As I mentioned, on my last pilgrimage to BG East North this summer I was given the thrilling opportunity to sit down, face to face, and interview several BG East wrestlers in those moments between them taping matches. Ty Alexander seemed particularly keen to cozy up to my mic, and it is no surprise to me in the least that my interview with the Trophy Boy was long, intense, and peppered with several unexpected twists and turns. If you listen to our interview below, you’ll hear what I mean when I say that Ty is the master of the inside joke. I’ll do my best to let you in on the jokes, but honestly, with Ty, I always feel like there’s another layer of meaning I have yet to discover. It may help (or not) for you to know ahead of time that Ty has repeatedly called me out to kick my ass, and the more muscular he gets, the more actively I’ve tried to steer clear of a Trophy Boy ass kicking (judge me if you will). It also may, or may not, provide helpful context to know that a little while ago, Ty gifted me with the pair of Calvin Kleins that he and Drake fought so bitterly over in Babyface Brawl X. As with my interview with Kayden, Ty’s tightly toned body was distracting, and I don’t believe that’s by accident. Ty wore the least amount of clothing of any of my interviewees, and he drew attention to his tanned muscles repeatedly. On the one hand, if you know Ty, you know it’s always about Ty. On the other hand, I strongly suspect that there was considerable method to the Trophy Boy’s madness in showing up to his interview in his green Nike compression briefs and pretty much nothing else.
In this first portion of the interview, we learn about the ongoing evolution of Ty, both physically and his prospects to dig himself out of the deep jobber hole he’s been in. Ty discusses what fans really long to see, and what the chances may be of there ever being a Ty heel-turn. Learn about Ty’s big weakness, and his impression of how BG East is living into the age of social media.
Ty Alexander Interview – Part 1:
In the next portion of our interview, talks about his favorite classic BGE wrestlers, and exactly what it’s like to meet your gay wrestling hero in person (and get your ass kicked by him). He explores some of the differences between Ty the wrestler and Ty in the rest of his life. Hear Ty’s response to my direct question of whether he is Our Man Inside. We bond over the prototype of the wrestling nerd hunk. And as further evidence that he is the master of the inside joke, delve into the mystery of who Ty may, or may not, be roommates with.
Ty Alexander Interview – Part 2:
In the final portion of the interview, learn about the likelihood of seeing Ty naked in a future match (hint: it’s really, really high). Discover how this post got its title, and how that relates to a description of Ty covered in cum strolling around BG East after a particularly explosive match. I give a shout out to Kid Leopard for my next invitation to visit BGE (Ty is involved). Ty answers the question of which BGE wrestlers are hooking up with each other (“who isn’t!?”). And finally, listen to how this particular interview ended with Ty’s hands down my pants. No kidding.
This summer I received the golden ticket I’ve been dreaming of for pretty much my entire adult life. BG East Boss Kid Leopard extended the invitation for me to be on site during a week of recording new matches. I was able to take a day for this latest pilgrimage to the BG East compound outside of Boston, and it was everything I’d hoped for and significantly more. Gorgeous, hot hunks were arriving throughout the day. The Boss was there (of course). Pretty much every formal member of Bard’s homoerotic wrestling boyband was on hand, as well as several honorary inductees. In other words, I was in heaven.
I have a lot of reflections I’ll share about my latest BG East pilgrimage in the coming weeks, about the business, about wrestlers, about fans, about me. But to kick off my debriefing of this epic experience, I want to jump right into the most enjoyable part of the visit: the interviews. I charmed several of these gorgeous men into agreeing to sit down with me at the lakeshore and answer some questions. They were generous, playful, flirtatious even. And several of them were open to letting me record our interviews and make the audio file available here on the blog.
The first interview I want to share was with stunningly sexy Kayden Keller. I tend to think of Kayden as relatively reticent in action, so it was a deeply pleasant surprise to discover that he is, in person, downright loquacious. Take a listen and learn a little bit about what pushes Kayden’s buttons, and how Kayden pushes mine. And just listen to his deep, sexy, ominous laughter throughout, as he muses about taking control, losing control, and his current record of how many men he’s had sex with at one time in the BG East ring. To start off, we talked about Kayden’s experience of these intense days of wrestling multiple matches on camera, his philosophy on the eroticism of being in control and, occasionally, being under the control of someone else, and how becoming a homoerotic wrestling heel has changed him.
