror the young wrestler felt thrilled him. He loved the fact his grandkids were snickering over the man’s outfit. Suddenly, he was absolutely overjoyed to watch Sullivan go to work on the jobber, which he knew was going to happen.
William found himself swallowing deeply as Sullivan sprinted at Emory and started reigning fists down him as the pussy boy cowered in the corner. With Emory crouching near the turnbuckle, Sullivan held Emory by the hair with his left hand and kept punching him in the forehead with his right. Over and over. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. William wondered how much Emory’s head could take and the same with Sullivan’s fist.
The crazed heel pulled Emory up and with Bob on his feet, marched him around the ring by his hair. William told me he felt his mouth go dry as the jobber was dragged around, helpless, powerless. What was happening?
William watched as Sullivan backed Emory into another corner and draped the jobber’s arms around the ropes, exposing his chest and stomach to the heel. Sullivan followed with five straight vicious chops with his right hand, right into Emory’s chest. They left bright red marks on the hairless chest. He switched sides and delivered five more chops with his left hand. Ambidextrous punishment. With Emory’s arms still trapped in the ropes, Sullivan switched to stomach punishment. He reached his left hand inside Emory’s trunks and pulled on them, punching Emory each time right in the gut. At that point, William told me, he shifted in his ringside seat because his erection had gone to fullsize and he discretely touched himself just a tad.
As William told me this story in my office I asked if he was hard now during the retelling.
“Yes,” he said, seemingly embarrassed.
“Great!” I told him. “Perfectly healthy response. Continue. And, honestly, if you want to pull your pants down and stroke yourself a bit, go ahead. For clinical reasons.”
William stared at me for a second but then followed my suggestion. He had a good-sized cock, seven inches or so. Gray pubes. Now he laid naked on the couch and slowly stroked himself, remembering the desecration of young Robert Emory.
Sullivan finally pulled Emory out of the corner and into the center of the ring. He reached under Emory’s crotch and lifted him for a bodyslam. William remembers a slight smile forming on his face as he saw Sullivan manhandling Emory like a sack of potatoes, his hand clutching the blue trunks on Emory’s ass while he slowly walked around with his pathetic victim. After Sullivan pulled down a bit on the trunks and the top of Emory’s ass crack became visible, his granddaughter squealed again, “I can see his butt” and she and her brother broke out into a giggling fit. William remained silent, taking it all in, trying to imagine what Emory must be feeling. The humiliation! How pathetic that any man, a real man, would let himself get into that situation. He wanted the stupid jobber to suffer at the hands of the dominant man. That’s what always happened to the weak.
The ring shook when Sullivan finally deposited Emory on the mat and the jobber immediately clutched his lower back and moaned outloud. Christ, William, thought. Keep screaming, boy. It’s going to get worse. Sullivan fulfilled William’s silent prophecy by delivering a series of kicks to Emory. On the head, back, back of the legs, even his fucking feet. He looked like someone trying to stomp a cockroach on the bathroom floor. A cockroach bedecked in skimpy blue spandex. Faggot, William thought to himself.
And then this squash match got really good. I could tell William couldn’t wait to tell me this part because he let out a little moan of his own while touching himself.
Sullivan took Emory by the back of his trunks, yanked them up into a wedgie and heaved the jobber to the outside of the ring — right in front of William and the grandkids. Emory landed maybe two feet from where they sat, the only thing between them the flimsy steel barrier. Emory landed on his stomach, meaning his wedgied ass was on full display in front of the crowd, including William and the kids. William felt an urge to reach down and slap the hapless figure in front of him, or to spank that ass. Where were these thoughts coming from? Was he a sadist or was it just the site of this sad, good-looking man getting dominated that made him so aggressive. The kids laughed at Emory’s trunks and William wondered why he didn’t pull them out of his ass, as did a thritysomething woman next to them who drunkenly screamed at Bob, “Pick that wedgie, faggot.” Texans weren’t known for political correctness. Emory obeyed his verbal bully and undid one side of the wedgie but didn’t have time for the other side.
Leaping from the apron, Sullivan landed on the floor while making sure one of his boots delivered a crushing blow to Emory’s back. Immediately he sat down on Emory’s ass and raked his back, over and over with his nails. You could see the scratch marks going down the jobber’s weakened spine.
Sullivan now directed his attention to William. “Get up, old man,” he screamed at William, who eagerly followed orders. Sullivan reached over the railing to pick up William’s chair and hammered it down on Emory’s back. The jobber howled while William worried that anyone looking his way could see his hard-on through his pants. Again Sullivan crushed Emory with the chair, before he tossed it back over the railing to William. Emory joined the chair in flying over the railing a few seconds later as Sullivan flung him over the steel by his hair, putting him literally at the feet of William and his family. William’s granddaughter gave a very tiny kick to Emory’s back and William had to tell her not to do that, even though he wanted nothing more than to plant his size 11 shoe into the jobber’s face. He wanted to touch the jobber, feel his trunks, inspect the scratch marks, pull his hair, put his fingers into his mouth and pull. Where was this coming from?
Sullivan easily stepped over the barrier. He grabbed the half-filled soda can from William’s grandson and flung it at the back of Emory’s head, a fairly dangerous move. It bounced off the dumb jock’s skull and rolled away, its contents leaking out while Emory grabbed his head and William’s grandson stood there slack-jawed.
