Gay wrestling stories

The initial email account I possessed was [email&160;protected]. This particular address served as a homage from my then-thirteen-year-old self, who was utterly fascinated by wrestling, specifically acknowledging Mick Foley of the World Wrestling Federation and his trio of wrestling personas: Mankind, Cactus Jack, and Dude Love.

In my youth, I maintained a bifurcated existence. Outside the classroom, I was an exceptionally talented basketball player, aspiring to transform it into a profession. Weekly, on numerous occasions, I engaged in practice, often sinking free throws long into the evening hours. Every weekend, I was tasked with wiping up the perspiration generated by the Sydney Flames, the top-tier women's basketball squad of the mid-nineties, a team that could command audiences reaching six thousand spectators at the Sydney Entertainment Centre. Subsequent to the match, I observed the athletes, attired in their everyday wear, being attended to by admirers and companions near the bar area. This marked my initial encounter with queer individuals - specifically, women clad in high-rise blue denim and dark leather outerwear. A few displayed bleached hair slicked back and held hands with alluring, feminine-presenting women. At that juncture, the nascent, somewhat undefined, queer facet of my identity was gradually manifesting itself.

During periods when I was not engaged in basketball, my time was consumed by either observing or contemplating wrestling. I would peruse ghost-penned wrestling autobiographies and procure periodicals via mail. Evenings were frequently spent at the community library, utilizing one of only two available internet-connected computers. For ten cents per page, I printed wrestling narratives from the internet, which were slowly emitted, line by line, by the inkjet printer located beneath the librarian's workstation. The walls of my sleeping quarters were adorned with various posters, depicting figures such as Chyna, Stone Cold Steve Austin, and Brett ‘the Hitman' Hart.

My mother shared the account of her disclosing the news to my father. According to her, he attributed fault to himself, forging a link between my sexual orientation and my strong inclination towards athletic endeavors.

During the decade of the nineties, indulging in wrestling content was not easily accessible. One could either view it via cable television or rent the most recent Pay Per View WWF main event, albeit typically three months past its original air date, from the 'New Releases' section at the video rental establishment. At thirteen years of age, my most cherished activity involved sitting cross-legged upon the worn blue-grey carpeting of Video Ezy, utterly absorbed by the VHS wrestling covers.

The alternate aspect of my existence involved enduring incessant bullying while attending Narrabeen Sports High School. Female students in their tenth year of schooling would frequently loiter at the entrance to the restroom, yelling, ‘This is the GIRLS' toilet!' and ‘DYKE!' On one occasion, I was shoved to the ground by one of them as I attempted to slip past their outstretched arms.

Through tear-filled eyes, I inquired of my mother, ‘What exactly is a dyke?' Unbeknownst to many, she had, for an extended period, been participating in the local PFLAG meetings and had consistently attempted to persuade my father to accompany her. Possessing an undercut hairstyle in the year nineteen ninety-seven was, it seemed, an apparent indicator of one's homosexual identity.

Subsequently, I came to understand that I was, indeed, a dyke, and even further down the line, that the term 'faggot' also applied to me - navigating a transgender identity for which I lacked adequate vocabulary.

My mother again related the tale of conveying my coming-out revelation to my father. She stated he held himself accountable, drawing a correlation between my sexual orientation and my strong affinity for athletics. Basketball, for instance. An excessive amount of quick-drying gear. The presence of WNBL lesbians. And inexplicably—wrestling as well. All these elements were perceived as 'gay enablers', in his view.

Various activities are undertaken by individuals to calm the nervous system. One might, for instance, engage in meditation, take a refreshing swim, or perhaps contact a companion. For me, wrestling functioned as a mechanism to stabilize a nervous system that was simultaneously under assault from bullies and grappling with ambiguity concerning gender identity and sexual orientation. In my personal experience, wrestling provided a sense of solace that felt entirely comprehensible. Much like popular reality shows such as Masterchef, Married at First Sight, or Survivor, it offered a predictable and secure refuge. It was inherently comforting, effortless, and reassuringly familiar.