Kayden Keller Interview – Part 1:
Next, we talked about what pushes Kayden’s buttons, the difference between a bully and a heel, and how completely distracted I was by Kayden’s gorgeous, long, muscled legs. What you can’t tell from the audio is that as soon as I disclosed to Kayden the effect his legs were having on me, he began flexing them and rubbing them, pulling up his shorts and quite intentionally pushing my buttons.
Kayden Keller Interview – Part 2:
As our interview came to its conclusion, we were briefly interrupted by Nino Leone looking for his lighter (and, I suspect, also drawn by the sight of Kayden showing off his flexed quads). We also hear about a particular unpublished opponent of Kayden’s who found exactly what buttons to push, and we learn the truth behind our fan fantasies about massive orgies breaking out with all of these gorgeous wrestlers being in the same place.
A recurring theme here has been my perpetual self-reflection on what it is about homoerotic wrestling that speaks to me. A regular point of perseveration has been what makes a wrestling match particularly “homoerotic.” I can get off on mainstream straight pro wrestling probably almost as much as the next guy, but my bread and butter continues to be this particular industry marketed specifically to gay men. And I know that within this industry, there are straight wrestlers, and the erotic heat that emanates from a lot of matches is what I’m bringing to it as a viewer. And I’m okay with that, as long as the whole interaction effect isn’t cloaked in a closeted wink-wink, where the producer and we know that this is marketed with a gay eye in mind, but the whole thing is kept strictly on the straight side of the fence so that a fan can exercise plausible deniability if they’re caught with an incriminating browser history (“I was just checking out some underground pro, bro”). Yawn.
But it also isn’t just an issue of wrestlers pulling out their porn-ready cocks and wrestling hard and naked. Though there’s nothing wrong with that, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, I’m advocating for more straight forward naked wrestling, not just the last 2 minutes of a match before it devolves into out of control face sucking (not that I have any problem with that, either!). But what I key off of isn’t just the explicit homoeroticism of naked bodies, by any means. There’s this sweet spot right in the middle of straight-up pro with me supplying all of the erotic subtext, and hardcore porn with a clumsy grapple as appetizer.
It’s sexy because of intention and attention. Like when a wrestler acknowledges that his opponent looks hot. The phrase, “Nice ass,” or “sweet pecs,” is pure gold when it comes to dialing a match squarely into the territory that grabs me hard. Of course a “no-homo” disavowal will totally kill that buzz, but happily I see less and less of that in the wrestling I watch these days. They don’t have to get their dicks out. Just notice, appraise the obvious assets of an opponent, and you’ve drawn me into the match. I’m invested 10 times more if the wrestlers state the obvious fact that they are both gorgeous specimens. I never see this in straight-up pro (not that I watch it much anymore), and I think it’s an angle that’s probably even more disruptive of heteronormativity than even getting your gear ripped off. Guys look at guys. Guys appreciate guys. Guys can be turned on by getting their hands on guys. The eroticism peaks long before (and even in the absence of) any cum being added to the recipe.
I’ve mentioned before that I regularly push rewind around the time I get to more explicit sexual content at the end of harder-core matches. Like when I was following Naked Kombat, I would skim over the sex round to see if anyone comes close to Rusty Stevens’ perfect mix of corporal punishment, humiliation, and wrestling domination (naked pony rides, leg scissor armbars used like an accelerator pedal to taunt, tease, and torment a loser by commanding them to jack off just shy of orgasm again and again). The fucking itself, even the acrobatic, artistic fucking of professional porn stars who somehow are able to stretch and maneuver into positions that I’m pretty sure would dislocate multiple joints if I attempted them, comes across as downright pedestrian to me. The erotic heat is the sweat-inducing wrestling competition. It’s the suspense and the battle. It’s the passion to dominate knowing that the loser is going to get fucked, rather than the loser getting fucked, in and of itself.
