Crowd Pleaser


My first thought upon seeing a promotional poster for Wrestling with Pride was how much I was desperate to see Zip Zarella (2017 Debut of the Year winner) and Elite Eliot square off against one another with a crowd of horny gays cheering them on. I knew from social media and the BG East Arena galleries that the homoerotic wrestling gods heard my prayers and pitted these two gorgeous pros against one another at Wilton Manors. Therefore I nearly blew a gasket under the rising pressure in my crotch as I waited for BGE’s insta-release of the Wrestling with Pride matches for catalog 126 to arrive in my mailbox, barely a couple of weeks after the live show.

Leather cub Elite Eliot

I’ve got so much to say about all of the matches, but I confess that I started by cuing up Zip and Eliot, so I’ll start my obsession with Wrestling with Pride there. Although this is the first glimpse we’ve had of Eliot wrestling under the BGE banner, this stunningly handsome blond beefcake has made a name for himself among the homoerotic wrestling crowd at W4H. The production quality is higher for the Wrestling with Pride DVD than Eliot’s matches that I’ve streamed on W4H, and I have to say I am just that much more impressed with (aka turn on by) him. He struts out from backstage in dayglow pink trunks and a leather cub black vest.

Eliot Eliot invites the gay fans to appreciate his muscles

Eliot’s ass is EPICALLY magnificent. He knows his audience, pausing just as he starts to make a move to remove his vest, playfully building tension as we all hold our breath waiting to see his muscled torso laid bare.  There are woots of appreciation, but I am yet again cursing the fates that prevented me from being there for the live show, because Eliot’s physique deserves a whole lot more loving than what the boys at Wilton Manors gave him. I’m crushing hard on his new, colorful tats. His touch o’ honey tan is perfection with his blond head of hair and all of those ripped muscles.

Zip wants to sink his teeth into his competition

In this match, Zip is transparently the heel. He arrives with his hot body almost entirely covered in a black cape, as the ring announcer explains that Zip is convinced that he’s a vampire from Transylvania. This is homoerotic wrestling, though, so the fans aren’t shy about giving Zip at least his share of the love as he does a Stevie Nicks spin in the middle of the ring before taking off the cape. Obviously, Zip knows his audience, as well. He bounces his gorgeously tatted pecs at his opponent provocatively. The crowd signals their approval. “Hell yeah,” Zip smirks at how being appreciated for being so bad feels so good. “What you got,” he questions his opponent’s aesthetic appeal.

Action so close you could taste it

So, of course I’m hard before there’s barely a hint of wrestling. I’ve begged for more openly homoerotic wrestling fare in front of an audience. The gay gaze, the call and response with the crowd, it all kicks a hot match-up like this into overdrive. Unlike in a straight-up pro match, everyone in the room knows that these fans are turned on by what they see. They beg openly for a pose off before things get too serious, because they just want to savor the sight of these young, hot muscles. And they want to interact with these fantasy hunks. They want Zip and Eliot to respond to their hoots and hollers. They want them to acknowledge that they know that they’re being sexually objectified. These two stunning athletes wrestle in indy pro rings all the time in traditionally homophobic contexts, but here and now, this is so sensationally gay.

Like Eliot, I simply can’t believe the ref won’t grab that ass

Heels at BG East tend to always have a home field advantage. And I have extensively documented just how much of a fan I am of Zip Zarella. But even as the ref is checking the combatants for any illicit tricks or cheats, Eliot earns my (and I believe, the crowd’s) status as sentimental favorite. The ref pats Eliot down at the hips. He checks each white boot for any hidden weapons. And as the ref starts to walk away satisfied, Eliot turns his sensational bubble-butt toward him and insists that the ref confirm that he’s not hiding any unfair advantage in the back of his trunks. When the son-of-a-bitch ref balks (what THE FUCK is your problem, ref!?!), Eliot bends over, shoving his ass the ref’s way and demanding that the official put his hands on one of the hottest set of cheeks I’ve ever seen (seriously, KK, watch your back!).

A move reminiscent of my favorite live wrestling event, Wrestlefest 2 (Rochelle vs. Donovan)
Proving the point that pro wrestling refs are absolutely useless, the ref does not follow Eliot’s instruction to cop a feel. But Eliot’s all-in, unblinking commitment to the homoerotic moment makes me foreswear my longstanding, slack jawed infatuation with Zip and start screaming at my screen significantly louder than any Wilton Manors fans for #TeamEliteEliot.

Zip works over the fan favorite

Eliot further evidences his understanding of his audience by demanding that they decide, “Who’s got the better body?” Zip and he take turns showing off a double bicep pose for applause. It’s hard to tell on the DVD, but the fans seem pretty evenly divided in their enthusiasm. I give the edge to Eliot’s lickable muscles, but that’s just me. Zip suggests an archer pose flex-off to settle the tie, but when it’s Eliot’s turn, Zip delivers a forearm smash to the back of the head. Because he’s a bad ass cheater who likes to suck the bodily fluids (reportedly, blood) from his victims.

Eliot poses for a fan

The wrestling veers into comic relief at times, which breaks the mood here on my end of the screen, but appears to be thoroughly enjoyed by the cheering fans in the seats at ringside. Zip repeatedly flees the ring and sprints through the audience to escape Eliot’s determined rage pointed his direction. The chase scenes go on a tad too long, with too much ham. At one point, Zip “hides” in a seat next to the luckiest fucker on the planet who happened to plant his ass next to the open chair. Eliot can’t find him for a few seconds. It’s hijinks. It’s silliness. Despite the proximity, STILL no one thinks to check the back of Eliot’s trunks for weapons.

Face plants so hard they make Zip’s ass cheeks quiver

The action in the ring is too brief, but tasty. Zip tries an elbow drop as a sucker shot to Eliot’s back as the babyface starts to follow him back into the ring. Eliot demonstrates that he has both the brains and the brawn, ducking out of the way and letting Zip’s offense backfire on him. The best action sequence for my tastes happens when Eliot grabs a handful of Zip’s long locks and face plants him repeatedly into a turnbuckle to knock the pretty off of his babyboy face. The crowd joins in the count. It’s vicious and humiliating. But what makes this my favorite moment is watching Zip’s beautiful butt shimmy and quiver each time his face makes impact with the turnbuckle. Seriously, this has got to be a leading contender for best camera work of 2018.

Eliot abuses Zip’s ass often

My second favorite action sequence involves two series of loud, echoing, cracking slaps that Eliot delivers to Zip’s clenched ass cheeks. The spanking somehow redeems the somewhat juvenile silliness elsewhere in the match. It feels a little like Zip overplayed the suspension of disbelief, and Eliot’s stinging cracks on his ass are the suitable punishment. And, who the fuck am I kidding? I fucking LOVE seeing Eliot repeatedly put his hands on his opponent’s ample, athletic ass cheeks.

“Zip sucks! Zip sucks!” the crowd cheers the vampire.

Eliot’s straight legged high kick boot to the face when Zip comes sprinting off of the ropes is my third favorite moment in the action. There are a couple of reversals of fortune after that bone crunching impact, but that’s really the move that sells the finisher for me. When Kid Leopard made the ring introductions, he reported that Zip had a 35 pound (or so) weight advantage over Eliot, which I can pretty much believe. But Eliot’s standing boot heel to the chin drives home the point he’s been making all along. On this night, in front of this crowd, competing for the Pride Center, Elite Eliot is the stronger, faster, and smarter hunk in the ring.

Crotch-tingling, hip swiveling double bicep pose

I have no idea what either Zip or Eliot’s sexual orientation is, and, to be clear, there’s no explicit sexual heat exchanged between them (well, other than Eliot’s delight and spanking Zip’s ass). But for earnestly insisting that the ref examine his ass, and for that profoundly sexy go-go boy hip swivel and double bicep pose combination, I am hereby issuing Elite Eliot his honorary gay card, which he can redeem for unlimited free drinks at my local Pride festival, and a two-handed ass cheek examination from this blogger anytime (and everytime).


New Kid

I’m often off script. I misread babyfaces as heels. I’m distracted by the dialogue and overlook the plot. I key off on embellishments and fail to appreciate the fundamentals that make a wrestling match solid. I’m sure that’s what happened when I watched Leopard’s Lair 6.