William told me he nearly came with what happened next. Sullivan reached down, put his hand in the rear of Emory’s delicious blue trunks and yanked the jobber sissy up to his feet, pulling up on the trunks even more once he got the stud standing, forcing Emory to stand there, ridiculously, wedgied, on his tippy toes. William saw Emory’s crack when Sullivan pulled him up to his feet and then stood a foot away as Emory’s again completely wedgied ass was on display. Both of grandkids had covered their mouths while they laughed and the whole crowd seemed to be buzzing at the ongoing emasculation of this muscled bozo. Sullivan threw Emory over the railing and quickly repeated his maneuver by yanking him up and tossing him under the rope and back into the ring. This time Emory left the trunks in both sides. He most likely had a concussion from the soda hitting his head.
When he rejoined his victim in the ring, Sullivan again effortlessly scooped him up and this time hung him upside down in the turnbuckle, setting him up for the dreaded Tree of Woe. This sight again put William on the edge. He’d never before experienced an ejaculation that didn’t happen with some contact to his cock, but seeing the jobber hung out to dry made it close. Emory hung there, practically a victim of a crucifixion, while Sullivan readied himself in the opposite corner. Suddenly he sprinted toward Emory and greeted him with a pulverizing knee to the jobber’s stomach. The crowd oohed and ahhed over the destruction and William figured it must have broken something inside Emory. Again Sullivan retreated to the opposite corner and again rammed his knee into the jobber’s midsection. William could hear the ref begging Sullivan to release Emory who appeared to be spitting up blood as he hung, nearly completely limp. William prayed that Sullivan wouldn’t listen to the ref. He couldn’t get enough of this.
Neither could Sullivan.
Five times Sullivan ran from one side of the ring to the other, delivering a devastating knee every time. William’s grandson finally said, “Grampa, he’s going to kill that man,” and William agreed. He just might.
Sullivan eventually pulled Emory down from the corner, but not before sticking his boot on the jobber’s throat for four seconds. Emory was sprawled on his back, his stomach heaving up and down — so apparently he was still among the living. Sullivan pulled him to the center of the ring by dragging his feet.
Not content with his brutalization, Sullivan ran back and forth against the ropes until finally jumping off of both feet like he was going up for a dunk and landing with his full force on Emory’s stomach. Good god, thought William. How is any of this legal? When Sullivan covered Emory William couldn’t help but notice that he made sure his groin was right near Emory’s face, a final act of ownership against the jobber.
William kept staring at the ring even after Sullivan exited because he couldn’t take his eyes off Emory, who had to be slapped awake by the obviously concerned ref. Emory rolled out and only after he was on his feet outside the ring, being helped to the locker room by the ref, did he adjust his trunks on his ass. The total subjugation was the hottest thing William had seen in probably 50 years.
The rest of the night passed in something of a blur. There were a few more good-looking jobbers and they too attracted William but he could not get Emory out of his mind. Or Sullivan, his cruelty, his disregard for a fellow human and wrestler. It was the most masculine thing he’d ever seen, total destruction and humiliation, and it was apparently all in a day’s work for Sullivan, the same way William worked at the factory all those years.
William told me he couldn’t sleep that night, the vision of Emory’s destruction dancing through his head. At about 2 in the morning, he finally started playing with himself, just as he was doing in my office while telling the tale of the match. All he wanted was to again see a jobber scream or moan or just lay there silently, defeated, accepting his fate. How had he missed this in his life all these years?
When he came in his bed he felt intense guilt and vowed to never think about pro wrestling or Bob Emory again. The vow lasted about 48 hours. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. William made sure to watch, really watch, some WWF Superstars and WCW Saturday Night Events and what he saw thrilled him even more: Match after match of young men in skimpy trunks being dominated in front of crowds. He felt crushing guilt over this new desire to see young wrestlers humiliated and turned to every avenue he could think of. He even asked his priest about it, who told him it was a sin and to pray 40 Our Fathers and never speak of it again. At family functions he could barely operate, consumed by thoughts of jobbers.
Finally he told his family doctor, who was more liberal than you might think for a Texas doctor. He said he’d read about the issue William described in an obscure medical journal. Jobber fetishism. He actually read an article I penned. The doctor contacted me for William, and a few weeks later he climbed aboard a flight — he told his family he wanted to watch the Braves and Astros play — and was now in my office. Still stroking himself whenever Bob Emory’s name popped up.
“Doc, this is ruining my life. How can I stop thinking about that match and those used, abused men?”
“You don’t,” I told him. “I’m not going to cure you, William. Why would I? There’s nothing wrong with your desires. They’re normal. What I’m going to help you do is understand them and then enjoy them. You’re 70, William. You want to live your remaining years guilt-ridden or do you want to enjoy them? Because believe me, these desires aren’t going away. Ever. Most people get them in their youth or teen years and deal with the guilt for decades. You don’t have to worry about that. I just want you to learn how to soak up all the glory that is jobber wrestling.”