So I love the story of a wrestler having to battle with his own lust to stay focused on beating his opponent. The erotic offense of one hunk destroying his opponent’s defenses with a nibble of the ear or a stroke of his hot body strikes me as the height of homoerotic. There’s a fantastic, frustrating, intensely provocative tease near the end of some matches where the lines between competition and giving in to total lust get so blurred that I can’t tell what’s an openly erotic trap and what’s just mutual submitting to the intimate passion of bodies grinding into bodies. So when one wrestler is ready to just get down to hooking up, and the other is just playing along long enough to snap shut a sleeper, or pound out a finishing OTK, or slip on a knee-breaking figure-4 leglock for the final, screaming, totally vulnerable submission, fuck that puts me over. Whipping out cocks and sucking and fucking at that point is totally vanilla, as far as I’m concerned. I’m pushing rewind to watch that look of shock wash across the loser’s face when he realizes his lust just walked him by the nose into becoming the property of his new master.
My tastes are broad and varied. I can get off on a wide spectrum of homoerotic content, from barely implied by the copyright holder to blistering hot fuck stakes consummated. But that sweet spot that I crave most in the middle of the normal distribution is unmistakable, and yet resists the easy out of sliding too quickly into hardcore porn. It’s an open nod to me, the audience, and an intentional grappling with the erotic potential between two smoking hot hunks hell bent on dominating one another. It’s a look, a groan, a nibble, a slap, a gasping grope, an unfocused reverie. It’s stating the obvious, that two barely clad studs pounding, grinding, and crushing into one another is potently intimate and powerfully arousing. Guys like guys. Wrestling ensues….
I’m a fan of Mark Muscle mostly for the aesthetics. He’s fucking huge and gorgeous, and what he has lacked in wrestling acumen, he has made up for in being game for the rough and tumble, ego bruising scramble of homoerotic wrestling. Seriously, a beast this huge with about half a day of pro wrestling training would fucking own this industry. But Mark has been mostly heel bait in the matches I’ve seen him. He’s a little wooden. He’s lacked in charisma, putting out a pretty shallow wrestling character almost entirely defined by whether overwhelming muscle mass and fitness do, or don’t, trump a savvy underground opponent (I’m hard pressed to ever buy that it does, but I get the appeal for both directions). So Fantasy Heels 10 at Muscle Domination Wrestling tweaks my interest because clearly, Mark Muscle is the Fantasy Heel. I’ll tuck in to see him turn on some heel heat any day.
Mark’s opponent (fantasy jobber?) is Damien Rush, who strolls into the middle of Mark’s mouthwatering posting routine and demands that the muscle beast beat a hasty retreat because the lighting is perfect for Damien to pose for the camera. “You’ve got to get out of here and wait till I’m done,” Damien snarls, stepping in front of Mark and flexing for the camera. Perspective would argue that Damien’s position closer to the camera at this point should make him seem relatively bigger and Mark relatively smaller than their actual proportions. In testimony to how fucking huge Mark is, he just looks like a mountain of muscle staring way, way down at daddy’s little rich boy. I instantly want to see Damien trounced. One reason is that he interrupts my adoration of Mark’s generous tour of his phenomenal physique. Fuck you, Damien. Get the fuck out of the way. A second reason is the auburn highlights in Damien’s hair. Sun bleached? Horrifying accident with a time machine to the eighties? Whatever accounts for it, the mop top of two-toned locks is atrocious. Fuck, I want to see him suffer for making me look past that hideous ‘do in order to keep trying to study Mark’s superhuman physique. Fuck you, Damien.
The match unfolds in relatively formulaic fashion. Bumping egos lead to a pose down. Mark stifles a laugh when Damien announces himself the obvious winner. “That all you got?” Damien deludes himself pathologically. “My muscles were that big when I was 12!” he snarls. I still think Damien needs to play up the daddy’s little rich boy angle, because his irrational self-love and deluded belief in his superiority in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary would be so much juicier if he kept having to pull the silver spoon out of his mouth. In this day of historically inept plutocracy, I’d love to hate on big D that much more, if he’d just be that overprivileged daddy’s little rich boy. Mark smirks when Damien can’t admit that he’s humiliatingly dwarfed by the giant bodybuilder’s huge, flexed muscles.
Following a well worn path, they move on to arm wrestle to demonstrate who is stronger. Mark doesn’t just own this hairy little bitch; he looks at the camera and smirks. He showboats. He leisurely leans back and points at the huge bowling ball of a bicep with which he is easily thwarting his huffing and puffing and whining bitch opponent. Damien can’t even cheat his way to a victory.
