Face the Music


Joshua Goodman up close and personal with Troy Baker’s bulges in Mat Hunks 4

Taking a brief break from the heavy diet of reviews I’ve been dishing out, today I’m lingering a bit on that supremely homoerotic wrestling hold, face-to-crotch headscissors.


Chip Slater has a love/hate relationship with his face in Patrick Donovan’s crotch in Undagear 5

I’m sure I’ve mused about this hold before, but I’m too lazy to look it up.  So I’ll probably repeat myself when I say that my heart pumps harder in my chest when a straight forward pro wrestling story suddenly introduces face-to-crotch scissors. If you buy that all of pro wrestling can easily be read as an extended homoerotic innuendo, face-to-crotch sort of slaps down the implied erotic subtext and steps at least one toe over the line into straight up homoerotic text.


Mitch Colby is about to pop with Cole Cassidy trapped between his thighs in Ringwars 15

How wrestlers carry it off, of course, can significantly add to eroticism. I suppose it’s possible to snap your thighs around another man’s head with that up close look at your balls in his face and it be solely about punishment and wrestling victory. But I love watching a wrestler snap shut that bear trap and then enjoy it, openly, luxuriantly, expansively. When someone on the delivery side of this hold pumps his glutes and shoves his hips forward with a little enthusiasm, when he milks the moment with pulsing flexed muscles beating out a morse code of agony from the gasping grunts of his opponent, when he stares down his own hot body and smiles at the sight of his opponent owned and getting primed for sucking cock, when he closes his eyes and leans his head way, way back and that look of an impending orgasm washes across his face, there’s nothing coded about this. This is hot, homoerotic wrestling gold.


Rick the Prick looks like he’s struck gold with Joshua Goodman’s legendary bulge in his face in Ringwars 12

The catcher can certainly connect the dots as well. Regardless of who ends up on top after all is said and done, I love it when a captured hunk’s eyes roam hungrily up and down his captors body above him. He doesn’t need to, but if he stretches his hands up and strokes those crushing thighs, the rippling abs, stretching so far as to palm the bulging pecs of his tormentor, it conveys what I’m silently thinking deep inside at that moment. A smothered grappler doesn’t have to, but if he’s man enough to nuzzle the balls bearing down on his face, fuck, maybe even open wide and give the trickster’s treats a hearty lick, it just puts the exclamation point on what this hold conveys from the start: wrestling persistently implies homoerotic intimacy.


Charlie Evans makes the most of the rare standing face-to-crotch headscissors at the mercy of Steel Muscle God in Oil Hunks 8 (MDW)

When the camera angles and storytelling are just right, face-to-crotch headscissors shine a spotlight on one man’s bulging package, bringing his entire, tasty physique into the mix, making even that swelling muscle of passion a part of the corporal domination of another man.  For me, it isn’t even so much about the oral sexual implications, as much as it signals that every magnificent inch of a wrestler’s hot body is engaged in dominating his opponent. Hell, when wrestling companies choose to transition from explicit wrestling to explicit sex, I typically push rewind. Because what’s getting me off is the homoeroticism of the wrestling, not the wrestling as foreplay for sex.


Rio Garza cannot handle Aryx Quinn in BG’s Bad Boys

I suppose it isn’t such a far distance between why I’m such a fan of face-to-crotch headscissors as I am a fanatic for my favorite pro wrestling hold, the over-the-knee backbreaker. Both draw my eye to one wrestler’s bulging package. Both center the frame on the outline of a bulging cock and the ballast of balls. Both seem ripe with the erotic potential marrying gay sensibilities and a pro wrestling kink. Both make my pulse pound in anticipation of what happens next to, or with, or on behalf of one wrestler’s swollen pipe.


So much erotic passion led up to this moment of Mitch Colby smothered by Brook Stetson’s sweaty pouch in Sunshine Shooters 4.

I sometimes find it ironic that this blog attracts so many visitors thanks to the still frames I include, because it’s the story in and around any one captured slice of time in a wrestling match that tantalizes and titillates me. It’s not any one frozen image that becomes the perfect muse to my erotic imagination, but the drama played out in motion, the slow contraction of muscles, the arching agony in a lower back, the quivering pouch, the writhing feet futilely kicking the mat. I’ve lately talked in terms of “the moneyshot,” meaning that moment in a match at which point I’m likely to climax, but that moment is about the 1,600 seconds before that led up to that moment, the deepening jeopardy of one man, the swelling confidence of another, the bodies growing wet with sweat over time, the veins swelling and pumping harder with blood from the effort and the adrenaline of competition. I get off plenty to face-to-crotch headscissors, but I’m never just getting off to face-to-crotch headscissors.


Kid Brock’s face swallowed whole between Blazes gargantuan thighs in Rainbow Restlers 2

If there is one valuable analog of face-to-crotch headscissors,  I think its the comfort a wrestling company has with the homoerotic eye of their gay audience. In scanning for face-to-crotch headscissors images across several platforms for this post, I found them concentrated in just a couple producers’ catalogs. And I think they play a part in direct proportion to how explicitly companies market to those of us in the audience tuning in and ponying up because we are sexually turned on by wrestling. Of course, face-to-crotch headscissors aren’t the only way of crossing the line from homoerotic subtext to homoerotic text. Hell, they probably aren’t even the best way. But from a strictly correlational perspective, I think they show up in proportion to how much I (at least) perceive of a producer as appreciative of and comfortable with me, as a gay man, watching their wrestling products as a means of sexual gratification.

So much sexual gratification when Logan Vaughn milks Trey Dixon into whimpering obedience in Florida Fights 5

So probably a close second as my favorite wrestling hold is face-to-crotch headscissors, because when they’re done wrong, they can reveal a whole host of troubled self-hatred bubbling beneath a veneer of nohomo bravado, but when they’re done right, I feel respected as a gay wrestling fan, drawn into the intimacy of homoerotic combat, and turned on hard.


Kid Vicious puts his swelling cock where Niku Samir’s face is in Motel Madness UK 5

The Best Muscle Money Can Buy


No smile?!

So I’ve been biting my tongue about the 2nd three-way match in BG East’s recent Three-Way Thrash 4 release (there sure are a lot of numbers in this sentence). On the one hand, I think I’d like Alex and Joe’s reviews to percolate a while. There can be a pile-on effect when we’re all reviewing the same match at the same time, and sometimes the uniqueness of three different sets of eyes gets blurred in the sum total all at once. On the other hand, this match stars three wrestlers who I’m never at a loss for words about.


Trophy Boy in the house.