First I helped William trace the possible origins of his newfound obsession and they dated back six decades. When he was 13, having just hit puberty, he served as the manager on the high school football team at his small Texas high school. The quarterback was a great-looking, strong-armed, 6-3 pretty boy. But he didn’t have the respect of his teammates, despite his looks and athletic ability. He couldn’t lead men. He was too passive, and actually passive-aggressive. When he screwed up on the field he blamed his blockers or his receivers or the running backs. It was never his fault. He was actually something of a whiny bitch. Even William could see this, even though he still looked up to him because quarterbacks were gods in Texas.
Finally one day at the end of practice, the QB snapped at the piggish kid who played center, blaming him for a poor block that caused the QB to get hit and throw an INT.
As I coaxed the memory out of him, William recalled how the QB yelled, “You fat fuck, do your job,” in front of the entire team. Wordlessly, the center, the fat fuck, walked up to the QB, who had taken off his helmet to yell, and slapped him in the face, sending the pretty boy down to his knees. “I’m done with your shit,” the lineman screamed and all the teammates cheered and gathered in a semicircle. The cheerleaders, who were finishing up their own practice nearby on the sidelines, also stopped and stared, and young William, just in puberty, watched as the fat lineman humiliated and beat up the pretty boy in front of an audience of boys and girls. Remarkably, the head coach and his assistants didn’t intervene. They wanted to see this too. They knew their QB was all man physically but emotionally was nothing but a pussy who should be put down. With all of the team cheering, the fed-up lineman, whose gut hung over his football pants, grabbed the QB by his beautiful brown locks he was so proud of — back when boys were expected to buzz their hair — and punched him twice in the forehead, followed by a football spike right to the gut. William loved watching it but he told me, nearly 60 years later, he remembered a stirring in his groin. With the QB sprawled out in his stomach, the lineman reached down and grabbed the back of the QB’s jockstrap, which had started peeking out above his pants. The QB moaned as he was lifted like a child and stood in front of his peers, the teammates he believed just moments earlier he ruled. With the jock digging into his ass, the QB was brought to his knees again when the lineman delivered a punch to the small of his back. At the sight of the manhandling, the cheerleaders started laughing hysterically while William’s eyes went wide. With the QB again on his stomach, the lineman crouched down, grabbed him again by the hair and rubbed his face in the Texas grass. “Eat it you worm,” he taunted while the team cheered.
“All right, all right,” the coach said as he finally stepped in. “I think the faggot’s had enough.” Looking at the backup QB, the coach nodded and said, “Jensen, this is your team now.”
And that was it for the QB. He never played another snap. Now that William thought about it all these years later, he realized the QB never left the town. He became a janitor at the school, never married. His life changed forever that one day when he got the crap beat out of him on the football field. The night of the QB destruction, William had his first wet dream. He remembered the dream he had nearly matching the reality. The QB getting pounded while everyone watched. But as a teen, in conservative Texas, he put it out of his mind. Only this time he was successful, unlike when he saw young Mr. Bob Emory get his ass handed to him. And then, 47 years later, there he was watching Sullivan, the fat-ass mean heel, dominate golden boy Bob. And he was again triggered.
Once we figured out the origins, I continued to tell him there was nothing wrong with it. He was 70. He was widowed. Enjoy your life. Enjoy your perversions. I invited him over to my desk and spent hours with him on the computer, showing him various wrestling sites. I introduced him to Wrestling Arsenal. And a bunch of Tumblrs. I showed him various YouTube channels devoted to jobbers. And I made contact with some men I knew in the underground wrestling world and the independent circuit. Soon enough I had lined up several refereeing jobs for William. Last I heard he was still going to at least one a week. Sometimes it was just in someone’s garage. Sometimes it was for some adult wrestling film companies. But he’d don his striped shirt and serve as the referee for various squash matches. He loved especially the pre-match patdown, when he’d feel up the jobbers in their trunks to make sure they weren’t packing any foreign objects. He later told me he got so hard watching the action up close. And he loved nothing more than counting the jobbers out. One…two…and, oh no, the heel just yanked the jobber up by his hair. He really loved that. He’d admonish the heel, of course — as a good referee does — but he loved that the jobber fags were in for much more punishment.
William became a happy old man, comfortable with his sexuality and his love of jobber destruction. I consider him one of my success stories.
Subject: 28-year-old white female from New Jersey: First name: Laura
Laura came to my practice because she had been enthralled by jobbers after her boyfriend took her to a house show. They were filming the matches for a WWF show. She went knowing nothing about wrestling, with no real interest in the sport. She went because she wanted to be a good girlfriend.
Early in the night, a young man in a red and white jacket jogged toward the ring. Laura thought he was “sort of cute.” It turned out to be a young Jim Powers, and I think anyone who saw Powers in his early days understand’s Laura’s interest. Laura, an extremely attractive brunette with magnificent tits, talked about how Jim had a good showing early in the match. It almost seemed like he might win. She couldn’t recall who he went against. She thought it might have been Rick Rude. Anyway, the heel wasn’t who she noticed. As the match progressed, Jimbo’s foe took over, as heels always do.
Jim then threw his opponent into the corner and rushed after him, only to meet nothing but turnbuckle as the heel gracefully moved aside. And there was Jim in his white trunks, facing the crowd.