KL pulls out “the good stuff” to gear up Blaine Janus

The fundamental facts of LL6 are abundantly apparent. First of all, titular Kid Leopard makes an appearance, and nothing signals imminent danger quite like having The Boss get personally involved. KL arrives ringside to personally task Jonny Firestorm with helping Blaine Janus successfully transition from a mat wrestling standout to a serious ring wrestler. The wheels within wheels are clearly spinning. “You be nice to our nice Canadian friend here,” The Boss shoves a finger in Jonny’s face emphatically. “Show him some moves, how to take bumps, how to use the ropes, the usual corner to corner stuff.”

Blaine has never looked tastier!

Blaine looks just about the prettiest I’ve ever seen him. He’s beautifully tanned and sensationally fit. The Boss picks out the perfect pair of baby blue trunks to bring out the Canadian beauty’a icy eyes. In contract, Jonny’s unfamiliarity with a razor and his bear daddy belly serve the same purpose as those magnificent baby blue trunks. Blaine is just that much prettier, that much more aesthetically perfected, his lean, smooth, coverboy torso that much hotter for the contrast to Jonny’s slipshod personal grooming and over-indulgence at Dunks. Without question, there’s a game afoot as KL gives Blaine white wrestling boots that were apparently, previously promised to go to Jonny. But then, The Boss turns to Blaine and ominously promises that Jonny will take good care of him. “Aren’t you Jonny,” KL asks his favorite choreboy, “you’re going to take real good care of him!”

“I seem to be a fast learner, eh?”

So the moving parts are rife with drama and suspense. When Jonny starts to show Blaine some pro moves, the Canadian dazzler is a quick study. Too quick, perhaps. When it’s Blaine’s turn to give the moves a try, he rapidly masters them and adds a little gratuitous improv. “I seem to be a fast learner, eh?” Blaine congratulates himself for making Jonny whimper in a demonstration camel clutch. The suspense builds as we are led to anticipate the first diabolical reveal of this match: is Blaine a ringer who will deliver the shocking break-up message that I’ve long suspected The Boss has written to Jonny, or is Jonny yet again KL’s tool to crush the ego and dreams of another would-be babyface hero?

“Are you going to put this in our repertoire of moves,” Blaine asks.

The tutorial busts out into all out brutality soon enough, which is no surprise. Blaine uses all of those sun-kissed muscles to put some sweet, uncharacteristic hurt on BGE’s recently dethroned Top Heel. The scoop slam prelude to a leg nelson pin is enough to make me believe that KL has been coaching Blaine in private in order to kick his lazy choreboy to the curb.

The tug of fate

But alas, now on full alert, Jonny mounts a comeback and fucks Blaine over. And over. And over.  Jonny’s single leg crab and ball claw chaser makes Blaine scream in submission repeatedly. Jonny is the sadistic crowd pleaser once again by ripping Blaine’s baby blue trunks off, shoving them down his throat, and then wedging the Canuck’s tight white undagear super high up his beautifully bronzed ass cheeks. Most of the match is essentially an upperclassman squash as darling Blaine is sorely abused, and disabused of the notion that he could replace Jonny as KL’s new favorite. The submissions are uncountable and largely ignored. Jonny isn’t satisfied until he’s knocked Blaine out cold with a DDT and then dragged him weeping back to consciousness with a whimpering ball claw.

“I told you to teach him, not to kill him, for Christ’s sake!”

The second, upfront fundamentally sensational plot point happens when The Boss arrives back at the ring room. “Jonny, what the fuck have you done? I told you to teach him, not to kill him, for Christ’s sake!” KL looks royally pissed off. Jonny looks seriously nervous. Blaine looks quietly relieved. When The Boss climbs into the ring, there’s a rising certainty that senior level violence is about to bust out, and by the look of panic in Jonny’s eyes, he’s clearly wondering if he’s finally disobeyed his master one too many times.

“I hope it wasn’t too intense for you.”

KL coddles Blaine, gently helping the wasted beauty up off the mat. “I hope it wasn’t too intense for you,” he consoles the Canadian’s bruised ego. Sensing his favored status in serious jeopardy, Jonny yanks on Blaine’s shocking blond hair in preparation for another beatdown, but The Boss smacks him away angrily. “Cut it out, for Christ’s sakes!” KL reprimands his unsettled choreboy. “I don’t want you to do stuff like that.” The Boss pulls Blaine away protectively.

“Cut it out!”

“That’s for me to do!” KL snaps with his infamously evil grin. In a flash, he bulldogs the dazed pretty boy, knocking Blaine out cold face first into the mat. It’s so sweet. The suspense is relieved in a rush of sadistic pleasure. Jonny retains his ambivalent hold on the position of The Boss’ favorite choreboy heel. Their two twisted souls savor the delight of lording over another exposed, overly ambitious, would-be rock star broken into beautiful pieces at their feet.

“That’s for me to do!”

That’s the story, really. And it’s lush and masterfully told. It’s paradigmatically Leopard’s Lair material. As I look back, I can only admire the sly subtleties with which they have toyed with my expectations and taunted my secret longings. But that’s not what I saw the first time I watched Leopard’s Lair 6.

Blaine brought a boy toy with him.

Rewind the tape back to the beginning, when Kid Leopard strolls into the ring room with Blaine, barking orders at Jonny. Walking in the room behind them is, unremarked upon, Rafael Valmor, shirtless and in long shorts and a cap.  When KL walks Blaine over to the corner of the room to hand pick the tastiest gear for him, Blaine playfully punches at Rafael’s washboard abs. There is, for the briefest moment, a wink and smile exchanged between Blaine and Rafael. It’s intimate and blindly trusting. Although left completely unexplained, I can see no other explanation than that at some point after Rafael scored a sensational debut upset in his Undagear 18 match with Blaine, the lingering, sweat soaked victory kiss Rafael planted on Blaine blossomed into off camera romance.

The start of the romance?

After KL has selected Blaine’s gear and instructed Jonny to take real good care of Blaine, The Boss makes his exit from the ring room mysteriously explaining, “I have my own project to attend to.” With a commanding lift of the chin toward Rafael, KL asks, “Are you ready punk?” With that sensational earnestness that has made me a Rafael fanatic from the start, he enthusiastically replies, “Yeah,” and follows the Boss out of the ring room to leave his boyfriend to contend with the bear daddy choreboy.

I’m clearly not the only one who fell instantly in lust with Rafael’s ass.

It’s scraps, I know. It’s barely interpretable as innuendo. I’m supplying a lion’s share of the details to connect these dots, but holy fuck, when Rafael turns his back to the camera and follows The Boss, his magnificent ass steals the show.

“Come on in here kid, and let me show you something.”

Push fast forward again. Jonny has brutalized Blaine. The Boss has feigned concern, only to DDT the Canuck out cold. Jonny is literally applauding Kid Leopard’s double cross (triple cross? just cross?). “Come on in here, kid,” The Boss calls to Rafael who has followed in to stand ringside. “Let me show you something,” KL beckons to him. What the fuck is going through Rafael’s head at that moment!? I’m completely infatuated with this, of all the moments in this match. The suspense-laden plot to this point fades in comparison to my anticipation of what Rafael Valmor is about to experience, as he steps into the ring to see up close what’s become of his boyfriend. Is Rafael about to be treated to the same fate? Is The Boss’ obvious lustful attention driven by how tasty Rafael’s ass is, or by KL’s insatiable hunger to fuck up pretty boys?

“You can have the honor…”

“You can have the honor of pinning him,” KL offers Rafael, pointing at his slumbering, defeated Prince Valiant at their feet. The bright, eager smile on Rafael’s gorgeous face makes my cock swell with excitement. He looks like he just laid eyes on the presents under the tree in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

“Let’s record this for posterity.”

“No!” Jonny interrupts insistently. Again, this secondary (tertiary? primary?) plot thickens with suspense as all of Jonny’s hard work appears to be handed over to a beautiful bon bon who was literally not even in the room, much less lifted a finger to earn the victory. Then, with a smile, Jonny suggests that The Boss yank the long shorts off of Rafael, and so permit his newest pet the privilege of planting that mouthwatering ass of his on his boyfriend’s face wearing nothing but lilac briefs.

Welcome to the family, Rafael.