Mark indulges Damien’s insistence that the real test of strength is “mercy.” About 15 seconds later, big Mark has ground Damien to his knees, sniveling and whimpering and bitching about Mark cheating. They move on to straightforward wrestling, with Damien attempting to use chloroform to shortcut his way to the board room. Awkwardly, Mark turns to the camera and explains, “Luckily, I’ve built up a tolerance to chloroform.” And then he muscle dominates daddy’s little rich boy every which way for the next 15 minutes.
It’s a squash, which for regular readers will be an unnecessary point to make, because I already told you this is MDW. But a few things stand out to make this match provocatively arousing and powerfully pleasing to me. First of all, Damien. Damn. Although I’d prefer to have someone gag him so we don’t have to hear him over-narrate the product, I do enjoy watching him suffer. His golden trunks (see, come on, play up that daddy’s little rich boy angle!) are perfection. Watching his bulge quiver and swing side to side as Mark Muscle hangs him out to dry for a day and a half in a rear bearhug is downright hypnotic. When Mark applies a standard bearhug, he not only gives us a long, lingering look at Damien’s magnificently fuckable ass, he wedgies those golden trunks severely high up Damien’s crack for us. Damien screams and writhes; he twitches and chokes on the pain like the poor man’s Drake Marcos. For so many reasons beyond what I’ve already mentioned, Damien’s been a naughty boy, and watching him punished mercilessly is profoundly satisfying.
Another reason that Fantasy Heels 10 floats my boat is Mark’s eyes. I know, I know, you’re instantly dubious that I genuinely noticed his eyes, but you can’t miss them. Because Mark repeatedly looks directly into the camera. It’s a device that could easily backfire on a wrestler, but Mark is so consistent and insistent about making eye contact with the camera, that he manages to break down the virtual barrier between the action and the audience.
Now, sometimes it irks me when guys look toward the camera. Often, it’s quite clear that they are actually looking at whoever is holding the camera and taking cues from them. For all I know, Mark may have been doing just that. But his smirks, his cocky nods and winks are nothing short of magical. There’s a powerful intimacy he conveys, like he knows that we’re on this side of the screen jacking off in blinding lust for him. And he likes it. He tolerates Damien’s bluff and bluster with an eye wag at the camera, letting us in on the little joke that he can trash this smart mouth little bitch at will. He licks his lips and snarls and growls, not at Damien, but at us. Damien is just a fucking prop that Mark is using to grab us by the balls, to turn us on, to stoke us harder and harder. Like I said, looking into the camera can backfire on a wrestler. I’ve bitched before about wrestlers seeming distracted from the action because of where their gaze wanders, stretching the believability that this is an actual contest of strength and athleticism and wits. Mark works it sensationally, though.
My last comment I have to make is just a curios self-reflection that the more Mark Muscle dominates and destroys Damien Rush, the more I’m lusting like crazy to fuck Mark. This catches me by surprise, because often the heels that work me hardest star in my personal fantasies as tops. I want to see them whip out their dicks and powerfuck the losers at their feet. Whereas, with Mark, I’m crushing harder and harder on the fantasy of me, being there, whipping out my dick and fucking his magnificently muscled ass… with Damien at our feet. It’s something in all that mindfuck eye contact, I’m sure, that transports my lustful gaze to a point at which Mark drags Damien’s quivering, beaten carcass across the mat and drops him at my feet like a cat. And then he drops those skin tight black bikini briefs and insists I show him how proud I am of him by fucking him for days.
But maybe that’s just me. As always, I give my “buyer beware” notice that if you need some competitive heat to turn your crank, be warned that this is a squash. But if you want to see daddy’s little rich boy, who thinks he can get away with anything up to and including treason, get thrashed mercilessly and ripped apart until he’s crying and begging like the little bitch we all knew he was all along, this could be a timely match to saddle up with. If you get off on HUGE bodybuilders with superhero physiques crush the fuck out of hot little wannabes, this will definitely scratch your itch. And if you want to feel like you’re right in the room, on the mats, inches from the action, and your presence is inspiring one hunk to absolutely own another hunk… for your pleasure… this is a bullseye.
