The Turkish oil wrestling circus came to an ancient town. A picnic field near the obscure and little excavated Lelegian city of Pedasa, high in the hills above Bodrum, hosted a greasy competition of brute force and suspect hand insertions. The ancient smack down imported by the nomadic Turks from the windswept steppes of Central Asia was staged by the lubed-up lads in lederhosen (or kisbets as they’re correctly called) with enthusiasm and grunting gusto. Getting a slippery grip on a marinated boy basting in the midday sun would challenge the most dedicated follower of a bit of rough and tumble. It was an all-family affair with drums, horns and B-B-Q chicken. I’ll leave the last word to a Bodrum Belle of our acquaintance who supplied the snaps.
“Fat men getting feisty in flora! I even caught them having a soapy shower behind the fire engine afterwards but you will see that, for most of them, the greasy glory days are sadly over. Have you and Liam never fancied cavorting in Castrol?”
The answer’s no. We leave the homoerotic horseplay to the hetties. They do it so much better.
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