Another Greaser Challenge -

I

There was a short intermission of 15 minutes before the conclusion of the show, during which some of the audience members got up to stretch their legs, visit the rest-room or get some refreshments.

Meanwhile, members of the production crew cleared away the Pomade Factory and wheeled in a full-size wrestling ring to take its place, a giant orange tin of Murray's Superior printed in the center of the mat.

They rolled it over towards the Forfeit Station where Eros and Thorne still sat in their barber's chairs surrounded by the shredded remains of their own haircuts. The Stylist was stood behind Thorne casually caressing the top of the socialite's starkly bald head like some latter-day Barber of Babylon, the fingertips lightly, provocatively, brushing the top of the other man's hairless dome.

Sawyer looked across at Max, as if to speak, but before he could say anything another member of the production team escorted both men backstage to the wardrobe department. Minutes ticked by and audience members slowly started to return for the grand finale. The Stylist went to sit in the last of the three barber chairs at the Forfeit Station and waited for the contestants to reappear.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" boomed the announcer, "please welcome back our final two contestants, Max and Sawyer, as they prepare to enter the ring for an electrifying showdown!"

As the audience shouted and clapped in excitement, Max and Sawyer walked back on set and made their way towards the wrestling ring, the studio lights rebounding off their greased haircuts. They were now both dressed in figure-hugging wrestling singlets: Max in blue and Sawyer in red.

The Stylist loved seeing an attractive man in a wrestling outfit. It was both intensely masculine, accentuating as it did all the most erotic aspects of the male physique, yet it was also faintly ridiculous and absurd. Almost comical. And the examples worn that night by Sawyer and Max left nothing to the imagination, both men sporting extravagant bulges that outlined the heads of their tightly circumcised cocks and full, fat balls.

The Stylist knew that Sawyer had a girlfriend, Nancy, and that she was one of the reasons why he had applied to appear on the show. No doubt Sawyer saw the $10,000 cash prize as a lifeline, a chance to build a better future for himself and for his girl. Max though was apparently single, which the Stylist thought was a little surprising for a thirty-year-old stud in the prime of his life. But the Stylist had little doubt that Max, like all single men, was intimately acquainted with the regular pleasures of his own right hand.

With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, tufts of black fur just visible sprouting from his armpits, and with his muscular hairy legs and his vigorous manhood cocooned within its pouch, he really had been endowed with an impressive, virile beauty. And the crown jewel of his appearance was that thick mop of jet-black hair, tamed with Vaseline and moulded tight to his scalp from his forehead to the nape of his neck.

Max was an investment analyst but he'd recently screwed up, a mistake that had left him on the brink of financial ruin. He'd seen 'The Greaser Challenge' and its $10,000 prize as a chance at salvation, even if it meant the potential destruction of his beloved hair. It was a gamble, yes, to risk his virile good looks, but as he and Sawyer clambered into the ring he was still confident that he would be the last man standing with Sawyer's pompadour lying on the floor at his feet.

The announcer continued: "With their pride and pomade on the line, who will emerge victorious and claim the ultimate prize? And who will suffer the transformation of a lifetime and lose their handsome hair at the hands of our merciless Stylist!"

Max and Sawyer walked to the center of the ring where Wyatt, a fat ref wearing black slacks and a striped shirt, was waiting to relay the rules.

"Alright, gentlemen," growled Wyatt, "listen up. This is a non-standard wrestling match. So do what you want. The match ends with a pinfall or submission. Got it?"

Max and Sawyer stood in their corners, eyeing each other up from head to toe, waiting for the klaxon to signal the start of the match.

"The match will last ten minutes," declared the announcer. "If there's no clear winner at the end then the outcome with be judged by Wyatt! But gentlemen, a reminder should you need it, that the winner of tonight's wrestling match will not only win the $10,000 prize but will have the power to dictate the direction of the loser's new haircut, urging our Stylist to create the most outrageous, the most humiliating transformation possible!"

The audience roared its approval as the klaxon sounded to initiate the start of the match - Sawyer's splendidly oiled pomp or Max's petrolatum slick-back: one of them had an unavoidable appointment in the last of the three barber's chairs, but which would it be?