June’s new releases in the homoerotic wrestling universe were outstanding. It’s one of those months that makes me question the self-imposed constraints of calling out just one hot hunk to laud, but I’m probably more loyal to my habits than to my sense of fairness, when it comes right down to it. So backing myself into a corner, I still enthusiastically come out swinging with an adamant and definitive name for the newest homoerotic wrestler of the month…
I was just saying a few days ago that Kid Karisma is not only my reigning favorite homoerotic wrestler, he’s also been in the extremely exclusive ranks of 3-time HWOTM winners. With his magnificent showing in Ring Wars 27, Kid K not only retains his grip as my longest running favorite wrestler title holder, he elevates himself to the only wrestler, to date, to claim his 4th HWOTM title.
I honestly pushed play on Ring Wars 27 half expecting Reese Wells to be the one to make a serious run for HWOTM title. I’ve been infatuated with Reese and his peekaboo peaked biceps since the first time I caught sight of him years ago debuting at RHW. He shows up to wrestle Kid Karisma ripped as fuck, somehow prettier and more sexually provocative than I’ve ever noticed before. He’s the perfect babyface. From the neck up, he looks like he’s just barely reached the age of majority. From the neck down, he’s all man, with a body built for nothing else but this hybrid gay porn/pro wrestling universe that you and I call home. Reese has got legitimate skills. He’s been dissected by the most dominating heels at BGE repeatedly, but he still manages to arrive with an air of possibility about him. I like seeing him smile, so I’m always excited to see if the boy wonder can build some momentum to permit him those rare, exquisite moments of joy when his lips curl in sadistic delight and he flashes a double bicep, magically turning his seemingly skinny arms into gorgeously peaked mountains. As testimony to his skill and sell, I can totally entertain the idea that he could back even the likes of Kid Karisma to the very edge of the upset of the decade with that killer bod and boy scout earnestness to grab the ring of wrestling glory.
Then Kid Karisma arrives on the scene. Maybe I’m just projecting, but it seems to me like every last ounce of tasty veal steak Reese Wells inspires Kid K to a fevered passion we don’t always see. Reese’s clenched-jaw earnestness and aspirations bring a grin to Kid K’s face. And this meaty morsel motivates the 2016 Best Body and many-times-over Best Butt winner to make this match one of the sexiest, most brutal foreplay sessions I’ve watched in a while. If I had to guess, I’d say Kid K did his homework and, in particular, studied Reese’s career-defining Ball Bash 2 match against 2016 Best Heel award winner, Jonny Firestorm. Because Kid K turns early and often to working Reese’s package. And by working, I mean an expert concoction of massaging, slapping, coaxing and clawing that turns the boy wonder into a twitching, desperate fallen angel groaning in equal parts sexual arousal and corporal anguish.
There’s little mystery, moments into the match, that it’s Kid Karisma’s to lose. He manhandles the boy wonder magnificently. He can shot put the kid across the ring at will. A few times that Reese digs in to make some offense happen, Kid K seems to go along for the ride, just to see what Reese can do, but most of the time he finally scoffs, slaps him down, and literally laughs in the kid’s face. You can never accuse Kid Karisma of a lack of confidence.
You can, however, document the moment in about half of Kid K’s matches when his cockiness blurs into overconfidence, and he leaves himself open for a skilled, aggressive opponent like Reese to exploit his overreaches. Frankly, I think it’s an absolutely essential ingredient to Kid K’s repertoire, that he repeatedly teeters on the edge of giving away the farm because he believes too completely in the fawning, gushing PR of adoring fans like me. Reese stays alert for precisely those moments. At one point, Kid K is bitching about his hair getting messed up, staring fixedly into the mirror to try to return to the physical perfection that he started with, when Reese tries for a sucker kick. Kid K turns just in time, catching Reese’s boot in mid-air and smirking. The smirk is summarily erased by Reese spinning like a fucking ninja in mid-air, pounding his other boot into the side of Kid K’s handsome face, and knocking the powerhitter to the mat. Those aforementioned moments of my delight when I get to watch Reese smile and flex and smirk with the wind at his back show up a couple of times in this match. He doesn’t just score multiple pin falls on Kid Karisma, he folds him into a small package and pounds out a stunning, totally dominating 10-count pin.
