I just found on my doorstep the biggest haul of BG East contraband, behind-the-scenes stash of candid photos I’ve ever seen in one place. Our Man Inside (OMI) of BG East dropped off way over 100 photos of never before seen shots. This smacks of either astonishingly brash cockiness bordering on a secret wish to be caught, or the move of a man with the law hot on his heels and determined to smuggle out every last possible gem moments before he’s found out. Either way, I sense something ominous in this massive moment of homoerotic wrestling espionage, and I’m sending my most positive thoughts OMI’s way, wishing him good health and an “accident”-free near future.
In the meantime, I’m combing through this treasure chest of a manila envelope and trying to decide how best to organize these homowiki-leaks for public consumption. It should come as little surprise that the large collection of photos of a long-time favorite, Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!!!) instantly grab my attention and make my crotch swell. And speaking of swollen crotches… fuck. me. senseless. Of course Mr. J was immediately a front runner for Best Bulge of 2017 with his early year appearance in Ring Wars 26 wearing a leopard print loin cloth. But take a gander at what these bright red low rise trunks do to accentuate the elephant’s trunk he has stuffed in that pouch! As usual, the heft of his carry on luggage does not entirely fit in the overhead compartment, and the gap between his upper, inner thigh and the fabric of his trunks is precisely the magnificent tease that has made me love/hate/love Mr. Joshua for well over a decade. Again, I say, who the fuck has got what it takes to compete with this for Best Bulge of 2017!?
While OMI did not smuggle out action shots, these shots of Mr. J and Gil Barrios sneering at one another in the BG East weight room seem to strongly imply that Gil may be the next lucky son of a bitch to get an up close and personal opportunity to inspect the dizzyingly sexy body of Mr. Joshua.
Whatever Mr. Joshua is selling, I’m buying!
And if Gil is the lucky bastard who gets the next opportunity to get his hands on Mr. J’s body, these separate shots I dug out of the massive haul left on my doorstep might suggest that Gil has a hard time handling all that beef Mr. Joshua slaps down on the table.
How in the fuck do I preorder this slighty-more-than-hypothetical bout!? Could this be the match that catapults Mr. J back on top of my favorites list, unseating Kid Karisma’s world class ass for the first time in years? Will this finally be the contest in which Mr. J’s long-teased anaconda finally makes its first free range appearance on camera!? As always, OMI leaves us with more questions than answers. But we’re profoundly grateful for your brave service to the fans, OMI, and we hope you survive long enough to smuggle out more gems. If you need a safe house to escape the BG East muscle about to tie you up in the dungeon for your homowiki-leak bravery, send word. Use the codeword “OTK,” and I’ll know it’s you.
I’ll post more of this latest stash of contraband soon…
I’ve got a little crush on whoever is charting the social media course for BG East lately. I have bitched and complained mercilessly for a while about the need for homoerotic wrestling companies to up their social media game. It feels like the industry is solidly migrated to almost entirely a virtual existence online (DVD’s seeming to be going the way of the dinosaur, e.g.), so relying on eyes to reach company home pages on their own seems risky these days. And any failure to engage and titillate and evoke and provoke a virtually networked audience in between catalog releases feels downright old fashioned. So I’ve noticed with pleasure BG East’s increasing social media presence, including the excellent designation of this month as #JobberJune.
I’ve been accused in the past of hating on jobbers. I deny it vehemently, of course. Jobbers are an essential ingredient to the pro wrestling universe, and they populate plenty of my fondest homoerotic wrestling fantasies. I admit to being provoked hardest by heels and babyface heroes, but the doomed jobber is always a strongly compelling character as well. We can, and I’m sure will, debate the essence and the margins of what it means to be a jobber. I think of them as those wrestlers who routinely get their asses kicked, for whom a victory would seem an honest surprise. I don’t think of them as merely squash bait. A jobber can put up a fight, and personally I prefer it that way. But considering the sum total of their careers, when a wrestler seems fated again and again to end up beaten and humiliated, he meets my criteria for jobberhood.
The BG East social media maven has been celebrating #JobberJune with sensational call outs to classic jobbers. Casey Cutler, Wade Cutler, and Tony Consenti completely deserve this walk of shame, and seeing their photos suck me right back to lush, key moments in which watching them wrestle had me rock hard for the potent melodrama of seeing them earnestly throwing their hot bodies into the breach again and again, only to get trashed and tossed to the curb. My nostalgia button is punched hard with seeing this retrospective of hot, doomed hunks from across the decades.
Adorably upright Ken Canada got a richly deserved spot in the #JobberJune rotation. A long-standing friend of this blog, Ken was that upstanding, earnest babyface brand of jobber. His lean muscles, lightly hairy pecs, and button nose were the sensational framework for a jobber. Especially after interviewing him, I think of Ken as this supremely earnest, eager, fully game hunk who had sensational raw material for competitive wrestling, which made his lamb-to-slaughter narrative that much more compelling.