Honestly, during my first read through of this match, what finally topped me off was watching Rafael drop to his knees, mounted triumphantly across his (let’s face it, former-) boyfriend’s chest, and flex his pretty little baseball biceps as Jonny slaps down a three-count pin for him. The Boss is snapping photos of the scene from every angle, capturing that delicious moment when a smolderingly sexy pretty boy betrays his hot bodied lover without hesitation.

What’s love got to do with it?

Rafael fucking gets into it! He punches Blaine in the gut. He gets up and plants a socked foot across his ex-lover’s face humiliatingly, smiling for the camera as Jonny joins in with a boot pressing into Blaine’s crotch. “Oh,” Kid Leopard groans with pleasure from behind the camera, “you boys make me proud!”

Employees of the Month

Rafael isn’t credited as a wrestler in Leopard’s Lair 6, but fuck it all if he doesn’t, actually, score the final, decisive pin fall. He’s on camera for all of about 2 and a half minutes, but here I am, obsessing about his appearance in this tale of sick and twisted fate. I want to know what, exactly, KL was doing with Rafael during those 20 minutes that his boyfriend was getting royally fucked up by Jonny. Was is physical seduction? Were there promises made to prime Rafael to smile so brightly as he dropped his impeccable ass down across his boyfriend’s chest and sucker punched him?  Based on all TWO of his matches to date (which add up to an undefeated 3-0 record at this point), I’m entirely ready to believe that Rafael Valmor could very well be as turned on as the rest of us are by the homoeroticism of wrestling, which could easily make him the perfect, imprintable, insatiable consort to the Emperor of Agony himself.

Kid Valmor?!

I know, I know. I’ve clearly missed the point of Leopard’s Lair 6. But the lingering thought that leaves me hard is whether or not we will get to enjoy more of this gorgeous bon bon that The Boss so suggestively refers to as “Kid.”

Olympic Spirit

“Last call, bitches!” Johnny Weir barks into the microphone, standing spotlighted in the middle of the ring. “Our final match of this, the first evening of competition features a 5’10” and 198 pound stud from Coventry, England.  The 29 year-old goes by The Deliverer to his fans, but he’s going home empty handed unless he can claim the belt in this competition. Welcome to the ring Joel ‘Be Afraid’ Fearon!”


The crowd roars to life as Joel sprints from backstage, flying down the aisle, and diving under the bottom rope to slide into the ring. Wearing black ultra briefs and black boots, he jumps to his feet and climbs the turnbuckle, flexing for the screaming fans. He mimes placing the championship belt across his washboard abs.

“His opponent is 25 years old, hailing from Sydney, Australia. At 5’9″ and 205 pounds, his friends call him Haydos, but you’re going to just know him as Mr. Banana Hammock. Welcome to the ring Hayden… Smith!”


The Aussie bobsledder bursts out from behind the curtain bouncing on the balls of his bare feet. Wearing his signature swimwear in banana yellow, his ample package bounces in the designer pouch. He jogs at a leisurely pace down the aisle, hopping gingerly up to the ring apron to give the fans a full view of his beefy, hairy legs and muscled ass. He’s barefoot, with a sun-kissed tan beneath his lightly hairy pecs. After he ducks through the ropes, his eyes slowly wander up and down the glistening, smooth muscles of his massively built opponent. Hayden’s right hand absent-mindedly slides down his own washboard abs, following his furry happy trail until his fingers wrap firmly around his package and shift the ballast.


Referee Jake Dalton calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring as Johnny Weir stands very close behind, reaching around to hold the microphone for him. “All right gentlemen, you know the rules.” Joel and Hayden stare blankly into each other’s eyes, their massive pecs almost touching. “Advance to the next round with a 10-count non-response, a submission, or a 3-count pin,” the ref explains. “Do what it takes, or just go home!” Hayden and Joel back their way to opposite corners as Johnny retreats from the ring. The ref signals, and the bell rings twice.

The battling bobsledders start to circle cautiously. Deliberately, they spiral to the center of the ring and lock tightly into a collar and elbow position. Both heavily muscled men push and pull, testing strength and balance. With a grunt, the Aussie yanks hard, pulling Joel off balance enough to clamp a bulging side headlock on and back the Englishman into the ropes. Two astonishingly fast knee lifts pound viciously into Joel’s muscle-armored lower abdomen. Winded by the blows, Joel doesn’t mount a defense as Hayden pulls him away from the ropes and delivers a lightning quick suplex. The Aussie bounces off the mat in an instant, smiling, calculating, allowing Joel to more slowly peel his throbbing lower back up and into a low, defensive crouch. Again, absentmindedly, Hayden rearranges his bouncing package.

Once again they circle briefly before colliding into another collar and elbow lock up. Another contest of power and balance ensues, but comes to an abrupt end when Joel stomps the heel of his black boot viciously into his opponent’s naked toes. Hayden yelps in pain, pulling his injured foot off the mat. Instantly, Joel dives forward, clotheslining his hobbled opponent across the chest. Hayden slams to his back with a loud bang. Quickly, Joel mounts him in a schoolboy pin, yanking on the back of Hayden’s head to smother the Aussie’s face in his crotch. The crowd applauds appreciatively.

Joel tilts to the side and extends his gargantuan, smooth thighs, sucking the Aussie into  smothering face-to-crotch headscissors. The English hunk laces his ankles together and leans back on his left elbow, treating the fans to a cocky, celebratory right bicep flex. A first trickle of sweat beads down the deep valley between the black bobsledder’s massive pecs.

Most of Hayden’s face is buried between his opponent’s inner thighs clamped around his head, but nearby fans can hear his grunts as the Aussie pulls himself up to his knees, lifting his opponent’s hips off the mat. Joel arches his lower back, evoking a sharp gasp of pain as he crushes Hayden’s skull with a fraction more pressure. However, the fierce Aussie drives forward, rolling Joel to his shoulders.  The ref is on his knees nearby, but as Joel grasps his opponent’s head in both hands, his shoulders pull forward out of the pin. Hayden’s huge, hairy thighs quiver with power as he presses forward, folding his opponent in half, still struggling for air with his mouth and nose buried deep. Suddenly, the Aussie pulls his left leg back, arching his lower back, flexing his magnificently meaty glutes, before swinging a sharp, pounding knee into Joel’s exposed lower back.

The Englishman’s face twists in pain as a shocked grunt escapes his clenched jaw. His headscissors pop open, and instantly Hayden slides around, hooking Joel’s left leg and planting the Banana Hammock logo printed across his ass on Joel’s gaping face. Folded over, with Hayden sitting on his face, Joel’s shoulders are squarely pinned to the mat as the ref suddenly slaps his hand down. “One!” The Aussie smiles, as the ref pauses, and then slaps his hand down again. “Two!” As the ref lifts his hand and pauses briefly, Joel kicks hard with his free leg, dislodging his opponent just enough to pry his right shoulder off the mat and break the count.

Frustrated, Hayden captures Joel’s free leg, hooking both ankles under his armpits and leaning backward, completely smothering the Englishman’s face up his crack. The ref slaps the mat again. “One!” With a primal grunt, Joel flexes his world class hamstrings and ripped abdominal muscles, irresistibly pulling his opponent forward, off his face, and sending Hayden somersaulting head over heels and sliding under the ropes, halfway onto the ring apron.

Both wrestlers scramble to their feet quickly, but Hayden is half a step quicker. Just as Joel pulls himself off his knees, the Aussie’s right knee connects with a sickening crack across his opponent’s right cheek. Joel is flung back to the mat, clutching his face and groaning. Hayden doesn’t skip a beat, grabbing the Englishman by his right wrist and dragging him dazedly to his feet. Extending the captured arm locked straight, Hayden twists on the wrist, forcing Joel bent forward with a sharp scream of pain. In one, smooth motion, the Aussie steps over his opponent’s shoulder and leans his ass down onto Joel’s shoulder blade. Pulling viciously backward on his fingers, Hayden locks his hairy thighs around Joel’s captured arm and steadily increases the pressure threatening to snap his opponent at both the elbow and wrist. The ref drops to one knee next to Joel’s face and asks if he’s ready to submit. Joel waves him away, not trusting himself to open his mouth to respond verbally.