That passion I mentioned from Kid Karisma really kicks in after his humiliating 10-count pin. He is all OVER the boy wonder. Reese is pounded corner to corner and all parts in between. He tweaks and taunts Reese’s taut quarter nipples. About a gallon of sweat (most of it Kid K’s) soaks Reese’s white briefs transparent, and our raging heel can’t take his eyes or hands off of the swollen cock head outlined underneath. Frankly, I imagine Kid K can be a gentle lover under the right conditions. But there’s something about the ferocity with which he takes possession of his audacious opponent that makes me think he’s more than happy with an aggro fuck on the tasty little muscle ass of any fitness freak cherubic wunderkind who dares to humiliate him in his own ring. The bearhugs last for days, with Reese thrashing and writhing in the crushing embrace of Kid K’s gargantuan arms. When Kid K squats low, his award winning ass cheeks squeezed out over the top of his tiny black trunks, Reese leans back and lets loose a primal scream that could equally be sexual ecstasy or mortal agony. The position is the perfect marriage of pro wrestling and sex. Kid K clearly isn’t literally fucking the boy wonder is mid air, but the thrill on his face makes me think he’d like to. And, knowing Reese’s penchant for being aroused by cock and ball teasing and punishment (a la Ball Bash 2), I have a strong suspicion he’d be on board for the ride as well.
You can tell how much Kid Karisma wants the boy wonder’s ass by how determined he is to expose it. Repeatedly, he wedgies Reese’s soaked briefs way high up his ass crack. At one point, Reese has the audacity to reach down and dig them partially out, managing to cover back up one sweet, hairy cheek before Kid K interrupts him. “What are you doing!?” KK demands. It’s an unspoken law of homoerotic wrestling that any hunk who takes the time to dig out a wedgie in order to cover his ass back up deserves not just to lose, but to be viciously, erotically, totally humiliated. Kid K knows the rules, and he’s more than happy to be the enforcer, slapping Reese’s hand away and nearly ripping the kid’s briefs apart by the seams, resecuring the wedgie twice as high.
It’s not so surprising that Kid Karisma’s victory in Ring Wars 27 is absolute and domineering. I think he’s the most underrated dominant heel at BG East, and Reese’s hot fantasy body is just one more trophy in an entire wing of trophy cases at chez Karisma. But what isn’t always a given is that Kid K will take it personally as much as he does in this match. The overtly sexual content laced with fuck stakes implications isn’t always this evident.
“You’re cute,” Kid Karisma mutters as he stares down at his unconscious, entirely vanquished opponent in the end. It’s less like a compliment and more like he’s sizing up what’s on the menu. “I hate fucking bitches,” he snarls angrily, still bitter about getting upended by his own hubris. He leaves the destroyed boy wonder in the middle of the ring, but flips him a “fuck you” middle finger farewell that perfectly sums up the vibe from this match. Aggro fuck foreplay.
Kid Karisma is simply perfection. The Best Body award seems the most contentious one each year, but take a look at his gargantuan shoulders and arms, his meaty, perfectly symmetrical pecs, his incredibly ripped torso narrowing and narrowing to the point that his tiny waist rests on the juiciest, most spectacular shelf of ass muscle ever, all the way down to his huge, Rugby-built legs. I’m still waiting for another muscle worship raffle to get my hands on 2016’s Best Body, because I’ll go bankrupt winning that lottery. In the mean time, pucker up and get ready to kiss the world class ass of the ONLY hunk who has earned his 4th homoerotic wrestler of the month title and is, more than 3 years running, STILL my overall favorite homoerotic wrestler, Kid Karisma.
I told you that last batch of BG East contraband was the fucking motherload, now didn’t I? Just to add context, this 3rd installment is still not all of it. It is, however, sweet, because of all the smuggled goods that OMI dishes out, my favorites are always the captured moments of my favorite BG East wrestlers relaxed, chilling, smiling, clearly enjoying themselves apart from the drama in the ring. These are the shots that make me admire these hotties that much more because they’re unpackaged, (relatively) candid, and somehow make them that much more crushworthy because they’re real. Speaking of crushworthy…
Fuck, every last one of these boys are adorable. No game face. No bloodlust. Just hot young hunks who can beat the living fuck out of each other one minute, and then kick back and chill when all is said and done.
I think this batchlet speaks to OMI as much as it does to the sensationally tasty hunks featured. We know precious little about the identity of OMI, but I can’t help but infer that he is equally as infatuated with Mad Mykel’s ass and Chase Addams nipples as I am. Just as an aside, Mad Mykel has made some tragic gear choices in the past, but I am incredibly anxious to get to see him in action in this jungle boy loin cloth.