So I’m putting #JobberJune on my recurring calendar notifications for years to come. And I’m excited to see who the social media maven at BGE comes up with next for the #JobberJune walk of shame. I’d most definitely nominate gorgeous little firecracker Reese Wells, who always seemed right on the edge of wrestling glory, only to be literally upended before the final fall.
Then there’s Ricky Martinez. Everything about him in still frame screamed sensationally equipped competitor, but over and over his pristine beauty was ruined by viciousness, cunning, and extravagant dirty tricks.
Surely top contender for the most popular jobber in BGE history has to be Rio Garza. I always longed to see Rio mobilize that fantasy man body to do better in competition. In retrospect, Rio’s capacity to make me call him out as a doormat has been, of course, testimony to what a compelling jobber he’s been. Being literally a winner of fan polls for best body AND possessing one of the most lopsided win-loss records on the books points to some of the most potent elements to why jobbers inhabit our wrestling fantasies. Beauty spoiled. Hot bodies broken down and laid bare. Ambition and promise crushed by an opponent more than willing to go darker, deeper, and nastier. Jobbers tell a story that turns us on.
Tommy Tara, Christopher Bruce, Mr. E, Muscle Mask… we keep watching not because we actually expect to see them pull out a victory. Personally, I want to be held in suspense, even if I know that fates are aligned against a particular hunk in the long run. But we watch because there’s something provocative about watching a man charge into the fray courageously, without a shred of realistic hope of coming out on top. It’s less about how a wrestler stacks up against any particular opponent, but more about a psychic flaw within him that makes the tick in the loser column inevitable, despite his most valiant efforts and magnificent potential. Somebody’s got to lose, and I think it’s a relatively rare wrestler who can do it so compellingly that we’re eager again and again to watch him do it, to see what inadequacy an opponent will discover amid a hot, powerful hunk’s blatantly obvious assets for kicking ass.
Who’s your favorite jobber? Post a #JobberJune reply to BG East’s Facebook page and give the jobbers some well deserved love.
So a summer sangria toast to the jobbers, this #JobberJune. And to the BG East social media maven, the first round is on me.
Little Lauden Sevior is a mystery to me. He a gorgeous little flower. Hot, petite body. Delicately pretty face accentuated and framed with his long, flowing hair. Of course I understand why I want to see him stripped to a thong and showing off his beauty for a gay wrestling audience. I just think he may be better suited to be the eye candy ring girl (ring boy?) drawing hoots and leers in the intermissions between the bell than one of the fighters (I know, I know, this is a boxing metaphor rather than a pro wrestling metaphor).
But he keeps showing up on the BG East wrestlings mats, and he keeps getting crushed like a grape. The maulings of Lauden seem to me to be getting crueler and more lopsided with each go. Sensationally sexy erotic warrior Gold Shaft probably treated little Lauden with the most tenderness. Of course that means that he terrorized the kid every which way, but by the attention with which Gold Shaft meticulously studied Lauden’s dancer’s ass, you could tell that he was going to save just enough of the kid’s dignity to make Lauden beg for his Gold Shaft. Ethan Andrews, on the other hand, fucking bullied Lauden relentlessly. Similarly, the pleasure was all Ray Naylor’s as he snickered and taunted and laughed his way to one of the most heartless, vicious squashes I think I’ve ever seen. LJL kept little Lauden in the match just long enough to feast on the kid’s magnificently shattered dreams. Lauden seems to bring the nastiest out of his opponents. Frankly, I get why they all want to hurt him. I just don’t get why he keeps showing up for more.
But I have my suspicions about why Lauden agreed to return to the scene of so many crimes to square off against the Cheshire Cat Drake Marcos in Undagear 27. Lauden makes no mystery of the fact that he is, like I am, a huge Drake Marcos fan. In his delicate high tenor Puerto Rican accent, he’s practically stumbling over himself from the start, fanboying all over Drake. There’s a possessiveness about it. He’s just counting his lucky starts to have made it through the gauntlet of previous muggers to have earned the opportunity to get his hands on (and especially, vice versa) his favorite BGE star. Little Lauden seems to think of himself as the president of the Cheshire Cat fan club, for which I say Watch yourself, prettyboy. I’ll join the long line of users and abusers to stomp my foot up your taut, athletic ass before you can rip that title from my hands.
Anyway, there’s instantly a different vibe about this match than all of Lauden’s previous outings. For one, he takes up more of the space. Not physically, of course. He’s still insanely tiny. But he’s got a voice. He’s shown up with eager motivation to face his hero. He’s excited and determined, and I completely get why he’s here this time. He wants to feel the steel trap of Drake’s scissors first hand. He wants to watch that handsome face up close, beaming down in pure erotic wrestling joy. He wants to earn his hero’s respect, taking what Drake dishes out and, just maybe, turning the tables, all in the service of a little positive regard. Trust me, Lauden, I know exactly what you’re thinking.
