“Valley!” drag king Mauro Cuchi shouts into the microphone. “That!” the crowd roared back. A spotlight shines on two glistening bodies facing off on the wrestling mat, each scantily clad and struggling to overpower the other during a takedown. But just when one manages to outdo the other, they start kissing aggressively.
The packed crowd screams. The ground trembles underfoot. Some spectators fan themselves because of the sudden rise in temperature in the room.
This isn’t your typical wrestling tournament, this is T-Boy Wrestling, an event bringing together over 30 queer and trans people eager to showcase their queer athleticism in all its absurdity and excitement. Hosted by the social group Trans Dudes of LA, the event – one of the first of its kind in Los Angeles – sold out more than 500 seats inside the Silverlake Independent Jewish Community Center while an additional 500 viewers watched it. watched live on Twitch.
That night, the community center’s dark gymnasium transforms into a makeshift fighting ring lined with pink, blue and white trans pride flags and fiery flames projected onto the wall.
Mauro Cuchi, the announcer of the event, greets the wrestlers.
“It’s great. It’s a bit unbalanced. I love it,” says James Nicolai, an audience member who arrived with a friend without either of them knowing any of the amateur wrestlers on the roster. “It’s just beautiful to see all the different ways you can be trans and non-binary, and just be in a space where we don’t have to hide who we are and we can be celebrated.”
Not all wrestlers identify as men. Some have had surgery, some have not. Some are on testosterone. Others have no intention of starting hormone replacement therapy. But in T-Boy Wrestling, all expressions of trans masculinity are welcome to compete on the mat.
“Skinny white trans guys are all you see when you watch the media,” says Adam Bandrowski, 24, who started Trans Dudes of LA a little over a year ago when he noted a lack of representation. He and co-organizer Mich Miller stand out in the crowd in their ironically formal black tuxedos with ties that spell out the acronym “TDLA.”
Their goal for T-Boy Wrestling has been to highlight a broad idea of trans masculinity that includes people who are still figuring out their relationship to gender. “Come see what you identify with,” Bandrowski says. “If it helps you understand each other, we’re happy.”
Trans men and transmasculine people are redefining masculinity
Piranha, the adult creator of Frolic and Frot, is performing a drag show at the event.
In Los Angeles, one of the queerest cities in the United States, there are surprisingly few spaces where transmasculine individuals can find solidarity and community. For some, trying to fit into queer spaces after transitioning can be an isolating experience once they start passing as male.
“In general, people can’t necessarily look at me and know that I’m trans,” says Devyn Payne, jumping rope outside to warm up before her match. It’s different now for him to walk into LGBTQ+ rooms where lesbians might read him as straight or gay men might not recognize him as trans.
“Passing as a black man, my experience has been different in sapphic spaces…I don’t necessarily feel welcomed (anymore).”
The 27-year-old used to wrestle competitively in high school, but three years after coming out as trans, he’s now rediscovering his joy in the sport and reconnecting with the queer community in a different way — tonight by wrestling against another trans man in a neon green Jock strap under the alter ego “T-Payne”.
Wrestlers Devyn Payne “T Payne,” bottom, and Sara Ambra “Saralita” compete in the Trans Dudes of LA T-Boy Wrestling event.
“Before attending my first Trans Dudes of LA event, I had no trans male friends,” Payne says. “I can’t necessarily relate to (cisgender men). So it’s great to have people I can talk to about testosterone changes.
Each match takes place in three parts in one-minute rounds, with the pairs aiming to dominate the other partner and force both of their shoulders to the ground.
But each performance also brings unexpected theatricality: gratuitous twerking; a prosthetic leg has become a weapon of improvisation; whipped cream pie smashed against face; a banana ripped from boxers, peeled and eaten in front of an admiring audience.
“Knuck if you Buck” blares in the background as two competitors overlap each other on the mat. The energy often changes in a matter of seconds when wrestlers may rock gently and then suddenly strike their opponent. The referees whistle above the commotion and dramatically slap the ground after a takedown.
Landon St. James “Chaos King” eliminates August Rain with a kissing pin at the Trans Dudes of LA “T Boy Wrestling” event.
The uniqueness of this type of event has drawn people from all over Southern California, even from the historically conservative South Orange County. Young adults Micah Slentz and Bonnie Miles of Aliso Viejo drove five hours just to see wrestling.
“At first we didn’t think it was real,” says Miles, 19, whose black T-shirt was bleached to read “Slut Punk.”
