Call Me Goldilocks

In our recent welcome-back interview, Ash DeLeon firmly urged me to check out Three-Way Thrash 5. It promised to check off every box on my homoerotic wrestling fantasy crush list. Fierce young hunks. Extensive back story. Full-throated, explicit eroticism. Extensive lip locks. Big vs. Little (vs. Medium). Honestly, it sounded almost too good to be true, not that I doubt Ash’s sincerity (honestly, he’s one of the most enthusiastically earnest wrestlers I’ve ever met!).


Well, Ash can bend me over his knee and spank my ass for doubting him. I’ve soaked in Three-Way Thrash 5, toweled off, and re-hydrated, and now I’m very happy to report that it lives up to the hype!


First of all, I marvel at the casting. Kayden Keller was well on his way to being the heel-to-beat when I started my hiatus about a year and a half ago. Between then and now, he’s emerged from his chrysalis as a fully formed, magnificently beautiful, definitively dominant boss. I can give first hand testimony that Kayden is a tall, physically imposing drink of water, but his adorable baby face defies his cruel, heel master persona.  In his baby heel days, I persistently questioned whether he had the true grit to climb the heel ranks, solely based on the mismatch between his big, bad boy body and his boy-next-door, albeit mischievous, face. Well, color me convinced, because KKel owns the ring; he owns Ash and Luke Reel. He’s clearly not one-dimensional, but he certainly looks like a 6’2″ muscled heel daddy who knows full well he’s living large and totally in charge of the deep, deep ranks of dominant heels at BG East.


Then there’s Ash, himself. Fu-uck! He’s sporting a similar fiercely-bodied baby face vibe as Kayden. Seriously, he’s packing on mature, prime cut meat that seems almost out of place framed beneath a little boy face. Ash may decide he deserves a second swat at my ass, but I have to say I’m still deciding if I fully buy him as a hard core heel. He obviously sports a passion for dishing out pain, but even when he’s drilling an opponent relentlessly in the gut, he’s tends to color within the lines. What’s the character type of a vicious sadist rule follower? Whatever it is, it looks really, really good on Ash, affording him the air of a pit bull with a soft underside.


And finally, Luke Reel is crack. Fuck me, what is it about this hunk that makes me so obsessed with him?! I mean, I actually know what it is, but it’s significantly greater than the sum of its parts. I’ve mused in the past about the roots of how shorter-than-average hotties are a special treat for me. Luke is just the perfectly proportioned, bite-sized morsel for my little-hunk wrestling fantasy. Speaking of biting, his ass is deliciously munchable. His legs are crazy thick and powerful, which makes his astonishing flexibility the extra icing on top of this mouthwatering beefcake. His tightly muscled torso and lightly hairy chest are vintage 70’s porn-ready. He’s handsome in an effortlessly sexy and self-possessed way, like he orders his Vesper martini shaken, not stirred.


For a moment there, this nearly turned into an obsession-post about my addiction to Luke, but let me just return to giving props to Three-Way Thrash 5. Kayden is absolutely, completely, totally in charge, as he begins to mold Ash into the rising heel he longs to be. Sure, Ash is a naughty boy apprentice, like when he suggests his abs are sexier than Kayden’s. But Kayden literally takes him in hand when he starts to get ahead of himself and puts him in his place. Those moments of gentle, but absolute, control are frequent and the sexiest elements of this entire scene. KKel holds Ash by the chin and forces him to look him in the eye, until Ash breaks eye contact with his alpha. When he introduces Luke as Ash’s heel test dummy, Kayden holds Luke by the top of his head, like he’s palming a basketball, making him a beefy little puppet, turning his head this way and that to direct Luke’s attention. The heel daddy pries Ash’s head backward by a handful of hair, to position his mouth upward to receive KKel’s lips swooping down from above. At one point, Luke is painting by numbers, obeying Kayden’s instructions on just how deep to drill his punches into Ash’s gut, and Luke literally leans against Kayden’s leg and closes his eyes, adoring this closeness with his instructor even as he punches away. There’s so much unexpected tenderness, and it stops me in my tracks every time.


Don’t let me mislead you, though. This match is mean as motherfucker. The explicit story is that Ash must prove himself worthy of Kayden’s tutelage by besting KKel’s sexy boy toy Luke, bought and paid for in Ultra Heels 6. Ash literally laughs at the the suggestion, protesting that Luke is “just so delicate.” At first. Of course Luke opens up a can of whoop ass on the applicant, albeit with a little help from his doting heel daddy. Luke pitching is intoxicating. He’s tentative, adorably checking with Kayden often to make sure he’s doing it right. “How am I doing,” he asks earnestly, looking up at his daddy even as he digs a claw in deep into Ash’s abs. “You don’t make such a bad heel, yourself,” Kayden sounds surprised, spoon feeding praise that Luke laps up. Turning his attention back to Ash, Luke snarls, “You still think I’m weak, bitch?” (sooooo fucking adorable).


Ash is just too much for rookie Luke to handle, though. Kayden puts his finger on the scales frequently to even the odds for his pocket boy, but Ash is too much for little Luke to hold down for long. Ash keeps upending him, reversing, putting the pup to his back. “I’m disappointed in you,” Kayden chides him when Ash reverses him, folding Luke quite literally in half, pinning Luke’s ankles to the mat over his head (so fucking flexible!) and humping that gorgeous ass.


I’ve also waxed poetic in the past about how the voyeur angle turns me on, so it should come as no surprise how hot I find it when Kayden is sitting back and watching the training session, and he starts stroking himself. He’s visibly excited when he watches Luke making him proud, but there’s some extra passion in his piston when Ash takes the reigns and starts grinding Luke down. Watching on the sidelines, Kayden is somehow that much more in charge, with the sexy pup scrap implicitly happening for his personal pleasure. Every so often, he gets so excited he just suddenly shoves one or the other trainees off and takes his place, delivering hands-on daddy damage for the instructional benefit for everyone involved.


When Kayden takes his finger off the scales, Ash seriously starts to shine for the earnest sadist he is. Luke is stripped and stretched out, pounded for days (because: Ash), and crushed every which way. Little Luke takes every pound-per-square-inch like a sponge, though. Kayden teases Ash for being unable to seal the deal, which sparks renewed ferocity.  Ash presses the submission out of Luke eventually. And then Kayden joins in, taking his turn dominating his boy, punishing him, demonstrating his total possession of him. Luke suffer beautifully, but there’s no missing that he also wants it. He wants to dangle from Kayden’s chain. Even strung up, spread-eagled, hanging by his ankles from the ropes and ball bashed, Luke’s unleashed jack hammer swells with pride every time Kayden acknowledges how tough he is.