Hayden cranks on the pump handle for over a minute, drawing out anguished screams of agony but no submission. Finally, stepping back over the tortured arm, the Aussie gives it a violent twist. With his ligaments and tendons on the verge of snapping, Joel flips in mid-air, falling with a wet slap to his sweaty back. A half a second later, Hayden is pinning Joel’s arm to the mat, doing a handstand over top of him before powerfully driving his right knee into Joel’s quivering bicep.

The Aussie climbs off. Joel rolls to his side, defensively clutching his assaulted arm hanging uselessly from his shoulder socket. With the wind at his back, Hayden indulges in a few seconds to catch his breath. Joel hasn’t even begun to pull himself off the mat, though, when the Aussie grabs him by his right wrist again and drags him to his feet mercilessly. An Irish whip sends the English hunk sprinting into and then bouncing off of the ropes. Leaping astonishingly high, Hayden’s flatfooted standing drop kick places the balls of his bare feet bashing brutally into his opponent’s collar bones. Even as Joel’s lower body continues its forward momentum, his upper body is violently flung backward, slamming him hard to his upper back. Sensing the Aussie building up a head of steam, the crowd begins to pulse with excitement, calling for a finisher.

Joel valiantly pries himself off the mat, shaking his head and cradling his injured arm to his side. As he pulls himself up to his hands and knees, Hayden darts behind him, leaping to stand poised on the top turnbuckle like the figurehead at the prow of the ship. Joel is oblivious to his opponent’s whereabouts as he weakly pulls himself up to his feet. As Joel turns slowly around, looking for the danger he can sense from the rising shouts of anticipation from the crowd, Hayden walks across the top rope with perfect balance, leaping high and landing a soaring, barefoot drop kick to Joel’s chin. The Englishman is lifted off his feet and sent flying backward, landing in a heap in a corner.

Hayden indulges in a quick victory lap, pumping his fists over head and soaking in the adoration from the bleachers. Sweat glistens across his world class muscles, underneath the blond hair on his legs and torso. He smiles brightly, coming to a halt directly in front of his opponent, seated dumbly with his lower back propped up against the bottom turnbuckle.

Hayden reaches down and grabs Joel’s face in both hands, pulling him out of the corner and off his ass. Suddenly he freezes. A squeal of pain is ripped from the Aussie’s pursed lips. The crowd hushes as Joel climbs to his feet, the fingers of his left hand wrapped around his opponent’s balls and twisting viciously. Joel flexes his massive, veiny arm muscles, making Hayden rise to the balls of his feet and whimper, tears streaming from his eyes. As the Aussie fights crippling panic, Joel catches his breath, regaining his composure. He windmills his right arm gingerly, working out soreness and reassuring himself that there are no serious injuries.

Joel backs the Aussie all the way across the ring to the opposite corner. Hayden gasps in surprise when his lower back contacts the turnbuckle. Releasing the ball claw, Joel smoothly twists and drops to one knee, grabbing his opponent’s head from across his bulging shoulder and delivering a snap mare, slamming Hayden’s back into the middle of the ring. Hayden starts to roll to one side defensively, but Joel grabs the Aussie’s ankles and climbs to his feet. Hayden begs like a bitch, “No-no-no-no, please,” as his opponent pries his thickly muscled, hairy legs wide apart. Gingerly, at first, Joel places the heel of his right boot on top of his opponent’s balls. “Please, no, please!” Hayden cries, holding the palms of his hands up in supplication. Joel looks up from his opponent, peering into the bleachers, his head tilted slightly to ask the crowd’s opinion. A raucous chorus of screams erupt. The pleas of mercy for the Aussie’s pendulous balls are indistinguishable from the appeals to crush the pretty boy’s testicles. Joel’s eyes return to his opponent’s pleading face beneath him. With a smile, the Englishman’s lifts his boot briefly before stomping his heel down hard.

Joel flings Hayden’s ankles away. The Aussie curls into the fetal position his hands clutching his throbbing crotch. The English beefcake stomps his boot heels into his opponent’s wide, muscled back, into his huge, hairy thighs, into the back of his head. Hayden writhes and spasms in response to each brutal strike. Dropping into a schoolboy position, Joel pins Hayden’s shoulders underneath his knees and jabs hard punches into the Aussie’s tear-streaked face. Sweat glistens across the English stud’s gloriously thick pecs. Hayden’s face grows slack, clearly losing his hold on conscious thought.

Joel straddles his opponent on his hands and knees, looking down at the Aussie’s battered face with pleasure. Crawling backward down his opponent’s supine body, the Englishman hooks his fingers into the top of Hayden’s Banana Hammock and drags the trunks down Hayden’s legs. The Aussie’s lush, thick cock wags side to side and his mammoth balls tense as Joel strips him naked.

The crowd is nearly apoplectic with pleasure and anticipation. Joel climbs to his feet, twirling the yellow trunks over head teasingly before flinging them into the bleachers to inspire a collateral fight among the fans. Another lap around the Aussie’s naked body gives the Englishman the breather he needs to bend forward and drag Hayden’s limp, muscled body off the mat. Squatting low, Joel hoists his naked opponent across his huge shoulders in a torture rack. Pulling on Hayden’s chin with his left hand and clawing his huge balls away from his body with his right hand, Joel shakes and bounces him across his back until the ref confirms the Aussie’s screams of anguished submission.

The bell rings three times signaling the end of the match as the crowd roars their approval. Joel leaves his vanquished opponent draped across his magnificently muscled shoulders as he allows the ref to hoist his right hand upward in victory.


Round 1:

Steve Langton (USA) def Jesse Lumsden (CAN)

Pita Taufatofua (TON) def Chris Mazdzer (USA)

Sven Kramer (NLD)  def Denny Morrison (CAN)

Joel Fearon (GBR) def Hayden Smith (AUS)

Olympic Spirit

The spotlight snaps on yet again to find ring announcer Johnny Weir in the middle of the ring with the microphone in hand.  “Put your hands on your zippers and prepare yourselves for our next match! First, from Fort St. John, British Columbia, he’s 32 years old.  He weighs 176 pounds at an even 6-foot tall. Welcome to the ring Dudley Do-Right himself, Canada’s pretty boy, Denny… Morrison!”


A spotlight illuminates the parting curtains as Denny struts through, pumping his fists and smiling confidently in response to the roar of the crowd. Suddenly sprinting, he bounds up to the ring apron in one long leap, revealing his tight, red and blue briefs emblazoned with the Superman symbol across his crotch. His huge, speed skater legs sport red knee pads and shiny, white wrestling boots laced to his upper shins.

“Denny’s opponent is 31 years old. At 6’2″ tall and 183 pounds, hailing from Heerenveen, Netherlands, this Flying Dutchman is leaving these Olympics with gold, but it’s yet to be seen if he’ll have the title belt around his waist as the 2018 Olympic Wrestling Champ. Pay respect to bulletproof Sven… Kramer!”


Sven parts the curtains and strides to the ring without taking his eyes off of his opponent as the fans cheer. Climbing up to the ring apron, the Dutchman sports bright orange square cuts trunks and tall black boots. Momentarily, the wrestlers arrive in the middle of the ring to receive their instructions from Jake Dalton, the ref, as Johnny leans close to hold the microphone for Jake. Suddenly, Sven grabs Denny by the back of the neck and jabs a vicious knee into the Canadian’s gut. Johnny screams and flees the ring as the ref signals for the bell and overlooks the premature blow. Even as Denny is bent forward still sucking on air, Sven yanks him by his right wrist, sending the Canadian sprinting into and bouncing off the ropes. Sven’s outstretched arm clotheslines Denny across the throat, slamming the shocked skater to his back.  As Denny clutches his throat and gasps for air, kicking the mat to shock himself back to his senses, Sven kneels behind him, pulling him up by his neck to a seated position. Denny’s jaw drops in shock as he feels the Dutchman’s long, right arm lock tight across his throat with a rear naked choke. Denny’s fingers clutch at the forearm pressing against his windpipe. Sven shakes him violently side to side, and then presses his lips against the Canadian’s left earlobe. Denny’s eyes widen in shock as he feels his opponent’s tongue flicker into his ear.