So fuck it.  I’m on the case. First of all, can someone start a GoFundMe page for Ty and Drake to get a room?  Because they are back at it again, tearing the fuck into each other in that way that only the best of friends and/or jilted lovers can. I’m a little bitter that Three-Way Thrash 4 starts with the toy boys already mid-match. While I understand that we’ve already seen them rip each other apart on the mat, and then battle to a double cum explosion in a bed, I’m still irritated at catching the boys in the ring already in progress. It irritates me on one level because I can tend toward the OCD side of things, and half-started or unfinished business festers under my skin. It also irritates me because I want to know the story of how two of my favorite jobbers yet again got geared up and on a terror brutalizing each other once again. Didn’t they settle that shit in Babyface Brawl X?  You know, Drake won on the mat, which had to be such in intense relief and shock for the Cheshire Cat. On the other hand, I’ve seen Ty talking shit about claiming victory in the final tally, because Drake came first. So, yeah, I could see how this whole jobber rivalry could easily have erupted once again. And between you and me, I think they’re probably secretly gagging to fuck each other senseless.


That grin instantly gets me hard.

Consult the match description for the official backstory. Whatever the case, I’m already turned on with just the 2 minutes or so we get to see of their back and forth punishment. Drake rides some momentum, that shit eating grin stretched across his handsome face as he crushes hard on face-to-crotch headscissors on the Trophy Boy. He’s all triumph and gloating, with that unfamiliar feeling of being in control settling in. Watching him pitching, it makes me want to just reach out and pat him on the head, it’s so adorable. But then, of course, Ty claws the fuck out of his balls and starts to beat his way back into a revenge bruising.


Someone’s getting face fucked before this is all said and done.

Now, I love me some Damien Rush. I especially love him massively muscled and hairy, like he is when he strolls in and interrupts my boybanders beating the shit out of each other. I love Damien’s thick, meaty thighs as the muscle bounces and quivers, and that sweet, round ass packed so deliciously into leopard print trunks. I’ll typically stand up and cheer when daddy’s favorite little richboy strips down and stomps onto the scene. But fuck, what about the boybander grudge match!?


“The Best Muscle Money Can Buy!”

We will likely never know, damn it, because Damien climbs on board and takes total control of the scene. I’m totally on board with both Alex and Joe when both of them (all three of us independently of one another) bemoaned the lost opportunities of this instantly turning into a 1 on 2 squash. I’d go so far as to argue it defies the Three-Way Thrash genre a bit, because other than seeing those fleeting seconds of Drake and Ty barreling into one another before Damien arrived, the drama is entirely about daddy’s little rich boy running rough shod over the tasty jobbers. In my homoerotic geography classes, we always learned that was something other than a “3-way” battle.


Jobbers suck on the humiliation

But like Alex, I enjoy the Damien Rush show for what it is.  He’s fucking impressive, and I would not always have counted on Damien being able to control pace and be entirely in the driver’s seat telling a story like this.  He’s come a long way, and that includes his massive muscular development as well as his growing capacity to work offense, transition from hold to hold, and ride a wave of momentum all the way to me pounding one out right around the time that he’s simulating face fucking both Drake and Ty simultaneously, because he’s just that fucking big and bad.


Ty takes the spanking hard

Ty takes the coitus interruptus the hardest, because he was the one on top when Damien barged in. So there’s something particularly poignant about Ty’s debasing destruction. Maybe, just maybe, he could have settled the score and made Drake his bitch once and for all (of course, he’d have to time share him with me and the dozen or so other guys who’ve owned him in the ring). But the boy band intramural battle is swatted away with one massive, blue blood back hand from Damien. So when Ty is draped over the top rope and spanked way, way hard, those aren’t just tears dripping off Ty’s face. Those are dreams of revenge getting washed away.


Drake turns tail and tries to run away.

Alex and Joe both point out that Drake seems like little more than a deer in the headlights in this thrashing. I can see it, of course. He’s flat on his back (again!?) and trying to recover from Ty’s schoolboy cock pin before he even realizes Damien has climbed into the ring and opened up a can of whoop ass on them both. The scene is dripping with pathos when the Cheshire Cat repeatedly tries to slink away, crawling on all fours, dragging his hot carcass across the mat and trying to beat a hasty retreat from the ring room entirely on those occasions when Damien is paying full attention to Ty. The sheer terror as Drake tries to run away like a coward might make someone crasser than I am call him a pussy then and there, but then again, he happily embraces the moniker of the Cheshire Cat of Homoerotic Wrestling.


“…more animal than man.”

But as much as I enjoy my boy banders, this is, indeed, Damien’s story. And he tells it well. His two-fer bearhug, pulling both jobber studs off their feet in one huge, massively muscled, bulging bicep bearhug is, no shit, fucking impressive. At times in Damien’s past I’ve sensed he’s trying to run away from the legacy of being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, mixing it up in pro wrestling as a way of balancing out the emasculating side-effect of living without consequences or accountability and turning into a whining bitch daddy’s boy. So I sit up and take notice when suddenly Damien starts crowing, calling himself “the best muscle money can buy.” Rumors have been around all along that he’s got a personal trainer and a private pro wrestling coach to propel his career to the heights that all of daddy’s riches can manage, and I for one sort of love Damien a little more for finally owning it and throwing it in his victims’ faces. And whatever the fuck his personal trainer is doing, I say keep fucking doing it, because Damien is gorgeous! He refers to himself as “the new and improved Damien Rush. Better, bigger, stronger, more animal than man.” I say if you’ve grown up a bored little rich boy with a sadomasochistic fascination with pro wrestling, there is no better evidence than Damien Rush that you should NOT run for president. You should write that highrise-size check and get yourself the best hairy, hunky, bulging, beefy, proportional, balanced, beautiful brawn that your daddy’s checkbook can buy.


Drake and Ty are not having fun.

Ty and Drake do not enjoy this match nearly enough for my taste, mind you. Getting pec smothered in Damien’s hairy chest absolutely deserves some Trophy Boy and Chesire Cat erections, as far as I’m concerned. I know, I know, they were terrified, which I’m sure is a buzz kill for some. But the more sweaty sheen Damien works up underneath his furry coat, and the more humiliation he heaps onto the doomed duo, the more I just wish for my boys to be unable to restrain themselves from pulling out their cocks and truly paying homage to the best muscle money can buy.


Suffering piled high

And, sure, like both Alex and Joe, I’m a little bitter that my boy banders were completely and utterly impotent in the wrestling drama. They do not lay a hand on Damien. They suffer like only two of the top jobbers on the scene can suffer. They make me laugh. They tug at my heart strings. They make me enormously hard. But this would all have been a Mars shot of a match if only they’d been able to pull together, say, 4 minutes of richboy beatdown here and there. Knowing how seriously dangerous both of them are, it actually stretches plausibility for me to the extreme to believe that they didn’t pull off some tandem muscle hunting take downs, even if only to be upended.


Oh, well, fuck. Forgiven.

But then Damien stacks the boys like cordwood, on top of each other, unconscious, involuntarily 69-ing each other, and he sits down on Drake’s back and slaps the Cheshire Cat’s already beet red ass. “I know how much you both like this position,” Damien smirks, flexing for the mirror, bordering on a homophobic bully tact that would piss me off if he kept it up. But, no, we all know that Drake and Ty play for our team. And we know that, based on the raging feud they’ve been nursing for a couple of years now, neither one of them would have been satisfied when they climbed into the ring together unless someone wasn’t sucking someone else’s cock before all was said and done. Instead, Damien slapped them both down into Loserville and, simultaneously, made them both winners with their rival’s face shoved helplessly into their crotches. And Damien flexes those HUGE arms one more time and smirks. And despite myself, kicking myself for crushing on another squash match, all is forgiven.