It remains uncertain whether my father truly accepted the notion that wrestling 'caused me to be gay', given that this topic has never been discussed between us. I surmise that it proved challenging for a parent during the 1990s to avoid being swayed by the pervasive, subtle homophobia and transphobia that underpinned nearly every aspect of society. Such an environment could foster the distorted conviction that only those who were unsuccessful in their parental duties would ultimately have gay children, as if being gay intrinsically signified a failure in life itself. I was perplexed by the concept that somehow engaging in activities perceived as marginally masculine— pursuits typically enjoyed by 'boys'—could influence the formation of one's sexual identity. Rather, these tenuous linkages more accurately reflect the mechanisms by which societal myths are internalized and how gender itself has been fabricated, with binaries reinforced through pervasive language and widely exhibited norms. While undeniably misguided, I am, nevertheless, able to reconstruct the underlying thought process behind such a perspective.

Moreover, the world of wrestling was, in retrospect, intensely queer.

Consider Goldust, who delicately advanced towards the wrestling ring, adorned in a white, shoulder-length wig and ceremonially enveloped in a voluminous, floor-length golden robe. As his distinctive entrance music resonated, shimmering glitter cascaded from above. Upon entering the squared circle, he would meticulously remove the golden gloves from each hand, then dramatically shed the robe, unveiling a dazzling, head-to-toe golden full-body leotard. In my estimation, Goldust embodied a transgender identity. His persona garnered significant criticism for being perceived as 'weird'—a subtle transphobia that frequently infiltrated announcers' portrayals of Goldust, using terms such as ‘bizarre' and ‘an absolute freak'. Beneath the wig, his head and visage were painted in a striking combination of black and brilliant gold. Dark lipstick and black eyeliner completed the look.

The concept that engaging in activities typically enjoyed by 'boys' could somehow influence the formation of one's sexual identity was utterly perplexing to me.

One prominent figure was The Macho Man Randy Savage, frequently clad in leopard print tank tops that were notably three sizes undersized, occasionally revealing his midriff.

Another notable personality was The Ultimate Warrior. Decorative streamers encircled his heavily muscled biceps and his boots, which were vibrant shades of pink, green, and blue. He would typically slide beneath the lowest rope, then ascend and tug on the uppermost rope, utilizing it for balance as he rhythmically gyrated his hips skyward.

Also among the memorable figures were JR and Jerry ‘The King' Lawler, the commentators, known for their banter and expressive gestures. Lawler, himself a former wrestler, donned a crown and a robe unbuttoned at the front, revealing his bare, flushed chest; while JR, sporting his signature cowboy hat, delivered commentary with his distinct Texan drawl. These two were also widely popular, skillfully interweaving previously overlooked storylines into the matches, thereby preparing the audience for subsequent events.

Retrospectively, even Hulk Hogan possessed a distinct queer sensibility. His golden locks and his meticulously groomed, somewhat pornographic, blond mustache contributed to this impression. His yellow sleeveless shirt, featuring a deliberately torn back, was perfectly suited for his in-ring routine: upon entering the arena, he would gradually tear it in two, incrementally revealing his sculpted, hairless pectoral muscles.

The Royal Rumble, an annual flagship event of the WWF (currently known as WWE), involves a chaotic brawl among thirty wrestlers. Contestants emerge individually, entering the ring at predetermined intervals. Typically, a single participant begins in the ring, followed by successive entries from others, one after another, until the scene transforms into utter pandemonium. Ultimately, victory is secured by the final wrestler remaining in the ring.

During the Royal Rumble event of nineteen ninety-eight, all three distinct personas of Mick Foley participated in the melee, though their appearances were meticulously staggered. Cactus Jack, considered Foley's most ruthless persona and additionally recognized as ‘the world's most perilous wrestler', made the initial entry into the ring. Cactus Jack, identifiable by his distinctive attire—a shirt bearing his own 'wanted dead or alive' poster—was renowned for both his resilience to pain and his capacity to unleash fierce aggression. His craft had been perfected within Japan's hardcore wrestling circuit, where he engaged in 'Japanese Death Matches', certain variations of which featured barbed wire as ring ropes or thumbtacks scattered across the canvas, onto which Jack would forcibly slam adversaries until they were bloodied and subdued.

The truly enchanting aspect concerning professional wrestling resides in its capacity to induce a suspension of disbelief.