Sven pulls himself up to his feet, dragging Denny in the rear naked choke with him. Slowly, the Dutchman presses his opponent forward into a corner, banging Denny’s chest into the top turnbuckle hard. Swiftly, Sven releases the choke and grabs the ropes on either side of the turnbuckle, pulling on them violently as he drives his right shoulder into Denny’s lower back. Denny’s screams of pain are echoed in random, excited responses from the crowds in the shadows, variously shouting encouragement to one or the other wrestler.

When a third shoulder block to the lower back makes Denny’s knees buckle, Sven drops to one knee, bending his opponent backward, trapping his throat in his armpit in a dragon sleeper. The Dutchman’s fans momentarily grow louder, but a quiet hush falls over the crowd as Sven stretches the palm of his free hand down the length of Denny’s washboard abs laid out before him. Slowly, Sven stretches his arm to its fullest extent, sliding his fingertips inside the tops of Denny’s trunks. A groan of panicked excitement comes muffled from the struggling Canadian as the Superman logo on Denny’s pouch undulates with Sven’s hand manipulating his swelling cock.  Denny’s hands grasp at his tormentor’s wrist, but don’t really make an effort to pull Sven’s hand away.

When Sven finally pulls his hand out, Denny’s trunks are tented dramatically with the Canadian’s erection. Suddenly, Sven shoves his opponent off his knee and stands up, sending Danny slamming to his back with a shocked whimper. The ref moves in to check if Denny is conscious, but Sven shoves him away. Grabbing Denny by both wrists, he drags the dazed Olympian to the middle of the ring and drops to his knees, straddling Denny’s face, staring down his supine body. Crawling forward on his hands, Sven stretches his long, powerful body overtop of his opponent’s, swiveling his hips and grinding his package into the Canadian’s gasping face. His face inches from Denny’s crotch, Sven wraps his right hand around his opponent’s twitching cock through the fabric of his trunks. Tenderly at first, the Dutchman strokes the meat, eliciting more muffled groans from Denny’s face trapped deep in Sven’s crotch. Denny’s hips start to rise, bucking slowly in time with his opponent’s rhythm as Sven begins to roughly throttle his rod. A precum stain darkens the fabric stretched across the swollen cock head.

Sensing his opponent approaching orgasm, Sven abruptly climbs off and stands, straddling Denny’s head and staring down into his dazed face. A hush falls over the crowd. “Submit to me!” Sven shouts loudly, lacing his long fingers behind his head and hypnotically swinging his hips side to side. The look of longing on Denny’s face draws the ref close, his ear poised inches from the Canadian’s slack lips.

Slowly an angry fire rises behind Denny’s eyes. He suddenly rolls to his side as he grabs his opponent’s right ankle and yanks Sven’s legs out from underneath him. Sven drops to his ass even as Denny climbs to his feet, forcefully twisting on the Dutchman’s ankle and stepping over the captured leg. Hooking Sven’s right foot under his armpit, Denny squats low, leaning backward and cinching tight a single leg crab. Sven shouts in pain and pounds his right fist against the mat in frustration. The crowd breaks out into applause, appreciating the gut check reversal of fortune.

The ref asks if Sven want to submit. “Fuck you!” Sven snaps back. Denny leans backward, pulling with his free hand on Sven’s knee to crank up the pressure. Sven screams in pain. Shouts of encouragement distributed equally for the two wrestlers start to rise from the bleachers. Denny finally cracks a smile, catching his breath and riding the advantage hard.

Finally, Denny stands up, pulling his opponent’s ankle up with him. The Canadian’s stained, tented pouch bounces excitedly. Violently, he drives the captured leg down, pounding Sven’s knee viciously into the mat. Sven cries out in pain, cradling his injured knee to his chest as Denny steps away. Hands on his hips, the Canadian makes a slow circuit around his opponent, stomping bitingly into random exposed body parts, making the Dutchman spasm and flinch.

With Sven’s cries still echoing through the hushed auditorium, Denny bends low and drags his opponent up off the mat by his neck. Hooking the Dutchman’s head underneath his left arm, Denny reaches down Sven’s back and grabs a handful of the back of Sven’s orange trunks. Squatting low, with a grunt, Denny yanks his opponent off his feet. Arching backward, he suplexes Sven, violently pounding the Dutchman’s lower back to the mat. While Denny climbs back to his feet, Sven bridges high off the mat, his right hand clutching at his throbbing coccyx.

Again, Denny yanks his opponent off the mat by his neck. He shoves Sven in the chest, sending him stumbling backward and then bouncing back off of the ropes. Denny scoops him up in his arms, lifting the Dutchman off his feet and twisting, power slamming him to his back. The crowd roars approval as Denny climbs back to his feet, waving to the stands in acknowledgment, his raging erection bigger than ever.

Cleary winded, but buoyed by the whiff of imminent victory, Denny drags his writhing opponent off the mat once again. Again, he shoves him in the chest. Sven catapults off the ropes and finds himself immediately scooped up in a bearhug. Denny’s fists grind into the Dutchman’s battered lower back, crushing Sven’s lean torso. The Canadian powerfully hoists the bearhug high. Sven screams in pain, his knees instinctively lifting and squeezing his tormentor’s hips to alleviate a fraction of the pressure. Denny’s straining pouch juts out prominently from between his opponent’s ass cheeks. Reflexively, the Canadian’s hips pump forward, pressing his swollen cock head up against the base of Sven’s balls.

The ref starts to move forward to assess the Dutchman’s resolve, but stops in his tracks when he sees Sven grab Denny’s face in both hands and lock lips. Denny’s eyes close as he opens wide, his opponent’s tongue flickering inside his mouth. The Dutchman’s lips press persistently, making Denny’s head slowly lean backward. Distracted, Denny’s bearhug lightens, allowing Sven to straighten his legs, his toes sliding down to reach the mat. The Dutchman flexes his world class quads, trapping Denny’s raging erection tightly.

A look of desperation fills Denny’s face as he eyes flutter open. Suddenly his arms are limp at his sides, and it’s Sven’s arms now locked around his waist. Denny’s knees buckle, but his cock, pinned between his opponent’s monster quads, and Sven’s firm, but not punishing arms holding him up. Denny’s fans scream for him to come to his senses, but Sven’s lips hold his sagging opponent under his spell.

Slowly, Sven presses Denny’s back against the ropes. Instinctively, the Canadian’s arms brace themselves across the top rope as Sven releases his embrace. Their lips part with a wet pop. The Dutchman yanks upward on the middle rope, trapping his opponent’s arms. Stepping backward, Sven watches Denny sag. The Canadian’s jaw hangs open hungrily as tears stream down his cheeks.

Sven steps through the ropes to stand on the ring apron directly behind Denny. With his left hand, he reaches around and begins kneading the Canadian’s right nipple. Then he slides his right hand down Denny’s sweat soaked lower abdomen and inside his trunks once again. He nibbles on his opponent’s left earlobe as he firmly, almost violently begins stroking Denny’s throbbing cock in his hand.

A hush spreads across the enraptured crowd again. As the ref leans in close to listen, Sven whispers, “Submit… to… me.” Denny’s face twists in a mockery of pain. His hips press forward, as if trying to force more of the dizzying pleasure from Sven’s hand down his trunks. “Oh, God,” Denny whispers. Then, “OH, GOD,” he shouts as if in panic. “I…” he gasps. “I… submit!”

Jake signals for the bell, which quickly rings three times. The hushed crowd erupts in applause. Unceremoniously, Sven yanks his hand out from Denny’s trunks. Unhooking the Canadian’s arms from the ropes, the victor shoves him in the back of the neck, sending Denny sprawling face first to the mat. The Dutchman climbs back into the ring and plants a boot onto Denny’s lower back, flexing his leanly muscled arms in victory as the ref holds his left wrist over his head. Denny’s ass cheeks flex rhythmically as he grinds his achingly unspent erection into the mat in humiliation.

TVM Schaatsploeg 2010

Copyright foto: MVWN/TVM

Round 1:

Steve Langton (USA) def Jesse Lumsden (CAN)

Pita Taufatofua (TON) def Chris Mazdzer (USA)

Sven Kramer (NLD)  def Denny Morrison (CAN)

Our Man Inside

A few years ago, I mentioned in a post that I have a particular fondness for candid glimpses of homoerotic wrestlers. I love seeing them when they aren’t “on,” when they’re obviously just being the beautiful men they are in those moments between climbing into the ring to rip each other apart. A few wrestlers have openly shared with me their private camera rolls from wrestling shoots, but BG East (the source of most of those), officially embargoed me before that could go on for long. My sources dried up, and rumor had it that some of the wrestlers involved were sorely and corporally punished for sharing the insider information with “the press.” And then, quietly and mysteriously, I received my first batch of smuggled contraband from an anonymous source who I have come to know only as OMI, Our Man Inside.