In the end, Ash and Kayden start to work Luke over like a well-oiled machine. Equal parts pain and pleasure, one heel tortures him while the other jerks him off. Honestly, I can’t decide if I’m aching more to feel what it’s like to have Ash and Kayden tag-teaming me in a cock lock like that, or to be the one with my hands driving Luke’s joystick as he hangs helplessly from Kayden’s torture rack.


I’m not always quite as convinced that homoerotic wrestlers are quite a genuinely turned on by each other as Kayden, Ash, and Luke clearly are. There’s a sweetly sincere authenticity about every inch of this match, from the punishment to the suffering to the carnal lust to the open, mutual positive regard. The lingering gazes and lip locks make this one of the gayest, most unashamed homoerotic wrestling matches I’ve seen in a long time.


Let’s make wrestling gay again, and I recommend that you start by cuing up Three-way Thrash 5.


And if Luke Reel would just fold himself up in an envelope (he’s seriously that flexible) and Express Mails himself to my address, I promise to send him back to heel daddy Kayden when I’m done with him. In a few months.


Hair Pull Humpday

Ray Naylor vs. Lauden Sevior – Sunshine Shooters 8

Hair pulls are one of those little, subtle pleasures that superboosts the erotic aspect of a wrestling match for me.  It’s disrespectful. It’s often unnecessarily cruel. It’s frequently functional, permitting a pitcher to position his reluctant prey for new angles of punishment. It stokes the fires of domination, often as plot device to signal that a competitive match has turned into cruel playtime. It can be affectionate, but when it comes to wrestling, it’s value added for me when it’s mean, rough, and adding insult to abundant injury. Here are a few hot and sexy hair pulls to help drag you over the weekly hump.


Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) dragged outmatched Christian Taylor about by his leading man locks in Demolition 27. As I recently mentioned, I theorize that every act of Mr. J’s punishment and degradation transformed naive, innocent babyface Christian into the erotic wrestling institution Christian has become as BG East.


Royce Perry works to impress his new tag team partner, Jonny Firestorm, by adding insult to injury to total humiliation all over double-teamed Calvin Haynes in Tag Team Torture 20.


There’s something extra sexy about a dominant pro heel hunk who calmly demonstrates his mastery with a hair pull. Kelly King holding a sagging Lane Hartley up by his follicles in Pros in Private 13 give me that burst of adrenaline I could use to get over the hump.


Jonny Firestorm absolutely throws everything, including the kitchen sink, at Jake Jenkins in Jobberpaloozer 12: The Works.  For my tastes, the hottest moves are paired with Jonny wrapping his fingers through the muscle cherub’s curly locks and prying him apart sadistically.h0107_lg.jpg

I’m sure I’ve featured this shot of Dom the Dominator nearly ripping Brad  Rochelle’s head off of his neck in Demolition 3. But it’s worth a lingering, repeat look. Sure, a chin lock might have been fractionally more functional to accomplish the same purpose, but the savagery of using Brad’s hair as a handle here is delicious!

Hang in there, my friends! When it comes to surviving this week, it’s all down hill from here!

Stay in Your Lane

Last week there was a reckoning in pro wrestling, as victims of sexual misconduct and sexual assault stepped forward on several platforms to name the crimes and creeps they have endured for years in the pro wrestling context. While I’ve generally ignored mainstream pro wrestling for a couple of decades, for a number of reasons, I follow a few wrestlers outside of the homoerotic wrestling context, and more than a few wrestlers that straddle both worlds. Based on what I’ve read, most of the recently disclosed creepiness was perpetrated by men against women, but I’ve seen more than a few indictments of same sex assault and harassment. I don’t believe that I’m qualified or informed sufficiently to comment directly, but it does draw my attention to my lane on the road, namely wrestling produced for gay eyes.


As I’ve documented extensively on this blog, I found wrestling inherently erotic from pretty much the first time I can remember seeing it. Clearly, I’m not alone. Vintage gay beefcake pin-up boys were often portrayed grappling, perhaps as cover for the explicit tension of seeing two nearly naked men all over each other. But for me, it’s not just cover. I have access to a world of homoerotic porn today, but what seriously turns me on is homoerotic wrestling (thus, this blog). I understand that there may be companies producing content with an explicit understanding that the wrestling is pretense, that the audience is understood to primarily include gay guys who only feel comfortable getting caught with their jack-off inspiration under the bed/in their downloads if they can attempt to argue that they’re just good ole straight boys into good old straight wrestling and it has nothing to do with their dicks. I’ll come back to that in a moment, but for now, let me say that I’m most interested in self-consciously, undeniably homoerotic wrestling.


I get off on wrestling. Early in my life, it was a secret that I felt ashamed of. Mostly through blogging about it over the past 10 years, I’ve “come out” about it here, and face-to-face with some of my close friends. I still watch “family friendly” pro wrestling sometimes for the nostalgia, for the implicit connection to my young, gay self staying up late on a Saturday night, turning the volume down way, way low, and pounding a few out over the course of watching the likes of Billy Jack Haynes, the Dynamite Kid, and Steve Doll work up a sweat and put their hot bodies to the test in the ring. I realize that the producers of independent pro wrestling probably didn’t envision a whole lot of their audience consuming the product quite the way I did (though I strongly suspect producers have always known and counted on our corner of the fan base). Most of what I enjoy for the carnal enjoyment of it these days is wrestling-for-gay eyes, though, because the erotic text isn’t just the one I bring to the viewing. And in explicitly homoerotic wrestling (explicit or not), the eroticism crosses some topical boundaries (like groping, mismatched erotic desire between the combatants, aggressive kisses, gear being forcibly ripped off of each other) that are, in many ways, the very content of damning stories raised by wrestlers in mainstream pro wrestling about sexual harassment and sexual assault. But in homoerotic wrestling, it’s happening for the homoerotically-oriented wrestling audience, and it’s built on a pretense of consent. The boundary crossing is an erotic fantasy, self-consciously enacted by consenting wrestlers willingly, sometimes eagerly, rather than real-life boundary crossing perpetrated as an unwanted violation of consent.


I’ve never seen a wrestling contract from BG East or W4H or Can-Am or Naked Kombat. I’ve never sat in on labor negotiations or match planning. But as a consumer, I’m assuming a foundation of consent, that the fine, hot hunks that populate my screen have signed up for the sexy situations that they find themselves in. I’d feel like an accomplice to a crime if I actually thought that IRL Bryan Powers was put in restraints in the corner and forced to watch helplessly as his sexy little fuck buddy Liam Ryan was beaten senseless, groped relentlessly, and force-fed Shane McCall’s cock as Shane and BBW made out over top of him, turned on by their cruel domination. If all 4 of the wrestlers didn’t sign-up for, at the very least, the possibility of the erotic turns and double-teaming injustice that played out, then that match would be prosecutable. The pretense of being overpowered and forced into sexually compromised positions only works for my fantasy life if there was consent from the start.