Laura paused while telling me this part of the story. She giggled a bit. Then continued. “How do I say this. He had grown a bulge in his shorts.”
“Poor guy,” I said and she laughed again.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” she told me. Jim then went on to lose the match but that bulge did not leave Laura’s mind.
That same night, at the same taping, Powers came out again, this time for a tag team match.
When Jim came out for his encore, Laura couldn’t believe it but he was still sporting the same bulge. Again Jim lost, this time with his partner. The details were fuzzy, Laura said, except for his package. But she did remember that at the end of his second match, Powers seemed extremely frustrated with the loss. Not fake emotion, real. As if he was pissed at his lot in life, the life of a jobber. Throughout that night she watched other guys wrestle “in shorts” and she said she became hooked and started to watch wrestling more often.
Laura remembered feeling bad for poor Jim and thinking he must have felt so embarrassed losing like that in public. She was also certain, judging by the looks of the people around her, that she wasn’t the only one who noticed his bulge in his trunks. She didn’t tell her boyfriend but he might have known based on her jaw hanging open. She was also unsure if maybe Jim was wearing a cup of some type as protection or if it was all Jim that was showing up outlined on his trunks.
As she started to watch matches each week on TV, Laura started thinking about the same guys she kept seeing who always lost. she realized all of their family and friends must know that they were getting their asses kicked on national TV each week. What did that do to their psyches? She found herself getting turned on when she thought about it, usually while lying in bed at night. She’d pleasure herself, picturing the Jim Powers of the world losing each week, decked out in their ridiculous looking shorts. She found that when she was having sex with her boyfriend, she was no longer staying in the moment but was instead wishing she was again ringside watching some poor jobber get his ass kicked. She wondered what the jobbers talked about at Christmas dinners when they’d be with their extended family. “Hey, Jim. Saw you on TV. Nice trunks. Nice ass. Nice defeat.”
Laura became especially infatuated with after-match humiliations. She became sexually excited watching a jobber get handcuffed or roped after a match. Again, imagining the humiliation the good-looking men must have felt. Why would they allow themselves to be put in that unenviable position? A friend of hers told her a story about going to a match and seeing the Mountie handcuff some jobber after they got knocked out. At the taping it was time for a break so the crowd went to the concessions but no one let the jobber go. So the poor pathetic son of a bitch laid there in the center of the ring the whole time, cuffed. She thought it might have been Red Tyler but wasn’t sure.
She didn’t really tell her boyfriend about her fascination with the sport. She didn’t think he’d quite understand.
The embarrassment the poor guys felt became a turn-on and she wanted it in her life more and more.
“What can I do, doc?”
Fortunately I had the answer: Again through my contacts, I helped her become a valet. Luscious Laura became a fixture on the independent scene and you even saw her a few times with Tully Blanchard. She stopped being my patient after that but she would continue to email me and thank me for setting her up in that world. She told me about one particular match when Tully dismantled Trent Knight. She remembers getting wet when Tully flung Knight outside the ropes and his wedgied ass was on display right in front of her and her black boots. She kicked the jobber, because that’s what the promoter told her to do. Laura felt a bit bad for the guy — she never lost that empathy she felt for jobbers — but she also sort of enjoyed it when she heard Trent moaning and rolling around on the concrete. At the end of the match, Tully slingshot suplexed Knight and pinned him for the three count. He invited Laura into the ring and as they stood over the prone, wedgied, knocked out jobber, they kissed. Laura put one of her black boots right over Knight’s face as Tully’s tongue explored her mouth and it was one of the more erotic moments of Laura’s life. I was glad I was able to help put her in that position.
Subject: 33-year-old white male from Mississippi. First name: Tony.
One time I got involved with law enforcement. A detective buddy of mine had arrested a truck driver named Tony for assault. He was a real loser. History of beating up people in bar brawls or at football games or barbecues at the park. Did some time but got off more often than you’d think. Just a mean man. My buddy, a fellow wrestling fan, sort of started to like the guy after one particular arrest. He listened to the victim talk and learned that Tony verbally abused and taunted the guy before and while beating the shit out of him at a trucker’s rest stop.
The victim, a sniveling 30-year-old who had driven into the same rest stop as Tony late one night, pulled up aside the big rig, rolled the passenger’s side window down, and yelled at Tony for cutting him off earlier on the Interstate.
“He stared down at me,” the victim told the detective. “He rolled his window down. He was chewing on a toothpick and smirking at me. He listened to everything I said and then replied, ‘Say one more word, boy, and I’m going to climb out of this truck, pull you out of your car by your fucking hair, and beat the shit out of you right here in this parking lot. Now you can either drive on or keep talking.”
“If you think I’m going to shut up…”
With that Tony slowly climbed out of his truck. Frozen in fear, the victim didn’t drive away. Instead he watched, stunned, as Tony walked over to the driver’s side with a crowbar in his hand. Before the victim could react, Tony smashed the window with the crowbar, sending glass all over the pathetic man cowering inside. The man was bawling now as he told the detective this part of the story — my friend later showed me the videotape of the interview and it was a delight.