Max and Sawyer circled each other in the ring, both men aware of what was at stake. Physically, there was little to choose between the two. A similar height, both contestants were well-built with powerful, athletic physiques but Max was two years older than Sawyer, which perhaps swung the advantage in his favor.

Both contestants suddenly lunged forward and then they were grappling with each other as the audience roared its enthusiastic support. With the match lasting just ten minutes, there was very little time for either contestant to win, claim the prize and ensure that it was their opponent who got his precious hair wrecked.

Up until now, the most intimate physical contact Max had had with a man had been a firm handshake at the end of a business deal but here he was, Lycra-clad, wrestling with another guy who was at least as athletic and as beautiful as himself.

What Max felt, being in such close physical proximity to another virile male animal, wasn't arousal as such and if it was it certainly wasn't something Max would ever admit, least of all to himself. But writhing with Sawyer on the mat, man to man, aware of his opponent's muscles under his fingers, the unmistakeable brush of Sawyer's cock and balls against his thigh, the wiry nest of dark hair that grew in such seductive abundance from the greaser's sweating armpits, Max was also made vividly aware of his own masculinity, and his awareness of himself as a handsome man had always been a powerful aphrodisiac.

Ever since his body had passed through puberty and sprouted in all its hairy glory, Max had been in a monogamous relationship with his own masculine self. It was, I suppose, a sort of homo-narcissism.

He wasn't attracted to other men, at least not consciously, but he was intensely aroused by himself, by his own attractiveness as a male and to all his body's furry, manly signifiers - the stubble on his chin; the forest of dark pubes that curled around his cock; his thick black eyebrows; the hair on his arms, his chest, his legs; his hairy pits; and the thick locks that grew with such luxuriance on top of his head.

His apartment in Cherry Valley was a veritable temple of self-worship. He would lie in his bed, one hand caressing the fur on his chest or roaming deep within his curling thicket of pubic hair, the other languidly jacking his hard cock - or he'd stand in his bathroom, in front of the mirror, filling his hair with Vaseline, massaging it in like shampoo and then combing it through, staring at his hot and horny self as he masturbated, using the grease as lube, until he grunted out his copious creamy seed directly onto the reflection of his own handsome face.

If he had a fetish then it was only for himself and for the hair that declared his masculinity to the world.

With just three minutes to go there was still no obvious winner. Both men were sweating profusely under the hot studio lights, their carefully-styled haircuts now reduced to an oily dishevelled mess that hung down over their faces.

"90 seconds remaining!" declared the announcer.

And then in an unexpected move, born of desperation more than deliberate strategy, Max suddenly grabbed a handful of Sawyer's greased locks, his fingers sinking deep into the warm, slick hair, and then, with a forceful yank, he pulled Sawyer forward, slamming his head onto the mat.

The crowd, now on its feet, roared with shock and disapproval! - but the ref waved the match on regardless.

With the greaser now disorientated and facedown in the ring, Max lost no time in straddling him from behind, one knee either side of Sawyer's butt, his crotch pressed hard into the small of Sawyer's back. And then he slid both hands up the back of the other man's head, through the thick, dense, oiled locks, and made two fists with his fingers so both hands gripped tight in Sawyer's pomp.

Who was to say whether it wasn't simply the adrenaline of the moment but as Max luxuriated in the feel of another man's hair clenched in his hands he was overcome with a surge of almost erotic power, part triumph as he knew victory was almost his, and part dominance as he knew that with victory would come the opportunity to do whatever he wanted to Sawyer's good looks.

Again and again, Max bought Sawyer's head into contact with the mat, using Sawyer's own greaser haircut as the means by which the greaser would be subdued!

Stars spun in orbits before Sawyer's eyes! Oh fuck! He knew he was just seconds away from losing the match, losing the $10,000 and losing his follicular pride and joy.

The hours he'd spent crafting his pomp and the numerous visits he'd made to Greg's barbershop since he was a teenager... it all flashed before his eyes like the life of a drowning man. He felt Max's fingers tight in his hair and then with just seconds left, with an almost superhuman effort, Sawyer managed to twist from underneath Max causing his opponent's fingers to lose their grip in the greaser's slippery hair.