I will adamantly insist, however, that this was a waste of Ty and Drake, even if it was a sensational push for daddy’s little rich boy. Sexy as fuck? Undeniably. Left me covered in sweat and cum?  Absolutely. But even 50% of the hotness it could have been? Not even.

Denim Dreams


Jonah Richards cannot be contained

Joe and Alex have both put the 3-some match of Damien Rush, Ty Alexander, and “don’t-call-me-jobber” Drake Marcos at the head of the line in their reviews of BG East’s recent catalog. Now, you know I’ve got stuff to say about Damien, Ty, and that pretty, petulant, foot-stamping battleboy Drake, but I’ll let Alex and Joe’s reviews point the way a while before I jump in and start stirring that pot. For today, I want to sit back and marvel just a bit at a match in this recent batch that took me by surprise. I was not expecting to get quite so turned on by a blast from the past, pitting a barely legal Cameron Matthews from back in the day going toe-to-toe with delicious little morsel Jonah Richards in Babyface Brawl 4.


Cameron Matthews from days gone by

I think Cameron and Jonah snuck up on me because if I’m shopping in the Cameron Matthews aisle, I will go for the seasoned, vine ripened, mature muscle stud version of Cameron from the past 2 or 3 years ahead of his earlier incarnations. If push came to shove, and let’s face it, we’re talking pro wrestling so of course it does, I’d own up to putting my finger on the scale for an older wrestler over a raw, loud, late adolescent twink puppy 9 times out of 10. So seeing Cameron back in his bowl cut incarnation, lickable for days but just not as filled out and angular (particularly compared to his brawny beefcake edition of the most recent past), made me delegate this match to the “let’s watch this first” pile, because I was expecting other matches in Babyface Brawl 4 to provide the most natural money shots. Holy fuck, was I wrong.


Cocky jock bullies the skinny twink punk

I have reviewed Jonah Richards in the past. I like the look of him a lot. I think the only thing I’ve really sunk my teeth into in his resume left me a little flat, though, with a little too raw of an edge, a slight clumsiness to the wrestling that gave me too much of a hit of backyard trampoline wrestling. I’ve long thought it would be a pleasure to bend him over and fuck that hot, taut, lean meat ass of his, but, again, I wasn’t expecting him in BB4 to grab me by the balls. Again, I say, holy fuck, was I wrong.


Face, meet wall

This is a mat match, which keeps this in the realm of believability, because even a barely legal version of Cameron would own an inexperienced, shoot from the hip twink punk like Jonah for days if this was in a pro ring. Fuck. Especially a barely legal version of Cameron would have wiped the floor with the mop haired Tiger Beat babyface if this was a ring match. Fuck, again, I say, I fully expected him to crack the kid like a nut even on the mat, if for no other reason than a height and weight advantage, without even bothering to factor in on camera wrestling experience. But after they trash talk and curl their upper lips at each other, Cameron turns his back to lean against the wall and stretch out his long legs, and BAM! Jonah rushes him from behind and locks on a full nelson. It’s assertive and confident. It’s a little vile and vicious. In other words, I like it. A lot. But then he suddenly lunges forward and slams Cameron face first into the wall. Right then and there I absolutely forgot about the also-rans on this DVD.


Twink’s revenge

The story is authentic and compelling. Jonah is a pit-bull mix, throwing himself with claws bared and a gross lack of concern for counters or reversals. He hates Cameron’s cockiness. He hates his polish and prettiness. He hates his size and pedigree as a rising pro phenom. And he throws every fucking thing including the kitchen sink at getting underneath Cameron’s skin.


Taste the humiliation

My heart beats faster in those moments when Jonah is racking up riding time. He gloats and sneers. I would swear to the wrestling gods that he is, right at this very moment, wherever the fuck he is these days, cuing up and jacking off to these scenes of his younger self ripping Cameron apart and working the twink punk revenge scenario that so many skinny gay guys have dreamt of back in the day when the high school jocks were lording over them. When he snaps on face-to-crotch headscissors and reaches down, grabbing the back of Cameron’s head and pulling hard, cramming his balls into the pro’s face, I am a big, big Jonah Richards fan.


Jonah’s sweet ass gets stripped

But the drama is between this sensational back alley twink punk against an icy calm, exceptionally experienced, sensationally dominant, polished pro. So time and time again, Cameron takes his licks, but then muscles back into contention. He counters like a motherfucker, yanking victory out of the jaws of defeat over and over again. And he knows exactly how to control an opponent. He takes the heat Jonah is throwing his way, and he burns him with it again and again. Jonah is the first to try to unbutton Cameron’s jeans, but it’s the bowl-cut pro who flips the script and strips the twink punk first.


Jonah meets the ass that has launched a thousand ships

And Cameron’s ass was then, as it is now, astonishingly hot. So when he slides into figure-4 headscissors and bends his knees, slowly pulling Jonah’s puckered face deeper and deeper up Cameron’s crack, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a world class bubble butt used as wrestling offense better. You know there’s an army of Cameron Matthews fans who would give their left nut to trade places with Jonah right then and there. But it does nothing but piss off the pit bull that much more.


I smell sex and denim


Two other elements are pleasant surprises for me here. One, I fucking LOVE watching hot, angry wrestling in jeans. I know, I know, this is totally inconsistent with my perpetual complaint about anytime there’s not enough skin. Fuck consistency. Sue me. I’ve got a special kink button for hot, shirtless boys in jeans beating the fuck out of each other. And 99 times out of 100, when homoerotic wrestling starts in jeans, they’re out of denim within about 3 minutes. Not so with Jonah and Cameron. They go about 5 falls into the match before Jonah gets his hot hors d’oeuvre ass stripped to briefs. The pacing is such that this makes total sense. They’re bitter. They don’t take breaks. When Cameron tried to pull of his t-shirt, Jonah took advantage of the moment by attacking him and using the shirt against him. So it’s little wonder that, when they’re both swinging for the fences, the time and effort it takes to rip off two pairs of skin tight jeans is not their top priority. And I for one love it.  I mean, I’d be bitter if we didn’t get to see these two bodies stripped to their gorgeous trunks underneath, but we do see that, and I get my denim kink stroked hard in the mean time.