“That animal grabbed me by the hair and dragged me out of the car through the window,” he said. The man suffered cuts on his stomach and thighs as he was pulled through the broken window. With the man at Tony’s feet, Tony stepped on his head and told him to kiss the concrete. The man obliged out of fear. A few other truck drivers had now started watching but none of them interfered. As far as they were concerned, anyone dumb enough to mess with one of them deserved the ass kicking to follow. Like scooping up a bag of flour, Tony pulled the man up by his belt and held him there for a few seconds. He then turned him around, scooped him up under his crotch and literally slammed him onto the roof of his own car. The man laid there, out of it, his back severely bruised. Tony delivered one more punch to his stomach and then calmly walked into the rest stop, took a piss, walked out, found the man still on his hood, spit on him, and drove away. Cops caught up with him about 20 miles down the road.
As my buddy looked over his rap sheet and heard the guy talk a bit about his past, an idea sparked: The guy sounded like an ideal wrestling heel. He knew I specialized in jobbers and heels and thought I could get this wayward man on the right track. He offered him a deal that would lead to the charges being dropped — he knew people who knew people who would make sure the victim wouldn’t press charges — but only if he saw me for some consultation.
I first delved into Tony’s past and discovered he had been a classic bully his entire life. He’d been raised by a bully father, his grandfather was a bully and so on. At school he’d been held back a grade so he was a bit bigger than everyone throughout elementary school, where he first started beating up geeks and picking on girls. He stuffed kids in lockers, gave them swirlies, beat them up on the playground, was a real menace. It continued into high school and obviously into his adult life. I asked him if he’d ever really watched much pro wrestling and he said no. I then said, “how would you like to beat up men for a living. And instead of getting arrested, you’d get paid handsomely.”
He liked that.
I introduced him to my buddy Steven Watson, a veteran promoter who worked out of Atlanta and ran a lot of WCW and WWF shows. He was a cruel, mean, sick son of a bitch who was always on the lookout for jobbers and for heels who could crush those jobbers. He started working with Tony and quickly turned him into one of the top heels in the biz. Tony’s natural cruelty made him a perfect heel and he eventually learned enough moves to become a powerhouse at 6-0, 285 pounds.
Eventually Tony got the reputation as working real stiff with jobbers. He actually enjoyed hurting the pansies. It wasn’t just a show for him. Decked out in his ring gear of blue jeans and a t-shirt, he exhibited nothing but contempt for the fairies who came into the ring against him in their faggoty looking trunks. It angered him that men like that existed in this world, even if those men were helping him make a living and stay out of prison. Jobbers learned to fear entering the ring against Terrible Tony. They bartered with each other backstage to get out of wrestling him. “You take him and I’ll go against Terry Funk,” they might say.
One time I went to a TV taping with my detective buddy who freed Tony when he faced the husky black jobber Gary Jackson. The fact Tony was a raving lunatic racist from Mississippi didn’t help Gary’s cause that night. Nor did his bright red trunks. When the two met in the center of the ring, Tony started by simply grabbing Gary by the throat and marching him backward into the corner. From my vantage point I could tell he was squeezing Gary’s neck, choking the life out of the jobber. Gary’s eyes bulged a bit and I think he wondered, not for the last time in that match, whether his life was really in danger. He broke the hold at the four count and then took a few seconds to scream at the fans while Gary slumped into the corner, gasping
Tony loved wandering around the ring and just staring at the crowd. He reveled in the boos and the terrified faces he saw on the faces of the women, children, and pussy men in the crowd. They knew he was the real deal, someone who would have no problem slapping them at a bar if they bumped into him or throwing down to the ground if they scratched his car. For his part, Tony couldn’t believe he actually got paid now to beat people up in public. It made him hard in his wrestling jeans thinking about it, which I could see as he again turned toward his black foe.
Pulling Jackson to his feet, Tony hooked his arm and slapped the side of his trunks to prepare the jobber for a ride up to the ceiling in a vertical suplex. Gripping the red trunks, Tony effortlessly hoisted the man up into the air and held him there, motionless, for at least 10 seconds. All the blood rushed to Jackson’s head while Tony seemed to contemplate what to do. But instead of falling backward in a traditional suplex, Tony slowly walked toward the ropes. I thought I knew what was coming and was proven right when Tony dropped Jackson forward instead of falling back. Instead of hitting the mat, Jackson was dropped onto the top rope, which ripped into his stomach and left him dangling like a piece of meat on a hook. He hung up there on the top rope, his head on the inside par tof the ring, his feet on the outside while the crowd gasped. I couldn’t imagine how much it must have hurt to be dropped stomach first onto the ropes like that. Then again, I wasn’t a sissy jobber so I’d never have to worry about it. Tony smiled and spit on Jackson’s back as he dangled on the top. Before the ref could get the jobber down, Tony leaned down, grabbed Jackson’s head and flung his entire body backward, sending him catapulting backward to the mat on the concrete floor outside the ring. It was right in front of us and I could see Jackson’s head smack the floor. Frankly the move could have killed him, but I don’t think Tony would have really cared. Could have passed it off as one of those wrestling tragedies that happens once in awhile.
Jackson was alive, though, if not really enjoying life. He clutched the back of his head while writing around on his back. “Come on, Gary,” a young, attractive black woman in the front row encouraged. “You can beat him!”