The role of consent in my erotic fantasies has been explicitly on my mind for a long time. I remember rewriting, multiple times, one of my first homoerotic wrestling fiction stories, as I brought into focus the blurred lines of consent. The match was careening headlong into the winner fucking the unwilling loser.  But as the words hit the page, I actually felt pity for the loser. Even the imaginary violation of consent was such a buzz kill, and it sent me backward into the narrative, to figure out whether the hottest telling of my fantasy would be established on clarifying the mutually agreed upon stakes, or if the match needed to head a different direction all together.


The idea of consent pops up in other ways in my blogging history. Along the way, I’ve requested, and received, permission from copyright owners to post images from homoerotic wrestling productions. Sometimes they have specific parameters within which they give me permission to post. One producer has specified that I not re-post their images that include nudity, for example. Also, in about 10 years of active blogging, there’s been about a dozen times when someone featured in an image I’ve posted has requested the image be removed. I always do, whether they are the copyright owners or not. I do my best to celebrate homoerotic wrestling and wrestlers, and the underlying consent of the hunks seems essential to demonstrating the relationship that I want to have with the genre, built on consent.


I once pressed Muscle Master Kevin at MDW on the topic of the use of gay slurs. MDW isn’t the only company that’s invoked the themes of humiliating “the sissies,” of course. MMK seemed quite honestly surprised to hear me say that I felt resentment about it. He explained that it comes from his private fans and MDW fans who specifically call for it, who demand it as a crucial component of what gets them off.  I had to sit with that for a while, frankly. In the end, I decided that my job isn’t to police anyone else’s erotic fantasies. As long as everyone understands that it’s mutually negotiated, then what does it matter what my critique of internalized homophobia may be? Helpfully, MMK suggested they would do a better job of labeling their products, so that those willingly seeking out homoerotic material featuring anti-gay themes could find what they need, and the rest of us can steer clear. I’m not exactly thrilled that there’s a significant market for gay guys wanting to get off on being gay bashed (at least figuratively), but if everyone involved is consenting, what does it matter what I think?


Maybe #speakout will trickle down to homoerotic wrestling, and we’ll learn that there’s not always fully informed consent operating on camera, or that there’s harassment or assault off camera. I’ve heard rumors, but no first-hand accounts. For the record, I’m only interested in celebrating homoerotic wrestling in which what shows up on camera reflects willing consent (and hopefully eager enthusiasm) of the wrestlers involved. If there are aggressive liplocks, ripped off gear, muscle groping, cock stroking, sexual domination, erotic humiliation, humping, frottage, or full on fucking, then it should be willingly consented to by all parties involved. If it isn’t, I don’t want to watch it or promote it. If there are any hot, naive young hunks who show up on camera not knowing that the whole purpose of the product is for gay guys to jerk off to them, they should be informed. I think there’s a problem with fully informed consent, otherwise, and I don’t want to be crushing on some hot young muscle hunk who’s desperately ashamed and feeling duped to be associated with homoeroticism.


If I go to wrestling-for-gay-eyes sites and see guys feeling each other up, grabbing each other’s crotches, sucking on each other’s nipples, bumping and grinding, stripping naked, making out, getting hard, dick whipping, cock sucking, muscle worshiping, or, best of all, doing all of the above in a ring full of baby oil with a dozen other like minded, fully aroused beefcakes celebrating the homoeroticism of wrestling for kindred spirits to enjoy over and over again on an endless repeat recording, then I fully expect everyone to have willingly consented, and hopefully exuberantly endorsed the production of an erotic wrestling fantasy. If anyone in mainstream pro wrestling, underground wrestling, homoerotic wrestling, or anyone else, thinks that they’re entitled to coerce, manipulate, or physically force anyone else against their will to participate in your erotic fantasy, I think that’s creepy and should be shut down every time. If your fantasy includes coercion, enjoy the creative and inspired artists, athletes, and producers who can indulge that fantasy without anyone being harmed, dehumanized, or criminally assaulted. Otherwise, stay in your own lane, and keep the eroticism out of your wrestling lives.

Wasted Wednesday

Another Wasted Wednesday has me catching my second wind to get through the week by soaking in the sight of cocky, confident muscle men taken out. This time, I’m contrasting side-by-side images of said hunks, first at the beginning of a match, with fire in their eyes and the wind at their backs, and then about 20 – 30 minutes later after they’ve been laid waste. It’s a big part of what turns me on about wrestling. The psychological drama of getting face-to-face with your vulnerability at high speed is honestly at least as titillating as the sight of gorgeous bodies barely in tight briefs or less. It’s also why I love re-watching matches, to turn back time and watch the strut and bluster, witness the absolute certainty in their superiority. Would they take it back if they knew they’d be flat out, completely defenseless, and totally humiliated in mere minutes? But they don’t know, so they slap their dicks down and reveal a soft underside that only pride, a rocking bod, and a supersized ego can leave you with.

Here are a few choice wrestling hunks who showed up pumped and beautiful and convinced of their invincibility, who ended up crushed just right.

One of my hardest wrestling crushes thoroughly documented in the pages of this blog is Lon Dumont. I was instantly smitten at first sight when this stunningly beautiful competition bodybuilder didn’t just look the part in his debut match in Fantasymen 22, he absolutely owned the ring and his opponent. Now, I never tire of watching Lon (full-stop, but also let me continue) work his top shelf heel magic, particularly when he rocks muscle heads significantly bigger than he is. But I’ve got to admit that seeing him bested and brutalized at the end of Last Man Standing makes me swoon, all the more for the rarity it is.

I have a very different relationship with Damien Rush. He possesses one of the most outrageously over-sized egos in homoerotic wrestling, if not anywhere outside of Washington, DC. The daddy’s little rich boy backstory makes me love, love, love to hate him, and the bigger and beefier he gets, the more extravagantly puffed he becomes, and the more desperate I am to see him humbled hard. Since his early “swimmer’s build,” he’s been getting a lot of mileage out of his gorgeously thick muscles and comic book proportions. When he stomps into the ring, flexing, and his simpering, contemptuous baritone starts chugging away with silver spoon-fed self-praise and blue blood destiny for greatness, my orgasm is just a tad fiercer for it when I see him plowed under and laid waste, as in Hunkbash 17 when smooth muscle giant Vasily Volkov bashes the snot right out of him.

I haven’t quite decided what my fan-relationship is with hot bodied bro Kenny Starr yet. I mean, fuck, that body, of course. But honestly, I don’t know if my crotch aches more to see him ground into putty or doing the grinding. Ty Alexander makes a strong case for the former in Jobberpaloozer 17. Kenny’s glorious, wedgied ass exposed, nearly drowning in a pool of his own sweat, and unable to muster enough energy to lift his head off the mat is certainly a sensational use of that smoking hot body of his.