Not so fast, hot shit pro

The final delightful surprise of this match is the finish. I mean, it’s not a surprise that sooner or later Cameron Matthews kicks Jonah’s munchable ass. He’s just too dominant. He’s too skilled. Even at this point in his pro career, he’s seen every dirty trick in the book, so one way or another, he’s going wrap this lean cut of veal up nice and tight and sleeper Jonah out cold. Watching the bitterness and resentment fading from Jonah’s face as he drifts off to dreamland is super sweet. But it isn’t surprising. What is surprising is how much time it takes Cameron to pull his shit together, get to his feet, catch his breath, stroll across the mat to pick up his clothes, monologuing to his unconscious opponent about fate and “maybe next time son,” and don’t-mess-with-the-bull trash talk. Because a groggy, blinking, dizzy twink punk has just enough time to rouse, crawl on his hands and knees up behind the hot jock who just put him down and jab a solid, breathtaking punch to Cameron’s balls from behind.


Hog tied jock

Cameron “wins,” mind you. He can out wrestle Jonah morning, noon and night. If Jonah just kept wrestling at this point, I have zero doubt that Cameron would yet again be putting the bitter punk down again and flexing and preening all over again. So Jonah grabs his leather belt off of his jeans and just hog ties the wailing, ball-bruised pro in the middle of the mat. I literally stand up and cheer, this is so fucking satisfying. The reversal of fortune is dripping with juicy, jock-comeuppance humiliation. The back alley punk then picks up his own clothes and starts for the door. But then he turns back and grabs Cameron’s clothes, too. “Fuck you!” Jonah spits down at the trussed up babyface pro. “Walk home naked, loser!”


“Fuck you! Walk home naked, loser!”

File this one under that longstanding theme I’ve talked about, where genuine suspense and surprise turns me on extra hard. This makes me want to go back and savor every Cameron Matthews match I own all over again, with this hot-tied humiliation of his past shedding new light on the career trajectory of the hardest working hunk in homoerotic wrestling. And this makes me want to go back and purchase every Jonah Richards match I can get my hands on.


Speaking of getting my hands on Jonah Richards

And this makes me, for at least a moment, ask “Biff? Chet? Who the fuck are they?!”


Totally satisfying Babyface Brawlers

“I did this to you!!!”


It says something when your profile descries you only as a “long-haired jobber”

The Wrestler4Hire roster describes Will Favero as “a young spitfire ready at all times to get into the action.” Kenny Dean, on the other hand, is simply labeled “long-haired jobber.”


Little’s got a can of whoop ass ready for you, Big.

Speaking to my recent series of comments about the added value of contrasts in the ring, Will and Kenny are bringing two entirely different sets of assets to their match. On the one hand, Kenny looks like a long, smooth, beautiful, blond suffer dude. He’s tanned, with stringy, sun bleached split ends. He’s not ripped, but he’s fit as fuck, with expansive, broad pecs and suckable nipples. His hot, black pro trunks have a dark green mod graphic print that both highlight exactly where his balls are on the front, and feature a starburst pattern from behind right across his asshole. His silky smoothness is accentuated by a liberal coat of baby oil to start the match. From a distance, I could easily see his long, muscled body for heel potential. Up close, the signals scream “long-haired jobber,” as advertised. Which makes it that much more ominous that he’s pissed for having waited 30 minutes for his opponent to show up. Oh, fuck, kid. You waited 30 minutes like a good little boy? You are so getting fucked up.


Will Favero is on fire!

Will contrasts perfectly with the surfer hippie. He’s a half a foot shorter. Dark haired, dark complexion, close cropped beard and meticulously low cut body hair across his pecs and lower abs. Not that you know that last bit to start with, because he’s in a t-shirt and bad boy black leather jacket to start with, looking like he barely had time to pull his pants off before climbing into the ring. When Kenny starts bitching about having to wait, Will leans against the ropes, rolling his eyes at the “professional courtesy” lecture he’s about to get. “I’ve got things to do, bro,” he explains calmly.


“Maybe I got shit to do, boy! Shit that’s much bigger than you.”

Apparently Will has finally checked off everything else on his to-do list for the day, because out of nowhere, he abruptly drives a solid kick to the tall boy’s balls. Not to give too much away, but, well… the match is over. The big, blond surfer boy’s first and last offensive maneuver of any real note is trying to brow beat his bad ass opponent into apologizing. The next 19 minutes are one magnificent series of surgical strikes cutting luscious Kenny up piece by piece.


The baby oil rubs off onto Will

Will takes off his leather jacket, but wrestles for the first 1/3 of the match in his t-shirt. Again, one of those sexy contrasting elements that I’ve mentioned that turns my crank is unmatched gear. So Will, still partially in street clothes, going full throttle all over baby oil prepped Kenny has a special allure for me. Ironically, it also contributes to the narrative, as Will gets seriously pissed to discover that Kenny’s abundantly lubricated muscles have soiled Will’s crisp, white t-shirt. “You get my shirt dirty!?” he snarls ominously. “I don’t like that very much, boy!” Finally, he peels it off his hot, hot bod and uses it to choke the surfer boy with.


Will makes the big boy his sniveling bitch

This is the first time I’ve seen either of these stunning men in the ring, and my first impression is that they are sensational to watch. The weight difference, according to the roster, isn’t so huge, with “little” Will packing on significantly thick, solid muscle negating much of the difference in their heights. But the height difference is striking, particularly when Will drags him up by a fist full of that stringy, blond mop and snaps him up into a bearhug. Watching a big man get crushed convincingly by an opponent a half a foot shorter drives me fucking nuts. Will even picks him up off his feet. Kenny squeezes his knees into his tormentor’s sides, his ass cheeks quivering and shaking, that startburst bullseye screaming for a pounding.


“Please, please be done with me!”

Speaking of screaming, Kenny is weeping and wailing so sweetly it almost brings a tear to my eye. He’s rode hard and relentlessly. On opening dragon sleeper (opening move, mind you) stretches his oil drenched torso out beautifully. Will chain wrestlers like a mother fucker from start to finish, so, seamlessly the scene morphs into chinlocks, full nelsons, body scissors, chokeholds. I completely forget this is a big versus little set up, because Will is all over the surfer hippie like a sweater two sizes too small. When Kenny finds his own beautiful, lubricated biceps stretched around his own throat, with Will’s knee digging into his spine as he’s pulled backward, trussed up, fucked up, going no where and getting humiliated every step of the way, Kenny screams, “I GIVE UP!” When Will finally relents for, what, about 3 seconds before attacking again, Kenny begs like a sniveling bitch, “Please, please be done with me.” For the record, there are 15 minutes left in this match at that point.


“What are you!?!”


There’s a potent, provocative mind fuck going on that’s paired brilliantly with the seriously high class pro wrestling beatdown happening. Kenny is desperately trying to guess what might be the magic words to make this nightmare come to an end. At one point, he screams out, “Please, please, I’m your slave!” “What did you say!?” Will snarls, a dark cloud of rage instantly roiling up from the deep. “You ain’t my slave!!!” Will growls. “You my bitch!” He wraps him up in a figure-4 chokehold, his shin pressed across Kenny’s throat, with the back of Kenny’s head squeezed nice and snug against Will’s package. “What are you?” he demands to know if Kenny learned at least one lesson here. The bad boy lifts his hips, squeezing tighter, thrusting his crotch harder into the back of the surfer’s head like he’s trying to fuck a hole into his skull. “WHAT ARE YOU!?” he barks again, demanding obedience. “I… I’m your bitchhhhhh,” Kenny hisses with the tiny bit of air he can squeeze out of his throat.