Despite his win-loss record, it should come as a surprise to no one that Drake dominates most of this match. He presses his advantage in height and weight early and often, and he’s got magnificent mat skills beaten into him by the most accomplished mentor an aspiring erotic wrestler could hope for. He bullies little Lauden into position like so many of the prettyboy’s opponents before him, but the punishing holds are savored long and beautifully. There’s an explicitly sexy mutuality about the way Drake bears down on the dancer boy. Seconds in, Lauden is getting snapped in half in those body scissors (fuck, those hurt). He gasps in pain, feeling the pressure compress his rib cage. “Nice!” Lauden gasps, his face a mixture of agony and pleasure that I have to think is exactly how he looks when he’s mid-orgasm. “Can you get out of it?” Drake asks, smirking, soaking in the sight of what he’s doing to his opponent. Nine times out of 10, an opponent will try to play mind games right there. Most wrestlers will dismiss any hint that they’re getting hurt. You’re most likely to hear the phrase, “Is that all you’ve got?” in moments like this. But not this match. Not Lauden, staring up at that sincerely delighted smile. “Why would I!?” Lauden coos, instead. Yeah, this is not your typical underground wrestling story.
So Lauden wants to suck down everything Drake’s got. And lest you underestimate him, Drake’s got plenty. He slams him to the mat with authority. He rips him apart at the shoulders with chicken wings. He rag dolls Lauden in as standing full nelson, that curtain of hair flying all over the place. More scissors. A whole lot more scissors. With variable condiments on the side like an added hammerlock, a squeeze and slap to the ass. He rips off Lauden’s red trunks, leaving the lithe dancer in sensationally tight, brief, ass-revealing undagear.
“You’re a lot easier than I thought,” Drake marvels, having his way from hold to hold, periodically surveying the damage in schoolboy pins. “Well, I don’t want to hurt my favorite wrestler,” Lauden winks. That’s right, Lauden delivers the hottest backhanded compliment of the year. He implies that he’s letting Drake walk away with it, that he could hurt the Cheshire Cat at will, but that he just doesn’t want it. Whether it’s sincerity or bluff, it lights a renewed fire under Drake’s ass to squeeze every last ounce of fight out of his #1 fan (behind me).
And then again, I suppose that’s option number 3. Not exactly sincere challenge or bluff, but rather Lauden is calculating just what concoction of compliments and trash talk he needs to feed his hero to inspire the punishing brutality that he knows Drake can deliver, when properly motivated. Drake hoists the dancer off his feet in a bearhug, making Lauden whimper. He charges into the wall, crushing little Lauden between his rock and the hard place. And speaking of hard places, when Drake pulls Lauden off the wall and snaps him back into a humiliating full nelson, Lauden’s swelling pouch telegraphs exactly what Drake’s brand of domination is doing to him.
It’s a dangerous game to play, poking a bear with a stick in order to see it roar. There are mini-climaxes of Drake being sincerely furious and putting a nasty hurt on the little guy. You know which ones hurt by the smile evaporating from Lauden’s face, and the Puerto Rican jobber coming charging at him seeing blood. And no shit, Lauden puts some hurt right back on the Cheshire Cat. Grinding the ball of his foot into Drake’s balls steals a little of the wind from the Cheshire Cat’s sails. Lauden mounts him in a schoolboy pin and shoves that semi-hard poker right into Drake’s gasping face. Just to keep him focused on the task at hand, Lauden leans back and claws at Drake’s balls, squeezing out a scream. And then, slowly and savoringly, he strokes the palms of his hands up Drake’s sweaty torso. “Nice body,” Lauden coos. “Thanks,” Drake smiles up, a half second before hooking the dancer’s shoulders with his long legs and slamming the kid to his back.
There are tears of agony shed from both wrestlers. They’re pushing themselves just that hard. They’re coaxing out of each other a gorgeously nasty street fight, and the give and take is the most compelling wrestling I’ve seen Lauden pull off. There’s a whole lot of spanking, and in fact, I’d guess that if we were able to torture an honest answer out of him, that would be Lauden’s secret most desire. My hunch is that he isn’t just a masochist. I don’t think he enjoyed any of his previous matches as much as this one, because just getting stomped into a pool of tears and sweat isn’t his thing. But by the screams and final submission to Drake as the Cheshire Cat bends him over his knee and spanks his ass blood red, I think right then, there’s nowhere else in the world little Lauden Sevior would prefer to be.