Seeing Joshua Goodman (that’s Mr. Joshua to you!) take a turn on the losing end of the stick is another rare treat that leaves me just a little frustrated, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, watching a notorious badass heel undone is that much more pleasurable when said badass is a musclebound physique star with a multi-award winning bulge. The hit Mr. Joshua’s ego takes in a match like his Ring Hunks 1 battle with Aryx Quinn gets me way, way hot and bothered. But fuck it all to hell, seeing him wasted, out cold, and humiliated, and never seeing an opponent unleashing Mr. J’s not-so-secret weapon when he can’t lift a finger to defend himself makes me blow blood vessels. Come ON, Aryx! WTF?!

I’ve been starting to dabble in Thunder’s Arena again, for a change of pace, and there are just so many mouthwatering muscles to sink my teeth into! For example, Battlespace 112 grabs me hard, initially because I can’t decide if it’s silky smooth, mocha skinned surf bro Jack Beaver or mop-headed, smoldering alabaster boy Kid Thing who’s hotter. Perhaps paradoxically (or not), it’s seeing Kid Thing worked to a nub and literally out cold still standing that tips the scales his way for me. Fu-uck, we need a Kid tournament some day [makes note to self for future fantasy match].

Rio Garza. Let me just say his name and step back and watch the ages old fault lines pop open in homoerotic wrestling fandom. I’ve long been on the record that I love to hate the Mexican muscle boy precisely because he never quite managed to go from go-go boy to wrestler. I mean, he wrestled. A lot, to say the least. But I never thought he brought a whole lot more than a dizzyingly sexy body to the table. I know for a fact that at least a couple of his opponents felt the same way as I do, which explains the ferocity behind the brutal beatdowns lovely Rio took in the ring. If you’re going to be a dazzlingly sexy muscle jobber, you deserve the credit for making wasted be so deeply satisfying for fans, as he does in Hunkbash 11.

I should probably quit, but I couldn’t help myself but track down one more stunning fantasyman who comes to mind when I think of pathos in defeat. Kid Brock wrestled in a total of just 4 BG East releases, and still I obsess about him these many years later. It was the angelic babyface somehow misplaced atop his gargantuan, fierce physique. It was a whiff of greatness, like this Kid could legitimately deserve his place in the extremely exclusive ranks of Kid greats at BGE. It was that porn-ready muscle ass and those sensationally thick thighs. But, in the end, it was all that wasted promise, plowed under, destroyed, humiliated, and him leaving an epic career of homoerotic wrestling greatness just lying their on the table, just like he was just left splayed out and destroyed by the likes of Structure in Ring Wars 9. Like seriously, I think this Kid could have owned us ALL if he’d stuck around!

Such a sensationally sweet, sexy, satisfying waste to see hot bodied hunks like these laid out!

Tan Lines

0401_lgThe first time I posted about my appreciation of the value added by tan lines, I received some surprising back channel heat. There are, apparently, some guys who find tan lines unsightly. I honestly had no idea. I’ve always found them provocative and tantalizing. There’s something that much closer to naked about tan lines. They signal something vulnerable, something delicate, to otherwise hard bodied beefcake. They allude to modesty unmasked, to an uncommon intimacy shared with those who get a glimpse of them. Tan lines serve as a literal and figurative boundary, and in the homoerotic gaze, they seem to inherently speak to disregarding boundaries and propriety and self-restraint. All my respect to the hot hunks on a quest for that all-over tan, but as for me, I get an extra hard heart pump from an impossible to miss tan line!


Calvin Haynes’ sensational ass turns me on that much harder when Mason Brooks’ reveals his beautiful tan line in their match on Calvin’s Wrestler Spotlight.


Drake Marcos, bless his heart, tanned like a mother fucker before getting his turn riding muscle cherub Gabriel Cross inX-Fights 34. The bike shorts he was soaking up the sun in left an indelible mark in my memory.


When Alexi Adamov got to be the first at BGE to get his hands on Mitch Colby on Alexi’s Wrestler Spotlight, I was shocked by how enticingly distracting Mitch’s tan line is, even with all of that ripped, gorgeous, sweaty muscle everywhere to look at.


Rhino taped several matches for Thunder’s Arena sporting bike shorts tan lines that somehow make his massively thick thighs look just that much more gargantuan. Here, he’s got Scrappy draped across his shoulders like wet towel in Mat Rats 105, and somehow all I can see are those sexy-as-fuck tan lines.


I feel in my gut that Alex Oliver doesn’t really get just how crazy-sexy he is getting plowed under in a made-for-gay-eyes wrestling match. His deep, deep, dark tan contrasting with his lily white upper thighs on display in Cameron’s manhandling of the boy makes me want to lick him so, so much.

Help me out and let me know what more sexy-as-fuck tan lines to watch for in homoerotic wrestling!

Fantasy Match: Skrapper vs. Scrappy

Despite wrestling under similar names, Skrapper and Scrappy are a study in contrasts. To my knowledge Skrapper is a BG East exclusive, appearing in 15 matches between about 2008 and 2016. Scrappy, on the other hand, has wrestled in more than 50 matches for Thunders Arena, 9 matches for Muscleboy Wrestling, and 6 matches for Wrestler4Hire, to my knowledge. Scrappy is a luscious aesthete, whose curly locks and baby face contradict the erotic art of his luxuriously thick, impeccably sculpted, compact muscle physique. Skrapper, on the other hand, is severely lean, like a barely legal endurance swimmer, stitched together with homespun, taut muscle, bone, and sinew. Skrapper is as serious as a heart attack, with his deep, rumbling baritone layered atop the stunned whimpers of his opponents, who are absolutely never prepare for the mountain of merciless hurt he buries them under; whereas Scrappy’s 2nd tenor is irrepressibly playful, more unselfconsciously dangerous than driven. Both stunning studs make me swoon, but with Scrappy, it’s because he’s so frivolously fuckable, like he could make macrame dizzyingly homoerotic with nothing more than that impish grin and a knowing look over his shoulder as he catches the camera seduced by his relentless, cock tease ass cheeks. Skapper, on the other hand, seems unaware of his inescapable erotic allure, dripping with an intoxicating mix of aggression, passion for competition, and sexual pleasure derived from conquering a combatant, the bigger the better. Skrapper is like the meat and potatoes of the diet. Scrappy is the mouthwatering confection at the end of the meal.

This is the point at which, in past blogging experience, I would start obsessing over every detail of a fantasy wrestling match, struggling to get down in print the erotic pleasure playing out in my imagination. This would send me spinning for days on end, making every post a belabored (if loved) odyssey. In the interest of self-care and not burning out too, too quickly again on blogging, I will try to stick to just the broad strokes (pun intended) and overall outline of why this fantasy match is a winner.