Taken by surprise, Max was left completely vulnerable as Sawyer knocked the man onto his back, using his knees to pin Max's wrists to the mat. Running both hands through Max's greased locks, his fingers slick with petroleum jelly, Sawyer held it in a vice-like grip, determined not to let go until the final klaxon sounded.

The crowd erupted into cheers as Sawyer held Max down by his own hair, the referee counting the seconds until the end of the match. Max struggled beneath Sawyer's weight, breathing furiously, shouting, thrashing with his legs, bucking his hips against the floor, but it was no use. Time had run out.

II

Sawyer stood facing the cheering audience, his arms aloft in victory. Max still lay prostrate on his back in the center of the wrestling ring, breathing heavily, his hands over his face. He'd lost the $10,000 and with it the chance of restoring his financial reputation. He'd gambled his handsome looks on winning and he'd lost.

He couldn't move so he just lay there, the palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. Then, he became dimly aware of footsteps amid the cheering, of the slight bounce of the mat as someone else climbed over the ropes and got into the ring.

There was a pause and then he felt it: the leather collar being placed around his neck, the buckle being fastened tight against his Adam's apple, followed by a metallic click as the leash was attached. He felt the Stylist tugging at the leash. Max rolled over onto his front and then levered himself up onto his hands and knees, his slick head hanging down between his broad shoulders, his thick, oiled hair, dishevelled, a black waterfall cascading over his forehead.

He felt the leash pulling at the collar again. He slowly got to his feet as the audience cheered and he let out what would prove to be the first of many long groans of dismay. He tipped his head back and bellowed at the studio lights.

"Oh my god, fuuuuck!!"

This was no language to be used in 1958, let alone in front of the television cameras, but the crowd of youthful onlookers just laughed and clapped, drunk on the expectation of seeing Max brought down to Earth. After all, which of us doesn't like seeing a cocky, handsome man temporarily knocked off his perch, radically plucked and deplumed?

With the Stylist leading the way, Max slowly clambered over the ropes and dropped down onto the studio floor with Sawyer following behind.

The Stylist, Max and Sawyer, both of whom were still wearing nothing but their skin-tight wrestling tunics, then walked the short distance to the Forfeit Station accompanied by the whoops and wolf whistles of the spectators.

Max groaned again as the Stylist pushed him into the last of the three red leather barber's chair, to take his place alongside Eros and Thorne. He looked across at Eros, at that epic, humiliating mustache, at the shining, sweating pale bald dome ringed with that risible fringe of slicked-back hair. He looked at Thorne, now freakish, almost sub-human, still sat in the chair bare-chested, his head, eyebrows and pits shaved completely smooth.

And now Max was to join them, the third exhibit in this spectacle of public embarrassment. He looked out into the expectant faces of the crowd and he knew they wanted to see him punished, to see him pay for the aggressive assault on Sawyer's greasy pomp. It had been a big mistake as it had achieved nothing except turn both the audience and Sawyer against him.

Sawyer...

Let us not be coy. Men like to fuck with each other, both literally and figuratively, and Sawyer would not be the first man to revel in the opportunity of wrecking another dude's hair, and god knows he would not be the last.

College dares, frat house hazing, stag night shenanigans, locker room horseplay, drunken sports bets with the winner wielding the clippers and razor - beneath the buddy back-slapping, the arm-punching and the bro-barbershop playtime, beneath the good-natured humor and the inevitable ridicule, maybe it's always about subjugation, humiliation and the perverse pleasure of being in control. Less perversion and more broversion.

As the Stylist knew only too well, you aren't just screwing with a dude's hair - you're fucking with his whole mind. Domination through man-on-man haircutting has long been a cornerstone of our culture, from army inductions to locker room pranks. Whether the antics are accompanied by a hard-on or not is almost irrelevant. An erection is merely what merely makes it a niche fetish but the power exchanges latent in nearly all male bonding rituals are both unavoidable and obvious, and they're just itching to be eroticized.

The Stylist slowly rotated the chair away from the audience so that Max was confronted with his own reflection in the mirror.

Sawyer had never fantasized about screwing with a stranger's look before but then it wasn't every day he got to play barber. And now as he stood behind Max, his hands resting on Max's broad shoulders, casually, as if they had long been the best of buddies, surveying the dishevelled black glory of the other man's beautiful head of hair, ripe for the taking, he found the sense of power intoxicating.