And when Drake climbs on top, post match, and they start making out, I get the impression that Drake is equally as happy with this moment, and not just because it’s a much overdue tick in the win column.
It’s been a while since I took a break from interviews and reviews for a more thematic post. Today, I’m thinking about that peculiar idiom, referring to Wednesday as “hump day.” I actually missed this convention growing up. It was some time in my early adulthood, probably perusing commentary about homoerotic wrestling, when I first heard the term “hump day.” Now, I see and hear it everywhere. I still associate it with sex, but considering how mainstream it is, that’s clearly not implied by everyone. But among those of us into homoerotic wrestling, what else would come to mind?
An enthusiastic pelvic thrust in the midst of a wrestling match is one of those relatively subtle moments that instantly turns a confrontation sensationally erotic. Personally, I get off on wrestling beyond any direct analogy to sex acts. But there’s an extravagant openness about a wrestler taking an opportunity by force to tease his crotch grinding into his opponent’s crack. It opens up exciting possibilities about stakes. It signals to those of us aroused on this side of the screen that at least one of the hunks on that side of the screen is also turned on. It’s impassioned and motivated and pulls a wrestling match out of the closet by the scruff of the neck. In those rare moments when the wrestler getting humped responds receptively, when his mouth gapes open in frustrated desire, when he’s visibly struggling with a momentary lust to get fucked by the hot hunk on his back competing with his desire for wrestling victory (I’m looking at you, Drake Marcos), then a wrestling match is elevated for me beyond any hardcore porn scene I’ve ever seen.
So, happy hump day, homoerotic wrestling fans. And a thousand thanks to those wrestlers who kick the competition up a notch with a hearty, grunting, sweaty pelvic thrust.
I get the impression that I may be Denny Cartier’s most infatuated fan. Not that Denny doesn’t have plenty of fans. But I sense that my level of enthusiasm for him may be higher than most. I try not to speculate too long on what others don’t see that I see. But the raison d’être of this blog is to explore in excruciating depth what I see, what I appreciate, and what turns me on. And Denny Cartier turns me on.
Denny is back out of his natural habitat in his new release Jobberpaloozer 14. Even casual Denny fans know that he’s a beast on the mats, but more often than not gets his gorgeous ass handed to him once he steps foot in the ring. So there are dark clouds looming over his head with Denny climbing into the BG East ring as part of a Jobberpaloozer compilation. There’s also something ominous about the fact that this is another “from the vaults” new release. Denny is an even babier baby face than usual. This was taped long enough ago that Denny was not yet sporting any visible tattoos. He has more hair and less mature muscle mass than the shoot master on the mats we’ve seen of his more recent competition. And he’s wearing those white trunks with blue trim that he wore in several early career matches, and as I think of them, they’re sort of his jobber uniform. His chances for victory aside, I must say I first fell in lust with Denny in this youthful, unblemished, curly haired early career incarnation. There’s something more accessible about his lean, taught gut in contrast with the ripped, crystal cut eight-packs of so many other gym bunnies and body builders who climb into that same ring. I once went on at length about my attachment to him as a dizzyingly sexy hunk who could legitimately be a boy next door, a real guy who just happens to have a leading man dimpled chin and who strips to next to nothing to wrestle for the pleasure of gay fans. His sweet, thick thighs are unshaven. He’s probably manscaped his torso a bit, but there’s an unselfconsciousness about his look. In a world full of clones and genetic freaks and gym bunnies and go go boys, Denny strolls in like Pinocchio transformed, a real boy with functional muscle strength and dreamy eyes and a real life propensity for copious sweat and a complete lack of self awareness of what a sensationally sexy object of lust his beautiful ass is.
Oh, yeah, Denny has an opponent. Nick Naughton. I fucking hate this guy. Too tanned. Too primped. Overadorned. He’s a little like the anti-Denny. He knows he’s fucking hot, and if anything, he overestimates his appeal. He certainly overestimates his wrestling dominance. He could probably be forgiven for strutting in and assuming he’ll squash Denny like a bug, standing nearly half a foot taller and bringing with him a reported 50 pounds more weight (though I’m suspicious… he doesn’t seem THAT much bigger) than Denny. I’d cut him some slack for his lack of any glimmer of humility if he didn’t irritate me so fucking much. He has no respect for Denny, and what’s worse, he shows little respect for pro wrestling. He’s all blunt force trauma and muscle bullying. He openly scoffs at Denny’s pre-match stretching and shoot practice. He has nothing but contempt for Denny’s earnestness, and has no more detailed a plan than to beat the living fuck out of his opponent as quickly as possible so he can head back to the Jersey Shore and pick up a pair of tits. Of course, anyone who can inspire such loathing from me is a sensationally accomplished pro wrestling character. I respect him like hell for almost instantly making me hate him, for making Denny that much more my babyfaced hero, for setting the table so nicely for another brutal battle of good versus evil. Fuck, I hate that guy.