Scrappy and Skrapper would, most naturally, need to square off on the mats. Neither of these storied wrestlers ever hit their strides in a wrestling ring. For the sake of fair play, let’s just say the venue is a generic Florida sun room, since both hunks have abundant experience in that general genre. The opening minutes would epitomize the inherent conflict between their two natures. Scrappy would flex and preen and toss disposable trash talk all over the place, particularly expressing contempt for his opponent’s “swimmer’s build.” Skrapper would be happy enough to take in the spectacular sight, but would quickly enough grow impatient with the preener. Scrappy’s trash talk would bounce off Skapper unacknowledged and apparently unnoticed. Sooner or later, Skrapper would exploit the narcissist’s self-love, coming up from behind the bodybuilder’s dazzling double-bicep as if in admiration, only to grab him around his tiny waist and suplex the mother fucker to the mat unceremoniously.

scrap worship

I see the first fall playing out in rapid fire succession, with Skrapper initiating offense every fucking second. There’d be a lot of scrambling across the mat. Skrapper would lock down full and half nelson’s, stretching the dumbfounded pin-up out viciously. Scrappy would repeatedly bear down in a flex, slowly, but surely, popping free from one Skrap-trap after another, but like a chess master, Skrapper would already be two steps ahead. The first fall would be all about wiping the cocky grin off of Scrappy’s cherubic face. Skrapper’s hammerlock on the hunk would press the bulging shoulder joint a fraction too far, sparking desperate screams to punctuate Scrappy’s petulant whimpers. Between cries of agony, Scrappy would snarl and snap out promises of retribution on the “skinny little fucker,” which would make Skrapper smile. He loves wringing astonished respect out of beefy muscle hunk like this. Skrapper would keep snapping shut traps, like an ankle lock transitioned into a bow-and-arrow, a muscle-wasting rear-naked choke, and an early-gambit camel clutch. They chip away at the bodybuilder by inches, making him suck down the humiliation and power free time after time, only to fall face-first into another trap. Skrapper would just be too fast, too focused, and too well-executed. Finally, I see the Skrapper-swarm landing Scrappy in a deep-seated Boston crab. Scrappy would refuse the demand that he submit, until Skrapper unhooks a leg to free one hand, and reaches down and throttles Scrappy’s dangling balls. The neighbors would hear those screams of animal agony, when Scrappy screeches out an enraged first fall submission, pounding the mat.


Fall 2 would start out with a much wiser, more cautious Scrappy reassessing the situation. He’d still have that look on his face that makes Skrapper hard, namely the look of disbelief as the muscle hunk stares in shock at the ultra lean, juvenile-looking “skinny” kid who just kicked his ass at will. Scrappy would have broken out into a sweat after all of those hard-won flexing escapes. Skrapper would be chill as fuck, just returning the gaze with a look that says he knew all along he’d make this muscle hunk his bitch. Scrappy would bitch and moan about fighting dirty, as if there are any rules, as if Skrapper hadn’t mopped the floor with his sweat soaked body unchecked before he wrung the beefcake out with that ball claw. Scrappy would be the one with the unexpected lunge to start Fall 2, catching his gloating opponent flat-footed with a vicious knee into this balls that hits so hard Skrapper is lifted off his feet before crumbling to the mat. There’s nothing quite as tasty for a homoerotic wrestling fan as the sight of babyface muscleboy going dark and offensively offensive. This not being Scrappy’s first rodeo, he doesn’t give his winded opponent time to recover. He’d have to demonstrate that all of those endless hours at the gym were worth it, of course. Dominating hold after hold, power move after power move, the inherent message would be to demand respect for the muscle. He’d pick Skrapper up like a rag doll, cradled across his magnificent, broad chest, and parade the lightweight around the mat. He’d pound him down in an OTK backbreaker, but muscle him back up cradled across his chest the next second.  Down again, up again, down again. Finally, he’d leave Skrapper hanging on the line like wet laundry, prying his chin backward with one hand, and pressing down on Skrapper’s knee with the other to fold the grappler sickeningly in half in the direction his spine isn’t made to go. Skrapper isn’t one to vocalize easily, so it would take Scrappy wringing the trapped stud’s cock and balls out ruthlessly in hand to make the bass rumble gasp and bite back the words, “Oh, God, no.” Frankly, Scrappy could probably take fall 2 any time he wanted, once he’s low-blowed his opponent into a pulp. But Scrappy has a point to prove. No skinny kid, no matter how fierce an attitude, is going to dominate a gym-honed, genetically gifted, lovingly crafted muscle physique like his. He’d body slam Skrapper with authority, which is a serious bitch, because it’s just a couple inches of wrestling mat padding over slate tile to break the fall. Skrapper would arch and writhe in almost incoherent agony, but Scrappy would just stomp him down flat with heel strikes to his gut. He’d drag Skrapper up by his hair, just for the humiliation, before driving a knee strike to his lower abdomen (clipping his crotch intentionally), doubling the stud over before he snaps his gargantuan muscle quads around Skrap’s ears and squeezes. Scrappy would flex to the accompaniment of the low rumble of bass agony between his thighs, flashing double biceps and most musculars for the extravagance and gratuity. Skrapper would try to climb off his knees, but a fresh wave of quad flexing would repeatedly drive him back down again. Finally, Scrappy would bend forward and hook his arms around Skrapper’s midsection, pull him off his feet, upside down, and hoist him up in the air to suspend him across one massive shoulder in a backbreaker. Skrapper would bite down the pain for a while, refusing to give the satisfaction of a quick submission to the hold, but he’d give in the end.  Scrappy would fling him back to the mat in a heap and, of course, flex victoriously over his opponent’s motionless body.

To start fall 3, you’d have both wrestlers now wiser, more cautious, and with just enough of a taste of the decisive fall to make them salivate. Scrappy would be back to delivering taunting, laughing trash talk. Skrapper would be deadly silent, head down, eyes up, coiled. The taste of the second fall victory would still be on the tongue, making Scrappy a half a second slow to defend himself from a shoulder block to the gut. Skrapper would charge forward, lifting the bodybuilder off his feet and skewering him to the wall. Scrappy would fling the lightweight off of him, which would launch Skrapper across the room to land on his fine, fine ass. Give and take, back and forth, they’d trade gambits. Scrappy would feign a slow step to draw a single leg attempt, only to come down squarely with a brutal double fisted chop to back of Skrapper’s neck for the trouble. Skrapper would let the bodybuilder charge 3 words into a compound sentence of gloating trash talk, just to interrupt him with a jab to the gut and a huge uppercut to the balls. Scrappy would try to be telling the end of the story of might-makes-right, working to domineer over his slighter opponent with mountainous muscle mass. Skrapper would weave his hero’s tale of potently underestimated threat crushing oversized ego to match a superhuman physique. Scrappy would rip Skrapper’s tight trunks off first, with that locker-room bully chuckle, as if Skrapper’s nakedness would just further reveal his impotence in the face of a muscle god. Skrapper’s unsheathed power tool, already swelling with excitement, would give the muscle god pause, though. Skrapper would take advantage of his hypnotized opponent to grab him by the trunks and literally rip them off at the seams. By now, we’ve all seen Scrappy in that particular glory that is his beauty in nothing but sweat and a jock strap. Fuck, he knows how insanely sexy his naked ass is, and he’d have that twinkle in his eye as Skrapper soaks in the sight and smell of him. Scrappy would sense his victory at hand, his mere mortal of an opponent laid bare before him, his own divine muscles sucking his opponent into his thrall like gravitational pull. But fuck, have you seen Skrapper naked and backed into a corner? Shit. He’d sweep his legs and punch him in the balls before Scrappy’s back hit the mat. Talk about a swarm, just picture Scrappy on his back, taking knee strike after knee strike to his balls, sweat pouring down from the badger bearing down on him from above. A figure-4 leg lock would make Scrappy scream (scream!) a humiliating submission, but fuck that. That’s just to make sure the demigod doesn’t try to run away before all the fun has been had. Wrapping his lean, tightly coiled naked body around his legs, Skrapper would rip him open in a spladle.