Will’s got moves

Whereas Kenny’s character here is pretty straightforward (“long-haired jobber”), Will is a little more complex, making me want to know a lot more about him. “Spitfire” doesn’t nearly capture him. Bad boy in black leather who doesn’t give a shit only scratches the surface. On several occasions, when Kenny is writhing, defenseless, fucked up and submitting every which way he can, usually ignored, Will suddenly lets him go. He climbs to his feet and breaks out into a half-strut, half dance, like he’s got gay club disco playing in the back of his head.  First of all, fuck yes, I want to go dancing with Will Favero. The first half a dozen shots of tequila are on me, as long as sooner or later he peels off his t-shirt, works up a sheen of sweat, and busts those cocky, don’t-give-a-shit-but-I’m-lovin’-life moves. Second, in this context, in the ring, popping up repeatedly in the middle of a deadly serious, totally crushing squash over a bigger guy, the dancing takes a step further than just being cocky. I think he may be a little fucking nuts. I still want go dancing with him, mind you.  I’m pretty sure Kenny Dean would agree with me that Will is nuts, if Kenny is able to remember any of this train wreck afterward.


“I told you to go to sleep!”

Near the end, when Will locks on a sleeper and bears down with a sneering smile, Kenny looks for the world like he’s just desperate to go the fuck to sleep and let this entire nightmare come to a close. But his survival instinct keeps kicking in. Despite himself, he keeps fighing it, fighting to hold onto consciousness, fighting to pry the threatening, bulging bicep away from the artery supplying blood to his brain. Will even heaps on more raging hate for that, too. Kenny cannot fucking win, and by win, I mean be left with even a shred of dignity. Just when Will thinks he’s put him out once and for all, even as the bad boy has his leather jacket draped across a shoulder and set to leave the scene of the crime and board a jet plane to his next paid hit, Kenny suddenly starts choking, rolling to his side, showing even that barest sign of life. “I thought I was done with you boy. I told you to go to sleep. That ain’t good, boy, that ain’t good for you!”


“Fuck… me!!!”

The swarming barrage of pro wrestling moves bearing down on the long-haired hippie are a master clinic in and unto themselves. In a cross-faced crippler, Kenny is literally screaming (and I kid you not), “Oh, shit! FUCK ME!” My hand immediately shoots into the air to volunteer for the job, mind you. But Will has other plans in store.


“You remember this boy. I did this to you!”

In the end, Kenny is flat on his back, rolled up humiliatingly, his ankles pinned to the mat next to his ears. Will is sitting on the backs of his legs, his big, bulge illustrated with flames hovering just overtop of Kenny’s chin. “You remember this, boy. I did this to you. I DID THIS TO YOU!”


X marks the spot.

Will does a whole lot to me, too. Kenny, as well, pulling his weight and then some as the big, brawny surfer dude getting beaten to a pulp by the bad ass greaser. Will’s fragile hold on human decency and rational thought, paired with his sensationally high class wrestling skills, makes me want to see a whole lot more of him… and watch those dance moves after about the 4th shot of tequila. And Kenny’s long, incredibly limber, fantastically flexible, lean muscled body is giving me hot flashes. Despite myself, I’m totally turned on by another obliterating squash.


Who’s the big man now?


Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

My choice for picking a homoerotic wrestler of the month was tough this time.  There were two particular new releases out in September that worked me hard. In fact, I went back and forth quite a bit on trying to decide, among the 4 wrestlers involved in these two matches, who among them deserved the shout out most. As always, I acknowledge the inherent liabilities of picking one wrestler, when it’s always at least two wrestlers who convincingly tell the tale of a remarkable homoerotic wrestling match. And I’ll reissue the disclaimer that applies to everything on this blog, when I say that this is entirely a subjective choice on my part. I don’t represent anyone else. I’m not suggesting who was the most popular among all wrestling fans, or who sold the most products. It’s just me, thumbing through the new release wrestling that turned me on the most in the month of September, with all of my biases and personal tastes and idiosyncrasies right out there on the table. And, in the end, after narrowly announcing yet another tie, I finally manned-up and just made a pick that I’m happy to stand by.  My new reigning homoerotic wrestler of the month is…






Carter Alexander.


A fan pleaser from the ground up

Starring in the opening match in BG East’s Great Outdoors 2, Carter nearly burned down the BGE gazebo in his revelatory battle against my long-time and still reigning overall reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler, Kid Karisma. Kid K missed sharing this month’s title by the skin of his teeth. If not for my longstanding bias toward celebrating fresh talent and surprises, I’d have had to say this was a dead heat. But the new glimpse of Carter’s personality and some provocative revelations about his motivation for throwing his g-g-g-gorgeous, beefy body into the brutal crucible of the gazebo required me to make the call for the relative newcomer. And I don’t exactly feel bad for Kid K. He’s a 3-time HWOTM title winner, and his work in Great Outdoors merely adds to the distance he has on the next closest competitor for being my overall favorite.


That fucking body!!!

But back to Carter. First of all, fuck. That body. 6’2″, 188 pounds, ripped, bulging, beautiful. Everything is proportional and mouthwatering, mind you, but I don’t know that I’ve been turned on by big, hard, bulging shoulders quite like Carter’s.  Well, one set of shoulders this summer had me swooning, but honestly, it’s a rare thing for me to bypass open lust for his bulging trunks, ripped abs, expansive pecs, and thick, round biceps to say that his shoulders are driving me fucking wild. I have this recurring fantasy (and wrote some wrestling fiction about it) about being on hand as one of my favorite wrestling crushes picks apart and lays out a tasty, gorgeous morsel for me to jump into the story and get my hands all over. In comes Kid Karisma serving up being, heaping helpings of Carter’s sumptuous muscle like a Chopped champion. And somehow, among so much beefsteak to dig into, I’m thinking I’d start by squeezing those gargantuan deltoid muscles.


“I… I like it when…”

But of course, I’ve seen Carter’s crush worthy body before, and he didn’t earn the title of HWOTM then. I’ve crushed on his crazy lean waist and swooned over brief glimpses of his ass crack and not found myself compelled to elevate him to the throne in the past. But if you read my review of this match, you’ll know what I mean when I say it was exactly nine words, muttered like a mid-week confessional, half gasping, dripping with equal parts pain and shocked pleasure, that stole the show for me. Carter took his Kid K barnburner to a whole new level when suddenly he breathlessly admits, mid-match, right in the fucking middle of the moment of it happening, “I like it when you pull on my hair.”


“…when you pull on my hair.”

Kid Karisma makes sure and treat the pretty boy to a whole lot more of what he likes. But that doesn’t surprise me one bit. This is Kid K we’re talking about. He fucking delights in discovering the psychic weaknesses and soft/hard spots that can turn opponents into puppets like this. No, what ends up standing out here for me is the moment of a hot, smoldering, fitness mag version of John Krasinski, who moments before was crowing and gloating like crazy with the momentum going his way, suddenly catching us, and seemingly himself, by surprise by letting slip his masochistic underbelly.