Like Joe, a squash goes only so far for my wrestling tastes. I’ll pick a competitive match with convincingly sold suspense over a lopsided squash 99 times out 100. Denny and Nick’s match on Jobberpaloozer 14 is the only one of the 3 on this DVD that treats us to suspense, really, which is probably why I’m drawn to review it first. I strongly advocate for a read of the pro wrestling cannon that distinguishes between a squash and classic jobber vs. heel match. Squashes are, by definition, one-sided maulings. They have their place. They can make sense with an appropriate narrative frame. Denny vs. Nick is not a squash. Those opening notes of doom, that dark cloud hanging just over Denny’s handsome head that I mentioned earlier is the piece that nudges this match just over the line into a jobber story for me. Without that, I’d say this was more legitimately a competitive babyface vs. heel battle. Because Denny fucking dominates more than a third of this match. If you didn’t know how the ring is Denny’s Achilles heel, if you couldn’t read the jobber uniform signals, if you didn’t know better, over halfway through this match you’d have to admit that this thing could absolutely go either way. Which makes it a stretch for a jobber match for me. But while I quibble with the canon, I fucking love to death the drama here.
Nick is a lumbering oaf. Denny is just too sensationally fast and decisive. Nick lunges forward for a lock up, and Denny ducks underneath his outstretched arms effortlessly. Denny throws his back into the ropes and bounces off, launching super high off the mat for a running drop kick. Nick takes it in the chest and stumbles backward, and in that time, Denny has spun to his feet, thrown himself into the ropes, and his soaring like a cruise missile for a second drop kick to the upper chest. Nick is rocked backward farther, clutching his chest, literally mouth gaping open in shock. And yet again, Denny has already scrambled to his feet and is soaring off the ropes a third time to put the big, overlay tanned lug nut on his ass. David is beating the living fuck out of Goliath, and I’m hard as El Capitan.
Tables turn on a dime. This is professional wrestling after all. So when they’re back on their feet and Denny launches for a cross body off the ropes, it’s gaspworthy to see big Nick catch him, take a couple of stutter steps backward, and then right himself before slamming the shit out Denny’s back to the mat. Nick starts stomping all over Denny’s hot body, making my babyface hero flinch and flail, bouncing off the mat, clutching each most recently assaulted appendage in turn. “You know, you got me going for a minute,” Nick admits, smiling as he watches Denny squirm like a fish underfoot. “I thought I was going to have a little bit of a work out, but I guess I’ll just be whipping your ass.” In my mind, I’m thinking that this is the cliff that Denny gets tossed over again and again. Signal the jobber violins, because the inevitable is right now turning into reality.
Nick scoops him back up, cradled across his chest for another slam. Or OTK. Whatever he had in mind, Denny shifts his center of gravity, rolling Nick to his shoulders and, no shit, pinning his leather-skinned ass to the mat for a totally legitimate, no rush 3 count pinfall. Denny bounces to his feet, already sweaty, pumping his fists in the air in victory and congratulating himself. “That’s freakin’ bull shit!” Nick snarls, climbing to his feet and bitching, bitching, bitching. Again, if it weren’t for the title on the packaging, I’d say this was the opening salvo in a hotly contested babyface vs. heel match.
Nick repeatedly wings Denny with blunt force trauma. Denny’s laying down blurring speed and high flying acrobatics and perfectly balanced holds designed lovingly to work an opponent into jeopardy, and Nick is grabbing him by the throat and throwing him into a corner. On the receiving end, Denny suffers beautifully. I don’t remember my crotch responding so instantly to Denny’s panicked cries and whimpers in previous matches. Nick neutralizes his technical skill and hours of practice with heel stomps to the gut. He counters Denny’s finesse and precision by using the jump rope Denny was using to warm up in order to strangle him in a hangman, my babyface hero turning purple and submitting in a panic across Nick’s long back. Again, I think the essential element of inevitability in a jobber match is finally settling in. Maybe Denny will make a run or two, but surely he’s getting steam rolled now.
But no, it just isn’t that match. Denny doesn’t just make a couple of runs, he schools Goliath. Denny showcases his ground game, persistently outmaneuvering the big oaf until he snaps down sweaty, hairy head scissors. Fuck, watching Denny’s big thighs flex and glisten makes me ache to get my hands on that boy next door muscle. Nick pummels his gut, tries some elbow stabs to break the hold, but Denny is having none of that cheap ass shit. He takes the jabs and keeps bearing down, actually growling like an animal with its prey in its teeth. Nick shifts his legs underneath him and uses that raw power to pull Denny off the mat, still attached to his head. You can hear Nick’s thoughts working out how high he has to muscle Denny off the mat in order to pound him back down and earn his escape. A fraction of a second before he does, Denny launches himself over Nick’s shoulder, rolling the big man to his shoulders and ripping his legs apart in a totally humiliating, crotch ripping spladle. Point and counterpoint, Denny is two moves ahead. He’s faster. He’s smarter. He’s got the only legitimate wrestling strategy in the ring. And no shit, he demands and quickly secures another screeching submission from naughty Nick.