"Free rein!" remarked the Stylist enthusiastically, as much to the audience as to Sawyer. "The winner has free rein to alter the loser's appearance in any way he wants using all the tools at his disposal," and at this his gestured towards the vast array of barbering supplies that covered the counter.

Pulling the white cape out from the back of the chair, Sawyer shook it open and draped it around Max's body, leaving just his head and the bottom of his hairy legs exposed. Sawyer then retrieved a comb from the counter and used it to smooth back his own dishevelled locks. There wasn't time to re-mould his elaborate pompadour so this would have to suffice.

Free rein, he mused, as he slicked his hair back tight to his scalp. Free rein. And then, with a strange feeling of compulsion, he reached down and dragged the comb through Max's own hair, front to back, repeatedly and slowly, from his hairline to the nape of his neck, reinstating his opponent's former slicked-back style.

God, it was beautiful. Remarkably dense and black as jet, the hair on top must've been nearly five inches long and it shone with a brilliant luster that was almost indescribable. And the feeling of it under Sawyer's fingers... Touching his own hair was one thing but the sensation of another man's greased locks in his hands for the first time, the Vaseline now warmed by the studio lights and the man's own body heat... so soft and supple, almost like a living thing... The sheer intimacy of it took Sawyer completely by surprise.

Under normal circumstances, only two people ever get to touch a man's hair - his barber and his lover, and although Sawyer's role that night in the studio was the former, he couldn't help but experience some of the overwhelming sensations of the latter.

And as Max watched Sawyer play with his hair, he trembled in a sort of liminal zone that was part erotic anticipation and part existential dread. Every trip to his regular barber in Virginia Lane was a voyage of sensory delight, an opportunity to look lovingly at himself in the mirror as another man ran their fingers through his prized haircut. It was the sort of physical contact that made his heart sing and his cock throb.

Maybe it was nothing but pure muscle memory, but as Sawyer's fingers continued to comb, stroke and fondle his long, lank locks, and as he gazed upon his own manly reflection staring back at him through eyes half closed, Max felt his manhood stir and stiffen under the cape. The figure-hugging singlet prevented his eager barber-chair boner from reaching a full erection and so it was kept hot, contained and constrained, flat against his stomach, only half-hard but flexing and aching with pure desire.

"This grease," said Sawyer, lifting a thick lock up between his thumb and finger before letting it fall heavily back. "It needs to go. A clean slate." As the Stylist dutifully washed Max's hair with clarifying shampoo to remove the petroleum jelly, Sawyer wandered over to the counter and looked at the battery of barbering accessories.

Some many options... There was no question that this would be a revenge haircut and a punishment makeover, and that Max's hair would pay the full price both for him losing the final challenge and for his behavior in the wrestling ring. But what...

There were an almost infinite number of ways he could inflict maximum humiliation on Max by screwing with his hair. He could get the Stylist to drive the clippers straight down the middle, or do it himself, leaving a white path of clipper-shaved baldness gleaming among a sea of black. But that sort of sudden destruction was too easy, he decided. Too quick. The bitter memory of his head being dashed against the wrestling mat by his own hair was still fresh in his mind. He wanted to drag out Max's embarrassment for as long as possible with an end result that would turn his opponent's world upsidedown.

He watched the Stylist relather the wet hair with another big handful of clarifying shampoo before washing it out with warm water, repeating the process several times until Max's black hair was so clean it squeaked. As the last of the Vaseline swirled around the plug hole, the Stylist wrapped a towel around the unfortunate contestant's head and returned Max to an upright position in the chair.

While the Stylist was finishing off with Max, Sawyer picked up a couple of cardboard boxes from the counter. The first had a sort of piss-yellow label on the front and was optimistically called 'Belinda's Blessed Bleaching Agent'. He held it up so both Max and the onlookers could see the label. Sawyer then read from the back as the audience gasped in delight:

'Ladies! Want the man you love crawling at your feet? - Introducing Belinda's Blessed Bleaching Agent -- the secret weapon in your beauty arsenal! The triple-action peroxide formula will strip even the darkest hair of its natural color in record time. Your new bombshell blonde look will be guaranteed to turn his head and break his heart.'