And finally this last subcollection for the day features sizzling hotness all around, including the most elusive interview get of my blogging career, Kid Vicious. I’ve begged, borrowed, and stolen to convince KV to sit down with me for an interview. I’ve made promises. I’ve done favors. I’ve had him halfway to the table on at least a couple of occasions, only to have the most vicious tease in the business take a call and turn away at the last minute. I’m still working on figuring out who I have to fuck to get him on the record with me, but once I do, you’ll be the next to know.
I know for a fact that OMI has been taking some heat, in cognito, from the powers that be at BG East for his corporate espionage/fan fantasy fulfillment. Send your kindest wishes and prayers for safety to the homoerotic wrestling gods that OMI remains our man inside. And pass along the word to anyone you know with strings to pull that Kid Vicious gives that sit-down soon.
Sometimes, I wonder what in the hell a wrestler is thinking. Take little Nino Leone. Baby Boy Leone is reported around 60 pounds lighter than his Catch Weight 8 opponent, Calvin Haynes. It isn’t just the raw size differential that defies belief, though. I’m pretty sure Nino’s waist is no bigger around than one of Calvin’s gargantuan, muscled thighs. The astonishing contrast is in obvious strength. Calvin could snap Baby Boy like a twig.
Where they may diverge when it comes to body types, there’s something sensationally congruent about the pairing of these two relative newcomers. I like to think (though I have no evidence) that Nino signed up for this catch weight match because he wanted a taste of that 2016 Hottest Liplock that Calvin slapped down in his debut match. I further would want to write the backstory that Calvin signed on the dotted line on the promise of getting to suck down the supercharged erotic passion that Nino burned up the mats with in his debut match. Sure, on the one hand, this is a total mismatch. On the other hand, Baby Boy and Calvin seem cut from the exact same cloth.
Calvin creeps as Nino stretches out his beautiful, lithe body in the matroom. The voyeur hot-button in my master mixer of erotic tastes is already dialed way up. They’re both in singlets, both tasty as fuck, each in his own way. When Nino finally notices he’s got an audience, Calvin strolls in and smirks. “Where’s the rest of you?” Nino doesn’t skip a beat, replying “I don’t think you can handle the rest of me.” Where the fuck does little Nino find the balls!? “Can you handle this grade-A beef?” Calvin asks, flexing a magnificent, huge double bicep down like a total eclipse of the sun. Again, without skipping a beat, Baby Boy replies confidently, “Definitely.” Nino gets to his feet and doesn’t wait for an invitation to get his hands on the flexing filet mignon. “Do you like this?” Calvin asks, with a smile that says he already knows the answer. “Oh, yeah,” Nino coos.
My reluctance to tuck in for another all out squash starts to make me worried as big Calvin immediately and thoroughly muscle bullies little Nino all over the mat. It’s not like the bambino doesn’t try. In fact, it’s pretty compelling, watching him throw himself into the bodybuilder with everything he’s got and get swatted to the mat like a fly. Calvin molds his opponent’s lithe body into position for a schoolboy pin, time and time again, at will, completely in control. Every so often he flashes one of those mountainous biceps in Nino’s face and chuckles. “Are you enjoying the show?”
The first redeeming quality about what appears to be a total mismatch squash-in-the-making is the earnest, almost desperate muscle worship Nino engages in even while he’s getting buried. He’s gasping a lot, and sure, it’s at least in part due to getting squeezed and crushed and ground into dust. But there’s a little more to Baby Boy’s breathlessness. He’s sucking on air because Calvin is turning his dial to 11, also. Nino is palming every inch within reach. He cups the softball sized biceps. He slips his fingers inside the edges of Calvin’s supertight blue singlet. If he’s going to get crushed, Nino is clearly going to grab every opportunity to enjoy the ride.
The other redeeming quality about this squash-in-the-making is that, no shit, it’s not a squash. Not even fucking close. And it doesn’t quite follow the script of barely plausible narratives of little guys impossibly overpowering big boys. No, seriously, Nino’s got moves. He’s wrapped up tight in Calvin’s swallowing full nelson, with the bodybuilder just lying on his back and ripping the bambino’s shoulders out at the sockets. Out of nowhere, incredibly flexible Nino pulls his knees to his chest and reverse summersaults backward, over Calvin’s face, popping his arms free and instantly snapping down sexy, hairy headscissors. True enough, Calvin keeps marshaling all of that muscle and powering his way free, but Nino is undaunted, as if every grunt and power escape is exactly according to plan.