The submissions would start raining down like a thunderstorm, but they’d fall on deaf ears. Skrapper would coil his ripcord legs around Scrappy’s midsection to knead the air and fight out of him like bread dough. Then he’d work his way north, locking down face-to-naked-crotch headscissors, squeezing so long and hard that Scrappy’s alabaster visage would turn plum. This is all Skrapper’s story to tell now. It’s a story of tenacity and self-confidence that spit in the face of long odds. It’s the story of ruthless, merciless, depraved punishment that makes an invincible god shatter into a writhing mass of picture perfect helplessness. It’s the story of 7 throbbing inches of explosive power sliding almost frictionless between two of the most sought-after, rock hard, muscled glutes in the business, before erupting in a jet of ecstasy arching it’s path up an astonishingly wide back and into the sweat soaked curly locks of a downed angel.

scrappy 6




Oy. See what happens? Well, in case you’re a new reader, welcome to what passes for brevity and self-restraint from me. For the record, I’d see this fantasy match of contrasts heading inevitably into Skrapper’s advantage, and I’d picture him pounding out a cum shot victory having punished Scrappy’s delicious ass for having teased all of us gay wrestling fans for far, far too long.

Hair Pull Humpday

As I was saying yesterday, the process of curating the pics of Scrappy getting his trunks pulled prompted me to notice that he gets his hair pulled even more often than his trunks! He’s got a sensational head of hair, and those curls cry out for getting pulled. Heels cannot resist lacing their fingers through his cherubic locks and yanking him around. There’s clearly a huge market for humiliating Scrappy. With a physique that stacked, a face that pretty, and a smirk that cocky, it’s little wonder his catalog is populated by endless examples of him screaming in helpless agony, owned and abased. You’ve got to love seeing this musclebaby cry!


In Scrappy vs. Chace LaChance vs. Gabe Steel, there are lot’s of trading allegiance double-teams, but watching beefy Gabe and Chace working over Scrappy is definitely my favorite constellation. Scrap whimpers like a crybaby when Gabe drags his fine, fine ass up by a handful of hair.


In Ring Wars 83, Brute brutalizes the barefoot babyface every which way. Babyface bullying like this is classic, and Scrap’s screams as Brute pulls on his thick locks are compelling.

scrappy dax

It’s a surprising give-and-take when bearded beefcake Dax Carter steps onto the Muscleboy mat with Scrappy. Copious sweat and viciousness, like this screw-top hairpull-chinlock, whip these boys into quite a sexy froth.

joey scrap

Pro bad ass Joey King strips, rips, and rides Scrappy hard in Custom Video 61. On his hands and knees, the terror in Scrappy’s eyes as Joey drags him around by his hair is such sexy drama!

rhino scrappy joey

In Mat Rats 105, Joey comes back to pass on his veteran tips to hot hunk protege Rhino, including teaching that same maneuver, putting Scrappy on his hands and knees and steering him to complete humiliation with two handfuls of hair.


Proving the point that fucking over Scrappy never get old, Joey also drags Scrappy’s sweat soaked hotness all over the Thunder’s garage mat in Mat Wars 74. Scrappy keeps working out, wracking up wrestling experience, getting smarter and meaner, and still, beefy heels like Joey tenderize him like a side of beef and humiliate him with laughing hair pulls.

scrappy drew

Little surprise that Scrappy takes out his pent up frustration so fiercely when he’s on offense, like in his rip-and-strip beach match against lovely blond bro Drew Harper over at W4H. Can’t you just see the ghosts of Gabe, Brute, Dax, Joey, and Rhino haunting him as he drags Drew through the surf by his hair?


It’s little wonder he’s one of the top stars on the scene right now. Scrappy brings so much to the world of homoerotic wrestling, including such sensational handles to pull on!

Trunk Pull Tuesday

scrap steel
Steel vs. Scrappy -Thunder’s Arena’s Bodybuilder Battle 146

It’s a theme set #trunkpulltuesday! I thought it might be my imagination, but when I examined the receipts, it turned out to be true: opponent’s love yanking on the back of Scrappy’s trunks. For obvious reasons, it’s got to be a crowd pleaser. He’s got one of the most muscular, perfectly proportioned asses in the business, so it’s not like any of us on this side of the camera are going to complain. He’s also such a sensational, smirky, smart ass character, that opponents clearly enjoy the little extra touch of humiliation that comes with wedging his trunks up his crack. When it occurred to me that I’d seen Scrappy’s trunks pulled on several occasions, I thought it might just be my imagination (because, you know the power of my imagination!). As my hunting and gathering demonstrates below, however, it’s a fact. Scrappy is a #trunkpulltuesday repeater.


Cameron Matthews is always a crowd pleaser, so little wonder he goes the extra mile when he bearhugs the fuck out of Scrappy for W4H. He not only scoops the musclebunny way, way off his feet, crushing and squeezing he life out of Scrap’s insanely narrow midsection, but he manages to grab the top of his trunks as he goes. There’s no strategic reason for it. Cam just knows what he’s selling, and who he’s selling it to!


At some point in my hibernation over the last year and a half, a new wrestling production has popped up, named Weekend Wrestling. BG East alum Cole Cassidy appears to be at the helm, so I’m expecting to find a ton of heels crushing jobbers. Cole has generously given me permission to add WW to my copyright permissions, and one of the first images I find is, of course, Scrappy’s ass (wrestling as aptly named Prince Adonis) exposed as Brendan Byers holds him across his body and digs his fingertips into that muscled glory.


