Several days later, a manila envelope arrived in the dented aluminum grid outside of his apartment building. It contained some necessary paperwork, release forms, the tedious roadblocks that tended to stand between him and the fun part. He was very familiar with it. He filled out all of the little required boxes with a chewed-up ballpoint pen, wearing only a pair of jeans in the unbearable summer heat.

It also provided him with a set of guidelines for the upcoming shoot. Most of them were standards he already knew: remember to sell hard, keep up the trash talk, don't be afraid to work a little stiff if it's agreed upon by both parties. There were several new ones, though.

Bridge every move possible.

Low blows encouraged.

Fight dirty. Real dirty.

Jon looked over the list with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. None of this was at all difficult to accomplish. In fact, some of these techniques were ones he employed regularly, being the natural heel that he was. This was sounding easier and easier by the minute. Hell, he might even enjoy himself.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched, his long, muscular back making a short series of cracking sounds. A grunt of relief jumped out of his throat as he looked down at his pale, flat stomach and tight chest. He never considered himself to have particularly exceptional looks, but he could at least be confident that he had a body that a lot of men could envy.

It came to his mind that there would be people inclined to masturbate to the match he was about to have. Well, obviously. As unconventional as it was, it was still porn. But he hadn't really given much thought to the sort of people who would be watching him. Probably mostly men. He didn't mind that so much. But maybe some women, too. Maybe even some hot women. Maybe some hot men.

Mox was far too laid back to have identity crises. If somebody did it for him, that was it. There wasn't much of a question after that.

With the paperwork complete, a page of handwritten directions, and his jockstrap tucked safely away in his underwear drawer, he threw on a tank top and baseball cap, and headed out.

Upon entering and getting his paperwork signed off and confirmed, they explained the premise of the match. He, Jon, was to utterly dominate the match against a smaller guy that hadn't yet arrived. He was to do his best submission holds and keep them going for longer than usual. Punish him, mock him, be disrespectful and vulgar. Don't just win – humiliate him. He was then given a very small pair of shiny black wrestling trunks and directed to the locker room.

Jon smiled to himself as he stripped off his shirt, jeans, and boxers. He was instructed to wear nothing under the trunks, and if they were a little too small? Good. He slipped them on and over his crotch and ass, finding that they, indeed, were a bit too small. He felt the trunks digging into his ass cheeks, the bottom of them exposed. His crotch was barely contained, and extremely visible because of it.

He looked in the mirror, his shoulders looking even wider than usual due to the small and slimming nature of the trunks.

"They expect me to wrestle in these?" he asked himself.

Someone else answered.

"Believe me, they're way better than the tights," came a voice echoing from the door.

Jon looked towards the source and found a young, slim-built man around his age. Skin light brown, hair long, wavy and black, a stubble on his strong chin. His eyes were large, brown, and expressive, his nose long, his mouth curled into a confident smile. The youth dropped his duffel bag on the bench next to Jon's and started stripping off his Black Flag t-shirt.

His body was rather well-muscled, tight, but slender. He had enough muscle mass to pass as a wrestler, but he was far smaller than Moxley.

"Lemme guess," Jon began, pulling his boots out of his bag. "That's what you get to wear."

The stranger produced a ridiculous pair of bright blue tights and shrugged. "Everybody's gotta eat. Sometimes you gotta wear the tights to get paid." He put them down and offered a hand. "Tyler Black. What do they call you around here?"

"Moxley. Well, Jon. Either's fine with me." He shook his hand and then sat down to slip on his kneepads. He grinned. "You the twink I'm supposed to punish today?"

The other man gave a rather loud chuckle and unzipped his jeans. "Yeah, that's me. They like me for it 'cuz I got the long hair. Guess that makes you the hoss, right?" Tyler stripped off his jeans and underwear in one smooth motion.

Jon kept his eyes at the same level as Tyler's. Most of the time. "Yup. I suppose. Speaking of..." It seemed proper etiquette to ask before they got into the ring. "You work stiff?"

Tyler shrugged, pulling up the tights with a fair amount of effort over his small, perky ass. "When the mood strikes me, yeah. You want to?"

"Whenever I can." He started lacing up his boots and grinned at his opponent. "Promise I won't hurt your pretty little head, though, I know what I'm doing."

Tyler grinned back with equal confidence. "I'm not worried about my head. I can give as hard as I can take, you know."

Oooh. Jon was even more intrigued than he was before he'd arrived. Not just with the company, but with this man. A scoffing chuckle flew out of his throat. "You know we're not actually going to fuck, right?"

"I know that!" Tyler laughed back, somewhat defensively. "Geez, I figured we were just jokin' around."

"We are, don't worry," Moxley retorted, standing up. "See your pretty head in the ring." He walked out.

This Tyler Black wasn't just attractive, there was something about him that was very interesting. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe they were alike in some intangible way. Or maybe Jon was just eager to get started pulling that pretty hair of his.