This is a competitive match. This is genuine suspense, and Denny is persistent and talented and totally in contention to upend the lumbering big baby crying and complaining as if Denny has used anything but superior skill to school his bronzed ass. It’s a [babyface] jobber versus heel match because that cloud of inevitability is still hanging over Denny’s head. He’s the designated whipping boy. He’s going to go down, because this is a Jobberpaloozer match. But this is no squash. Fuck, I love this.
Blunt force tramua eventually beats the speed right out of Denny. Suplexes and stomps and revenge headscissors wring the fight out of my fantasy next door neighbor. There’s a relatively long and steep slope that Nick rolls him down to the bitter end, and Denny sucks it up like the earnest young hunk I adore so much. He gets the shit kicked out of him, returning again entirely within the lines of the ring jobber that he’s been for so long. And he just keeps selling the back arching agony, the silently gaping screams of pain, the shattered dreams and shocked humiliation with a passion equal to his fierce babyface earnestness that he started with.
Nick stomps out of the ring at the end boasting about needing to go to the gym for a “real workout,” but he doesn’t fool me. He wins, sure. He beats his smaller opponent into the mat, turning his skills and strength into an impotent puddle of sweat. But Nick and I both know that if it weren’t for Denny breaking holds when Nick grabbed the ropes (because Denny is a babyface), if it weren’t for Nick’s overwhelming fire power and much more compromised morals, he’d have been fucked like Goliath on this day. Nick’s words are all about his contempt for Denny, but the tone of voice and the rather unceremonious way he retreats from the ring tell a different story. He’s lucky not to have been the humiliated object of an epic upset, and he’ll know better than underestimate Denny Cartier ever again.
I love watching Denny wrestle. I love watching him pumped in victory. I love watching him gloat. And, frankly, I’m incredibly aroused witnessing him writhe in his own sweat, heavy lidded eyes, slack jaw sucking down air, muscles aching after taking a nasty beating from a much, much bigger opponent. All that beautiful, battered hotness makes me want to climb in the ring, strip him naked, and give him a deep tissue massage to help his imminently fuckable body recover. And it occurs to me, yet again, how enticing I find Denny’s accessibility. There’s that solid, real, unadorned quality about him that translates me into the ring with him. Win or lose, he owns my loyalty because he’s both beautiful and real, a boy next door fantasyman.
Goren Ford is his own worst enemy. A little like Drake Marcos, Goren has demonstrated sensational instincts and assets for homoerotic wrestling that have been consistently undermined by getting lost in the erotic pleasure of competition. Of course, I love him for that. It’s one of those genuinely homoerotic angles on professional wrestling. Of course, I also love Goren’s gorgeous body. His proportions are dizzyingly sexy, with his meaty pecs, wasp-thin waist, and fantastically muscled bubble butt. He’s a deceptively big boy, too, and his 6’1″ “swimmer’s build” typically physically dominates his opponents on the mat. I’ve watched every match of his, and at the start of each and every one, my money is on Goren to beat his opponent and, knowing his lusts, celebrate by humping the loser’s face. By the end, though, 9 times out of 10 (well, literally, 2 times out of 3), Goren’s libido has been played like a fiddle, and he’s too turned on to be bitter about losing the match.
Like both of Goren’s prior opponents, in Undagear 27 Jaysen Minx is smaller than he is. Jaysen isn’t as hard as Goren. His pecs don’t bulge as impressively. His thighs aren’t as thickly muscled. But he’s got the face of a male supermodel and the ass off a porn star. Honestly, those lips… fu-u-uck, somebody’s got to lock those puppies down and suck on his tongue (how the fuck did that not happen in this match!?). So sensationally pretty, both sneering/dominating and twisted in agony/suffering. I also love that BGE’s catalog 119 features two black men. It’s long overdue for the homoerotic wrestling audience to appreciate the hotness of a diversity of wrestlers. I don’t know if Jaysen will turn out to be a standout star (I think Ace Aarons, the other black wrestler in this catalog, may be more likely to), but fans of male beauty need to buckle up and be prepared to get lost in the Jaysen’s high cheekbones, lush lips, and dizzyingly gorgeous ass.