Back at W4H, nasty brute Donnie Dukes grinds Scrappy’s muscles to mush, testing the seams of Scrap’s dark blue  trunks severely along the way.  Honestly, though, that ass!

scrappy.pngAgain, at W4H, Drew Harper tested Scrappy’s muscles in the ring and on the beach. In their ring match, Drew pulled off the double humiliation of  a vicious trunk pull and hair pull, showing off the Scrap’s divine physique and totally owning him. Come to think of it, Scrappy sure seems to get his hair pulled a lot, too!  Hmmm….

Producer’s Ring: Roberts vs. Cuomo

——-continued from The News Division: Match 4———–

The News Division: Match 5

Roberts vs. Cuomo

After everyone made it back up the cliff and got cleaned up, the six newsmen gathered in the living room.  As expected, the plasma screen sprang to life, with Eli Brody’s grinning face filling the screen.

“Fantastic fight!” Eli cheered.  “You do not disappoint.  In fact we have major new sponsors clamoring to come on board, due to the remarkable appeal you’ve tapped into.  Both semi-final matches will take place tomorrow.  At noon, Chris and Thomas will square off.  As soon as that match is over, Carter and Rob will take the beach.”

Rob grunted his approval at the match-up, glaring angrily at Carter across the room.  Carter smiled slyly back.

“Two of our sponsors have invested in some special challenges to help you earn a little more pay off during tomorrow’s matches.  Pore-Away acne cream will provide sponsorship of producer credits for a major film to one fighter.  The fighter who wins and displays the most popular victory pose will be awarded the film sponsorship.  One of you will enjoy the opportunity to move behind camera and get into the potentially lucrative film side of our industry.”  All six men looked very interested.

Eli continued, “The second sponsorship comes from Male Fitness online-zine.  They’re offering a quarter of your yearly salary to any fighter that takes off their speedos in this round of fighting.  Their consumers want to see the full-monty, gentlemen.”  There was uncomfortable shifting as each man measuring his price to go naked.  “Oh, and if any of you don’t fight au natural, your bonus will go to your opponent, if they take your speedos off by force during the fight.”

Eli paused, allowing the hidden cameras time to capture reaction shots from each of the men.  “I suggest you rest up,” he finally concluded.  “Four of you have a big day ahead.”


At noon the following day, Chris and Thomas walked onto the beach.  Chris wore navy blue speedos, and Thomas wore black trunks.  Both men were tanned significantly darker than when they’d first arrived at the beach house.  They were closely matched in size and fitness. Chris had dispatched his first round opponent more quickly than had Thomas, but Thomas had taken the time to truly humiliate his opponent.  Both men were suitably cautious, respecting each other’s strength and fierceness.  Both men also noted that neither of them had yet chosen to accept the full-monty challenge.

The horn sounded on the cliff above, signaling the beginning of the fight.  Both hunks crouched low, slowly circling in the sand.  Thomas lunged forward a couple of times, quickly abandoning his try at a single leg as Chris danced away.  Both men cautiously extended their arms, locking together in a collar and elbow.  Pushing and jockeying against one another, Thomas managed to muscle Chris off balance.  He threw Chris onto his back on the sand, quickly dropping on top of his opponent.  Straddling him in the mount, Thomas reached toward his opponent’s head, but Chris grabbed his wrists defensively.  Muscles straining against one another, Thomas leaned forward, allowing gravity to add to his superior strength.  Chris’ arms began to quiver as he held Thomas suspended above him.  Slowly his strength weakened, and Thomas pressed his arms downward onto Chris’s broad chest.

Thomas slid his left arm sideways, slowly pressing his forearm against Chris’ neck.  Chris’ face began to grow red as he pressed back as hard as he could.  Releasing his right hand, Chris grabbed a small handful of sand and flung it into Thomas’ face.  Thomas instinctively brought both of his hands to his face defensively, wiping the sand away from his vulnerable eyes.  Chris bent his knees and pressed his feet into the sand, quickly arching his back up and off the beach.  Thomas sprawled forward, landing over the top of Chris’ head, still wiping at his eyes.

Chris wasted no time, spinning over onto his stomach and grabbing hold of each of Rob’s ankles.  Chris yanked Thomas’ legs out from underneath him, stretching him out over the sand.  Chris stepped his right foot around and over Thomas’ legs, straddling him facing backward still holding onto Thomas’ ankles.  Hooking Thomas’ ankles underneath his armpits, Chris squatted backward, folding Thomas’ body backward in a tightly locked Boston crab.  Thomas grunted deeply.

Chris strained, pressing his body backward, applying more pressure onto Thomas’ lower back.  “Give it up!”  Chris shouted.

Thomas chuckled.  Lifting himself onto his hands, Thomas pressed his upper body high off the sand.  Chris was thrown off balance enough for Thomas to twist his legs free.  He kicked Chris’ back sharply, sending him sprawling on the sand, his back arched in pain.  Both men rolled away from one another and came slowly to their feet.

After a second to catch his breath, Chris charged forward, grabbing Thomas’ outstretched right hand.  Twisting Thomas’ arm sharply, Chris spiraled his body powerfully around, applying full pressure on Thomas’ locked right arm.  Thomas had no option but to sommersault forward, rather than have his shoulder ripped apart.  He landed hard on his back, gasping in pain as Chris maintained his lock on his arm.

Chris kneeled next to Thomas’ prone body, wedging his knee against the back of Thomas’ hyperextended elbow.  With his left hand remaining locked around Thomas’ wrist, Chris wrapped his right hand over the top of Thomas’ palm.  Chris pressed the palm backward by the fingers, hyperextending it toward Thomas’ wrist.  Thomas gasped in pain.

Before Chris could react, Thomas pulled his knees to his chest, planted his feet against Chris’ chin, and kicked him away.  Chris flew backward, losing his grip on Thomas’ wrist.  Chris rolled to his side, but Thomas had already jumped on top of him.  Pinning Chris’ torso with his hands, Thomas extended his right leg straight backward, his weight resting on his left knee.  In quick, violent bursts, Thomas repeatedly drove his right knee into Chris’ abdomen.  Chris winced in pain, trying to double over defensively, but being held in place by Thomas muscled body bearing down on him.

Thomas spun around to Chris’ head, grabbing Chris by his knees and folding his body tightly, ass skyward.  Stunned and in pain, Chris didn’t realized what was happening until Thomas had reached his hand between Chris’ legs and grabbed the back of Chris’ navy trunks.  Pulling fiercely, with a grunt, Thomas ripped the speedos off Chris’ ass and up to his knees.  Chris began to kick and squirm frantically, but Thomas was able to stand and remove Chris’ trunks completely.  Backing away from his humiliated opponent, Thomas twirled the navy blue speedos around on his index finger, smiling.  “Lose something?”  he asked.

Chris pounded his fists in the sand angrily.  Now completely naked, he lay on his back in the sand.  Well endowed and smoothly shaven, where his speedo had been, Chris was pale white, starkly contrasted with his deep tan over the rest of his body.