I always wonder if my latest batch of OMI treasure will be the last, and the Boss will sniff out the mole and squash him like a bug. I take it as testimony to the size of OMI’s balls and the apparent affection he must have for me that he tempts fate by feeding my adoring obsession with peaking behind the curtain.

I’ve posted precious little about the recent live wrestling show BG East produced for the Fort Lauderdale Pride event last month because, 1) I couldn’t get off work to go down and see it in person, and 2) I’m bitter about #1. Somehow, OMI knew how envious I am of all of the social media celebrations of that event, and like manna from heaven, again I’ve been fed some dizzyingly delightful snapshots from something other than the “official” camera.

Clearly, the event was a who’s who of BG East celebrities. I have no problem with acknowledging that even the pics of these gorgeous hunks fully clothed gets me hard. The fraternal camaraderie in their playful smiles and warm embraces highlights one thing I love about BG East: the “esprit de corps” as several wrestlers I’ve talked to have named it. Even when they do their best to rip each other’s balls off in competition, once egos and bodies have been tested and placed in their proper hierarchy, most of these wrestlers clearly enjoy the community formed by what unites them, namely, a passion for wrestling.

To be honest, I can sit on OMI caches way too long because I want to obsess about every single photo in detail. In order not to fall into that trap with this incredibly tasty OMI collection from the Pride event, I’ll post most of them without comment, but not without deep appreciation and arousal. But, of course, I will comment on a few that grab me by the balls just right.


First of all, look at the assembly of hotness! Fuck, so many names, so many muscles, so many immediate associations in my mind with wrestling matches that I’ve written about and gotten off on repeatedly.   There are exactly 5 faces I don’t recognize. Identify everyone in this shot and you can be queen for a day here on the blog.

These assembled shots from the Pride event raise so many summary questions. Who is the guy in the front row snapping a photo of Ty’s sweaty ass as Jonny works him over outside the ring? What sadistic, sexy machinations is Kid Vicious working there in the shadows? Where can I get a leopard print suit!?


I have no doubt that OMI knows exactly what he’s doing to me by sending me shots like this of three of the sexiest wrestlers of all time who I have unapologetically fawned over repeatedly in the pages of this blog. Seeing Scott Williams, Shane McCall, and Brad Rochelle embracing and smiling brightly blows my mind. The time since these stunning wrestlers were last seen in the ring has done nothing but make them sexier. How is there not a Daddy Division at BGE, to scratch that itch, that I know for a fact I’m not the only one who has, to see classic wrestling stars like this back in action? Shane has been quite clear in his interview with me a couple of years back, as well as ongoing comments since then, that he’s still nursing an appreciative rivalry with hot daddy Scott. How is this not a thing!? Look at Scott’s bronzed, bulging deltoid muscle there and explain how the the fuck he isn’t starring in a Returning Classics Championship tournament or, at the very least, his own muscle daddy Wrestler Spotlight!?

Refraining from commenting at length on every one of these photos is killing me, but I know this post will never get published if I start. However, the questions that come to mind in this collection include how is there not an UltraFight 2.5 (The Rematch) in production right now? Exactly how did Brad and KL manage to bury the hatchet after Brad was last seen shoving the Boss’ head in a toilet!? And can someone please tell Shane that if he’s going to build pecs like that, he is morally obligated to get his hotness back into the ring, preferably starting by settling that score he has with Scott?

Newkids.jpg I sort of think that OMI may know me better than anyone I’ve never met. Not only does he satiate my lust for classic homoerotic wrestling stars, he knows how much I also adore catching those first glimpses of hot, young, aspiring beauties. This pic of assembled youthful hunks makes me desperately hopeful that the known wrestling stars there (Kayden, Ash, Noah, Tommy, Kieran) interspersed among ridiculously pretty young faces I’m not familiar with, hints at some fresh, meaty newbies on the horizon. The backward baseball cap duo have GOT to be the most mouthwatering tag team I’ve never seen in action. Blond Ambition there on the left, the one with the lips, looks ripe for a beating. And holy fuck, Kayden , with those arms, wearing those glasses, is making me swoon. I’d like to order up a 2-on-1 battle in which Tommy and Noah team up to take on Kayden, and, for the record, I’m putting all my money on Kayden.

Again, how NOT to comment for the next 3 months about each and everyone of these hot shots? I know from the poster that Elite Eliot was on the card for the Pride event, but fuck me, those lickable legs of his make me ready to beg to see him in the BG East ring for myself (please tell me this is true!). Is it possible that Ace Aarons got his crack at rubbing the shit-eating grin off of Kirk Donahue’s face? Who in the hell are the too achingly pretty young hotties that Kirk has his arm around, and how long did it take for them to get annoyed by Kirk and double-team his better-than-mediocre ass? Why am I NEVER around to be invited to join in the sexy pool parties!?

As always, OMI, I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay.  Keep the smiles, and the dimples, and the beautiful men who make homoerotic wrestling what it is, coming!

Olympic Spirit

The spotlight snaps on in the middle of the ring, centered on ring announcer Johnny Weir. “Let’s keep the good times rolling, boys!” The cheers from the crowd signal their enthusiastic agreement. “Introducing first, from the Kingdom of Tonga, weighing 220 pounds at 6’3″ tall, sponsored by Johnson’s Baby Oil™ and straight out of last night’s wet dream, Pita….Taufatofua!”

Pita Taufatofua

The roar of the crowd is deafening as a spotlight lights up the curtains to the backstage. Almost tentatively, Pita parts the curtains and stepped into the light, raising the screams to a frenzy. The spotlight glistens off of his liberally lubed muscles. He looks self-conscious as he strides barefoot toward the ring in tight white trunks with a red cross printed across his sculpted ass. As he climbs up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes, he gives the swooning fans a demure smile and a wave.

Johnny fans himself as he stares at the glistening islander. Finally composing himself, even as the cheers for Pita continue, Johnny’s voice booms back over the PA system. “His opponent, originally from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, weighs in at 190 pounds at 6’1″ tall. He’s ‘Chris’ to his friends, but just ‘Fuck-Me-Daddy’ to the rest of us. Chris… Mazdzer!”

Chris Mazdzer

The roar of the crowd greets the American luger as he emerges from the curtains in bulging blue square cuts and mid-ankle black wrestling boots. He smiles brightly as he makes his way to the ring, slapping hands with the fans along the aisle. He hops up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes, suddenly looking serious, staring down his opponent.

The Ref

Johnny holds the microphone as referee Jake Dalton calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring. “Advance to the next round with a 10 count non-response, a submission, or by some miracle manage to pin your opponent despite all of that lube,” Jake smirks up at Pita towering over the 5’5″ ref. “Other than that, do whatever the fuck you need to, gentlemen!”

The bell rings as Johnny quickly retreats through the ropes and the ref backs into a corner. The wrestlers circle one another, their eyes roaming up and own each other appraisingly. Pita comes to a halt, his fists closed in front of him. He offers the barest of a nod of acknowledgement for his opponent and then lifts his fists in front of him, turned slightly to the side, knees bent and rocking lightly on the balls of his feet. Bluntly, the American reaches his hands forward to grab his opponent by the collar and elbow, but Pita bounces to the side, swinging his right knee hard into Chris’ lightly hairy gut. The luger folds forward, clutching his abdomen in pain and sucking on air. Pita bounces backward, not pressing the advantage, just squatting low with fists raised patiently.

After a moment to catch his breath, Chris stands erect again, circling to the left and giving his opponent a wary new assessment. Pita circles away. Suddenly Chris lunges low, driving forward, leading with is left shoulder aimed at his opponent’s lower abdomen. The luger’s long arms reach wide to encircle the smooth Tongan. With shocking speed, Pita shifts his weight to his left foot and corkscrews his torso, lifting his right knee and connecting, with perfect timing, striking upward into the American’s jaw. The blow makes the luger’s knee crumple underneath him. His head flies backward, leading the big, burly beefcake’s body as he drops limply to his back.