Carter’s bongo playing is also award winning.

Many of the more sexually ambiguous characters in homoerotic wrestling leave me wondering at times if they get any enjoyment at all out of crushing on an opponent for our titillation. Not that I mind too, too much if they don’t, but I’m instantly 10 times more turned on when I get a whiff of one of these could-be-an-uptight-fratboy types who gives us a glimpse of something deeper. It could be that they sort of get off on the feeling of dominating another man. It could be that they just experience a perverse delight in bullying and humiliating an opponent. Perhaps they just enjoy the personal challenge, the puzzling apart a serious competitor and leaving them honestly proud and pleased to lay them out and demonstrate their superiority. But when a relatively straight up pretty boy like Carter lets slip a deep, dark secret like he enjoys it when a bulging, beefy, beautiful muscle heel like Kid K buttons him up and pulls on his hair, it makes him instantly someone I want to know and watch much much more of.


Right where he belongs

Seriously, Carter Alexander can kick major league ass. Just ask Jake Jenkins. He’s not an impotent pretty boy who’s never even thought about what all of his sensational muscles and devastating power are good for. He could easily be a serious competitor for just about any of the up-and-comers in the BG East stable. So the way this Great Outdoors match goes does not come across as gimmicky to me. Carter didn’t need to vacillate back and forth between crowing bullying and whimpering, begging bitch like a boomerang to be a compelling homoerotic wrestling character. He didn’t have to gasp out that shocking confession that he’s got a trip wire connecting the hair on his head to the head of his cock. But wrestling against the best at BG East just dragged those sensationally sexy elements right out of him, and by the time he’s sleepered out cold (while getting his hair pulled, of course), and wrapped up tight between Kid K’s gargantuan rugby thighs, there’s an authenticity about the sense that ultimately there’s no where else he would want to be. And fuck, fuck, fuck, there is no where else I want him to be right then, either.


Buried deep

So despite my equivocating, I’m happy to stand behind my September 2016 choice for homoerotic wrestler of the month.  In fact, I’d be happy to stand really, really close and right behind him. It wasn’t easy, and he’s got luck and my own personal quirks to thank for edging this one out at the very end. But I’m very happy to induct a new member of the ranks of homoerotic wrestlers of the month. All hail the new homoerotic wrestler of the month, who likes getting his hair pulled…


Carter Alexander, September 2016 Homoerotic Wrestler of the Month

Come with Me, Big Boy

Christian Taylor dazzles.

I’ve heard the same rumors that the BG East match description mentions. BG East wrestlers consistently rank Christian Taylor as one of their favorites. I’ve heard him described as an upright guy, earnest, engaging, and (astonishingly) even more attractive in person than he is on camera. I’m not really sure how that last is possible, because his movie star good looks are off the charts. His body is magnificent. His long, lean frame and graceful lines make me think of fashion models. You could cut class on those cheekbones, and clearly he’s one of those angels graced with long, thick black eyelashes that always make him look like he wears mascara. It looks like there’s a growing consensus that the classic Sean Patrick’s title as BG East’s top kisser has finally been passed along to those sweet, sexy lips of Christian. I haven’t seen every one of his approximately 25 BG East matches yet, but I would hazard a guess that a solid majority of them involve face sucking.

Sexual tension in an instant

So when Christian stars in a stand alone Wet & Wild release against a dashing young slice of furry beef, I want overnight shipping.  There’s this subtle, tense moment right at the beginning of the DVD when smoking hot newbie Calvin Haynes strolls out onto the pool deck at the BGE Florida compound to find Christian stretched out, eyes closed, soaking in the sunshine. Calvin just stands there, looking down at all 6’2″ of Christian. Christian is so fucking pretty, there’s something honest about the idea that he could stop a big muscle hunk in his tracks like that. The rookie makes no bones about it. Like so many BGE wrestlers, he’s into Christian hard, from the start, flirtatiously and assertively. The sight of Christian’s beauty turns him on effortlessly. Seriously, before Christian ever realizes that he’s getting checked out, Calvin is all in.

“…those fucking tree trunks!”

I’m on the record being highly ambivalent about pool wrestling. The “wet” part of Wet & Wild 8 is no exception. On the one hand, anywhere from 50% to 100% of these gorgeous wrestlers is underwater and out of sight at any one time. Particularly when it comes to Calvin, I fucking want to check the fresh meat out. Particularly what Christian refers to as “those fucking tree trunks” and Calvin’s lush, muscle hard bubble butt deserve a lot better angles than we get when the boys are dunking and diving.

“Abs of steel!”

On the other hand, wet, glistening muscles make me swoon. Christian and Calvin frequently drag each other over to the pool stairs for long, hard, grunting scissors and full nelsons, pulling each other most of the way out of the water and giving us hot glimpses of captured muscle. Sure enough, Calvin’s hot, massive quads get their official coming out shining in the Florida sunshine, flexed and crushing the lean veteran and earning that “fucking tree trunks” comment. There’s also a tantalizing focus on Christian’s legendary abs, when he’s propped his elbows on the side of the pool, sunning himself tantalizingly as he takes a tan break after wringing a submission out of the rook. In fact, Calvin can’t stop himself from wide-eyed, slack jawed muscle worship with the chlorinated water flooding the deep, sexy valleys of Christian’s abdominals. It’s open adoration in his voice when the newbie groans “abs of steel,” needing no subject or verb in that sentence to convey the obvious, open faced lust distracting him from the competition part of the story. And then, like there’s nothing else one can do with a washboard like that, the newbie clenches his fist and starts pounding the shit out of him.

Calvin impresses the veteran with raw, hard, grinding power.

Calvin rides the momentum of all that muscle like the cocky hunk he clearly is. Even Christian acknowledges that the new guy possesses a decisive size and strength advantage, and he works some hot bullying action on the legendary kisser. When Christian can exploit his longer limbs and extensive wrestling experience, he controls the pace and works the advantage. But when Calvin snaps him up in those hot, bulging, tatted arms and squeezes, Christian gets all locked up and sucks on the agony so sweetly.

Rookie bulge hung out to dry

But like so many rookies before him, Calvin mistakes winning a battle for winning the war. He struts and flexes in victory. He turns his back, showing off that marvelous, meaty ass, and flexes his biceps, silently demanding the veteran give credit to his superior strength. And like the savvy, level headed veteran he is, Christian locks him up with a chin lock and hangs him out to dry, stretched across his back. Finally, we get to see serious, soaking wet, tanned, hot skin!

Bullying a muscle bully

I think the sweetest moment is when Christian scoops the muscle newbie up across his shoulders and, like a nasty pool bully, laughs as he dunks Calvin’s face repeatedly underwater, demanding the hottie submit. Watching a big muscle hunk bullied relentlessly and commandingly by a lean, long pretty boy is golden.