Subsequent to one participant being ejected from the ring, another would make their appearance mere minutes later, rushing dramatically down the entrance ramp before diving beneath the lowest rope. Of Foley's various alter egos, Mankind proved to be the most triumphant. This character presented as a corpulent, hirsute entity, typically donning a leather mask reminiscent of Hannibal Lecter, portraying a deranged recluse who had escaped an asylum. He would incapacitate his adversaries using his characteristic maneuver, the 'mandible claw', a technique involving him extracting a sock puppet, known as Mr. Socko, from his snug brown leggings and applying it to their throats until they lost consciousness.

The final entrant was Dude Love, embodying a seventies-inspired, tie-dyed, reflective-sunglasses-wearing bohemian persona—this transformation occurring after a third, sweat-soaked costume alteration.

The truly enchanting aspect concerning professional wrestling resides in its capacity to induce a suspension of disbelief. Professional wrestling and its devoted admirers engage in a symbiotic ritual of suspended reality, collaboratively participating in and perpetuating a realm of imaginative fabrication. It was understood that Dude Love, Cactus Jack, Mankind, and Mick Foley, though distinct characters, could never genuinely compete against each other in a bout or exist simultaneously in different locations. Our conviction stemmed from our earnest desire for it to be factual.

During my third decade of life (my twenties), I experienced a profound personal crisis concerning my homosexual identity. A central question arose: was I a lesbian, or conversely, a gay man? Concurrently, I had rediscovered my interest in wrestling, frequently replaying vintage matches on my portable computer. A profound curiosity emerged within me regarding a life lived ambivalently between perceived gender norms. My internal experience was characterized by a perpetual fluctuation and fluidity across gender lines.

Professional wrestling cultivated within me a profound intrigue regarding bodies, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Crucially, it also introduced the concept of embodying a multitude of identities concurrently.

For an extended duration, I withheld from myself the latitude to accept the possibility of being a transgender individual. Numerous years elapsed before I could openly concede the physical transformations I had wished for my own physique. Quite recently, indeed during the very process of composing this text, my therapist posed a query concerning my physical sensations regarding my transition. She asserts that I frequently dissuade myself from pursuing desires that could potentially provide a more congruent sense of self. She perceives me as metaphorically 'scuffing my shoes on the rug of tolerance', essentially sweeping important aspects of myself under the metaphorical carpet, thus leading a somewhat self-diminishing, incomplete existence.

Professional wrestling cultivated within me a profound intrigue regarding bodies, gender identity, and sexual orientation. Crucially, it also introduced the concept of embodying a multitude of identities concurrently.

For the inaugural time, I articulated thoughts about the possibility of no longer possessing breasts. My aspiration, I informed her, was to resemble the wrestlers depicted in my childhood posters. This meant being able to comfortably wear a white ribbed singlet without requiring restrictive elastic binding. It also involved having a modest growth of hair, neatly positioned, above my upper lip. Perhaps even a slight cluster of chest hair, extending gradually upwards towards the banner tattoo situated along my clavicle, which bears the inscription wrestling with feelings—flanked by illustrations of interlocked, embracing wrestlers.

Prior to a recent period, these specific aspirations had not been verbalized to any individual. To those individuals dearest to me, I have conveyed that I am not particularly bothered by the presence of breasts, often adding, 'They are quite small regardless. They can easily be concealed.' A concern lingers that my loved ones, who currently derive pleasure from them, might experience sadness regarding their potential removal, should that be the path I ultimately select.

I have been blessed with the opportunity to reside within a queer familial environment where a culture of mutual affirmation thrives. Within this particular sphere, which bears a resemblance to the realm of professional wrestling, there exists an openness to expanding one's beliefs—a universe characterized by manifold realities. Queer individuals forge their unique narratives, courageously challenging established norms, and thereby inhabit existences perpetually situated in a liminal space.

Mankind, Cactus Jack, and Dude Love—these personas collectively constituted facets of Mick Foley's single identity. I found myself drawn to these particular wrestlers because I, too, embodied a multitude of characteristics simultaneously, and I desired to be recognized accordingly. That remarkable suspension of disbelief exhibited by Foley's devoted admirers upon his successive appearances in the ring, portraying all three of his characters—that very acceptance was what I yearned for myself. I wished for individuals to acknowledge the diverse manifestations of my self-perception. Spectators vociferously acclaimed and applauded every iteration of Mick Foley, with each persona comfortably and acceptably coexisting. For me, he served as the initial paradigm illustrating the potential for identity to be multifaceted. Consequently, I am appreciative of professional wrestling—and, indeed, for its role in shaping my homosexual identity.