The ref is on one knee instantly checking to see if Chris is still conscious. It takes a couple of seconds for the American to respond. Pita bounces from foot to foot, watching patiently. The ref asks if Chris is able to keep fighting, which gets him shoved away as the American scrambles to his feet and charges at his opponent in fury. Pita has time to brace himself, but Chris’ momentum lifts the Tongan off his feet and drives him backward, pounding into the nearby corner. Holding onto the middle ropes on either side of the turnbuckle, Chris pulls back and then drives his left shoulder into his opponent’s lower abdomen. Again, the American momentarily pulls back before spearing Pita, folding him over across his back. Winded, Pita stays on defense as Chris stands up, pressing the Tongan bent backward over the turnbuckle with his left hand across his throat, setting him up for brutal punches to the abdomen. Pita’s six-pack abs flex as repeated strikes pound wetly into his core.

Chris lunges low and wraps his thickly muscled arms around the Tongan’s waist, hoisting him up off his feet. Twisting out of the corner, the American rag dolls his opponent back and forth, grinding his bearhug powerfully as Pita pushes against Chris’ huge shoulders, attempting to pry their bodies apart.  The Tongan’s oiled torso is too slippery for Chris to hold the bearhug in place for long. Pita’s long, muscled body slips down in his opponent’s grip, his bare feet reaching the mat, aided by a height advantage over the American.

Just as Pita appears about to break Chris’ grip on the bearhug, the American steps his right foot behind his opponent’s heel and shoves. The Tongan loses his balance and falls backward. Chris goes down with him, landing hard on top of him and knocking the air out of the oiled hunk’s lungs. Instinctively, Pita snaps his legs around his opponent’s waist and pulls him into his guard, yanking Chris by the back of the head just as the American starts landing sharp punches to Pita’s face. With their bodies locked tightly together, Pita limits his opponent’s range of motion, making Chris’ quick jabs far less potent and largely limited to striking the Tongan’s powerful pecs.

Slowly, powerfully Pita extends his legs, still locked at the ankle behind his opponent’s back, dragging Chris’ hairy chest down the Tongan’s lubricated torso. Chris’ abbreviated punches pound into Pita’s lower abdomen.  The Tongan continues to trap the American’s face between his oil-soaked pecs, limiting his range of motion.  With another surge of strength, Pita extends his legs again, sliding Chris’ face down his torso until the luger’s nose is in his opponent’s crotch. In a panic, Chris tries to jerk his head away. At the same moment, Pita releases his scissors, pulling his legs over Chris’ big shoulders and snapping shut again in figure-4 face-to-crotch headscissors.

The Tongan’s bulge is visibly aroused beneath the translucent, oil soaked white trunks. His thick, hard erection presses against his opponent’s cheek. The stimulation is in no way evident on Pita’s gorgeous face, staring down with a grimace as he squeezes his opponent’s head viciously between his thick thighs. Chris tries to pry his head free, but Pita counters by rolling to his side and reaching behind him, pulling on his ankle to lock the hold into place like a vise. Chris’s hands try to claw into the massive, rock hard leg muscles wrapped around him. Desperately, the American lunges forward on his knees, sliding Pita backward across the ring, but earning him no reprieve from the smothering hold.

Staring down the Tongan’s dark, thick rod grinding into his face, Chris’ hands uselessly wander up Pita’s oiled torso. He palms his opponent’s powerful pecs momentarily before sliding slowly down Pita’s narrow waist. Chris’ fingers dig appreciatively into the Tongan’s flexed glutes. Releasing his ankle, Pita extends his legs straight in front of him, transitioning to standard face-to-crotch headscissors. He grabs Chris’ wrists and drags his hands up his torso again, demanding the American assess every oiled inch of his six-pack abs.

When the ref asks if Chris is ready to submit, the American jerks and writhes in protest. Pita grabs him by the hair to hold his head in place as the oiled hunk twists his hips to the side and hooks his right ankle under his left knee, locking on a figure-4 sleeper.  Chris violently arches his back, his fingers prying at the ankle pressed powerfully across his throat. His legs kick and writhe uselessly in panic.

As the luger’s hairy body starts to grow limp, Pita looks up from his work and acknowledges the roaring crowd. Leaning on his left elbow, he flexes a glistening, fan pleasing right bicep. The ref lifts Chris’ right arm off the mat and releases it. Chris’ arm sags slowly, still enough sense to pull his hands back to the vise choking him. Pita drags the palms of his own hands down his slick, ripped torso, sliding his fingers through the thick oil. His right hand comes to rest on the head of his erection, tugging breathlessly at his cock through the fabric of his trunks, now soaked and transparent.

The ref lifts Chris’ arm again. This time it drops lifelessly to the mat. He starts a deliberate 10 count as Pita throttles his cock with excited anticipation. At the count of 10, the ref signals the bell to ring and lightly taps Pita’s left knee, instructing him to release the sleeper. Disentangling his legs, Pita climbs to his feet and allows the ref to pull his left arm over his head in victory. The crowd cheers in approval as the Tongan wrestler flexes his left bicep, showing off his magnificent muscles and his massive member straining the fabric of his drenched trunks.



Round 1:

Steve Langton (USA) def Jesse Lumsden (CAN)

Pita Taufatofua (TON) def Chris Mazdzer (USA)



Olympic Spirit

How it all started is the stuff of legend at this point. Everyone agrees that trash talk broke out on the Olympic podium, and two world class athletes had to settle a personal score that a gold medal just couldn’t. No one definitively remembers the sport or the athletes who began the underground post-Olympic homoerotic wrestling battles, but the tradition has continued out of the sight of the judges, off the snow and ice and in a professional wrestling ring. The cameras are off. The fans have departed to their respective corners of the earth. But an elite group of Olympic athletes have accepted the exclusive invitation to remain in Pyeonchang a few more days to test their world class bodies against one another in a balls out, brutal, no holds barred pro wrestling elimination tournament.

While the uninitiated fans have left, an enthusiastic audience of fellow athletes and global capitalist elite underground wrestling fans have filled the small auditorium constructed within the walls of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Sixteen winter Olympians have been selected to populate the brackets of the single elimination tournament to crown the singular champion of the 2018 Winter Olympics. When the lights snap off and a spotlight hits the wrestling ring in the middle of the auditorium, a roar of excitement rises from the bleachers. Climbing through the ropes to grab the microphone being lowered from the ceiling, the bitch everyone loves to hate most in the world sneers as the crowd erupts into cat calls and taunts.


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Jonny Weir’s voice booms through the PA system, “let’s get ready to rumble, bitches!” Despite themselves, the crowd rises to their feet cheering. Johnny puts a hand on his hip impatiently waiting for the roar to subside. “Our first wrestler of the 2018 Winter Olympics is 34 years old, weighing in at 227 pounds at 6’2″ tall. He’s heading to his hometown of Melrose, Massachusetts empty handed from these games unless he can take home the title belt from this tournament.  Welcome to the ring the beast from the Northeast, the man known by his teammates as Pilot Push… Steven….. Langton!”

A second spotlight snaps on just in time to illuminate the U.S. bobsledder flinging back a curtain and strutting into the auditorium with his fists raised above his head victoriously. Snug, blue square cuts squeeze his massively muscled glutes. Wearing red knee pads and white wrestling boots laced halfway up his shins, he strides to toward the ring soaking in the deafening roar of the crowd’s adoration. He’s unhurried but eager as he climbs up to the ring apron and ducks through the ropes.


Johnny Weir’s mouth hangs open in obvious lust as Steve flexes his massive biceps to the stomping approval of the fans. Seeing the effect he’s having on the ring announcer, Steve stands in front of Johnny, bouncing his pecs with a wink and a smile, eliciting laughter and louder screams of approval from the bleachers.

Clutching his non-existent pearls, Johnny clears his throat and pulls the microphone toward him again. “The lucky son of a bitch who gets to grapple with Steve is 35 years old, weighing 223 pounds and 6’1″ tall. Hailing from Calgary, Alberta, the Canadian Cowboy, Jesse…. Lumsden!” The fans roar again as Jesse flings the curtains wide and stomps into the auditorium. Wearing cut-off jeans shorts and work boots, the burly, blond bobsledder with a lumberjack beard bounds up to the ring and dives under the ropes, jumping to his feet directly in Steve’s handsome face.