Goren smells blood at the beginning of their match. Jaysen is a total newbie. He’s got a fierce look, but staring down at him, Goren looks like the big bad wolf licking his lips. He attacks confidently, exploiting his muscle and reach. But Jaysen is fucking fast. He scrambles and slides free of the vetaran, using a front facelock to drag the bigger man to the mat. Goren muscles free, but the newbie is quicker on the draw again, snapping down bodyscissors and making Goren gasp.
Goren is playing defense more than I was expecting. He steps in one bear trap after another. Certainly, he keeps muscling free, powering to one escape after another. That sends a message to Jaysen all in and of itself. Whatever you’ve got to throw at me, I can knock that shit back down again. But getting trapped repeatedly is sort of pissing the big man off. Moments after muscling free from a rear naked choke, Goren climbs on top of a schoolboy pin, sliding forward and grinding his package into those lush, sexy lips of Jaysen. “Yeah, not so tough now, huh?” Goren gloats. Pivoting his hips and sliding all the way forward on top of Jaysen’s chest, Goren humps that devastatingly pretty face. He grabs the back of the newbie’s head and yanks up hard, smothering Jaysen with his balls.
Jaysen’s got a plan, though. You can see it the calm way he sucks on abuse, waiting, biding his time, clocking in the necessary hours to earn his way to his promotion. We get a first glimpse of the plan when very early on, he’s riding his own schoolboy pin and leans back, wrapping his hand around Goren’s package. It’s not a vicious claw. It’s not violent at all, really. It’s appraising and appreciative. It’s teasing and seductive. It’s as if Jaysen’s knows Goren’s resume, and he’s putting his thumb on the veteran’s self-destruct button early and often.
Goren’s caught off guard (which makes me think he doesn’t yet realize that he’s his own worst enemy). He whines so plaintively it makes me laugh. I heard the same thing in his spectacular undoing against mouthwatering bon bon Richie Douglas. Goren gasps and bitches like he’s completely shocked that someone would dare grab a hold of his lovely bulge without permission. It’s a little high pitched, like a brat protesting being ordered to go brush his teeth. The contrast of his classic Greek statue of a body and his petulant protests is so sexy! I get the impression Jaysen thinks so as well, because he repeatedly grabs a hold whenever the opportunity arises. A particularly sexy dragon sleeper by the rookie makes Goren arch his hips high in the air to relieve a little pressure on his neck. Immediately and decisively (remember, he’s got a plan), Jaysen slides his hand down inside the front of Goren’s singlet and wraps his fingers around this cock. Again, this isn’t a ball claw. He’s not even bothering with Goren’s balls. He intentionally and deliberately takes the opportunity to enthusiastically throttle Goren’s cock, cranking on that jet engine of a libido the veteran has.
The scales come off of Goren’s eyes when he’s proving how strong he is, once again, by muscling his way free from the newbie’s standing full nelson. It’s part of that repeated trap and escape pattern, and it’s like Goren is still buying the idea that he’s demonstrating his superiority. But Jaysen suddenly grabs Goren’s singlet as the veteran slips free, yanking it to the ground and leaving Goren standing there in nothing but his jock strap. Again, I say, fu-u-uck. That ass. But that’s just me, because everyone else’s attention is on the pouch. Angrily, Goren steps clear of the singlet and turns, grabbing his crotch and waving it his opponent’s direction. “You want to get at this, huh?” Goren growls angrily, defiantly. Jaysen just stares back calmly, staring fixedly, hungrily at the wrapped meat in Goren’s hand. Yes, Goren, the rest of us noticed several minutes earlier. Jaysen most clearly wants, and so far has been surprisingly adept at getting, your tantalizing cock.
At this point in their young careers, neither of these guys are particularly smooth wrestling technicians. I’d say at least a quarter of the action is spent in messy, mad scrambles, as they both struggle with applying and maintaining holds. What they lack in technical wrestling ability, though, they more than make up for in enthusiasm. That rear naked choke that Jaysen applies often is getting more polished by the minute. And in a stroke of intuitive genius, he adds half-hearted scissors around Goren’s incredibly narrow waist. The scissors are half-hearted because the real point is, thus positioned, Jaysen’s inspired success in massaging Goren’s cock with his bare feet. It’s persistent and, again, entirely titillating (of course I’m referring to Goren, but holy shit, I’m highly titillated watching it). “Get the fuck off my dick!” Goren bitches again in that petulant, high pitched whine, twisting his hips to pull his crotch out of reach. Jaysen smiles slightly and slaps Goren’s gorgeous ass in reply.
The messy scrambles give way to smooth transitions from one erotically intimate hold after another. Goren mounts another schoolboy and slowly drags his crotch up Jaysen’s bare torso. He flexes his beautiful biceps to treat the newbie who’s so clearly into him. Slowly, seductively he slides his hips forward again, pinning the newbie’s head to the mat under the weight of his cock pressing against his lips. Nobody’s complaining. Jaysen wants it. A lot.