Astonishingly, it’s Calvin who throws the first ball claw. What a bitch move! I mean, you outweigh your opponent by 60 pounds, but you’ve got to be the one to fight dirty first? He makes little Nino cry in a way that all of his size and muscle advantage just wasn’t able to pull off. What the fuck, Calvin?
So I’ve climbed aboard team Baby Boy, for better or worse, well before Calvin sneeringly opens his arms and gives Nino a “free shot.” “Anything you want to try,” Calvin offers like the preening, overconfident muscle beast he is, “just try it.” Even I can see that Nino’s first impulse to lock down a bearhug on the bodybuilder’s massively wide upper torso is a misfire. Calvin literally just exhales, and he pops free, laughing at the frustrated lightweight. But when the air comes rushing out of his lungs as Nino starts punching the fuck out of his gut, the laughing stops. Nino pins him against the wall and lands punch after punch, making Calvin’s handsome face screw up in humiliated pain.
Calvin’s abs are a brick wall, so you know the punching bag offense won’t keep Nino in the driver’s seat for long, once the bodybuilder catches his breath. Happily, Nino knows that as well. So just when Calvin looks like he’s about to, yet again, fling Nino’s hapless body from one side of the mat room to the other, Nino reaches down, wraps his fingers around Calvin’s balls, and twists hard. Mind you, Calvin started this shit first, so Nino is still the bigger man, at least when it comes to ostensible pro erotic wrestling decorum. Calvin is just getting served what he dished out first.
Well, and then some. Nino doesn’t just twist the bodybuilder’s balls. He yanks on them. He throttles them. He pries at them violently forEVER, as big Calvin whimpers and snivels and spasms like a bowl full of jello. I’m getting a whiff of a giant-killer in the making as Nino refuses to let up on the ball torture, even as he uses his free hand to keep worshiping hungrily at Calvin’s magnificent physique. “Flex for me,” Nino barks like a boss. Calvin’s upper lip curls in defiance as he refuses. “You flex,” Nino instructs calmly, like a physics teacher explaining the laws of nature, “or I’ll pull it off.”
And, holy shit, Calvin flexes for him. He’s reluctant, which makes it that much sweeter. He repeatedly tries to refuse to continue to feed Baby Boy’s hunger for the muscle show, but another twist of Nino’s wrist puts the bodybuilder right back into his rightful place. The bambino owns the muscle beast. He strums him like a guitar. Like a pro with plan all along, Nino slips behind and snaps on a sleeper, barking commands for more of that gargantuan gun show, even as shocked Calvin goes limp.
The homoerotic wrestling universe is overdue for another giant killer. I am crazy in love with a catch weight match that features a lightweight out thinking his opponent and legitimately and totally selling me into believing that he can tame the beast and turn a muscleman like Calvin Haynes into a slack jawed, compliant play thing. And I love how the camera lingers well after Nino has put the big man down. There’s something even more intimate about watching Baby Boy stroke and savor every bulge. He kisses and caresses Calvin’s biceps. He rouses the big man by sucking hard on his nipples. He strokes and playfully teases Calvin’s pouch, and as the big man regains consciousness, he’s instantly returning the adoration, squeezing and stroking Nino’s thighs and ass hovering just overhead.
This did NOT turn out the way I expected, and of course, I’m thrilled by that misdirection. Judging by the all-in making out as the scene closes, both of these boys are pretty fucking happy with how this “mismatch” plays out, because despite the stark difference in the packaging, they’re both equally and passionately turned on by wrestling underneath it all. And just to drive home the point that this sport plays by its own rules, big, bulging Calvin Haynes continues to struggle to get traction on his foray into homoerotic wrestling, while sexy, ultra lean little Nino Leone is, yet again, on top and calling the shots at the end of his sophomore match. I’ve got a hard, hard spot for a inked up, buzz cut blond, blue-eyed bodybuilder with perhaps a secret-no-more passion for getting played and turned into putty. And I’ve got an even harder spot for a dazzlingly pretty, delicate little 140 pound boybander who can turn the big boys into puddles at his feet.