Tony smirked as he heard the woman. He slowly climbed outside the ring and meandered over to Jackson. He stared at him, scratched the side of his nose and seemed to contemplate his prey, like a hunter who’s come upon a wounded deer.
He reached down inside of the front of Gary’s red trunks, grasped the silky material and pulled him up forcefully. Jackson grunted as he felt himself lifted off the floor. Depending on your angle, you could see that Jackson, like all good jobbers, must have had a shaved groin because it looked smooth when exposed by the trunks being yanked up. Still grasping the waistband, Tony marched Jackson right over to the girl who’d encouraged Jackson.
“Leave him alone!” she shouted at the cruel heel, and I know that only added fuel to Tony’s fire. Tony let out a full laugh, his head tilting back. Addressing Gary, he said, “Hear that, boy? You got a woman showing more fight than you.” Turning his attention to the girl, he said, “How about you meet me after the match and I show you how a real man, a white man, fucks.” The girl spat at Tony and hit him right in the face. He wiped it off with one hand and I wondered if he might slap the girl. Instead he took it out on Jackson, delivering a punch to his head that floored him while he finally released the front of his trunks. Jackson slumped to the floor again, this time right in front of his female advocate.
Tony grasped Jackson by the ears and held him at his crotch. The woman could see Tony’s hardon and could see her favored wrestler being held close to it in a classic blowjob position. While Tony held Jackson at his groin, he stared right at the woman and finally licked his lips. Jackson was utterly emasculated. He’d gained enough of his senses so he could hear the interaction between the two and realize what was happening — and realize he was still utterly ill-equipped to do anything about it. Tony slapped Jackson down and leaned close to the black girl. He actually grabbed her by the hair and for a second I thought maybe he’d gone too far. A look of fear came across her face and I think she realized she shouldn’t have spit in Tony’s face.
“Listen, honey. Because I’m a nice guy I’m going to forget what you did. But if you ever do something like that again, I will pull you over this railing, take you into the ring, pull down your pants and spank your black ass in front of his entire crowd. Do you understand me.” The woman nodded her head, and she really believed this white animal would do just that. The thought of being over his knee, her pink panties pulled down, being slapped on the ass in front of everyone…it was too much, but she could see it happening. “Yes sir,” she finally vocalized and Tony released his grip.
Sitting nearby, taking this all in, my detective friend who set Tony on this path whispered to me, “I think we found a good line of work for our man.”
Tony finally put Jackson back into the ring by yanking the back of his trunks and sending them up the jobber’s ass. As he rolled in I watched Jackson adjust each side, trying to maintain some dignity.
Blessed with natural, hillbilly strength — I don’t think Tony ever lifted a single weight in his life but he could pick up a 250-pound man with ease — Tony put Jackson through a series of devastating, high-impact moves: A powerslam with perfect rotation that ended with him planting Jackson into the center of the ring. He put Jackson back-to-the-mat onto the top rope and then fell backward with him, again crushing Jackson’s head and upper back. He could have pinned Jackson at any point but he kept yanking him up at the two count to prolong the man’s misery. At one stage he draped Jackson over the lower rope this time, his throat resting on it. Tony then sprinted to the far end of the ring, ran back to Jackson and leaped onto the back of his neck, driving Jackson further into the rope and sucking the air out of him. He was lucky he didn’t break his neck.
Tony finished Jackson off with a torture rack he learned from Hercules. With Jackson on his knees, Tony pulled him up, again by the rear of the trunks and held him in place for a second. He reached his hand under Gary’s crotch and hoisted him onto his shoulders, then pulled down on his chin as he totally cinched the move. Jackson’s screams pierced the entire arena. I looked over to the black girl near us and she was slowly shaking her head in sadness at the destruction of the black jobber.
Even after Jackson submitted, Tony kept cranking on him, until we finally heard Jackson pleading, “PLEEEASE! PLEEEASSE!” Tony dropped to his knees, adding one more bit of punishment to Jackson and dropped him from his shoulders.
As he walked out of the ring area, Tony passed us and gave us a head nod. Part of me wondered what kind of monster we’d released onto the world and I briefly wondered if we did the right thing. Then I looked back into the ring, saw the ref attending to the broken, disgraced jobber and realized, yeah, we did.
Jason came to me because his obsession with being a jobber, which started as a teen and now threatened to completely overtake his life.
He looked like a broken man the first time I saw him. About 6-foot, 215 pounds with great locks of blond hair, he slumped in his chair on the first session as he told me his tale. At 14, he turned on wrestling and watched a match involving Red Tyler and Ted DiBiase. He liked pro wrestling but liked cheering the good guys. Hulk Hogan. Superfly Snuka. The regular matches didn’t do much for him. But this match, he watched in amazement as Red was tossed out of the ring, yanked up by Virgil, given a horrific wedgie in his red trunks and then thrown back into the ring, where Ted finished him off with a powerslam, sleeper, and post-match humiliation with a hundred dollar bill stuffed in his mouth. As he watched it, Billy told me, he felt his little cock rising. That night, he had a wet dream while wearing a pair of tighty whities and dreaming of being in a wrestling ring. That cemented his fate, really, even if he wasn’t completely aware of it.