Jaysen eventually counters, rolling the veteran to his back, dangling his own package tantalizingly in Goren’s face. Again, Goren bitches and whines petulantly. I don’t believe it for a second, because the big man is barely fighting it. Smoothly, Jaysen spins around on Goren’s hotly muscled chest and slides his hips backward. “Put your face in that ass!” Jaysen commands like a seasoned erotic pro. The newbie stretches his torso forward, down the length of the veteran’s body, and buries his face in the prize he’s been eying all along. Goren sort of fights it, but again, I don’t buy it. The newbie’s ass is so fantastic. Sure Goren doesn’t want to lose. He doesn’t want to be humiliated. On the other hand, he does want that ass. He does want his cock serviced.
The final minutes of the match are all about squeezing and pressing their bodies together. Bearhugs, crotch pillow headscissors. Jaysen scores the undisputed victory in submissions, because… Goren. Goren has forgotten all about the competition by the end of it all because… Goren. They fucking want each other, grinding, squeezing, groping each other’s bodies, Jaysen hypnotizing the beast by stroking his cock. The scene fades to black with everyone aroused. Most especially me.
Sensationally sexy debut for Jaysen. I’m aching to see that rear naked choke foot massage applied to some more BG East wrestlers. And Goren is so stunningly, spectacularly, perfectly flawed, that it’s an incredible pleasure to watch him be so distracted and wooed. Future opponents would be well to note that Jaysen has found Goren’s self-destruct button. You don’t need to pound on it. You don’t need to punch it. Just a few strokes, a little massaging, and gorgeous Goren can be all yours.
I know of wrestlers who nearly lost their balls getting caught smuggling behind-the-scenes pics out of BG East shoots, so I continue to applaud Our Man Inside (OMI) who once again has dropped a manilla envelope full of random, unpublished BGE candids on my doorstep. This envelope was huge, so I’ll try to refrain from taking up too much space with my comments or speculations. Though, who am I kidding? I can’t restrain myself from speculating. In any case, OMI, you are my hero!
First up, we’ve got a whole bevy of poolside hotness. I have not appreciated Mad Mykel’s magnificent ass nearly enough until now. On the other hand, Ty Alexander and Richie Douglas’ asses have been on my radar for years. Honestly, who do I need to fuck to get to see more of Richie Douglas incredibly tasty body!? And ever a safety nut, I hope Mykel, Ty and Richie know that I’ve got to hands and a bottle of sunscreen at the ready. Anytime.
Next up, we get a sensationally rare treat of unpublished photos from the BG East ring. I’m instantly titillated by the site of an as-yet-unreleased match pitting papa Shane McCall ripping my long-time infatuation, Drake Marcos, limb from limb. The double team by Kayden Keller and Jonny Firestorm Camel-Crabbing flyweight phenom Charlie Evans is instantly huge drama making my mouth water. But holy fuck, I need to send OMI a gift basket as gratuity for a couple of extremely rare action pics of Kayden working over the stunningly handsome, hot as fuck classic hunk and declared man-of-my-dreams, a contemporary Scott Williams. Please, homoerotic wrestling gods, hear my prayer that this foreshadows new releases starring the Man of My Dreams!!!
So it appears OMI may be a creeper with sensationally good taste, because this next batch has a ton of BGE stars in various states of sleeping, waking, or possibly just cuddling in bed. Such intimate vulnerability. So many slack, supine, defenseless hunks on display. I have an incredibly strong urge to slide under the covers with Kayden and spoon him awake.
This next batch I’ve filed under “letting their hair down.” As I’ve said often, there’s something potently sexy about seeing the ring warriors of my homoerotic fantasies with their guards down, relaxed, happy, and as is evident in these stolen shots, abundantly goofy. And the goof-in-chief most definitely appears to be The Boss himself, who I hope to the homoerotic wrestling gods never finds out who dished me these cutting room floor shots of him hamming it up. This also reminds me, why haven’t we seen more of sensationally hot boybander, Baby Boy Nino Leone?
Finally, this last batch of relatively random shots I’ve compiled under the heading of BGE boys doing what they do best, namely, looking gorgeous. Reigning HWOTMChase Addams eats shirtless, Drake rehydrates after that match with Papa Shane, and KL, Kayden and Charlie prove how devastatingly handsome they look all cleaned up. And then there’s Ty, Kayden and Jonny looking like they’re acting a Shakespearean scene. Shirtless, of course.
Again, OMI, my deepest gratitude and promise of pseudo-journalistic integrity when it comes to never, ever, under any circumstances up to and including corporal torture, will I disclose anything I know about your true identity. Keep the good times and behind the scenes goodies coming. And all of you BGE boys outed for your handsome smiles and adorability in stolen moments of candid life, keep looking gorgeous. Don’t change a thing.