Johnny starts to back away from the massive muscle hunks towering over him. “Your referee for this match is the reigning Summer Olympic Wrestling champion, Jake Dalton!”


Jake Dalton steps from the shadows wearing tight black trousers and a striped referee shirt, suctioned to his massively muscled upper body. He calls the wrestlers to the center of the ring and gives his instructions, as Johnny holds the mic for him. “I want a clean fight,” Jake says, staring way up at the behemoth’s towering over a half a foot above him. “But it doesn’t matter what I want,” Jake smirks. “Because there are no rules, other than beat your opponent with a submission, a 3 count pinfall, or leave him unresponsive for a count of 10, and you’ll be the one to advance to the next round of competition. Get it on!” Jake shouts. Johnny prances in a panic from the ring as the bobsledders begin to circle one another and the bell rings.

The initial lock up between the huge hunks is more a traffic collision than a collar and elbow. They struggle to get handholds on each other’s gargantuan arms, awkwardly shoving and pushing as their meaty pecs pound into one another. Suddenly, Jesse wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, locking his fists behind his back. He squats low, violently pulling the American off his feet and slamming him hard in a textbook suplex. As the crowd roars, Jesse bounces to his feet, pumping a cocky double bicep pose to ratchet up the screams of approval from the bleachers. Steve looks seriously winded, slow to pry himself up to his hands and knees. Jesse “helps” by yanking him up by a fistful of hair before abruptly swinging his right arm up from underneath the American’s jaw, bashing Steve’s sculpted, leading-man chin with the Canadian’s prominently peaked bicep. Steve’s eyes roll up to the back of his head as he falls like a Sequoia in slow motion. The audience erupts in screams of excitement, punctuated loudly by Steve’s fans pleading for him to get his ass off the mat.

The ref is on one knee checking if Steve is still responsive. The American’s eyes flutter. He’s awake, even if flat on his back. Suddenly Jesse shoves the ref in the chest, sending Jake tumbling into a corner. The Canadian grabs his opponent’s head in both hands, dragging him off the mat and leaving him kneeling at his feet. Jesse holds the dazed American by the chin with his left hand, while with his right hand he unzips his zipper. The crowd is in a frenzy as the straining pouch of Jesse’s jock strap spills out in front of Steve’s gaping mouth. Suddenly grabbing the back of his head, Jesse force’s his opponent’s dazed face into his crotch.

Steve tries to push his hands against Jesse’s huge, hairy upper thighs to pry his face away. With a sudden jerk, Jesse shoves the Pusher’s head down, adjusting his stance just wide enough to squeeze the handsome hunk’s head between his huge, hairy thighs before snapping his legs shut tight, flexing his massive quads. Like a Pilgrim in the stockade, Steve’s muffled cries punctuate his helplessness. His fingers dig into the rock hard quads crushing his skull. He has no idea what is inspiring the sudden new screams from the crowd, unable to see his opponent lift his arms and flex a cocky, smirking double bicep pose. “Look, no hands!”

On the other hand, Steve knows exactly what’s happening when he feels Jesse’s hand grab the back of the American’s trunks, wedging the blue square cuts up his ass cheeks as he pulls Steve up to his feet. Jesse looks like he’s about to set his opponent up for a piledriver, but desperate pleas of “Spank him!” from the front rows of the bleachers make the Canadian pause and deliver. The first couple of whacks across Steve’s lily white muscled ass are playful, but as the crowd responds to the humiliation, Jesse’s swats grow more violent. Steve’s ample white cheeks start to show handprint-shaped welts as the dominant Canadian showboats.

Jesse plays the crowd pleaser for a couple of minutes of total humiliation before finally leaning forward and wrapping his huge arms around Steve’s waist, with the American’s head still stuck between his legs. With a low squat, the Canadian pulls Steve’s feet off the ground, pulling him up to hang upside down in preparation for a piledriver. Knowing full well the jeopardy he’s in, Steve kicks his legs hard, managing to shift his center of gravity to thwart his opponent. When his boots reach the ground again, Steve squats low and drives his shoulders upward. There’s obvious shock on Jesse’s bearded face as he realizes he’s the one now being lifted off his feet. Steve’s powerful legs drive upward with a strain, finally pulling him erect and sending his opponent dropping hard to his back behind him.

It’s more out of exhaustion than strategy that Steve drops to his ass, landing with a thud, now seated on top of his opponent’s muscled chest. Regardless the intent, the move successfully drives the air from the Canadian’s lungs. Two, quick, closed fisted jabs into Jesse’s face muddle his senses. Rolling to his side, Steve pulls his opponent’s face into his crotch and snaps his huge, smooth thighs together for face-to-crotch head scissors.

The crowd is screaming with excitement at the reversal of fortune. Steve shakes the cobwebs from his head, exploiting the advantage to recenter as his opponent is smothered with his mouth covered by the American’s big bulge. Finally fully realizing which way the scales have tipped, Steve smiles brightly, flashing a cocky right bicep and nodding to the fans screaming their encouragement from the bleachers. He gives them a wink and an I-got-this lift of his chin.

The ref checks and confirms for Steve that, although Jesse isn’t flailing like he was a moment ago, he’s still conscious. The American releases the scissors and hovers over Jesse on his hands and knees, confirming that the Canuck is still seeing stars. Steve grabs the belt loops at the sides of Jesse’s cut off jean shorts and yanks them violently off his massive legs. Jesse’s white jock strap pouch is stained with sweat.

Pulling violently on Jesse’s whiskers, Steve drags him slowly off the mat. Jesse is having a hard time getting his legs steady underneath him. It doesn’t matter, because Steve swiftly lunges low, hooking one arm between Jesse’s legs and the other around his neck, and powerfully hoists him up horizontal across his chest. There’s a hush of anticipation as Steve makes a slow lap around the ring, clawing the fingers of his right hand into his opponent’s bare white cheeks. With a turn to the middle of the ring, Steve lifts his opponent up and drops to one knee, driving Jesse down into a gut buster across his thigh.

What air that Jesse had been able to suck down was again forced out of his lungs in a loud rush. Holding him there across his thigh, Steve starts slapping loud, cracking a palm across Jesse’s exposed glutes. The crowd quickly picks up the count starting at 3, and Steve treats them to a total of 10 loud, punishing blows leaving revenge welts on the Canadian bobsledder’s bum. With contempt, Steve shoves him off his knee.

The crowd is going wild encouraging Steve to finish him, and they grow nearly apoplectic when the American, instead, starts unlacing Jesse’s workboots. Sensing a potentially deadly tactical error, Steve’s fans scream in desperation, but the American takes the time to pry Jesse’s boots off of him. Even as Jesse is visibly starting to recover, pulling himself up to his elbows and blinking away the haze, Steve takes more time completely unlacing one of Jesse’s boots.

Apparently Jesse isn’t the only one who fancies himself a modern day cowboy, because with studied skill, Steve uses his remaining momentum to wrench his opponent’s hands behind his back, now kneeling.  With lightning speed, Steve lashes Jesse’s wrists together. A sudden boot to the back of Jesse’s head topples him to face first to the mat. Kneeling on Jesse’s wide upper back, Steve pulls at the Canadian’s ankles and uses the remaining length of boot lace to hogtie him in the middle of the ring.

The ref gets in Jesse’s face to demand to know if he submits. Jesse screams stubborn obscenities instead. Steve takes a couple of breaths, sensing victory anyway. Finally, with the crowd again lulled to a breathless hush, Steve sits on the back of Jesse’s head and grabs his crossed, tied ankles.  Violently, he yanks upward, bending the muscle bear’s back sickly. Jesse screams, but refuses to answer the ref’s inquiries. Until, that is, Steve reaches a free hand between the Canadian’s bare ass cheeks, grabbing Jesse’s balls from behind and squeezing. In the suddenly impossibly silent auditorium, Jesse’s submission echos. “I GIVE!!!”

The bell rings. The ref tries to lift Steve’s arm overhead in victory, but the 6’2″ bobsledder climbs to his feet and the ref can no longer reach his wrist. The American advances.