First, let’s talk numbers. The event raised $727,000 for the Berkeley Shore General Hospital Cancer Ward. That’s a lot of money for a lot of mostly-naked touching. The crowd was standing room only, with some enterprising students actually bringing stepladders to see over the masses. Security confiscated most of them, but I admire the dedication.
Now, onto the performances themselves. I’ll rate each on a scale of 1-10 thongs, because why not lean into the theme?
Oliver Jacoby & Kyle Graham: 7.5/10 thongs
Oliver approached this assignment the same way he approaches hockey—with technical precision and zero shame. Kyle, bless his perpetually angry heart, looked like he wanted to kill everyone for the first five minutes. But then something shifted. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was Oliver’s hands on his notoriously flexible body, but Kyle melted like ice cream in August. By the end, they were moving together with a synchronicity that spoke to hours of…let’s call it “practice.” Points deducted for Kyle’s death glare at the audience and Oliver’s decision to pull his thong deeper between his cheeks (we get it, you have a great ass).
Gerard Gunnarson & Nathan Paisley: 9/10 thongs
Sweet mother of Swedish meatballs,thiswas a revelation. Gerard, as expected, treated his thong like a beloved friend, utterly comfortable with approximately 0.5% of his body being covered. Nathan, on the other hand, started the performance as if he might have a heart attack from embarrassment. But here’s where it gets interesting—the moment Gerard’s paint-covered hands touched Nathan’s skin, our nervous freshman transformed. I’ve never seen someone go from “please kill me” to “please never stop touching me” so fast. The way Nathan painted Gerard’s legendary glutes wasn’t just thorough—it was worshipful. And when he gave that first spank? The entire audience gasped. Gerard’s delighted wiggle in response nearly caused a riot. Points deducted only because Nathan passed out when Gerard bent over to get more paint, ending what could have been a showstopper.
The Rugby Boys: 6/10 thongs
Creative? Yes. Artistic? Debatable. Appropriate? Absolutely not. Three of them lost their thongs “accidentally,” and one pair tried to spell out “GO BARRACUDAS” with paint on each other’s backs. Points for enthusiasm, points deducted for making security work overtime.
The Baseball Team: 5/10 thongs
They tried to incorporate batting stances into their routine. It didn’t work. Moving on.
Drew Larney & Jackson Monroe: 10/10 thongs (would give 11 if possible)
And here we have it, folks. The performance that launched a thousand rockets and flooded a thousand basements. Where do I even begin?
Drew and Jackson didn’t perform—they came alive. From the moment Drew dropped to his knees and started painting Jackson from the feet up, it was clear we were witnessing something beyond performance art. This was intimacy laid bare, desire made visible, two people forgetting that hundreds of eyes were watching them.
The paint became secondary to the touching. Every caress was deliberate, every stroke of color a declaration. When Drew slapped those golden handprints onto Jackson’s ass, I nearly wept. When Jackson retaliated by sliding his entire body against Drew’s back? Pure pornography masquerading as art.
But it was the moments between the big gestures that really sold it. The way Drew called Jackson “baby” (yes, we could read lips). The way Jackson’s hands trembled when he traced Drew’s abs. The whispered conversation that ended with Jackson sliding down the glass, leaving that now-iconichandprint.
Most telling, though, was what happened when the music ended. Every other pair immediately separated, reaching for towels, remembering they had an audience. Drew and Jackson? They stayed pressed together for a full thirty seconds, foreheads touching, breathing each other’s air, lost in their own glass bubble.
I started this whole Drew/Jackson investigation convinced it was fake. A convenient arrangement, a mutual beard situation, a performance for my benefit. But tonight, I watched two men nearly orgasm from paint and proximity alone. I watched them whisper promises that made my lip-reading skills earn their keep. I watched them leave together, Jackson in Drew’s hockey jacket, paint still visible on their necks, walking so close they kept bumping into each other.
Yet therein lies the problem: I still don’t have concrete proof. Photos of them leaving together? Could be explained away. The intensity of their performance? Could be really good acting. The way Drew looked at Jackson like he wanted to devour him whole? Could be…no, actually, that one’s pretty hard to explain away.
I need more. And I know exactly how to get it. But that’s a story for Spring Break.
Oh, you thought I was going to reveal my master plan now? Please. I’m the Ice Queen. I don’t give away all my secrets at once. Just know that when school lets out for a week of debauchery and poor decisions, I’ll have everything I need to say once and for all whether Berkeley Shore’s newest power couple is the real deal.
Until then, I’m going offline. Yes, you read that correctly. The Ice Queen is taking a break. A hiatus. A sabbatical from stalking hockey players and their potentially fake/potentially real boyfriends. Try not to miss me too much.
And Drew? Jackson? Make the most of it. Because when I come back, all your secrets will be mine.
Until next time,
Ice Queen skating off!
The instant my post is published, my laptop pings with notifications. I ignore them all. Let them speculate. Let them wonder. Let them panic about what I have up my sleeve for Spring Break.
Because I meant what I said. Drew and Jackson might think they’re safe. They might think they can keep playing this game of “are they or aren’t they?”
But the Ice Queen always gets her truth.
Always.
PART IV
APRIL