“Come with me, big boy!”

How many times have we seen wrestlers, so obviously into each other, battle it out in front of the camera and then disappear behind closed doors for the undocumented spoils of victory? When Christian grabs the muscle rookie by the hair and drags him out of the pool, saying, “We need to take this somewhere else. Come with me, big boy,” I think that we’re about to see that sexually frustrating fade to black. But the camera stays on as they start toweling each other off. Something is different here. They’re openly admiring and acknowledging each other’s hotness. Christian coos about the rook’s massive thighs. Calvin swoons over Christian’s competition ready swimmer’s body. The implication that they’re turned on by each other turns explicit, as they say just that. Fuck, yes.

Genuinen appreciation

The choice to keep this story pounding out on a bed inside the BG East compound makes me stand up and cheer. There’s more wrestling, and whereas I was bitching and moaning about the obscured vision of the bodies in the pool, holy fuck, the cameraman had to be on the bed with them, catching such incredibly up close and intimate angles as they squeeze and grind and pound and grind. And grind. And grind.

Rising to the occasion

And speaking of inches. Sweet fucking Jeebus. Calvin and Christian swell to the occasion. There’s something unforced and organic about the gradual, subtle appearance of their erections straining the seams of their trunk crotches. We’ve all seen homoerotic wrestling where there’s an awkward camera cut and then suddenly the combatants go from flaccid to full mast in the blink of an eye. That’s just not the way these writhing beasts show up on screen in this match. The boys are just enjoying themselves that much. I buy every last second and every big, juicy inch of it.

Calvin gets put on his back by those infamous lips

The chemistry is sticky and sweet. The kissing is ferocious and eager. Those big, quivering rods stuffed to the rim of their trunks just keep grinding. There’s a brief cock fight, as the big leaguers swing their wood into each other, because, fuck, they’re so fucking excited. And they suck face with a genuine appreciation and hunger that almost makes me feel like a voyeur. Honestly, they knew that camera man was zooming in 5 inches from their hot, pounding bodies, right?!

And grind. And grind. And grind…

To be clear, the trunks stay on. This isn’t a nudity product. But this is as explicit and erotic and fucking hot, hot, hot as it gets with those hard, swelling, raging erections staying under wraps, and yet fully engaged. Calvin is a seriously promising commodity on the scene. I  love his look, and I love that he’s leading with his big, meaty cock fresh out of the gate in this sensational debut. And as for Christian, fuck. Once again, all that beauty woos and seduces and is woven seamlessly into a crazy hot erotic wrestling drama, with equal parts erotic and wrestling in perfect proportion.

Tell Your Friends

I’m often late to the party, but I proudly assert that I was an early adopter when it comes to my infatuation with Steel Muscle God. I caught him on YouTube in the really early days and fell instantly in lust with a brief clip (that I frustratingly can’t find any longer) of SMG flexing for a private cam show, in a super tight singlet and glasses, and groaning, grunting, and monologuing in that sensational eastern European accented baritone. I wrote a fictional series of posts about him and another YouTube object of muscle worship battling it out to determine who is, indeed, the more muscle godly.


Steel Muscle God

I also lobbied early on for someone to pick up this independent muscle worship star and bring him into the fold of a major underground homoerotic wrestling producer. A few years later, to my surprise and pleasure, MDW begin publishing wrestling matches. To be clear, SMG is a homoerotic wrestling fantasy man. His wrestling is not technically outstanding. His command of a mat is a shade better than his command of the ring, but neither are remarkable in and of themselves. But he keeps grabbing my attention and possessing my erotic imagination because of two things: his lovely, pumped, tasty muscles and his rich, engaging, often self-deprecating, always fully committed on camera personality. When I got a brief interview with him a couple of years ago, I was smitten because he’s pretty fucking iconic in connecting the dots between the muscle worship and homoerotic wrestling sides of my kinks.


Charlie Evans says he’s a huge fan.

So how….. the fuck…. does Charlie Evans enjoy the luck of getting to be dominated and “forced” into groaning, grunting, fully hands on muscle worship SMG in Oil Hunks 8!? I mean, Charlie had to be 12 or something when SMG first hit the scene. I was gushing and gasping and promoting SMG’s unique stylings when Charlie was probably attending his junior prom. But timing appears to be everything, because Charlie showed up at MDW right around the same time that SMG made his first stateside appearance on the site. And one fateful day, as SMG was stretching out (aka, flexing and posing and monologuing about his well deserved self-love) post-workout, he turned around to find this hot little red-headed fire cracker shoving SMG’s discarded t-shirt into his face and breathing in the musk of the icon.

“Woah, woah, woah!” SMG snarls angrily. “What the hell are you doing with my t-shirt!?”

“I was just trying to help clean the ring, and I saw your t-shirt there,” Charlie stutters defensively. Totally caught red-handed.

“And my shirt just happened to be around your nose?” SMG snarls in that fantastic, fluent-yet-slightly-awkward English as a second language that somehow makes him about 3 times as arousing to me.

“I’m… I’m a fan,” Charlie finally admits. “I’ma huge fan.”


“I was just trying to help clean the ring.”

Bitch. Get the fuck in the back of the line, Charlie!  Seriously, I’m just a little pissed at the hot little originator of the Ginger Snap, despite how charmed I have been by his homoerotic wrestling debut with both MDW and BG East in the past 12 months. His Boston accent and sensational, shapely skinny boy ass get me off so hard. I love his simmering ferocity bubbling just beneath the surface of his super light weight body, which is getting bullied and squashed about 90% of the time I’ve seen him in action. He’s so fucking upright. He’s got this Jimmy Olson earnestness and unblinking assertiveness, even when he’s getting trampled and, even more often, spun overhead of some lucky baton twirling opponent. I like Charlie, mind you. But when he’s instructed by SMG to climb into the ring and make himself useful, based on nothing more than Charlie’s fawning confession of being a huge fan, I’m sorting of hating the lottery-winning mother fucker right now.


SMG warms up

“I have a match soon, and I need to warm up,” SMG explains about 3/4 of a second before snatching the ginger babyface up into a rib-rearranging bearhug. Charlie is hoisted way off his feet. SMG’s big, bulging biceps flair as he grinds his forearms into the kid’s ribcage. Charlie chokes and grunts, struggling for air, suffering, but right at home.

“You know what, I’m kind of feeling in the mood for a nice worship time before my match begins. So make yourself useful,” SMG growls, throwing Charlie to the mat and tossing him a bottle of baby oil.


“You… you want me to oil you down!?” asks Br’er Rabbit.

“You… you want me to oil you down!?” Charlie asks incredulously. If you grew up on the (let’s face it, racist) Uncle Remus children’s stories like I did, you’ll understand what I mean when I say Charlie’s voice conveys the heart and soul of Br’er Rabbit pleading not to be thrown into the briar patch.