Why were they so determined to attend despite their initial doubts? “I love trans boys,” says Slentz, 18, who sent a Facetime call to his partner to get them to watch the game. “I’m dating one.”
In this room full of transgender people, the weight of a gender binary disappears. Masculinity becomes a matter of play, a performance to be bent and broken. People dressed for the part exude the homoeroticism of “Brokeback Mountain,” another couple roleplay construction workers in a BDSM scene in which a plastic hammer is shoved into the mouth.
Cal Dobbs, dressed for the role of tournament judge, wears a white wig reminiscent of the founding fathers and a thong under his black robe. (“RBG, classic sex symbol,” Dobbs explained of her sartorial inspiration from the late Supreme Court justice.)
“Trans men and trans masculine people are redefining masculinity,” says the 27-year-old, who was the first trans person to run across the American continent. “(Wrestling) is a hyper-masculine sport, (but the competitors) bring an element of humor, romance and kindness to it that makes everyone feel really comfortable and safe.”
The jury presents their scores during the Trans Dudes of LA T-Boy Wrestling event.
It is not lost on Dobbs that this moment of joy is also taking place against a backdrop of intense discrimination against the transgender community, in a year when a record number of laws have been proposed. restrict access to gender-affirming care.
For Dobbs, joy and trans representation in a space like this can be a powerful weapon against this hatred. “(Republicans) are afraid of us because we’re too sexy,” Dobbs says. “Scientifically, trans masculine and trans men have better butts than cisgender men… as professional judges, we looked at everyone’s butts.”
Preparation is important, but improvisation is the key to winning
In the weeks leading up to the big show, Elías Naranjo and Arón Sánchez-Vidal had practiced their wrestling routine every week for a month, familiarizing themselves with consent and boundaries to ensure they wouldn’t get hurt.
“I would ask them, ‘Is it okay if we kiss?’ Is it okay if I come and pick you up and scold you?
And he said, ‘Yes, I’m open to that,'” Naranjo said. But there, the two men also decided to improvise while Sánchez-Vidal got his dose of testosterone on the wrestling mat – a moment that was greeted with thunderous applause.
Both men entered the ring waving Mexican and Peruvian flags, dressed as vaqueros. “EL VAQUERO… STR8 4 PAY?” read a sign that Sánchez-Vidal’s girlfriend had made to encourage her partner.
“There’s so much about being brown and trans and queer,” Naranjo says. “We want to introduce ourselves and take up space…we are Peruvian, sexy and trans.” The two men won the title of best partner, sharing a $150 cash prize at the end of the tournament.
Inclusion was at the forefront of co-organizers Miller and Bandrowski’s minds when planning this event. They prepared over 200 hot dogs to feed their hungry fans, a hot and intense playlist to rally their attendees, and hired ASL interpreters to make the event accessible to deaf members of the queer community. It was their biggest event yet.
Participants gather outside between rounds during the Trans Dudes of LA T-Boy Wrestling event at the Hollywood Los Feliz Jewish Community Center.
Miller, 31, who runs Print Shop LA, a collaborative printmaking studio, first heard about Trans Dudes of LA after seeing a Sunset Boulevard event flyer that Bandrowski had posted. Since then, their partnership has blossomed as Miller has occasionally offered space for events and Bandrowski, an illustrator, has designed event flyers.
“Our age difference plays a really big role,” Miller says of their and Bandrowski’s ability to attract both Gen Z and queer millennials to their events. “We are both artists who have an affinity for the absurd and the zany, and who heal each other through play.”
Bandrowski and Miller hope to replicate the success of their event when they resume it in March 2025 and eventually propel T-Boy Wrestling worldwide. They are working on an independent LLC for Trans Dudes of LA and are open to sponsorships to fund more ambitious projects. But Miller says the goal is always to stay true to T-Boy Wrestling’s DIY and punk roots.
“We don’t need him to be super polished,” says Miller. “We want it to be a little raw. We never did this to make money. It’s more about activating the money we make to keep doing cool things and paying ourselves to be able to keep doing it and paying other creators.
Eli Wenzell lies down on the mat after the competition.
As for the palpable attraction of T4T on the mat? It’s real, Miller said. Beyond trans sisterhood, people also discover romance at their events.
“Two of the wrestlers got together,” Miller says. “And I’m sure there are other things we don’t even know about.”
By the end of the night, the carpet was wiped clean on this debauched affair. No matter who was stuck and thrown, the event was a victory for trans representation and joy.