Over the next few years he became obsessed with watching wrestling. He was a star athlete at his high school and no one knew of the deep secret he harbored, his desire for humiliation, and small trunks, and hair pulling, and suplexes and complete punishment in a wrestling ring. It became the only way he jerked off, into a pair of athletic underwear or panties as he pretended to be a jobber. Through high school and college it continued. Out of college he got a job in sales but couldn’t stop thinking about jobbers. Hour after hour he watched matches on YouTube and occasionally met with jobbers he met online. Finally he got fed up and decided to try and quit. Jason got a normal girlfriend and tried having normal sex. It didn’t work. A series of impotent sexual encounters filled their relationship. Desperate to find a normal life, he found me online and told me that he would come for a session in an attempt to rid himself, finally, of these jobber fetishes. I said I could absolutely help.
Little did he know.
At our session, after we went over his history, I told him he had to face his fears and his cravings. He had to confront his disgusting perversions head on. I told him to strip. He had a great body, hairless chest. He wore blue jockey briefs and self-consciously toyed with the waistband as he saw me inspecting the goods and what looked like an inadequate package, a fact I eagerly pointed out to him.
“Little jobber boy cock there, isn’t it?” His head shot up at me and he stared at me with his mouth open. I put my clipboard down and walked toward the young man. He took a step back. “Don’t move, boy.” What is it with these jobbers? This natural submissiveness that infects their every pore? This kid could have put his clothes on and walked out anytime, yet he gave in; part of him wanted it, I know, but a large part was screaming to run. Yet the jobber blood took over. As I knew it would.
“So the first thing we need to do,” I told him, “is let you experience the moment that first sparked those jobber feelings in you. You need to experience what Red Tyler experienced that match with Ted Dibiase.” He remained silent. “Now, if I remember correctly, Red first got thrown out of the ring, right?” Jason nodded. “Well I can’t hardly throw you out a third-floor window. But, I’m pretty sure he eventually ended up on his hands and knees outside the ring. His jobber ass in front of the crowd and Virgil. I’m correct, yes?” Again the silent nod from the boy, who probably knew what was coming. Or maybe he didn’t, because the gasp and cry when I brought my knee up into his stomach was a pained expression, part shock, part embarrassment, part physical agony. He couldn’t breathe and naturally fell to his knees. I slapped the back of his head and growled, “On all fours, faggot.” Now he looked just like Red did against DiBiase, except he wore his blue jockey underwear instead of proper red trunks. I stood behind, enjoying the scene. The servitude, the pathetic nature of this jobber, the tight ass.
“And then Virgil yanked him up, right boy.” No answer. “Right, boy?”
I delivered a kick to the small of his back and he went down before slowly pulling himself up against to his hands and knees. “Right, boy?”
“Yes…sir,” he gasped.
Before he could fully catch his breath, I yanked him up by the rear of his jockeys and pulled him to his feet, the underwear lodging up his ass while he now stood in front of me. I gave an extra yank and he now stood on tippy toes, trying to relieve the pressure. “Aaaaagggh,” he yelled.
“That’s how Virgil pulled up that jobber pussy, I believe,” I told him.
I made Jason turn around and then scooped him up for a slam. I had a big office for moments like this but not quite big enough to fully execute the powerslam DiBiase put on the wedgied Tyler in their real match. Instead I executed a simple body slam and the continued my narration for my pathetic patient.
“And you know what came next. The Million Dollar Dream. A sleeper, Jason. Lights out.” When Jason slowly got to his feet, the blue underwear still wedgied up his ass, I slapped DiBiase’s pet move on him and cinched it in, pulling, twisting, yanking the jobber until I felt him going limp. “Just like that boy. That’s what happened to Red Tyler that day you watched him, the day your future was set, even if you didn’t know it.” I felt him drifting off into unconsciousness but I of course didn’t want him fully out of it. I wanted him to have his senses as the humiliation continued.
I kept it on until Jason was out on his back, completely laid out. I stood over him. “Imagine what it was like for Red Tyler. He wasn’t alone in a fucking office. He was in the middle of a mat in front of a crowd of 10,000. Outside the ring a black servant named Virgil watched this white pussy get humiliated and degraded. So did a fat black valet named Sapphire. Imagine all those people seeing you like this, dominated, used, wedgied, sleepered.” I could see that against his will his jobber cock had stirred a bit in his jockeys. “And then millions of people watching on TV. Men, women, children, friends and family. Imagine Red Tyler’s girlfriend watching this from home. How did she respect him again? Imagine his dad. Now imagine your friends and family seeing you like this.” “Nooo,” he moaned and that was my cue. I pulled out my wallet and fished out a hundred dollar bill I’d gotten just for this occasion. Sticking it into his mouth,I shoved it further into his waiting cavity by fingering down all the way in there until he was properly gagged by the cash.
Admiring my handiwork, I told Jason, “Now, now you have the full Red Tyler experience. Sleepered. Wedgied. Stuffed with cash. Sprawled out for all to see.” To cap off the event, I grabbed my camera and took shots from all sides, zooming in on his face, his eyes closed, the cash protruding ridiculously out of his mouth. I shot his heaving chest as it went up and down. I photographed the front of his underwear, the outline of his cock visible through the blue material.
Sitting down on his chest, I decided to reveal the full outline of my deviousness.
