Male

The promoter asks for your ring name. You tell him. You stifles a laugh as he looks you up and down. His eyes linger on your crotch as he wrinkles his face. “Rosy Boy, huh? Kind of lame, but it’ll do for now. We’ll think of a better one later.” He mocks with no regard for your feelings.

You change into your wrestling gear. “Is that what you’re wearing?” The promoter pipes up, peering from over his clipboard, eyes focusing on your rear. You nod sheepishly, troubled that you’ve managed to disappoint the promoter so soon. “That won’t do at all, not nearly sexy enough. Nobody’s gonna pay to see that.” He puts down your entire look before continuing, “Open up that locker there. That’s your new look.”

You think it’d be unwise to argue with the promoter before your first match, so you do what he says. You open the locker to find a small orange tiger-striped speedo. You’re unsure if you could even fit into it. “Trust me, it fits.” The promoter insists, grinning as he stares at your groin, “I’ve been in this business a long time. This’ll get over.”

You slip into the ill-fitting speedo, the outline of your package on full-display, feeling a little aroused because of his objectification of you. “Hehe, looking good sweet cheeks. We’ve got some great talent lined up for you.” The promoter gives you the rundown, “You’re not likely to win, but at least you’ll look good getting your butt kicked.” His insults arouse you further and you feel yourself getting a semi. He smirks when he notices before he continues, “I’ve got a good feeling about you. So much so, that I’ll even let you choose your first opponent.”