Quickly, Thomas bent over and pulled off his black trunks, securing both full-monty bonuses for the match.  Thomas also had a contrasting tan line where his speedo was.  He was visibly excited by the turn the match had taken.

Chris rolled to his stomach and came slowly to his feet, watching Thomas cautiously.  “Nice… muscle,” Thomas said with a smile, nodding at Chris’ crotch.  “I may need to devote some special attention there before we’re done.”

Thomas lunged low, wrapping his arms around Chris’ waist and locking his wrists behind Chris’ back.  Just as Thomas lifted Chris sharply in the beginning of a bearhug, Chris defensively bent his right knee forward.  As Thomas hefted his opponent powerfully upward, he inadvertently drove Chris’ knee sharply into his own balls.  Thomas gasped and choked, wide-eyed, as he lost his grip.  Chris dropped harmlessly to his feet.

Without pausing, Chris grabbed Thomas’ hair in both hands.  Pulling Thomas’ head downward, Chris drove his left knee upward.  Chris’ knee crashed into Thomas’ jaw with a loud crack, and Thomas fell to his knees, dazed, clutching his jaw.  Furiously, Chris pulled Thomas by the hair, pressing his gaping face into his groin.  “Take a good look, smart ass” Chris growled.

Thomas weakly tried to push his hands against Chris’ thighs.  With a jerk, Chris shoved Thomas’ head tightly between his thick thighs, wrapping his arms around Thomas’ waist.  With a grunt of effort, Chris pulled Thomas off his feet, suspending him in an inverted, reverse bearhug.  High in Chris’ grasp, Thomas’ balls hung inches in front of Chris face, his legs spread wide.  Lips curled, teeth clenched, Chris dropped to his knees, driving Thomas’ already dazed head straight downward into the sand.  Thomas bounced shortly, then fell to his stomach, his head face down in the sand between Chris’ upper thighs. He remained motionless, except for his fingers slowly clutching uselessly at the sand.

“Not enough,” Chris mumbled, as he climbed to his feet and straddle-walked the length of Thomas’ body.  Grabbing Thomas’ ankles, Chris again hooked them under his armpits and squatted, pressing his full weight down and backward.  Thomas’ legs arched painfully backward, his lower back being folded in half.  Chris lowered himself farther into his squat, finally coming to rest, cheek to cheek, on top of Thomas’ bare ass.  Still dazed, Thomas struggled, but was too weak and disoriented to pull free.  Feeling his back locking painfully, vertebrae grinding against vertebrae, Thomas screamed in incoherent pain.  “How does it feel, fucker!?” Chris screamed.

Thomas shouted, “I submit!”  But Chris held the Boston crab, leaning backward as far as he could.  Again, Thomas screamed out in pain, fists pounding the sand in desperation.  Finally, Chris stood up and threw Thomas’ legs to the sand.  Turning, Chris stomped on the small of Thomas’ back with his right heel.  He spat on the back of Thomas’ head, and then flexed a sweaty, sand-coated double bicep pose as he glared at the back of Thomas’ head. “You had that coming,” Chris growled.

He dropped his huge arms and turned to face the other newshunks watching silently across the beach. His pumped pecs and cock bounced, as he stared defiantly.


Asses Named

It was great to see a lot of you playing along in this rebooted round of Name that Ass! As my stats instructor was fond of saying when handing back our tests, mistakes were made. But asses were also correctly named. No one accurately identified all four sets of mouthwatering glutes in this round, but three of the four hunks were correctly named, in the aggregate of answers. Of course, this is all just an excuse for me to worshipfully adore the gorgeous butts of some of my favorite wrestling hunks, so let me get on with the pay off and name those asses.

Ass #1 belonged to none other than underground wrestler gone way, way big: beautiful Finn Balor.

Since making it huge in big, box store corporate wrestling, rainbow ally Finn has fucking whittled his magnificent physique to insane tolerances. I actually prefer his beefier build from early career BGE appearances, but that g-g-g-gorgeous ass of his is top shelf in any weight class. There were a couple of incorrect guesses for Finn’s glutes, but eagle-eyed Jose instantly recognized one of his (and my) favorite wrestlers’ backsides.

Jose also immediately I.D.ed spectacular ass #2 as belonging none other than indy pro hunk Clark Connors.

Holy FUCK, I’ve got a raging infatuation with Clark. His body sends me swooning instantly. I’ve got it about as bad for him now as I have crushed for most of my youth and adult life on a young Billy Jack Haynes. His porn-ready ass has a YouTube fan video devoted to it, and I’m slightly irritated that I didn’t think of that first. I can guarantee you that you’ll see Clark starring in some homoerotic wrestling fiction on these pages soon, because I cannot get enough of him!

You can all be forgiven for not recognizing ass #3 as belonging to CMLL luchador, young buck and golden devil, Oro Jr.

I’ve been watching so much CMLL in the past year that nothing I say or do can convince all Google platforms that I speak fluent Spanish (I don’t). One of the top reasons I’m so into the Mexican luchadors is Oro Jr., and, let’s be honest, Oro’s unbelievably juicy ass. He jokes on his Instagram page about how fans only seem to ever take photos of him from behind. I can see why. When he’s in the ring, I’m obsessed with watching his magnificent glutes from every angle. When he’s waiting his turn on the ring apron in a tag match, I forget about the action and just stare at his glorious butt. I realize he’s pretty perpetually in prima o segunda lucha position, so he’s not exactly a headliner yet. But I fast forward through most everything else when I know his hot bod is going to step into the ring.

And finally, ass #4 belongs to none other than rising star and body beautiful, Angel Garza.

Tim Sheridan accurately identified Angel’s ass almost the instant I posted the game, because Tim knows his spectacular wrestling asses! Unnecessary Gay Character (awesome handle, by the way) also put his finger on the correct pair of glutes. Garza is just so ridiculously pretty, and like Oro Jr., he’s clearly abundantly aware of what the fainting gasps and screams are about when he shows up packed snug in a pair of butt-hugging wrestling briefs (or, better yet, when he arrives in tear away tights, and rips them off like a stripper halfway through a match). I LOVE a crowd pleaser, and the impish, handsome smile on his face says that he knows what we’re all lining up to see.

Finally, one more ass that was not featured in the original game on Monday. Kayden Keller chimed in on Twitter to chide me for neglecting to shine the spotlight on his jaw-droppingly sexy backside in this round. First of all, I’m loving that the multi-winning, reigning Best Heel at BGE is demanding my attention. Second of all, I will marvel at and adore Kayden’s fantasy man glutes morning, noon, and night. No one technically “won” this round of Name that Ass, but I think Kayden’s power play at slapping down his beautiful butt and insisting on its due makes him, and, really, the rest of us, the real winner.