“Jason, open your eyes now. I want your full attention.” He tried spitting the bill out but I shoved it back in where it belonged. “That stays. You don’t need to talk. Just nod when I ask.”
With that I delivered two slaps with my right hand to his oh-so-pretty face, one with my palm, then I backhanded the bitch.
“The past week, behind your back, I’ve been making some changes to your life back home,” I told him. Jason’s eyes widened and he shook his head side to side.
“I’ve taken it upon myself to do what you never had the balls to do: Enter you into the world of jobber humiliation. It’s your new life, boy. The life you dreamed of at night and all those days watching wrestling on TV. All those times you jerked off into your panties or met strange men on the Internet in private. Well, you’re going to be a public jobber now, faggot. For good. Forever.”
He tried squirming so I pulled on his hair and delivered a punch, a real one, to his forehead. That tamed him.
“First thing. I called your job. Well, your old job. You don’t work there anymore. They were surprised to learn you’re following a dream of becoming a pro wrestler but I don’t think they’re going to miss an underachieving salesman that much.”
Jason moaned and shut his eyes. I told him to open them and he again obeyed. He was learning like a good jobber. “Later today your girlfriend will get these photos I just took of you sprawled out in your panties, money in your mouth, and I’ll explain how you’ve decided to embrace your real dream in life. She’ll know why you’re an impotent fag with a woman. Similar emails will go to your parents and siblings.”
Jason bucked up and down like he wanted to escape, maybe run back home, but five more slaps to his face calmed him down. And brought on the tears. As I watched the water drip out of his eyes, I felt myself getting harder. I’m sure he felt it on his chest too and all he did in reply was moan and shake his head.
“That’s it. That’s done. You don’t have to worry about anything back there ever again. The lease, your job, your girl, your car, it’ll all be taken care of. Your new job as a jobber whore starts today. Now after I’m done on top of you, we’re going to get you into a pair of trunks. Nice pink jobber trunks I had special ordered for you. I’m going to march you across the street to the studios of WCW Saturday Night. You thought it was a coincidence I had an office here? I’ve been talking with promoter Watson and he loves getting new jobber meat. I told him you have some experience wrestling those private matches so he thinks you’re competent enough to throw out there. So tonight I’m walking you to a taping that will appear in two nights on their Saturday night show.”
I yanked the cash out of his mouth and told him he could speak. Yes sir or no sir.
Climbing off, I walked over to my desk and pulled out the special pink package for the newest jobber pussy who would soon fuel the masturbatory fantasies of a new generation, just as Red Tyler did to Jason years earlier.
“Get up,” I said and to aid my patient I helpfully grabbed onto his hair and easily pulled him up with one hand. He let out a moan but stood at attention, beaten, jobberfied. I grabbed his blue jockeys by the waistband and slowly pulled them down, snickering when I saw his shriveled 2-inch cock.
Standing in front of him I held up the pink spandex trunks that would soon imprison him for life. I waved them in his face. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Jason shook his head and moaned, but I commanded him to left a leg, then the other as I slowly drew them up. I expertly fitted them on his waist and ass and brushed his cock through the silky material. He looked down at them in awe and confusion. All those nights spent dreaming of being in trunks like this, all those fantasies, all those jerk-off session, and it was all now a reality. My left hand inevitably found my way to his trunk-encased ass and I slowly rubbed it, possessively. The high-cut trunks were utterly emasculating. I dropped a finger toward his asshole and lightly started shoving it in through his trunks, bringing out a low moan from my submissive wrestling wannabe. With my other hand I reached down the front of the trunks, grabbed a hold of the waistband and pulled up on it over and over again, giving his cock a bit of simulation to match the anal penetration. I stopped before he splooged in his tights.
I didn’t anticipate any problems from him as I walked him across the street to the studio, but just to be safe I retrieved a collar and leash from my desk, both black, a nice contrast to his pink trunks, and latched them onto him. Out of my closet I pulled out a pair of white kneepads and white trunks, both perfect jobber accessories. He obediently climbed into them and I took in my creation. Hairless chest, gorgeous hair, a punchable yet kissable face, ridiculous pink trunks where his tiny cock was tucked down, white boots and white pads, the picture of jobber perfection. Christ I wanted to push him down on the couch, pull those trunks down and fuck his ass. But there’d be time for that eventually. For now I had to get him over to Watson.
“We’re going outside now, boy,” I told him and he moaned. “I want you to clasp your hands behind your back and hold them there. If you can’t do that simple task, I’ll cuff you and when we get to the arena I’ll stomp on those hands. got it?” He nodded and we walked out of my office into the reception area, where my 29-year-old receptionist, Kari, sat at her desk. She laughed as I walked out and gave a tiny wave to Jason as he walked past. “Say goodbye to Kari, Jason.”
“Good, boy. You’re going to learn, you’re at the bottom of the food chain now, boy. You’re nothing. You’re a jobber. You’re scum. You’re here for our amusement and our desires and to make bad guy wrestlers look good. You got it?” Another nod.
We walked outside and some people on the sidewalk stopped and stared at the two men walking across the street to the studios of WCW, one of them in a suit, the other in pink trunks, on a leash, his hands behind his back, his ass jiggling in a silky pair of pink trunks.