Dykes Who Fight: Bunny’s Exclusive Behind The Scenes of Lesbian Oil Wrestling
Written by Leah (Bunny) Overstreet
Image courtesy of Tsega Seleshi
My bestie Dylan is humping me in a butter-churning position— with the back of my head and shoulders on the ground, my fish-netted feet planted behind my head, and my ass as high in the air as it can go. They thrust me into the slippery plastic of the kitty pool beneath us and the colosseum of lesbians goes wild— screaming their approval? Lust? Pure unadulterated joy? This move received a similar response from Dylan’s roommate when they watched us practice our routine in the living room. We’d spent several carpet-burning hours perfecting the transition from face riding to hair pulling to butter churning, mapping it all out on the big mirror in Dylan’s two bedroom apartment. Lez Get Physical— a lesbian oil wrestling event hosted by Zhané Stimpson and sponsored by that dating app FEELD—had been a mutual obsession of ours ever since we sat in the splash zone at its first iteration. We’d been desperate to get in that ring, as I think nearly every oil wrestling spectator is, and now—in this club venue turned arena—we were living the dream.
BTS shot of our match planned on my bathroom mirror
Dylan and I grunted instructions under our breath as we rolled back and forth, reminding each other when we’re meant to feign scissoring and when I’m supposed to climb on top and mock riding Dylan’s face with enough theatrics for a Razzy Award (at least). Our movements are much sloppier than we could have anticipated, sloshing around in the vegetable oil. I try to remember to serve face, arch my back, and not crack my skull on the hard cement beneath us. In all honesty, we had preplanned the outcome, knowing that I wouldn’t stand a chance in an actual brawl. We’d brunched about this at length, between sorting out costumes, props, and our wrestler backstories and we knew I wasn’t bringing anyone to their knees who didn’t want to be there. Hell, even fighting with Dylan required a generous suspension of disbelief from the audience since he could flick me and I’d break more than just a nail. But, luckily, everyone seemed all too happy to play along— oo-ing and aah-ing at all the right moments, gasping and screaming when I gave Dylan a reach around“ foot job” before pulling a rabbit vibrator from the crotch of his wrestling singlet and forcing him to fellate it/me.
Image courtesy of Courtney Harris
I’m relieved that we seem to remember all of our moves and try my best to lose two out of three preplanned matches with enough flair to cement me in the wet dreams of the collective dyke psyche. The goal was not to win but rather to be sexy enough that my lack of athletic ability was forgotten in favor of my killer ass and perky tits. This performance is a personal ad in Bushwick’s metaphorical newspaper:“ High-femme sex siren seeks worthy dyke to do THIS to her.” As long as I put on a show and thoroughly spread the good news that Dylan and I were not sleeping together nor interested in doing so, I should theoretically be swimming in pussy for the rest of my days— shamelessly riding the wave of celesbian stardom like a briefly relevant child actor.
However, we seemed to accomplish this a little too well, and my weak femme theatrics accidentally snagged me a win. We’d assumed that the best two out of three would make the winner obvious but hadn’t realized it would be put to an audience vote and sort of just be based on vibes. Alas a naked femme bouncing on it craaaaaazy style is going to win everytime… And so, naked and afraid, I was thrown to the wolves for a few more rounds of rubbing fronts before eventually being defeated by the darling of the original Lez Get Physical and co-producer of the event— PEACHES AND CREAM!!! (aka Grace Cardozo). Peaches and her very… cheeky stage presence had all of our jaws glued to the floor and had more than a few howling for the chance to get pinned by her in the ring. Getting to wrestle Peaches made me feel like a Make A Wish Kid and I was essentially just fangirling all over the ring and absolutely beside myself with delight to get beat up by the baddie of all baddies.
Image courtesy of Courtney Harris
For the second Lez Get Physical we’d decided to apply with different wrestling partners— Dylan with his 40-year-old piercing mentor/friend and me with the boy-girlfriend I’d snagged between the last wrestle and now. Although, technically speaking, the boy-girlfriend in question was snagged during a wet t-shirt contest triple feature during the last week of Pride and then properly domesticated and monogamized sometime between oil wrestles. Getting to wrestle with them was a field day for both of our Leo Venuses; however, the prep beforehand definitely risked straining our marriage. To put it bluntly, I had to hold myself back from becoming a raging, controlling bitch. For my first Lez Get Physical I’d had nearly 3 weeks to prep after being selected and for this one we were given just 5 days (including game day). And me being me, I felt the need to hover and help my boy-girlfriend through every step of the process, from filling out the Google Forms application with a WWE-esque wrestler intro (complete with catchphrases and signature moves) to sorting out outfits, to trying to choreograph as much as we could the day of. It was definitely hectic but still a hell of a lot of fun, and not just because we kept pausing practice to make out. It was certainly one hell of a hard launch to a very supportive crowd of friends, strangers, exes, exes’ exes, and exes’ exes’ exes. Unsurprisingly, Dylan and their wrestling partner dazzled the crowd with a full cheer routine, various Looney Tunes-esque stunts, and a never ending assortment of whips, handcuffs, double ended dildos, and packers, oh my!
For Dylan and I, these lesbian spectacles have sort of become our thing ever since I rode their face in order to win“ Breast In Show” at the previously-mentioned wet t-shirt contest/top surgery fundraiser. We like to joke that we’ve been on“ tour” ever since, having done 3 wet t-shirt contests, 2 oil wrestles, 1 butter wrestle, and 1 pumpkin gut wrestle as of writing this.
Image courtesy of Courtney Harris
I’m not sure why these competitions have such a grip on lesbians: wrestling in every substance known to man (oil, soap, butter, jello, mud, etc), performative masc contests, performative femme contests, Corky lookalike contests, Shane lookalike contests, pie eating contests, arm wrestling contests, the list of spectacle goes on and on. Perhaps the children long for live theater that serves no greater purpose beyond being sexy and worth talking about the next morning. Perhaps we just need a framework for our horniness, an excuse to touch each other without the intimidating pressure of cruising in a dark room. Kudos to our gay brothers for their straightforwardness but lesbians seem to thrive in plausible deniability. Oh no, I’m not here to window shop for my next 8-month situationship, I’m watching for the plot!
Whatever the scientific reason, it’s undeniable that lesbians love a silly little activity to break the ice. We crave the modern (and less problematic) equivalent of a flogging in the town square! We need something to gather about, something that uproots us from our wallflower perches in bars and crams us— shoulder to shoulder, hooting and hollering— at the same exhibition of fun. Whether it’s a figure drawing class or an oil wrestle, I truly think these honest to God ACTIVITIES are going to help the dykes fall in love again. At least, it sure as hell is working for me.
