T-Boy Wrestling is a sizzling showcase of trans masculinity — sweat, twerking and all

“Dale!” drag king Mauro Cuchi shouts into the mic. “Eso!” the crowd roars back. A spotlight shines on two glistening bodies facing off on the wrestling mat, each scantily clad and grappling to subdue the other in a takedown. But just as one manages to top the other, they start aggressively making out.

The packed crowd hollers. The ground shakes from stomping feet. Some audience members fan themselves from the sudden rise in temperature in the room.

Not your typical wrestling tournament, this is T-Boy Wrestling, an event featuring a lineup of more than 30 queer and trans people eager to show off their homo-athleticism in all its unadulterated absurdity and horniness. Hosted by social group Trans Dudes of LA, the event — one of the first of its kind in L.A. — sold over 500 seats inside the Silverlake Independent Jewish Community Center while an additional 500 viewers watch via live stream on Twitch.

On this night, the community center’s dimmed gymnasium is transformed into a makeshift fight ring lined with pink, blue and white trans pride flags and fiery flames projected onto the wall.

“It’s awesome. It’s a little unhinged. 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 seeing all the different types of ways that you can be trans and nonbinary, and just be in a space we don’t have to hide who we are and we can be celebrated.”

Not every wrestler identifies as a man. Some have had top surgery, others haven’t. Some are on testosterone. Others have no intention of starting hormone replacement therapy. But at T-Boy Wrestling, all expressions of trans masculinity are welcome to tussle on the mat.

“White skinny trans dudes, it’s all you see when you look at the media,” says Adam Bandrowski, 24, who started Trans Dudes of LA a little over a year ago when he saw a dearth of representation. He and his 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 an expansive 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 figure yourself out, we are happy.”

Trans men and trans masculine people are redefining masculinity

In Los Angeles, one of the queerest cities in the United States, there are surprisingly few spaces where trans masculine individuals can find solidarity and community. For some, trying to fit into queer spaces after transitioning can be an isolating experience once they start to pass as men.

“In general, people can’t necessarily look at me and know that I’m trans,” says Devyn Payne, jumping rope outside to warm up ahead of his match. It’s now different for him to enter LGBTQ+ rooms where lesbians might read him as a straight man 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 is now rediscovering his joy in the sport and reconnecting with the queer community in a different way — tonight by wrestling another trans man in a neon green jock strap under the alter ego “T-Payne.”

“Before I went to my first Trans Dudes of LA event, I had no trans men friends,” Payne says. “I can’t necessarily relate to [cisgender men]. So it’s great to have people who I can talk about the changes of being on testosterone.”

Each match unfolds as a three-part act in one-minute rounds, with the goal of the pairs to dominate the other partner and force both of their shoulders onto the ground.

But every performance also brings unexpected campy theatrics: gratuitous twerking; a prosthetic leg became an improvisational weapon; a whipped cream pie was smashed against the face; a banana pulled out of boxers, peeled and eaten in front of an adulatory audience.

“Knuck if you Buck” blasts in the background as a pair of competitors straddle each other on the mat. The energy often shifts within seconds as wrestlers might cradle each other gently and then suddenly body slam their opponent. Referees whistle above the commotion, dramatically slapping the floor after a takedown.

The singularity of this type of event has drawn people from all over Southern California, even historically conservative South Orange County. Young adults Micah Slentz and Bonnie Miles of Aliso Viejo drove five hours just to see the wrestling.

“We didn’t think it was real in the first place,” says Miles, 19, whose black T-shirt was bleached to read “Slut Punk.”

Why were they so committed to attend despite their initial doubts? “I love trans boys,” says Slentz, 18, who had Facetimed his partner to dial them into watching the match. “I’m dating one.”

In this room full of transgender people, the weight of a gender binary disappears. Masculinity becomes play material, a performance to bend and break. People dressed for the part exude “Brokeback Mountain” homo-eroticism, another pair act out a construction worker role-play in a BDSM scene in which a plastic hammer is shoved in the mouth.

Cal Dobbs, dressed for the part as a judge for the tournament, wears a white wig reminiscent of the founding fathers and a thong under his black robes. (“RBG, classic sex symbol,” Dobbs explained of his costume 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 transcontinental United States. “[Wrestling] is a hyper masculine sport, [but the competitors] bring an element of humor and romance and cuteness to it that makes everyone feel really comfy and safe.”

It isn’t lost on Dobbs that this moment of joy is also set against a backdrop of intense discrimination against the transgender community in a year when a record-breaking amount of legislation has been proposed to restrict access to gender-affirming care.

To Dobbs, trans joy and representation in a space like this can be a potent weapon against that hate. “[Republicans] are scared of us because we’re too sexy,” says Dobbs. “Scientifically, trans masculine and trans men have better butts than cisgender men … as professional judges, we’ve been looking at everyone’s butt.”

Preparation is important, but improvisation is key to winning

In the weeks leading up to the big performance, Elías Naranjo and Arón Sánchez-Vidal had practiced their wrestling routine weekly for a month, familiarizing themselves with consent and boundaries to make sure they wouldn’t hurt each other.

“I was asking them, ‘Is it OK if we kiss? Is it OK if I pick you up and grind on you?’

And he was like, ‘Yeah, I’m open to it,’ ” says Naranjo. But on the spot the two also decided to improvise as Sánchez-Vidal took their testosterone shot on the wrestling mat — a moment met with thunderous applause.

The two 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 cheer on her partner.

“There’s so much in being brown and trans and queer,” says Naranjo. “We want to show up and take up space … we’re Peruvian, hot and trans.” The two won best partners, splitting a $150 cash prize at the end of the tournament.

Inclusiveness was on the forefront of co-organizers Miller and Bandrowski’s minds as they planned this event. They prepped over 200 hot dogs to feed their hungry fans, a hot and heavy playlist to rally their attendees, and hired ASL interpreters to make the event accessible for deaf members of the queer community. This was their biggest event yet.

Miller, 31, who runs the Print Shop LA, a collaborative print-making studio, first heard of Trans Dudes of LA after seeing an event flier on Sunset Boulevard that Bandrowski had posted. Since then, their partnership has blossomed as Miller has at times offered space for events and Bandrowski, an illustrator, has designed event fliers.

“Our age difference plays really well into it,” says Miller of their and Bandrowski’s ability to draw both Gen Z and millennial queers to their events. “We’re both artists who have an affinity for the absurd and for goofy, healing each other through play.”

Bandrowski and Miller hope to replicate the success of their event when they reprise it in March 2025 and eventually take T-Boy Wrestling worldwide. They’re 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 still to remain true to T-Boy Wrestling’s DIY and punk roots.

“We don’t need it to be super polished,” Miller says. “We want it to be kind of raw. We were never doing this to make money. It’s more about activating the money that we’re making to continue on doing cool stuff and pay ourselves so that we can keep doing it and pay other creators.”

As for the palpable T4T attraction on the mat? It’s real, Miller says. Beyond trans brotherhood, people are also finding romance at their events.

“Two of the wrestlers have gotten together,” says Miller. “And I’m sure there’s more we don’t even know about.”

At the end of the night, the mat has been wiped down of the bawdy affair. No matter who was pinned down and tossed, the event was a win for trans representation and joy.