“I want you to oil and show these muscle a lot of love,” SMG proclaims with a sneer. Have I mentioned how much I’m hating the hot little ginger right now?  I have to sympathize when Charlie starts slapping on the baby oil and rubbing his hands all over SMG’s outstretched right arm. It’s a little frenetic, overly eager. “Slowly!” SMG has to instruct. Charlie obediently restrains himself, slowing down. “I’ll do anything you say, sir,” Charlie assures him. That fucking suck up.


“I’ll do anything you say, sir.”

The oil down is shiny and super hot. SMG’s fans will probably have seen this before, frankly. If you’re familiar with one of his long-time favorite buddies, Wimpy Boy, then the mechanics of this scene will ring a bell. But despite my surprising crush on Wimpy Boy, he does not enjoy this work even half as much as Charlie clearly does. Charlie’s lips purse un-self-consciously. He groans quietly, with a non-verbal communication of approval, awe, and perhaps just a little unspoken prayer of gratitude to the homoerotic wrestling gods. When SMG demands to know if Charlie is enjoying this, the ginger worshipper cracks a huge, broad smile. “It’s pretty amazing!,” the eager tenor confesses as he strokes and gently squeezes SMG’s massively peaked left bicep. “I haven’t seen anything like this!”


“Do you know how many guys would kill to be in our place?”

The baby oil application is slow and seductive, because SMG insists on it. He repeatedly has to demand Charlie bump it down into a lower gear, because he keeps letting adrenaline get the best of him. “Do you know how many guys would kill to be in your place,” SMG asks, “worshipping the muscle god?” I admit I feel a fleeting deathwish for the adorable red-head, so… truer words never spoken. Suddenly he shoves Charlie’s face into his flexed bicep. There’s a quick instant of pain that washes across Charlie’s face that makes me think he was not expecting that, and that it hurt getting face planted into a granite boulder like that. When SMG grabs the back of his head and shoves his face into his chest, pec smothering the kid, Charlie is grunting and groaning, instinctively pleading for oxygen, but his hands keep stroking, exploring, palming every inch of the bulging muscle god within reach.


SMG’s upper thigh is significantly bigger around than Charlie’s head.

SMG announces that his upper body has been sufficiently oiled and instructs Charlie to do the same to every single inch of his magnificently muscled legs. I cry foul. Because, like so fucking many muscle worship scenarios I’ve seen, the stars have completely forgotten the back. My sneaking suspicion is that this is a straight boy thing. I don’t actually know SMG’s sexual orientation, but I have this working hypothesis that straight boys starring as objects of homoerotic lust don’t really get how much we may be turned on to see some attention paid to them from behind. I don’t just mean their asses. Though, yeah. But I think since straight physique stars can’t really see and admire their own backsides so much, they don’t quite “get” what an object of lust it can be for a gay audience to see them lovingly studied from behind. They assume it’s all about the front view of their double biceps, their most muscular pecs, their six-pack abs. I fault SMG exclusively for this party foul, because Charlie is a devoted, obedient, slack jawed follower at this point, the lucky son of a bitch.


You lucky son of a ginger-headed bitch!!!!

But fuckohfuckohfuck, I do respond well to seeing Charlie rubbing baby oil into those huge, glistening quads of SMG. SMG laughs, observing that his upper thigh is significantly bigger around that Charlie’s head, which is hovering right around cock-sucking height as he applies the first coat of oil.


What did you do to deserve this, Charlie!?!

I first think the money shot happens when SMG abruptly shoves Charlie’s head down and steps over the back of his neck, clinching tight and locking in standing headscissors. The architecture here is just mind blowing. Charlie keeps stroking those massive quads grinding into his temples. The heads of SMG’s quads are cut like crystal as he flexes, bearing down, groaning and cooing with pleasure.


That’s what I like!”

That’s one of the things that I think has always set SMG apart. He fucking loves this. He may trash talk his worshippers now and then, but the overall narrative is that he fucking loves this. “That’s what I like,” he comes right out and says it, his deep voice grumbling from somewhere down around his sternum. “Probably when you finish with this, you’ll go home and tell all about it to your friends,” he says, all the words spoken just right, but in that English as a second language way of using unconventional sequencing. “Tell them you had the chance of a lifetime to meet the one and only muscle god! You had the chance to feel those rock hard muscles. I am the epitome of amazing,” he closes his eyes and groans with pleasure, mispronouncing epitome. “Words can’t even describe me. Yeeeeaaaahhhhh…,” his monologue fades into a deep bass grinding of stone against stone.


“The best view EVER?”

Although my first thought was that those initial standing headscissors were the money shot, I’m proven wrong. After a brief interlude of more pec smothering and muscle kissing, SMG shoves Charlie’s head back down, this time facing upward, as he snaps his quads back together for a standing face-to-crotch headscissors finisher. “Got a nice view there boy? The best view ever?” SMG asks. “Yes!” Charlie’s gasping response is muffled by the quads crushing his face.


Pec dancing muscle god

Charlie’s hands never stop stroking this entire 20 minutes, bless his soul. I sort of don’t hate him so much by the end, because he’s doing us long-time SMG fanatics proud sucking down every opportunity shoved in his face to worship the icon. When his eyes flutter shut in ecstasy, SMG growls, “Look at me!” Charlie’s eyes snap open, staring up, over the bulging crotch in his face, up the rippled ridges of SMG’s abs, up the mountainous pecs in the distance, to stare obediently into the steel muscle god’s eyes. “You going to be back for more?” he asks. He wants to be worshipped. He’s pleased with the quality of attention Charlie has given him. He can feel the erotic subservience Charlie places like a sacrifice at the altar of his divinity. “Yes,” Charlie gasps.


SMG wants this so much.

“You going to tell your friends,” SMG demands. He wants more worshipers. He wants to shock and awe. He wants more hands on him, more eyes soaking in his splendor, more obedient followers on their knees, treasuring any and every gift of grace he showers down upon them by way of flexing, flaunting, and force feeding his muscled splendor. “Yes!” Charlie grunts again.


“You’d better be here next time!”

“Good boy,” SMG smiles down as he abruptly releases the hold. Charlie tumbles to his back, hard. “You’d better be here next time,” he warns him. “I just love this kind of attention.”

This is such a sweet, sweet antidote to the muscle worship scenarios starring objects of worship who seem to hold their adoring mortals in contempt. It’s also many times as erotic to watch a worshipper who really, really, really enjoys the feel of the magnificent muscles he’s required to touch, caress, and polish. Charlie brings an authenticity to this that, damn it all, I have to admit makes me seriously admire him. And if the next time his muscle god calls him, telling him to bring some of those friends of his along with him, if Charlie gives me a ring, perhaps I will officially bury the hatchet.


Hook me up, Charlie.

Looking for wrestling? A bearhug and some super long scissors are all you’re getting here. This is very tasty blend of MDW muscle domination and classic SMG muscle worship, with the nod to the wrestling fetishists among us by setting it in the pro ring. Next time, when Charlie’s brought me along, I’ll make sure you get to witness some oily adoration for the flip side of this fantasy man.